#middle east sounds good actually

[gomzdrawfr]

Your CoD x Middle-Earth idea.....

Here me out.......

Nikolai....... can be whatever tf Beorn is

Second choice would be Tom Bombadill kinda guy

Also Laswell gives me very tired Elf vibes. She's so done guys. Please. Get your shit together. What the fuck is that Price. She's like. Even more tired Elrond 😂

Wait does that make Alex Arwen-coded 😂😂😂 is farah strider now 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔

I hear you loud and clear with Laswell being Elrond KJASHDKAJH IT MATCHES PERFECTLY

hooooooooold if Alex is Arwen coded...and then Farah as Aragorn...omg....HHKJHJK THE BRAINROT-

[rafecameronssl4t]

Pretty in Pink || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @rafescurtainbangz

Summary: Just you amused by Rafe and Ward’s phone call.

Warnings: suggestive, reader n rafe smoking, swearing,

Word count: 742

A/n: these canon scenes are so fun to write 😭 lmk if you want more of these <333

MASTERLIST

Divider by @yoonitos

"That's rough. I mean, yeah, it could've been anyone, right?" Rafe furrowed his eyebrows, trying to appear nonchalant. "Not really, Rafe. It could be one of a very few people," Ward retorted sharply, his frustration palpable even over the phone.

Rafe shrugged, his indifference almost theatrical. "Well, I mean, you know, we were just giving it away anyway. So, who cares?" Ward let out a loud exhale, running a hand down his face. The annoyance in his voice was unmistakable, and Rafe took a perverse satisfaction in knowing he was getting under his father's skin. "Okay, Rafe, okay."

Just then, you stepped outside, your pretty pink tennis set hugging your figure perfectly. A cigarette was cradled between your index and middle fingers, and you brought it to your lips, inhaling deeply. Your eyes locked onto Rafe as you exhaled a plume of smoke, your gaze unwavering.

Rafe grinned, his eyes roaming appreciatively over your body as you sauntered towards the couch. "That's done for now. I need you to finish the list I gave you," Ward continued, his voice a mix of frustration and command.

Rafe pulled the phone away from his ear briefly. "It's Ward," he informed you, sitting down on the couch, as if it wasn’t already obvious from the tone of the conversation. You hummed in acknowledgment, kicking your feet up on his lap. Rafe put the phone on speaker, leaning back as Ward’s voice filled the room.

Rafe glanced at you, a smirk playing on his lips, clearly enjoying the chaos he was stirring. "I want you to sign for the East River property. When that's completed, shut down the offices—" Ward's commanding tone reverberated through the speaker, each word laced with finality.

Rafe rolled his eyes dramatically, a gesture that made you stifle a giggle. "Yeah, no, I—actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. I'm thinking maybe we should keep the offices."

A heavy silence fell, the kind that made every second feel like an eternity. Rafe's eyes stayed on you, watching as you took delicate puffs from your cigarette, the smoke curling elegantly in the air.

"What?" Ward's voice finally cut through the quiet, laden with confusion and annoyance. "Yeah, I'm thinking maybe I should stay down here for a while, really grow the company. I think it'd be good for us, right?" Rafe's tone was casual, almost nonchalant, but you could sense the underlying cunning.

On the other end, you heard Ward groan, a sound full of exasperation, followed by a long, weary exhale. The tension was almost tangible, crackling through the phone. "He's not too happy about it, huh?" you observed, a wry smile playing on your lips. You extended the cigarette toward Rafe, offering it to him. He leaned in, taking a slow, deliberate drag, the tip glowing brightly as he inhaled.

He hummed in response, a low, satisfied sound that matched the glint of amusement in his eyes. As Rafe exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze never left yours. You could see the thrill in his eyes, the satisfaction he derived from ruffling his father's feathers. "Who is that?" Ward's voice pierced the air, sharp and demanding, as you and Rafe exchanged a glance.

"Hey, Ward!" you greeted him with a saccharine sweetness, your tone a deliberate contrast to the tension that hung in the room. "Rafe, this is supposed to be a private conversation—" "For fuck's sake, Dad, she knows everything already," Rafe interjected, his eyes rolling in exasperation, a gesture that elicited a soft chuckle from you.

Ward's frustration was palpable, his voice tinged with impatience. "Listen to me, Rafe—" Rafe didn't hesitate to cut him off, his tone firm and commanding. "No. No, no, you listen, okay?" His hands moved instinctively to rest on your thighs, his touch both grounding and possessive. You felt a surge of warmth at his touch, a silent reassurance amidst the tension.

"You listening?" Rafe leaned in, his gaze unwavering as he reached to place the phone on the coffee table, his actions deliberate and decisive. "You remember when you told me to make myself useful? Well, that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm making myself useful, alright?" Rafe's gaze on his phone was intense, his voice commanding, as he asserted his authority.

As Rafe continued speaking, outlining his intentions with a firmness that brooked no argument, you decided to get up and fetch the ashtray from the other side of the coffee table. "I can do shit, you know? Explore options, so for the-" As you walked past him, focused on your task, you suddenly felt the sharp sting of Rafe's hand slapping your ass, causing you to yelp in surprise.

"-for the benefit of all, I think I'm gonna hang out for a while, okay?" Rafe's voice carried on, his words interrupted only momentarily by your startled reaction. The mixture of surprise and amusement danced in your eyes as you turned to face him, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Rafe, listen to me. You are there for one reason and one reason only. You are to act as my proxy to shut down the companies, okay?" Ward's voice had escalated in volume, clearly expressing his displeasure with Rafe's defiance.

"That is our one play. It's—it's our only play. And if you cannot do it—" Ward's words were abruptly cut off by Rafe's interjection, his irritation and anger palpable as he stood up, his movements sharp and agitated. "If I can't do it?" Rafe's voice echoed with incredulity, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Then what? Then what?" he exclaimed, his tone laced with both sarcasm and defiance.

"You gonna hop on a plane? Come down here, huh?" Rafe paced back and forth on the porch as you watched from the couch, amusement dancing in your eyes. "I mean, it'll be like a goddamn Elvis sighting, Ward fucking Cameron, everyone!" Rafe's voice boomed with exaggerated theatricality, his arms thrown wide in mock grandeur, eliciting a snicker from you.

"Oh my god, he lives! He's back from the dead!" Rafe continued, his words punctuated by his animated gestures as you watched with amusement, thoroughly entertained by your boyfriend's antics. With a scoff, Rafe turned towards you, his expression resolute. "I got the family ring now, Pops. Yeah, I'm wearing it, and it's my time to step up, okay? You're dead." And with that, he abruptly hung up the phone, tossing it onto the couch beside you.

You opened your arms, inviting him in for a hug, and without hesitation, he collapsed onto you, inhaling your signature perfume. Your nails traced soothing patterns on his back as he nestled against you, his frustration still palpable as he muttered against your skin, "God, he's fucking annoying," eliciting a chuckle from you.

Checking your watch, you sighed. "Babe, I gotta go, the girls will be waiting for me," you informed him, attempting to disentangle yourself from his embrace, but he stubbornly refused to budge.

"Where'd you get this set from? This new?" Rafe's fingers toyed with the waistband of your skirt, the fabric teasingly brushing against your skin. "Mhm, you like it?" you teased, a smirk playing on your lips.

"Do I like it? Fuck, of course I like it, baby. You're so pretty in pink," Rafe's gaze lingered appreciatively on your body before meeting your eyes once more. "Tell the girls you'll be a bit late," he murmured, his hands trailing up your skirt teasingly, causing you to playfully throw your head back in feigned annoyance. "Fine," you acquiesced, though the mischievous glint in your eyes betrayed your true feelings.

[starboye]

pairing: nate jacobs x male reader

request: Nate Jacobs learns that Male reader is a new student, and he tries to have a one-night stand with him or something, but male reader immediately shows his dislike towards Nate. This catches Nate off guard, and he tries to "be friends" with him, but Male reader declines or simply walks away from Nate causing Nate to be furious and more determined to get in bed with him, however, Nate soon realizes he catches feelings for Male reader and wants to him to be his boyfriend?

warnings: fluff, mentions of sex, cursing, kissing

you had just moved to california after your dad got a big promotion so of course you were the new student at east highland highschool, you heard some good and bad things about it (mostly bad things) but nonetheless you went and of course they assigned you a school guide, some guy named nate jacobs and immediately he wanted you.

he showed you around the school, showing you the great wonders that came with the highschool in the most monotone voice but from time to time he'd glance over to admire your ass, that luscious ass he wanted to fuck so badly "hey wanna come to a party, its happening later tonight if you wanna swing by" nate asks trying to appear nonchalant "yeah id be down" you say mimicking his nonchalant.

and with that you and nate finished the tour and said good bye to each other, but for some reason you couldn't escape nates mind, no matter how hard he tried to think of something else the thought of you always bounced around in his mind, was it maybe that he actually liked you no impossible he just wants to fuck you that's it nate lied to himself as the bell rang and school ended.

you entered the house party to the sound of loud ruckus, people yelling, and music blaring, with the overwhelming smell of alcohol, but luckily you noticed nate as he waved you over "50 bucks says i fuck this slut by the end of the night" nate says to his friends as you walk closer "ill take that bet" mckay says before nate walks over to you "wanna get some drinks" nate asks leaning over to near your ear so you could hear him better "yeah sure" you yell back before walking over to a more quiet part of the house.

"so what's a sweet thing like you doing here all alone" nate asks sipping on his drink as you lean onto a wall "no friends" you reply looking up at him with disinterested eyes "well wanna make a friend tonight" nate smirks placing his hand beside you head on the wall and leaning over you "is this your way of flirting" you ask snickering a bit.

"what" nate questions leaning back up "if you wanna sleep with me just ask" you chuckle taking another sip of your drink "well then wanna have sex with me" nate asks thinking he's about to easily win his bet but his hopes are killed when you respond with no "why don't you wanna sleep with me" he asks "because you look like a total douche" you say before walking away to get another drink, nate watched as your fine ass walked away from him, he was now determined to have sex with you.

after that day you caught him watching you, whether that be in his truck as you walked home from school or from afar while you were doing school work, he'd even sometimes buy you expansive gifts with handwritten notes that you're sure he got from pinterest but you shut him down every time "c'mon just once" nate pleas "no nate, not now and not ever" you say giving him the diamond bracelet back and walking away as he was forced to watch that ass walk away for the hundredth time.

nate sat up at night wondering why he wanted you so much, why he needed to sleep with you so badly, was it because he felt something deeper for you and wanted to try and push that feeling out by sleeping with you but it would inevitably come back up... no it couldn't possibly be that, but the thought was to much, he got up and drove to your house in the middle of the night.

"you up" nate texted your number (he had got it from you on the first day of school) "what do you want" you text back "come outside" he texts, you look outside to see his truck on the other side of the street and huff before putting on some clothes and walking out to his car, seeing him with a little smile on his face you get into the passenger seat "what do you want nate" you ask slightly agitated as nate just woke you up.

"okay so i- ive been thinking right and... i don't know how to say this but..." nate stammers over his words making you even more annoyed "just spit it out" you say leaning over the arm rest to kiss him, his lips lightly chasing after yours "uhm i was gonna ask will you be my boyfriend" nate nervously asks "yes" you smile finally seeing the nate that isn't a sex hungry animal "so does that mean we can fuck now" nate asks.

"one step at a time you horny fuck" you say before opening the door to get out the car but nate pulls you back one last time to kiss you, this kiss more passionate and heartfelt than the last, maybe fucking him wouldn't be the worst thing ever

taglist: @spermeboy @mailmango @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat

[guilty-pleasures21]

hii i love ur writing! do u mind writing vigilante reader x jason doing undercover with their own cases (iceberg lounges perhaps) and they stumble across each other not knowing one another doing undercover and theyre both trying not to be exposed? could be just fluff or lotta tension or nsfw whatever you preferred! thankuuu xx

Thank you! Oh my gosh, this is so good! I actually kind of want to write more … 🤭 so let me know if you have any ideas on what you visualise happening next!

Undercover

Warnings: explicit descriptions of sex.

----------------------------------------------------------

     He sat sprawled out on the sofa in one of the private booths at the iceberg lounge. He’d set up a meeting with Roland De Fleures - an international arms dealer who’d recently been seen around Gotham. He was very likely planning on striking a deal with the Penguin, so Jason knew he had to get to him first. He glanced up from the blueprints Roland had been sharing with him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

     “And you’re sure one of these can take out that flying rat’s armoured tank?” Oh, that was good. He’d have to remember that insult for the next time he was face-to-face with Batman.

     “Yes! Definitely! We’ve already tested these missiles on tanks out in the Middle East,” Roland assured him enthusiastically. Then he leaned closer to Jason, a conspiratorial look on his face. “They can take out anything.”

     Jason smirked softly at Roland. Maybe he should just let him test it out once - just once. Just enough to take down the Bat’s ego a peg or two. “Sounds good. Let’s toast to it.”

     Roland turned to one of his men and gestured for him to get them drinks. The man got up to go to the bar, but then paused suddenly, prompting the rest of the group to follow his gaze. They held their breaths when they saw a gorgeous young woman walk in. She was clothed in a sleeveless green velvet dress that fell to her mid-calves and had a long slit in the side, exposing her tanned skin. She brushed her curly hair behind her ear, then glanced over at them with a naughty smile. Then her gaze met Jason’s and the both of them froze.

     Holy shit! What the actual hell was that idiot doing here?! Shit. He must have hacked into Batman’s files again to try to sabotage one of their missions. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him in a challenging expression, then she turned back to the bartender. Well, hell if she was going to let him ruin this for her. She refused to look back at the group again, focusing all her attention on her drink instead, but her heart sped up slightly when she caught Jason’s familiar soap and leather scent curling through the air around her. He slid onto the chair next to hers.

     “What are you doing here, princess?” He hissed out through gritted teeth.

     X turned to face him, an unbothered smile fixed on her features. “I think I should be the one asking you that question, Mr …”

     “Matthew.” An incredulous snort escaped her lips before she could catch it and Jason frowned at her reaction. 

     “You don’t look like a ‘Matthew’,” X argued, swirling her straw around her drink before leaning forward to take another sip. Jason’s eyes fell to the way she closed her lips around the straw and his mouth suddenly went dry when she began sucking on it gently. He swallowed hard, then shook his head, forcing himself back to reality.

     “You can go home and tell Bruce that I don’t need a babysitter,” he grumbled. X shot him an exasperated look, then she stood up and placed her hands on his knees, forcing his legs apart so she could slip between them.

     “Look, Matthew.” She curled her fingers around the collar of his jacket and casually began adjusting his outfit. “I didn’t come here to babysit you.”

     She lifted her gaze to his and though she continued to smile, he didn't miss the dangerous glint in her eyes.

     “I came here to find out who De Fleures already has in his back pocket,” she continued, sliding her hands up his shoulders and around his neck. She pushed her fingers into his hair as she brought her lips closer to his ear, then she whispered threateningly, “so don’t f*ck this up for me. Got it, baby bird?”

     Shit. He couldn’t tell whether his body was heating up from his irritation at her words, or if it was because of how close they had suddenly become, her warm breath tickling his neck, her soft curves pressed up against him. He sucked in a breath of air and glared at her when she pulled back to look at him, but she just blinked at him innocently. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends?”

     He ground his teeth together as they got up and he began leading her to his booth. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Irina Morozova. I’m sure you’ve heard of her father: Fyodor Morozova?” 

     X tensed up at the cover he’d fabricated for her: he’d just introduced her as the daughter of a prominent Russian crime lord. Which meant that she’d have to put on an accent the entire night. Oh, she’d get him back for this someday soon.

     Roland jumped to his feet, his eyes wide with awe: how could he have been so lucky to have such a wonderful opportunity just fall into his lap?! Maybe he should consider moving to this city permanently! “Miss Morozova! Of course! How lovely to meet you!”

     X smiled as she held a hand out for him to shake. “Yes, indeed. And you are?” 

     She took a step back and curled up against Jason’s side, dutifully playing the role of a spoiled young woman alone in a foreign country.

     “Roland,” he introduced himself. “Roland De Fleures. Please, have a seat, Miss Morozova.” He gestured to the sofa Jason had been sitting on, then sank back into his own seat when they’d both sat down again.

     Jason slung his arm over the back of the chair, giving X the space to settle against him. 

     “I informed Mr Morozova of our meeting today,” he explained to Roland, “so he sent his daughter over to see whether or not you would be worth taking a chance on, Mr De Fleures.”

     X slid her hand up and down Jason’s chest as she grinned up at him. “Da. Matthius was telling us that you are in the business of lightweight, terrestrial missiles?”

     Roland’s eyes lit up at her words and he pulled out his blueprints again. 

     “You know,” X began, leaning over to murmur in Jason’s ear as Roland began explaining his weapons to her, “I wasn't intending on playing the bimbo flavour of the week when I got here.”

     Jason trailed his nails gently along her bare arm, then he bent over to rest his head on her shoulder. X sucked in a breath and clenched her abs to stop her body from reacting inappropriately to the gravelly sound of his voice. “And I wasn't intending on you being here at all. So I guess we both lose.”

     X gave an awkward chuckle, then turned her attention back to Roland. 

     “So?” Roland questioned, smiling at her nervously. “What do you think your father will think?”

     X ran her hand up and down Jason’s torso again as she pretended to think about it and it took everything in him to keep his breathing steady.

     “If Matthius says it’s good, it’s good.” She tilted her head back to give Jason another enamoured smile and his heart fluttered against his own will. “Papa adores Matthius. It is why he trusts him with his precious daughter, da?”

     Roland chuckled heartily with the rest of his group. “Yes, yes. Johnny! Get a round of drinks for the table. What will you have, Miss Morozova?”

     X bit her lip as she thought about it. 

     “A cosmopolitan?” she suggested, fluttering her eyelashes at Jason in question.

     “Whatever you want, babydoll,” he replied before lowering his head to mutter in her ear. “You’d better be able to hold your alcohol, princess.” 

     X laughed softly, as if he’d just said something funny. Then she turned her head towards his. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”

     She caught his earlobe between her teeth and tugged on it gently before releasing it and facing Roland again. Jason clenched the edge of the sofa as he resisted the urge to touch her. F*ck. Did she have to be so soft? He straightened slightly as she began talking to the rest of the group, trying to focus back on their mission. “Target is the one sitting on Roland’s right. He’s got the thumbdrive in his jacket. Looks like it’s under his arm.”

     X tried to pay attention as he lowered his arm to her waist and began casually stroking her side. She caught the man’s eye as she reached for her drink and lowered her head shyly before peeking up at him again from beneath her eyelashes. The man gulped in response and she knew that she had him right where she wanted him.

     “So, how are you finding America, Miss Morozova?” Roland asked. X pretended to take a sip of her, then she set it back down on the table before leaning her head against Jason’s chest.

     “It is … dull?” she admitted, putting on the bored air of a spoiled heiress. She reached up to undo the third button on Jason’s shirt, then she slipped her hand beneath the material. “But the men are all right.” 

     She glanced back at her target with a naughty smile and he shyly broke her gaze again.

    Holy shit! He was starting to get dizzy from the way she was running her hand across his bare skin! And in front of everyone too! F*ck, it felt good. He slid his hand a little lower down her back, just grazing the curve of her ass, then smirked slightly when he felt her suck in a breath. 

     She gritted her teeth, doing her best to ignore the way her body had started to warm at his touch. But two could play this game. She lifted her leg and draped it over his thigh, letting the material of her dress slip away to reveal her smooth skin. “Have you ever been to Russia, Mr Roland?”

     She leaned forward to take another sip of her drink again, allowing her target a glimpse of her ample cleavage.

     “Oh, no,” Roland replied. “But hopefully I will be able to make a trip there soon?”

     X smiled knowingly as she wrapped herself back around Jason, this time sliding her arms around his neck as well. F*ck, she was driving him crazy! He rested his arm back on the sofa, then glided his other hand up her bare thigh.

     She couldn’t stop herself from shivering at the feeling of his rough palm sliding against her skin. She tilted her head back to whisper in his ear. “I’m gonna get him alone. Can you pretend to kiss my neck before I go?”

     Pretend? He’d do her one better. He bent over and teasingly brushed his lips up the side of her neck. He flicked his tongue out at her earlobe when he reached it, then dug his fingers into her thigh as he tugged on it with his teeth.  

     This time, she clenched all her muscles as she held her target’s gaze, refraining from reacting too intensely to Jason’s lips and tongue all over her. Shit, he was good. She stood up and smiled at Jason before shooting her target a conspiratorial look as she walked away. And as expected, the man quickly excused himself, discreetly heading in the same direction she had. Jason kept his gaze trained on him as he walked away, his blood starting to boil. He knew she’d be able to take care of herself, but … God, he felt like breaking every bone in that man’s body at the thought of what might come next. Instead, he swallowed down his rage and rejoined the conversation with Roland.

     She set her purse down on the chaise in one of the private rooms in the back of the lounge. She knew she didn’t have much time, so she quickly poured some whiskey into two glasses before slipping a little sleep medication into one of them. She set the glass with the medication down on the small table in the middle of the room, then sat back with her own glass, settling herself into a seductive pose. Eventually, the man entered the room, visibly nervous. X patted the space beside her, fixing him with a warm smile, and he relaxed. “You know, I never caught your name, Mr …”

     “Rick,” he supplied, taking the glass on the table in front of him and swallowing down a large gulp. 

     “Hmm. Rick,” she repeated carefully. She brushed his hair gently, trying to put him at ease. “So shy, Rick.” 

     Then she climbed on top of him suddenly, straddling his lap, her glass still in her hand. She leaned back to set it down on the table, then placed her hands on his shoulders.

     “I don't bite, Rick,” she reassured him, moving one hand to cup his cheek and brushing her thumb across his lower lip. She gasped softly as his lips parted in response to her touch, then she flicked her gaze up to his and grinned. “Unless you want me to.”

     Rick swallowed hard and took another gulp of his drink, wanting to work up his courage. X snickered softly as he finished his glass, then she took it from his hands and set it down on the table beside hers. She returned her attention to him and fiddled with the collar of his shirt before running her hands down his body. 

     “I was worried you wouldn't notice me, Rick.” She pouted up at him and he smirked softly at her as he raised a hand to her face.

     “It would be impossible not to notice you, Miss Morozova.” He stroked her cheek as his eyes roved over her face, taking in her sweet features. “You're so beautiful even a blind man wouldn't be able to miss you.”

     X tilted her head as she smiled at his praise and Rick’s eyes darkened with lust. Then she let her eyelashes flutter shut as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. 

     “Mmm …” A soft groan rumbled out of his chest as she kissed him and he tightened his grip on her waist as he began to reciprocate. X rolled her hips against his as she sucked on his tongue, teasing him mercilessly. It was always easier if she could get them aroused: then the sleeping medication would kick in faster. It only lasted for about fifteen minutes though: long enough for her to conduct her search, but not so long that the others would get suspicious and come looking for him.

     “Shit,” Rick cursed under his breath as she nipped his lower lip. He slid his hands up her thighs and X started undoing the buttons of his shirt as he kissed her again. But f*ck, all she could think about was f*cking Jason Todd! His strong arms and his broad chest and that infuriating smirk he'd shoot her with his wide lips. She clutched the collar of Rick's shirt and lowered her mouth to his neck, licking and sucking on his skin as her p*ssy grew warmer and warmer. And holy shit, he probably had such a good f*cking dick too: thick and long and just so f*cking delicious! F*ck.

     “M-Miss … Miss Morrrrozzzzooo?” Rick stammered, his words getting more slurred as the drowsiness began to overcome him. It wasn’t long before he was knocked out completely, laying back around the sofa with his eyes closed.

     X sighed and took a moment to steady her breathing before she got off of him. F*cking Jason Todd. She reached under his jacket and found the thumbdrive in a hidden pocket sewn into the material just below his arm. She slipped it carefully into her purse before taking a plain one out and replacing it in his pocket, then she got to work setting the scene. She unbuckled Rick’s belt and unzipped his pants before reaching into his underwear and pulling him out. She slipped her hand between her legs and collected some of the c*m she'd started leaking at the thought of having Jason's big, strong arms squeezing her against his hard muscles, then she coated the length of Rick’s dick in it. Finally, when she’d finished, she sat back and waited patiently for him to awaken.

     “W-Wha …?” Rick mumbled, slowly coming to. “What happened?”

     X placed her hand on his chest and smiled up at him in amusement. “You fell asleep, Rick.” 

     She pushed herself to her knees, moving to get up, but paused to whisper in his ear. “That was a good f*ck though, Rick. I will let Mr Roland know we are moving forward with the deal.”

     She grinned, then adjusted her dress before leaving to return to their booth.

     Jason watched her carefully as she walked back over to him. He tried to search her for signs of sex, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he should be looking for. A rosy glow? An expression of pure delight? She didn’t seem to be conveying any of that though - just a smug smirk to let him know that the job had been done.

     She sank back into his side, draping herself comfortably over him again. “Got it.”

     He curled his arm back around her side, but all he could think about was where the other man’s hands had been: her breasts? Her ass? He’d be paying him a good visit tonight in his Red Hood guise.

     “Matthius,” X whined. “I’m tired. Take me back to my room?” 

     She rearranged her features into a drunken expression and he gripped her chin in his hand. But why did he care so much anyway? She’d already made it clear that she couldn’t stand him. Well, that wasn’t true; she couldn’t stand him when he messed up her mission. Which kind of honestly was what he’d done. Aside from that though, they got along pretty well. She was the only one who’d never take any of his bullshit, but she never forced him past his boundaries either. He let his hand drift down her front, following his fingers with his eyes as they traced the outlines of her curves. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

     “If you’ll excuse me, Mr Roland, I must get Miss Morozova back to her suite. I’ll discuss your terms with Mr Morozova and get back to you soon.” He kept X pressed against his side when he got up, as if he were trying to help her balance. Then he nodded at the group in farewell. “Expect my call.”

     They headed over to his car and X grinned at Jason playfully after getting into the passenger’s seat. “Good job, Matthius. Papa is going to be so happy with your work.”

     He raised his eyebrows at her fake accent and his heart fluttered when she giggled at his expression. But he forced his attention back to the road. An uncomfortable silence soon settled over them and X fiddled with the radio as she tried to figure out what to say. Soon, they stopped at a red light and she slid her gaze over to Jason, one hand over his mouth as he tapped his fingers on the wheel in irritation.

     “Tell me,” she demanded finally. Jason gave her a questioning look, then started the car again when the light turned green.

     “Tell you what, princess?” he drawled lazily. She couldn’t remember when he’d started calling her that, but it felt like forever ago. She’d been annoyed at it first, finding it rather condescending, but it had grown on her over time - it made her feel … safe. Like he was always going to want to protect her, even when he knew she was perfectly capable of protecting herself.

     “Tell me what’s bothering you,” she elaborated. 

     “What makes you think something’s bothering me?” His tone was cool, giving nothing away, and X felt her frustration start to grow. 

     “Don’t lie to me, Jason,” she warned him, her tone firm. Then she softened. “I’m supposed to be the one person you can always tell the truth to. Just like you’re my person.”

     But how could he tell her the truth when the secret was about her? He pulled into her apartment complex, using the spare key card she’d given him - well, ‘given’ wasn’t the right word considering he’d just never returned it to her after she’d forgotten it in his car on one of the numerous nights he’d dropped her off at home. He waited until he was parked in her spot to speak. 

     “Did you …” He tapped his fingers on the wheel, the uncomfortable heat building up in him again. “Did he touch you?”

     X shifted in her seat, caught off guard by the vehemence in his tone. “No more than you did.”

     He clenched his jaw, thinking of all the places he’d touched her that night: his hand on her ass, his fingers on her thigh, his lips against her neck. He was going to murder that b*stard. “You didn’t have to do that, you know? I could have-”

     “Jason.” X turned to face him, keeping her tone calm and her expression relaxed. “I’m fine. I gave him a sleeping medication. I don’t just go around having sex with random men, you know.” 

     She shot him an amused look as she got out of the car and the tension eased from his body slightly at her confirmation that she hadn’t had sex with the guy. 

     “Are you jealous?” X teased him as they waited for the lift, her heart thudding with hope at his response. But he just snorted at her question dismissively.

     “No.”

     The disappointment weighed down on her shoulders as they got into the lift and they fell silent again as it carried them up to her floor. Jason clasped his hands behind his back and shifted awkwardly in position. “Did you … want me to-”

     “Yes,” she said before he could even finish his sentence. He startled at her directness and turned to meet her gaze, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in her ears. Finally, he stepped forward and wrapped her up in his arms, pressing his lips to hers. They kissed one another with equal desperation as they stumbled out of the lift and to her apartment. X fumbled around for her keypad, trying to unlock her door as Jason refused to let her go, and soon, he was pushing the door open and they were slipping each other’s clothes off. 

     “Wait.” Jason stopped her quickly before she could kneel to untie his shoes. “I’ll do that. You go check the drive.”

     X nodded and raced to her bedroom to plug the thumb drive into her laptop and begin the de-encryption process. She could pass the drive to Barbara to properly go through later, but she had to make sure that she’d gotten the right drive in the first place. She felt Jason come up behind her and she went dizzy as the scent of him washed over her.

     He clenched and unclenched his fingers around the back of her chair, barely hanging onto his restraint by a thread. Finally, the file loaded and the two of them scanned through it quickly.

     “It’s got all his contacts; everything we wanted.” X twisted her head back to look up at him and Jason’s eyes grew dark as they landed on her face. 

     “Great. We’ll get it to Babs tomorrow.” He wasted no time in pulling her out of the chair, then he began kissing her again as he backed her towards her bed. He lifted her onto his hips when her legs hit the edge and climbed onto the mattress to set her down beneath him. His mouth watered as he allowed himself a moment to admire her beautiful form, her curvy little body all wrapped up in her soft velvet dress, then he slid his hands up her thighs to take her clothes off. X let out a soft gasp as his hands glided over her breasts and Jason sucked in a breath at the feeling as well. Then finally, she was exposed to him almost completely and he momentarily lost the ability to think. F*ck, she looked delicious. 

     Her breaths shallowed when she saw the way he looked at her. She reached her hands out to him and he obediently lowered himself on top of her, his soft lips landing back on hers again. His kisses were slower this time, their tongues tangling together like they had all the time in the world to taste one another. X snuck her hands beneath the hem of his shirt and ran them up his chest to take it off. She felt herself grow damp between the legs when his muscular torso became exposed to her. Jason sat back and smirked at the lustful look on her face before holding his hands out to her. “Come here, princess.”

     She closed her eyes as they rolled back in her head at the sound of the smugness in his tone. Shit, he was so f*cking hot! So unfairly sexy! She jumped onto his lap and curled herself tightly around him as their lips found one another’s again.

     “Mmm, f*ck,” Jason groaned as she began moving her hips against his feverishly. His fingers tangled in the waistband of her underwear and X pushed herself to her knees so he could take it off. Jason got her to turn around, guiding her onto her hands and knees, then he lowered himself onto the bed and started licking her from the back.

     “Ooohhh …” X moaned as he worked on her slowly, his tongue swirling around her p*ssy before he closed his lips around her and sucked on her softly. She got down on her elbows, then started moving her hips against his mouth, grinding herself harder against him. Jason chuckled softly and sat back up, waiting for her to turn around. But she just lifted her legs one by one and rested them on his shoulders. He grinned widely as he grabbed her legs to steady her, then he delved back into her p*ssy.

     Holy freaking shit, his tongue was amazing! F*ck, how had she … How had she waited so long to do this?! She arched her back as her pleasure peaked, then she wriggled against him as her nerves exploded with bliss.

     He set her back down and licked her essence off his lips. F*ck, she tasted good. He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of the night teasing her and rolling around in bed together, the both of them exploring one another’s bodies with equal appreciation.

     She panted heavily as she turned around to face him. Her heart fluttered with excitement at the delighted look on his face and she patted the space beside her as she sat up, gesturing for him to lay down. Jason did as she said, rolling over onto his back and propping himself up against the headrest. She grinned at the smirk he fixed her with as he waited for her next command, then she climbed up onto his lap. 

     His hands came around her waist as she leaned forward to kiss him again and she let out a contented sigh when he began running them all over her body. Her hips started moving again as his fingers closed around her breasts and she whined with desperation before pushing herself to her knees and pawing at his pants.

     Jason chuckled at her adorable little pout, but he refuses to let her take off his pants just yet. Instead, he lowered one hand and slipped it between her legs, playing with her p*ssy while his lips found her nipple. He sucked and licked her slowly, teasingly, and soon, her hips began stuttering against his hand. Jason pulled her breast into his mouth and held her firmly in position as she came again, the excited wriggling of her body causing his cock to press angrily against his pants.

     X sat back down once she'd ridden out her high and allowed herself a moment to calm down. Then she grabbed hold of his waistband and looked up at Jason with wide eyes. “Jay? Can I …?”

     F*ck, she was cute. He removed his hands from around her waist and sat back expectantly, nodding down at his groin. “Do whatever you want, princess. It’s all yours anyway.”

     X swallowed hard as she grew wet - again - at his words. She undid his pants and ripped them off hastily, revealing him to her completely. Her mouth watered at the sight of his cock already red and swollen, angrily demanding her attention. She curled her fingers carefully around his shaft and stroked him a few times before lowering herself onto the bed.

     “Oh my god,” she moaned, her nerves lighting up with pleasure at the feeling of his thick girth sliding in and out of her mouth. Holy shit, he was big! He was going to feel so good filling up her p*ssy after this.

     He tried to snicker at her awed reaction, but was too aroused by how f*cking amazing her mouth felt, wrapped around his cock. X took him even deeper into her throat, then swallowed around him and Jason found himself twisting his fingers in the bed sheets as he fought to contain his pleasure. “F*ck!”

     She dragged him out of her mouth and climbed back up onto his lap, positioning her hole over his rigid cock. A pleased hiss escaped her lips as she lowered herself onto him and her eyes rolled back in her head at how full he made her feel. “Hooolyyy sssshit, Jay … Ssso … Sssso good …”

     His head fell back against the headboard as she started bouncing on his dick, his brain going numb as a wave of arousal waved over him. Shit, she was so f*cking wet for him that he just slid in and out of her with almost no resistance at all.

     “Oh my God, Jay! Can you just imagine … if I was actually a spoiled heiress … and you just worked for my super-rich dad …” X panted, her core setting aflame at the memory of how arrogant he’d looked, sitting there with his legs spread wide as she’d draped herself over him so possessively. “A-And he had no idea … that you’d let his precious little princess … pleasure herself on your cock every time you came over?”

     “F*ck!” Jason grabbed her waist to hold her in position as he released his c*m inside of her, his warm seed gushing into her womb and finally granting him his relief.

     She cried out as her body exploded with pleasure, her every nerve tingling with delight as her p*ssy squeezed his dick inside of her. God, he felt amazing.

     His chest heaved with shallow breaths as he brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He’d just only come but already, he could feel his body start heating up again at the feeling of being nestled inside her warm, tight little p*ssy. “Are you satisfied, princess? Did I make daddy’s little girl happy?”

     X giggled softly and wrapped her arm around his neck, leaning forward to bring her mouth closer to his.

     “Mmm, always. You’re so good to me, Matthius. Me and Papa both.” She tilted her head to press her lips to his neck and dragged her tongue across his skin, causing a groan to rumble out of Jason's chest. “I’ll make sure to tell him how well you always perform for me.”

     She laughed again and the two of them spent the rest of the night tumbling around in each other's arms. 

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART III

"Bastards are supposed to be born of lies and temptation, not love," Jacaerys said, "at least according to the Faith. If we are indeed the bastards of Ser Harwin and my mother, then we are proof that lies and temptation are all that existed between them.” You thought of all the septas and their prayers and Alicent Hightower screaming at you to behave. Bastards are not so different from the daughters of whores, you mused. They see us all as products of sin.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

SERIES SUMMARY & MASTERLIST.

IX. THE EMPRESS

“You raised the girl to be too clever, Alicent. I fear she cannot be controlled.”

Otto Hightower did not often show weakness, but his voice was heavy with exhaustion—or perhaps frustration—as he spoke to Alicent. He was poring over the papers you'd put together for your petition earlier in the day: a detailed summary of all of the records of your father's spending in Essos during his diplomatic visits, presented as evidence that none of your inheritance in the Iron Bank was actually Crown wealth. Apparently you'd gone and stolen the ledgers in the middle of the night—with the help of that Strong bastard, the one who was besotted with you—and done the maths yourself. All current and past Masters of Coin still alive—Lord Beesbury, Prince Daemon and Tyland Lannister—examined your work and could only attest to its accuracy.

It was unprecedented, but not too surprising to Alicent. Of all your lessons as a noble lady—in the Seven, in dancing, in needlework, and so on—you really only ever paid attention to arithmetic and household stewardship. So I may someday be a competent wife and oversee my husband’s affairs, you once explained to Alicent, after my Queen chooses a match for me, of course. When Alicent then advised you that most men enjoyed graceful women who could sing and dance, you had replied to her that you did not want to marry a man—you wanted to marry a lord.

Just as you and your father want me for me, do you not? you had asked. I do not wish to disappoint either of you in that regard. It would be no good for any of us if I married a man who tossed me aside because he met a woman more graceful than I could ever be. But if I kept his household running flawlessly and his accounts full of gold? Well, he might eventually take another lover, but he would never want to take another wife.

You had been so young when you’d said that—younger than she’d been when she wed King Viserys, but no less aware. Alicent understood your play then, and she never chided you for neglecting your needlework ever again.

“The girl has a talent for figures,” Alicent admitted. “She has a keen eye for household management.”

“Figures?” Otto laughed in a way that sounded derisive. “It’s not the maths that impressed me. You can hire any steward to do maths. No, it was her foresight in stealing those ledgers. And the way she talked in the throne room—gods, can she talk!” He laughed, though it was entirely mirthless. “Though I suppose Rhaenyra may have prepared her. The blacks have never been interested in her before, but now it seems that they want her as an ally.”

It did look that way during the petition, with Daemon backing you every time the Hand seemed to corner you. As usual, the man could hardly string together a coherent argument, but he did not need to. What really mattered to all the smallfolk and nobles watching your petition was that every time Otto alluded to your disgrace of a mother and your mongrel pedigree, Daemon never let them forget that you were also a trueborn Targaryen.

You would steal from your kin by marriage? he asked. You would deny her birthright? You would spit in her father’s legacy, after all he has done for the Realm? You would disrespect my niece?

Niece. Alicent found it laughable. Daemon had never spared you a glance as you grew up in the Red Keep, nor did Rhaenyra.

“Of course they want her as an ally,” Alicent said, her words sharp with frustration. “Rhaenyra ignored the girl when she had nothing, but now that she’s come into enough wealth to hire an entire army of sellswords and more, the princess is suddenly her greatest benefactor.”

Alicent was wroth to think of it. She had wanted no part in raising you, had resented you for it when her husband charged her with the duty. She could hardly manage her own children, let alone some foreign waif who was loath to speak the Common Tongue and threw tantrums whenever she was forced to pray at the Sept. Worse yet, your mother had been a bed slave from Lys—a country of harlots, criminals, and sin—and Alicent knew, just knew by looking at you, that you were likely to end up equally sullied. It was in your blood.

But you had no mother.

You were at court, a young and lost girl, and you were entirely motherless. She still remembered how you wept after your mother kissed you goodbye, the way that you would sneak off to Blackwater Bay just to wait for your father to return. Alicent’s heart ached for you then, for she too knew how horrible court could be for a young and motherless girl.

Rhaenyra was your kin by blood. She should have looked out for you. She had been more than capable, but she was too busy with her sham marriage and bastard children and that paramour of hers. What could Alicent do but care for you instead? You had no mother.

The Seven would have never forgiven Alicent if she simply left you to the wolves of the court. She could not leave you to her father’s court. You would not have survived. You would have been married off at ten-and-two to some lord thirty years your senior, tortured in your marriage bed until you were swollen with child while still a child yourself. Alicent could not let it happen.

Even if Alicent would never love you—and she knew she never would—she knew she must still care for you.

And today she watched as you spat in the face of her protection. How you paralyzed her when you turned to Daemon and chided him: I am familiar with the prudence and wisdom of Her Grace, as well as her kindness, you'd said. I know she would never intentionally try to take someone’s rightful inheritance. It is merely an ambiguity of the law that has led us here. She only thinks of the Realm.

Said in front of King Viserys, with his daughter-heir in the room? Alicent had no choice but to support your position, lest she look like a scheming traitor.

And the worst thing about it was that, despite her father’s ponderings, Alicent knew that Rhaenyra had not coached you to say that. For she had raised you, and she knew your talent for speech and for people—and she knew those words came from you alone, and you had learned how to say them from watching Alicent.

Rhaenyra could have never taught you how to appeal to people like that. Rhaenyra had no need, for she could always do whatever she pleased. She could flout the rules and disrespect the entire court, and King Viserys would only protect her. But you—just like Alicent—could not. For you had no mother, and you had no father, and you were the daughter of a foreign whore. All you had was Alicent, and for your sake she tried to make you disavow your sinful mother, for your sake she tried to make you find the light of the Seven, for your sake she tried to beat out of you your wilful nature. For your sake she tried to save your soul from both the Seven Hells and from the judgemental eyes of the Red Keep, the lords and ladies who saw nothing but a sinful whore when they looked at you. But you always resisted, as if you wanted to be a pariah, as if you wanted to suffer despite her best efforts—but Alicent could not hate you.

How could she hate a powerless girl without a mother?

“I do not think it was Rhaenyra who taught her how to speak in court,” Alicent voiced, thinking of all the hours you spent watching petitions, watching her. “Rhaenyra does not know how to handle herself with such grace nor subtlety.”

“Ah. So it was your influence.” Her father laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “If only you had raised Aegon to have even half the talent—then perhaps the King would have changed his mind about his succession.”

Alicent’s fingers tightened, and then she found herself picking at her nails.

“It is no fault of mine that Aegon was born with his disposition,” she said. “I tried my best.”

“You did,” Otto agreed. “You did not fail in all regards. Aemond, at the very least, has talent. Were he your firstborn son and that girl born a Targaryen princess—my, imagine the power they could have on the Iron Throne together. Our family would be untouchable. A pity.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened. She could not hate you, but she also could not stand to think of you sullying any of her sons. Your influence on them had already done irreparable damage. Your habit of tempting men had already driven Aegon into terrorising innocent women with his lust, and whatever silk-sweet words you whispered into Aemond’s ears had turned her lovely boy into someone cold and distant.

No—Alicent could not imagine you wedded to either of them.

“A pity, but there is no use in mourning it,” she dismissed. “Aemond will be matched to a respectable lady of the realm, and we will use the girl to buy the loyalty of a useful lord—as was always your plan.”

“Yes. My plan.” Otto looked at your papers thoughtfully. “I think we will need to make haste with her marriage. The blacks intend to ally with her, and I believe she is too ambitious to decline their offer. We cannot let her inheritance fall into Rhaenyra’s hands—we shall need to find her a match and send her someplace else immediately.”

Alicent swallowed. She had hoped to push for your match to a Northern house. She knew you would be happiest in the North—with people who worshipped the Old Gods, and a husband who was far enough removed from the politics of court to care much about your heritage. Starks were known for their honour, and the Warden in the North had carried himself with great dignity during his time at court. She knew that Cregan Stark would not have mistreated you. Lord Manderly’s son seemed promising as well, and the young Lord Bolton would have been keen for a dragon. But the political benefits of those matches were modest at best, uncertain at worst—Alicent knew her father would not have chosen any of those betrothals for you.

You had no mother. Only she could defend you.

“And where,” she asked carefully, “would we find a match on such short notice?”

She hoped for Lord Stokeworth or the Tully boy. The former was kind and the latter was dutiful, and she had already convinced her father of both proposals. But when the Hand smiled, his eyes glinting sharp, she knew it was neither of them.

“It is, in some ways, fortunate that she is so clever,” he replied. “The Tyrells have been here for the past few days on their own business, and they watched her petition. They were quite impressed with her and have made an offer to take her as a ward—and to eventually marry her to one of their sons.”

Her eyes widened. The Tyrells were one of the great houses, and ordinarily would only be interested in a betrothal with a Targaryen prince or princess. “Was it the talent they wanted,” she asked, “or the gold?”

“The gold for the marriage—and her dragon, of course. But the talent is why they want her as a ward.”

Alicent considered the offer. They likely wanted to groom you for something, and as long as it was not dancing or needlework, it would keep you happily busy. You may eventually find yourself content with such an arrangement. But she could not help but feel that something was amiss. The Tyrells kept strongly to the Faith, and they cared greatly for status. They would not be so eager to take someone like you into their family.

“And which son would they want to squander upon her?” Alicent asked.

“The bastard they just legitimised. To wed a Targaryen lady with a dragon would be quite the achievement for such a man—hardly a squander.”

“You wish to marry her to Arthur Flowers?” she asked, appalled.

“Of course. We are buying the son of a great house with her. The son of our liege lord!”

“Arthur Flowers is a bastard and a raper!”

“Arthur Tyrell is now a legitimate son of the family controlling the Reach!” Otto sighed. “Do not detest me for this, Alicent. We will need to secure all the help we can get when the succession of the Iron Throne is contested.” Otto gave her a severe look. “And remember,” he added, “this has always been your plan too. You have always wanted to use the girl for the sake of your own children—or would you rather that Rhaenyra use her instead?”

Alicent could not say anything. She could not stop this match, she realised. No one would speak in your defence, for you had no mother—you only had her. And Alicent, at the end of the day, was not your mother.

She was a Hightower.

X. TEMPERANCE

The edge of the Kingswood today was peaceful. The sky was a clear blue; the birdsong was a soft warble in your ears. Vhagar—who was old and liked to rest when she was not at war—was calm beneath you, her saddle rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. Aemond, never one to chatter, was equally quiet. Even though Vhagar had been at rest for a while, your arms were still wrapped tight around his waist, and your cheek was pressed against his back.

You had not held or been held since your parents departed from King’s Landing. Given your reputation, it was impossible for you to touch anyone without setting off whispers, and none of the septas who cared for you had any desire to touch you—your blood was too dirty for it. But sharing a dragon with another person offered a kind of analogue to an embrace; allowed you to feel close to someone without raising brows. You would never admit such a thing aloud, but you liked to ride with people partly because of that.

Aemond was, of course, the only person in King’s Landing who would ever ride with you on any dragon. Ordinarily you would limit contact with him—he did not strike you as a person who particularly liked being touched, and you did not want to scare him off—but you needed to feel close to someone today. You had just spent three days without sleep to prepare for your petition, and during the manic rush of having won it, was approached by Alicent Hightower with dampening news of your betrothal. She'd finished her announcement by requesting that you plan your father’s funeral; it was plainly an attempt to ruin any happiness by reminding you to grieve.

Too proud to show weakness, you’d agreed and committed to yet another three days without sleep.

But you were plainly exhausted. You did not want to think about the funeral. You did not want to think about your betrothal. You did not want to think of anything at all. You simply wanted to relax, wanted to feel safe and warm next to someone, so now you were sitting with Aemond in the most desolate place you could find, the both of you on Vhagar’s saddle.

“I'm afraid I'll fall off if I let go,” you explained to Aemond, when he asked why you were still holding him.

“But we are not in the air.”

“Vhagar likes to buck and fight—she could kick me off at any moment.”

“Vhagar is very calm right now. And she likes you. She feels at ease around you.”

“I suppose that's true.” You closed your eyes, enjoying the warmth of him. “I'm fond of riding her too.”

Despite his questions, Aemond did not protest to your touch. He merely hummed, after which a long silence passed. Larks kept calling out, their songs a beautiful trill in your ears. The day was windy; the trees whispered loudly in the sky. To anyone a distance away, the noise of the forest would surely mask your voices—as long as you kept them low.

“I'm betrothed to someone now,” you said quietly. It was not quite upset, but your voice sounded oddly fragile.

“Hm.” Aemond did not sound bothered; instead, he seemed pensive. “To whom?”

“The Tyrells. The bastard they just legitimised.” You opened your eyes, staring at the rustling trees. The scenery of the Reach would be similar, you found yourself thinking, for it was close by—too close for your liking.

“The Tyrells,” Aemond repeated thoughtfully. “The Hightowers are their bannermen. Otto Hightower wishes to trade you for the guaranteed support of his liege, and at the same time he will ensure that your inheritance will not fall into Rhaenyra's hands. It seems my grandsire has done exactly what you predicted.”

“As I said,” you replied bitterly, “his daughter raised me. I know how your family thinks.”

“As do I.” You felt him shift; he may have been looking back at you. “Do you know anything about Ser Arthur?”

“Nothing other than that he’s fought in the Dornish Marches. He displayed great feats during battle—I heard many tales in the Throne Room during their petition. Ser Criston looked strangely at him the whole time, though.” Your brow furrowed. “I wonder why.”

“They may have served together, or else he may have some kind of reputation within the Marches,” Aemond mused. “I will ask Ser Criston later.”

“Do tell me what he says. I would like to know the character of my future husband.” Your arms tightened around Aemond. The day was not particularly cold, but you found yourself clinging to him. “I need all the knowledge I can of the Tyrells before I leave. Surely Highgarden cannot be worse than the Red Keep, but I want no surprises.”

“You have already resigned yourself to being taken away.” You felt Aemond touch your hand; you nearly jumped before realising he was only adjusting his chains. “I told you that I would handle the matter of your betrothal.”

“What can you do?” you asked miserably. “The Queen has already agreed, and who knows what kind of marriage your grandsire will force me into if I offend the Tyrells by outright rejecting them. I would not put it past the Hand to tie me up and send me away in the middle of the night, at this point.” You pressed your forehead into Aemond’s back, sighing. “Will you take me to Braavos so I may escape the mummery of the Red Keep? If we leave on Vhagar now, we may be there by the morrow.”

Vhagar beneath you rumbled, as if in complaint. “Ah,” you said, “your old lady seems unwilling to carry us. I suppose I'm done for.”

Aemond laid a hand on your wrist, perhaps searching for another chain. You did not push it away. “You need not offend the Tyrells,” he said. “When the time comes, simply play along as needed. You will not be held accountable for whatever may come.”

“Will you be held accountable? The guilt would eat me alive, if you were.”

He hummed. “If I were, it would not affect my standing greatly. You know I would not make such a misstep.”

“I suppose.” You allowed yourself to feel, for just one moment, reassured. Aemond was one of those few players in court who felt both reliable and safe, or at least not openly malicious. Perhaps to others, but not you. It was not unlikely that he could solve this all.

The breeze changed. You realised that your excuses to cling onto him had dwindled. “I suppose we should dismount now,” you said mournfully. “Come—let’s enjoy the woods, as we said we would.”

“I don't feel much like looking at trees today,” Aemond said. “Would you like to fly along the bay instead? The whole length of the shore.”

You lifted your head to give him an incredulous look. “That will take at least an hour in flight.”

“Then I suppose you will need to hold me for an hour. I do hope that won’t be a bother.”

It took you a beat to realise what he'd just offered, but once you did, you squeezed him tightly.

“As long as there is no complaint from Vhagar,” you said. “I know the lady likes her rest.”

Vhagar clicked beneath you, more agreeable now to your request. “She will do what I want,” Aemond reassured you. “Dragons are influenced by the desires of their riders.”

“So you want to nap and lounge all day like an elderly woman?”

You could hear the amusement in his voice when he replied, “Not terribly, though it is an option for us today if you wish.”

How lovely that would be, you thought. If you could lie with Aemond in the grass, shielded from the sun by Vhagar, and spend the afternoon slumbering. To ignore the funeral you needed to plan, the grief you had been procrastinating, the bridegroom you needed to meet.

Unfortunately, Aemond was not such a lout that he would waste the day like that, and you had your own responsibilities. You could not run for long from the death of your parents, from the ramifications of this inheritance mess. It was better to face it all promptly, matching the cold efficiency that the Hightowers operated with. That was how you had survived all these years, after all: matching the Hightowers.

But at the very least, you could allow yourself one more hour of delay.

“Napping would be nice,” you admitted, “but I'd rather spend the time in flight.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Vhagar’s wings began to beat, ancient but mighty. The trees swayed and rattled from the gust of her flight. The chains around your waist shook with the force of the great beast, but they held steadfast—binding you to Aemond, their hold inescapable.

X. DEATH, UPRIGHT

“Dracarys.”

A brilliant fire roared to life, consuming a boat drifting peacefully by the shore. Emerald flames erupted from the wood, devouring shimmering Qartheen jewels and priceless Myrish silks—all the belongings of your father.

Your father’s dragon had died in his youth. In her absence, it was Wildfyre who was chosen to set the pyre aflame in this sham of a funeral. The fire was the colour of alchemical wildfire, though given your dragon’s middling age of ninety-and-three, they of course burned much hotter. Despite being grown and having lived through both war and death, though, Wildfyre still behaved like a child: screeching and roaring and squawking miserably as the pyre burned, as if crying in your stead.

Your own face was bone-dry. You only stared dully at the pile of burning valuables, which were meant to be a substitute for your father’s body.

Technically, all of the objects in the pyre belonged to the Crown, but in a fit of spite you had publicly petitioned to the Hand to have them burned in the funeral. In a throne room where various nobles and smallfolk spectated—most of whom were already sympathetic to you, after you had to argue for your own inheritance just two days before—Otto Hightower had no choice but to grant your request, lest he look like a monster. You were glad to see all the treasures burning to ash in front of him, all that wealth forever out of his reach.

The Hand and the Queen had not appreciated this insult; neither of them offered their condolences during the ceremony, and likely only came out of obligation. Your closest kin offered no real words of consolation either. Aegon was so grossly uncomfortable during the affair that he could not make eye contact with you; Helaena only gave you a mournful and disconcerting stare, as if she were grieving you instead of your father.

Aemond, though very dear to you, was equally clumsy with handling you in your grief. He stood by your side and asked if you were well, to which you only gave him a long, dead-eyed stare. You had just spent three days without sleep to prepare for your petition during which his grandsire wrung you out; then you spent another two days without sleep to prepare for a funeral at which you thought no one would grieve.

Of course you were not well.

None of Alicent Hightower’s children had ever experienced loss; that much was clear. It was different with your other cousins, however; Luke, Jace, Baela, and Rhaena neatly offered their sincere condolences. I'm so sorry, they all said, before taking your hands and squeezing. I am always here if you need company. Say the word and I will come by.

You absolutely would not take them up on the offer, but you did appreciate it.

Surprisingly, though, you were not entirely alone in your mourning. King Viserys had asked to delay the funeral until he was well enough to attend, and he now stood in the front, watching solemnly. Beside him was Prince Daemon, who for once seemed subdued and reflective. You were not sure what to make of Rhaenyra’s face, which seemed appropriately mournful, but potentially inauthentic. She had actually known your father as a child, though they were not close, and she never involved herself with you when you were a child except for when Jace wanted to play with you.

You supposed it was Prince Daemon and King Viserys who had the greatest right to grief, perhaps even more than you. You had known your father for ten years; they had known him for nearly thirty. Daemon sought you out shortly after the service, speaking in Pentoshi Valyrian.

“Your father was the only person who brought us news of our aunt in Volantis,” he said. “He always saw that she fared well—did he ever tell you that?”

“No,” you replied honestly, and with great surprise. “He never mentioned her.”

“It was how he knew your mother,” Daemon said. “The Lysene pillowhouse that Saera once worked in—your mother was a courtesan there. She introduced them to one another.”

You were stunned by the news. Saera Targaryen had been exiled and King Jaehaerys had forbidden the rest of the family from ever speaking with her again. To think that your father had not only sought her out anyway, but had found your mother through her, was shocking.

“I did not think my father would break his uncle’s decree,” you said.

“Defiance was in your father’s spirit. I do believe you inherited it.”

“Thank you,” you said. You were deeply confused—this was probably the fifth time in your life you'd ever spoken to the Rogue Prince, for he scared you when you were a child, and he himself did not care much for toddlers. You did not think he could be so kind. “Perhaps defiance is in our blood. My father always spoke highly of your exploits, and he respected Princess Saera as well.”

The corner of Daemon’s mouth lifted in something that could not really be called a smile, but was probably meant to be a sign of approval. “Those born of fire and blood have a tendency to be untameable. Your father and I were not just kin—we were kindred. If you wish for the company of like-minded people”—Daemon glanced at the Hightowers and their children—“rather than those who disapprove of us… do seek me out.”

King Viserys, with his missing eye hidden by a patch, offered fewer words, but more heartfelt: “I have always tried to care for you in my cousin’s stead,” he said. “Nothing about that will change in his death.”

You bowed. “Thank you, my King.”

He laid a hand, shaking and emaciated but warm, on your shoulder.

“I regret that I am no longer well enough to spend time with you in your hour of grief, but I know that my children and grandchildren will keep your loneliness at bay.”

He did not mention Queen Alicent, nor did you. “I will be grateful for their company in my mourning,” was all you said.

Truthfully, though, anyone’s company would likely make you scream. You did not feel like coddling anyone as they struggled over what they should say to you after you lost a man that none of them had known. All you wanted to do was sneak back to either your rock by the sea or the dung pit to cry in absolute solitude, but now that Aegon and Aemond knew both of your misery spots, that was not an option.

Your expression was grim as you left the funeral site, and you prayed that no one would disturb you in your self-pity—but to your displeasure, Jace had been thoughtful enough to wait for you.

“I was worried about you,” he said, so gently that you wanted to throw up.

“You need not be,” you replied stiffly. “I did all my grieving for my father while I was working through those ledgers.”

Jacaerys had helped you sort through the books when you were crying too hard to read clearly, so you knew he was being genuine when he replied, “I know. But…”

“But?”

“It's just,” he started, and you could hear the hesitation in his voice, “is there to be a service for your mother?”

You stared dumbly. He sounded earnest when he explained, “I would like to attend, if there is one planned.”

“No,” you replied, and your voice sounded oddly strangled, and your throat hurt terribly. “No, there is not one planned. No one asked me to make arrangements for one, so I did not.”

“Would you rather that there wasn't one?”

“I had not thought about it—I did not think there was anyone who would like to come,” you admitted, which made you feel both horrible and sorry for yourself, and suddenly you were turning around to wipe away at your eyes. Oh, how you longed to be in the dung pit right now.

“Why would you even want to come?” you asked, sniffling. “You did not know her.”

“I would want to come for you,” Jacaerys said simply, and the sob that came out of you was so ugly that you felt embarrassed. Not once did you cry like this while reading through all the Iron Bank ledgers, but for some reason, the thought of your mother hurt your heart so much that you did not know how else to release the pain but with the most guttural sobs possible.

You felt a hand on your shoulder. You noticed then that you had crouched down to cry into your knees, and Jace had lowered himself to sit with you.

“When Ser Harwin died,” he said quietly, “Luke and I were not allowed to attend his funeral.”

“Oh,” you said, lip wobbling. You did not know where he was going with this.

“We still wanted to say goodbye, though, so instead we went to the Kingswood and buried the training swords he gave us when we were little. We did it alone.”

“O-oh.” More tears welled up as you realised what he was about to ask.

“I know you have not been allowed a proper funeral for your mother—but is there anything you would want to do, to say goodbye?”

You could not manage a yes, so you instead let out a whimpering sob.

“Meet me at the hour of the wolf tonight, at the bottom floor of the Kitchen Keep,” you said once you were coherent again, and Jacaerys nodded.

XI. DEATH, REVERSED

After Prince Velarion cast your mother out of the Red Keep, the septas, in their unending grace, offered you a kind of cruel consolation: Your mother was always going to be cast out anyway, they told you. She was merely a whore, seducing your father with temptation rather than marrying him out of love. He was always going to free himself from her spell and find the Seven again. This was inevitable.

They also told you, You were not a child born of love. You were born of sin and temptation. Your mother was bound to leave you as well, for her feelings for you were disingenuous; how can a whore love an accident of her sins? But now—her influence is gone, and you can find the love of the Seven instead.

And when Alicent Hightower said, Stop crying, sweetling, the septas are speaking the truth—this is all for the better, you realised that you would always hate her and her Faith.

Maybe you could have found the Seven if it were not for her words, but she ruined her gods for you with that one sentence. You burned your copy of the Seven-Pointed Star; you kicked and screamed as the septas dragged you to the High Septon’s service; you called Alicent a monster when she struck you for your misbehaviour. So horrific was her treatment of you that even Aegon—who had often been on the receiving end of her strikes himself—felt sorry for you.

Not that he actually helped you, of course. Only Aemond spent any time with you though it all, sitting next to you in the dragon pit as you cried.

You did not believe any of it, of course. You were not a child born of sin, for your mother and father loved each other. Your father did so much for your mother—told her he loved her in her mother tongue, grew persimmon trees in the courtyard to keep her homesickness at bay, lit nightfires for her so she could pray to R’hllor. Your father loved her so much that he took her to Lys and decided to stay, even if it meant leaving you.

There was no way he didn't love her. There was no way they didn't love you.

There was no way, and this was what you told yourself every time you heard those whispers: She merely seduced him. She merely used him. He did not truly love her. How could a prince truly love a whore?

And her daughter—that girl is a child of sin. How could they have loved her?

You had become so skilled at ignoring it all, and nearly delighted in being irreverent of it. But despite all of your efforts to laugh at the gossipmongers and the septas, several years of whispers now echoed in your ear as you made your way to the Kitchen Keep. They nicked at your heart, and you wished your mother and father were here to dispel them. But your father was a pile of bones somewhere on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost to the sea.

Your heart was so heavy with these thoughts that you did not say anything to Jace and Luke when they met you at the Keep. You merely dumped two piles of firewood and kindling in their arms and beckoned them to follow you. You led them up a long flight of stairs, carrying a bundle of beautiful silks, until you had all reached the top of some decrepit tower.

The winds were calm tonight, a cool breeze rather than a violent gust. It made it easier to light up the old fire pit—you struggled only a little before you remembered how.

“My mother and father used to come here at night,” you finally explained, your voice tired. “It is a practice at Red Temples in Essos to burn nightfires like this. They are meant to allow R’hllor to protect us from the dark. But there are no such temples in King’s Landing, so my father would do this instead to comfort my mother.”

Jacaerys and Lucerys both listened quietly as they sat next to you, faces lit up by the crackling heat. Luke was not very close with you—you had always felt too awkward befriending him, after the incident with Aemond’s eye—but he had wanted to come to help you honour your mother, so sorry he was for your grief.

He seemed genuinely interested when he asked, “Does it bring you comfort too?”

“It reminds me of my mother,” you said, and the two brothers nodded in understanding.

“And those silks you're carrying?” Jace asked.

“Things of my mother’s that we found in my father’s room.” You looked at them balefully as you took a piece out of the bundle, revealing a golden scarf with Lysene embroidery. “I think—I think I should burn them. I don't have anything else of hers.”

The two of them nodded. You fed the silk to the nightfire, watched as it ate through the gold thread. Your heart clenched as it burned to ash; you had so many times imagined that your mother was wearing this scarf as she walked by the harbours of Lys, holding your father’s hand.

“I always thought,” you said quietly, “that my father took my mother to Lys and loved her too much to come back.”

The both of them stayed silent. Waited.

“But”—your brow twinged—“I do not know what to think anymore. People always said my mother was a whore, you know? That my father married her out of pure lust and would eventually leave her. I always thought they were wrong, because he stayed in Lys and gave up his position here, all because he loved her too much to leave her. But now I don't know what to think.”

You did not know if he truly loved her. If the sword and the silks and even you were really evidence of his love, and not simply evidence that he was doting on his pretty concubine. If the ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor was truly proof of their devotion, or if it was the impulsive decision of an infatuated man. For your father was supposed to be in Lys, loving your mother too much to return, spending the rest of his days with her in the Essosi sun—but instead he was a pile of bones, and she was lost forever.

You felt a familiar wetness on your face, a burn in your eyes that had nothing to do with smoke.

“But if he had stayed,” Luke asked quietly, hesitantly, “doesn't that mean he would have abandoned you?”

“That would have been fine,” you replied truthfully. “And I thought—I thought they'd visit someday, and I would get to see them again then. At the very least they'd love me enough for that.”

At the very least, you would for one last time be held by people who loved you.

You bit your trembling lip. Now that you'd said it all out loud, you were uncertain if you made sense. “Is it strange that I'm questioning it all now? That for nearly twenty years I believed steadfastly in their love, but now that they are gone, I do not know what to think?”

Neither of them said anything. Luke was looking down; Jace was staring into the flames.

“I wish I could ask them,” you whispered, and this seemed to strike Jace.

“I do not think it strange to question it.” Jacaerys did not look at you, but you knew he was not lying. “I have thought about it many times—about the relationship between my mother and Ser Harwin. I always thought they loved each other and that they loved us, when I was little—but now I'm not so sure. And I cannot ask him, no matter how much I wish for it.”

You gave him a long look, and you were strangely hopeful—as if the knowledge that Ser Harwin loved the three of them would somehow mean that your father loved you and your mother too.

“I do not think,” Jacaerys finally confessed, “that my mother loved Ser Harwin.”

Your heart was wrenched with pain.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Why?”

“She did not cry after he died.” Jace sounded odd, his voice terse but brittle. “She did not cry and she told us that we shouldn't cry either. Like he meant nothing to us. I think now that he was a distraction for her, or a plaything. If the court whispers are true, then it is not the first time she would have done such a thing.”

“That can't be true,” you protested, perhaps too desperately. Rhaenyra had to have loved him. She risked her station just to bear his children—just like how your father lost his to have you.

But Jace seemed disconsolate. “Why not?” He gave you a wry look. “Bastards are supposed to be born of lies and temptation, not love—at least according to the Faith. If we are indeed the bastards of Ser Harwin and my mother, then we are proof that lies and temptation are all that existed between them.”

You thought of all the septas and their prayers and Alicent Hightower screaming at you to behave. Bastards are not so different from the daughters of whores, you mused. They see us all as products of sin.

“Fuck the Faith,” you hissed, and Jace seemed startled, as if not expecting the edge to your voice, but you did not falter. “I do not believe a person as kind as you could have been born of anything other than love.”

Jace’s eyes widened a little, but then his face settled into a kind of smile. Small, but gentle nevertheless.

“Then I do not think that you could have been born of anything else either.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. You turned back to the fire, eyes still hot, but a little less watery. Your fingers gripped the red-and-gold silk remaining in your hands—your mother’s wedding veil—and you meant to feed it to the nightfire, but you did not. You did not want to let it go.

You did not want to let her go.

“I’ve always thought that,” you confessed, “my mother loved me enough to someday come back to King’s Landing. She promised me, you know. She said she would.”

Jace gave you a soft look. “I'm sure she meant it.”

You wiped your eyes again. “Why do you think so?”

“Just a feeling.” He went quiet for a little, hesitating. But eventually he shared, “Ser Harwin said he would come back someday. He died, of course, but”—Jace looked down—“I believe he was telling the truth. He loved us, I think.”

You nodded, and the squeeze around your heart finally eased. It was entirely illogical, but you somehow knew this was true: Ser Harwin loved his children; that meant that your parents must have loved you too. It only made sense. Your father had wanted to come back for you after one hundred days. Your mother wanted to return after your grandsire died. She loved you so much that she would cross the seas for you again.

She must have crossed the seas again.

Your fingers gripped the veil even harder. Your eyes felt heavy, five days without proper sleep wearing them down. You fought to keep them open.

“You're tired,” Jace said. “You should go back to your room and rest.”

“No,” you said, but your eyelids were fluttering shut anyway, and you felt yourself start to sway. “No—the fire is supposed to burn all night. Until the dawn breaks and the light of R’hllor returns to us.”

“Will that bring you comfort, if it burns until daybreak?” he asked. You began to lie down—curling up on the stone floor.

You answered with your eyes closed: “It will remind me of my mother.”

You entered a strange dream after that, or perhaps a memory. You were sitting around the nightfire with your parents, a child once more. You were shivering and crying, for the wind was cold, and the night was dark and full of terrors. But your father had you lie down, your head in his lap, and he covered you with his cloak as your mother ran her fingers through your hair, and they held you. They loved you. You knew they loved you, and they loved each other too. Your father went to Lys and loved your mother so much that he never came back. Your mother loved you so much that she crossed the Narrow Sea once more just to see you.

And you would, for one last time, be held by someone who loved you.

(When you woke up in your bed the next morning, you were covered by a cloak that smelled of nightfire and dreams.)

END PART III

notes: FUN FACT when i was a teenager i was extremely obsessed over sansan and the cloak = marriage metaphor had a formative influence on me and that has definitely come thru in this fic lol. anyway - thank you for reading!!! i would greatly appreciate it if you reblogged & drop a line if you enjoyed this chapter! <3

[dadsbongos]

i am a sword // i am a shield

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I… go home?”

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“At a high school?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be nice…”

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

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

“Mhm. Has one, too.”

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

“No idea.”

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

“I do, but I don’t know his cat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

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

“Duh,” he forces you forward once again.

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

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

“Hey, Chainsaw!”

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

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

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

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

You nod skittishly.

He tilts his head, “You a fan?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoshida steps back when you glance at him uncertainly.

“My name?”

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

“I am?”

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

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

“Peaches?”

“I like peaches.”

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

“Okay! Totally!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, no mango…”

“You like mango?”

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

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

You nod faster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are mangoes really your favorite fruit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, so you didn’t know?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really think so?”

“I really do.”

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

Of course, you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words do not bounce off the Rejection Devil.

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

“Then let’s get to work, yeah?”

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

“I thought we were going out today…”

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

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

“I can help!”

“It’ll be boring as hell…“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

“Look at your feet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

“,,,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She takes note of neither act.

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why don’t you?”

“What if I’m wrong one day?”

“Are you ever?”

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

“Hey. Why d’ya like Chainsaw Man?”

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

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

“... I like you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded solemnly and watched Makima exit.

And your room has remained untouched since.

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

YOYOGI PARK ON SATURDAY. 12PM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“These’re your casual pants?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

“A mango?”

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

“...for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head, “Can I ask…?”

“Shoot.”

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

“Just ask. Whatever ya wanna know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Makima and Nayuta are different maybe you are too.

You hope so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If not, there's next year.”

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

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

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

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

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

Until, “Even if we go today?”

His tone is bleeding hope.

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

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

“Do you want to kiss me?”

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

“We can kiss, Denji.”

“Awesome,” he lamely sighs under his breath.

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

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

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

Your eyes flutter shut and you press back.

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

“Oh, shit.”

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

“Denji!”

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

“You bit me!”

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

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

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

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

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

The rain thins outside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Denji! Over here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now you’re genuinely nervous.

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

“Hey, Denji?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too bad you remember none of that.

If you died now, would Denji mourn?

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

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

Does it even matter at all?

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If they found you, would they care?

Would they cry?

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

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

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

With a drying pen, you scribble that down.

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

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

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

“I am?” you croak.

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

This feels right.

Crushed and warm.

You’re doing a good job, you think.

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

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

“I do feel good.”

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

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

But you’re not sure you want to.

But not wanting to isn’t exactly your job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your dogs,” you weakly defend.

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

“I think we should break up.”

“Oh…”

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

“I do, I know I do.”

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

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

You’re silent. He tenses.

“I don’t know if we want each other.”

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

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

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

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

In November of 1997, Makima got you a cat.

“You like them, right?”

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

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

bang

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

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

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

Kitten got sick. :( - Makima

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t a dorama!”

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

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

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

“Huh? What does that matter?”

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

Did you?

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

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

A real name.

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

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

“You should seriously look up when ya walk.”

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

“Hi.”

“What are you doing out here?”

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

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

Should you?

Don’t overthink it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

It may be your favorite movie of all time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if I change?“

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

“I would never try to kill you.”

So does it matter if this was chosen for you?

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

A lot.

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

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

“I wanna be your boyfriend!”

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

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

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

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

“Hayakawa, Denji… Yoshida, Reiji…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I actually love you.

“You’re pretty, too, Denji.”

I think I actually love you, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She won’t!”

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

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

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

“This is her?”

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

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

Suddenly, she nods, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Denji’s positively beaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you- ?”

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

Kishibe?

“Kishibe?! Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You got it?”

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

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

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

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

“Eggs,” you and Denji answer.

Then you tack on, “And toast.”

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

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

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

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

“She heard you.”

“Figures.”

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

I think I love you

I think I love you, too

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

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

He snorts, “Your attendance is shit.”

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

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

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

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

Like tonight;

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

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

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

Much less comfortable.

~~

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

[agathasfamiliar]

you better make me better (pt. 1)

agatha harkness x fem!reader

it's 1780, your coven has been chosen by agatha harkness herself to walk the witches' road with her. but you've caught her eye and when things don't go exactly as planned, agatha might just make an exception to her rules.

other parts: 1 2 3

word count: ~1400

warnings: brief mention of blood

author's note: i've been reading so much agatha x reader that i needed to give it a shot. i intend for this to eventually be smut, hense the need for this secret blog. let me know your thoughts and send any requests pls i need ideas for practice.

This is our only chance.

The words of your fellow coven members echo in your head as you navigate clumsily through the punishing brush of the wood east of town. Each slap of a branch feels like a blade and you’re unsure if the wetness you feel on your face is from the slowly mounting storm trickling through the canopy or bloody evidence of the sharper foliage.

Your coven told you they need you for this ritual, and though it sounds far too good to be true, you trust them. For some reason. Your leader, ever the ambitious witch, spoke of a mysterious and palpably powerful woman she’d stumbled upon that told her of a place called The Witches’ Road. A place you could all finally reach your full potential as witches, something you’ve been longing for for longer than you can remember. 

You’ve always been the least naturally gifted of the group when it came to the arcane, picked on by the others for always having your nose in a book memorizing the rules of the craft rather than “letting the magic flow through you.” But you know all too well the dangers of allowing your emotions to rule your power. That’s the true reason you’d agreed to humor this meeting at the witching hour, because of the certain way your leader had phrased the proposition. 

“At the end of the road, you will find what is missing.”

There wasn’t a long enough parchment in the world to contain the list of what you were missing. What you had lost. Maybe walking this road could bring what you really need into focus. Give you some sort of much needed direction.

It’s as you continue to ponder what this missing piece may be that you reach out to steady yourself on a branch and it gives way with a noise that is more alarmed in offense and irritation than true fear. You, on the other hand, expel a gasp of true fear and stumble forward having expected to put your weight on the “branch”. 

The branch that is actually a woman’s arm, whom you failed to see, leant up against a tree in the lightless and rain-obscure space.

Before you can even register the fact that you’re falling head first into thorny undergrowth, you feel hands around your middle. They pull you back upwards and against a warm body, the owner of which lets out the slightest grunt of effort. Your back rests against the figure's front as you briefly catch your breath, your heart beat attempting to return to normal from the jolt. 

Once you’re able to consider your surroundings and settle on which way is up, you stiffen, bracing for a chiding from one of the other coven members about being more careful. You’re unsure which of your sisters it is, still unable to see even a foot in front of your face. You’re more so surprised that any one of them would deny themself the opportunity to see you fall rather than help you up.

Instead, a wry feminine cackle, foreign to your ears, breaks the silence. Whoever this is, it is not one of your coven members. And somehow that settles your nerves rather than increasing them. 

It’s as if she, this woman, leans impossibly closer to ensure her breath ghosts over your right ear and down the back of your neck in a way that sends chills down your spine. It feels so familiar that for a moment you distantly wonder if you’re in the midst of a terribly vivid dream. 

Even more confused now, and with her hands showing no sign of loosening on your waist, you turn in the arms of the strange woman that’s now holding you. You decide you ought to actually see this person before you speak.

She allows you to turn, but her grip only laxes enough for the small movement, reclining once again against the trunk of the tree. This serves to further steady you but also forces you to allow her to support your full weight.

“Careful, dear. You don’t know who could be out here in these woods.” She says mockingly, fingers digging into your corseted frame in a way that simultaneously tickles and pinches. You think from the slight smile you can see in the shadowy swirling of her expression that this is intentional. 

The way she speaks makes you feel like you’ve met before. There’s a familiarity to her banter that one might call rude if it wasn’t so enthralling. The voice, you also note, matches the cackle if any voice ever could, and the hushed melodic tone coupled with the indistinguishable features in the darkness only add to the doubts you have in regards to your own consciousness.

“Thank you for your help, I’m sorry to have-” Your sentence trails off as clouds ahead must part to allow moonlight to cast over the face of the woman, instantly wiping your memory of any intended end to your sentence.

You’re met with piercing blue eyes that you think are icy enough to freeze over hell, but instead burn into you with a fire that might rival it. Her eyes make quick work of your face and shamelessly trail down the rest of you as you realize she is also seeing you for the first time in the newly illuminated space. The pale skin of her face almost seems to glitter silver under the moonbeam and the way her wild mane of dark hair falls around her makes her one with the surrounding gnarled trees. You’re unsure where the tendrils end and the stray branches framing her visage begin. 

You suddenly think about the branches that cut your face as you made your way to this place and wonder if the locks of her hair may do the same if they were to brush over your skin. You oddly find yourself hoping they will.

Shaking yourself from the odd thought, your tongue darts out almost involuntarily to taste iron as you wet your lips. You realize the woman is no longer holding you to her, rather you’re leaning into her on your own accord, transfixed. 

You step away quickly, as if burned, almost stumbling once again into the brush but catching yourself. This earns another short laugh from her. 

“You must be Y/N.” She finally says when you stare at her dumbfounded. You half think to ask if she’s some sort of nymph or other preternatural beauty you’ve heard tales of in your books, unable to reason at the moment why anyone else would be out here at this hour. 

Luckily, something about hearing her actually say your name sobers you from the odd dream-like state this encounter has had so far. 

“How do you know that?” You ask, slightly defensive but with a softness that comes from the fact that you definitely want to hear her say your name again.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” She ignores your question playfully, stepping past you and further into the clearing behind. When you don’t immediately make a move to follow she pauses, walking back over to where you stand and looping a long fingered hand around one bicep. She pulls until you start to step, leading you forward with a theatrical amount of effort to emphasize her point. 

“Your coven sisters are a hoot.” She raises her eyebrows and rolls her eyes with an air of sarcasm that only makes you like her more. You smile apologetically, thinking about what embarrassing things they must’ve said about you to this woman.

“Come on, pretty girl. I don’t bite…” She says, though her nails do bite into your arm pointedly at the statement as you round the bend in the clearing to reveal your fellow coven members standing in a lowly torchlit circle. You try not to acknowledge the slightest disappointment you feel at the statement.

“Usually.” She adds with a wink, as if reading your mind, before reaching the circle and throwing her hands out to the group in a very performative show of arrival that brings a genuine smile to your face.

Of course this is the woman that charmed your leader into gathering you all here. You just started following her deeper into an unfamiliar forest alone after less than a “hello”, so you really can’t place blame. 

You’ve known her for less than five minutes and haven’t even gotten to ask her name yet, partially because once you finally looked into her eyes you’re pretty sure your tongue stopped working all together. However, you are unwaveringly sure you have never met anyone like her before and probably never will again.

[stupidocupido]

house of balloons

aegon ii targaryen x fem!reader | based on this hotd upper east side au

Like the conqueror he was named after, Aegon finds his treasures just to destroy them. Leaving them emotionally unsatisfied, drained of their self-respect, and covered in his cum. He sees it as a challenge, to make even the toughest woman beg for him. And eventually, they all do, because, in the end, all women are the same.

modern au; porn without plot; dom!reader, sub!aegon, blowjob, actual sex, hitting, degrading language; one shot; minors dni

I rewrote an old pwp I posted around 2020 for another character. Enjoy ;)).

All the lights in the office are off. Some eco-bullshit rules the MT came up with to save energy. The only thing that illuminates the place is the mixture of white and red city lights coming in through the windows. Ground to ceiling, the windows don’t open at the top floor, but they give a spectacular view over Kings Landing. From behind the desk, his father has a splendid view over the city, their ancestors worked hard for it after all.

Not a view Aegon currently can enjoy. His mouth is opened, and his tongue is being held between her fingers. It is drying up and when he tries to pull his tongue back, her nails dig into it. He tries to close his mouth, but she refuses to let him go. Instead, she grabs his jaw, pulling his mouth further open.

“You tell so many lies with this pretty tongue of yours—so much wasted energy. There are better things you can waste your energy and tongue on, oh Aegon. Didn’t I teach you that the last time?”

Aegon can only nod and it makes her finally let go. Her fingers are wet with his spit, which she swipes clean on his pants. Her hand stays there, her long nails dark and moving to the inside of his thighs.

“You’re a slow learner, I think you need to redo that particular class.” She sounds more annoyed than angry. He can feel his skin colour red, as he shamefully nods a bit too willingly. It is pathetic how her annoyed tone and scowl get him aroused.

Aegon never saw himself as the submissive type. He knows he is handsome and that it doesn’t take him a lot to talk women into his bed. It probably is a mixture of his arrogance, money, name and looks.

Like the conqueror he was named after, Aegon finds his treasures just to destroy them. Leaving them emotionally unsatisfied, drained of their self-respect, and covered in his cum. He sees it as a challenge, to make even the toughest woman beg for him. And eventually, they all do, because, in the end, all women are the same.

They all long to be dominated, to be domesticated. Women only need to be strong and independent when they open their legs to give birth to a child. They’re only good for three things: to be fucked, to make him a sandwich after and to be fucked again.

At least, that is how Aegon likes to profile himself to the world. The wild Targaryen son, the boy who is overlooked in favour of his older sister. With a father who probably gave him the token Targaryen name so he wouldn’t forget his unwanted son’s name. A mother who probably regrets not using a condom and siblings who are much more interesting and deserving of the Targaryen name than him.

And all those insecurities he masks by drinking, sniffing and fucking his monthly allowance away. Pretending he is the alpha male that boys who long for female attention talk about in their podcasts. Aegon knows, because sometimes they use him as an example in their boring click-bait conversations they post on TikTok.

“You’re so pathetic.” She says as she moves her hand off his thighs again. She pushes her index and middle finger against his lips. “So, like a dumb, mindless, uninspiring child, you need to be taught this one simple lesson again.”

Aegon knows what to do, he opens his mouth to lick her fingers. She pushes them in his mouth immediately. He sucks her fingers off like it’s her cunt. His tongue swirls around her fingers. His pleading eyes look up to her barely illuminated face. Then she pushes her fingers deeper into his mouth, her long nail scraping over the back of his tongue. It makes Aegon gag, his body moves with recoil.

Her laugh is cold and cruel. “Pathetic boy, you want to hit the back of my throat with your dick, but you can’t even take two of my fingers.”

She brings her wet fingers to her mouth, licking Aegon’s spit off her digits. She makes sure to look him straight in the eye as she does so. Aegon had been a very bad boy, telling everyone at the party she had been his latest conquest. When the both of them know the only one who gets pillaged here is the one with the growing erection.

As an intern at the publishing company the Targaryen’s own, her reputation is at risk. She is a serious girl, a hard-working girl. she is everything Aegon is not. Perhaps that is why he keeps on coming back.

“Can you repeat rule number one to me?” Her hand strokes his right thigh. She leans in closer to his face, wanting to make sure she doesn’t miss his words.

“No one will ever know about what happens behind closed doors,” Aegon mutters, looking away from her piercing eyes.

Her stroking stops, and she pushes her nails into his pants. “And which rule did you break, my stupid little boy?”

Her lips are almost touching his when she speaks the words. Aegon swallows the pain that comes with her nails into his skin away. “Rule number one.”

She backs away from him again, her lips curved into a smile that does not reach her eyes.

“Do you know what they do with boys who break rules?”

Both her hands are on his belt, loosening it. Aegon does not dare to look away from her face. They barely did a thing (they didn’t even kiss, for fucks sake!) but he is so turned on already. He shakes his head, pretending he does not know what happens when he breaks her rules.

“No? Well, let me tell you then.” She unzips his pants, her hand immediately sliding into his opened trousers. With her palm she rubs over his erection, scraping the fabric of his black boxers over the sensitive skin.

“They are punished.”

Aegon his head falls back because of her torturous movements. “Yes, please punish me.” He is shocked by the words that so easily fall off his lips. He is shocked by the desperate tone, he is shocked by the want he feels in his body.

He wants to feel her skin against his, but at the same time, he enjoys this building up a little bit too much. Her degrading words made him angry and ashamed at the same time. He is ashamed, that he, the famous Aegon Targaryen, so easily gets walked over. Walked over by a woman even! He is ashamed for liking it so much and feels ashamed he wants to please her. He does not do the pleasing, he is the one who usually is pleased.

Her hand slowly wanders into his underwear, her fingers stroke his pubes. Aegon mentally scolds himself for not shaving. But all his worrisome thoughts disappear when her hand slowly strokes his shaft.

“Such a good boy you are, at least you remembered rule number two.” Her thumb finds his head, circling around it, making her and his skin coated with pre cum. “Manners are what keeps the world spinning after all.” Aegon wants to argue and tell her that strong and rich men keep the world spinning. But for once he is smart and keeps his mouth shut. He knows she’s not happy with him, and he does not like it when she becomes cruel.

“How shall I punish you tonight? Will I make you come so many times you’ll remember who the real conqueror is? Or will I give you nothing at all?” Her hand curls around his cock, her nails pressed harshly into the flesh. Aegon lets out a pained yelp, tears well up in his purple eyes.

“Please don’t, I’ll be good.”

“If only you had thought about being ‘good’ sooner.” She does not loosen her grip, on the contrary, she presses her nails deeper into his sensitive flesh. Aegon his cry is filled with agony, he is afraid she will draw blood.

“I am sorry, I promise I will never do it again.” His voice comes out desperate, he hates himself for being this weak. The humiliation of it colouring his cheeks a rosy tint. She lets go of him and movies off him. Aegon resist the urge to touch where it hurts, instead he watches how she lowers herself. Her bare knees hit the carpet. She pulls his pants down to his ankles, his legs forced apart by her hands.

“No, you will indeed never do it again. Or this will be the last time you’ll be in my mouth.”

She kisses his upper thigh first. Her lips hit the spot where she had been hurting him before.

Her left elbow leans upon his knee, her cleavage pushed against his legs, as she leans forward to touch him again.

Aegon watches how her hand moves down from the tip to the base. His skin is still a bit sore, but Aegon forgets about the pain when her lips are wrapped around his head.

Aegon brings his hands to her head. His neck snaps back, and his eyes close, as he revells in the feeling her warm, wet mouth brings him. But the feeling doesn’t remain there for too long, because only seconds later she releases him from her mouth again.

“Don’t move, or it will be over.” She warns

She takes him slowly, her eyes locked with his. His cock is shiny with spit, her low moans vibrating against his skin.

Aegon really hates it when people are loud chewers. Hates the sound of people eating apples in the office, and despises the sounds girls make when they ‘seductively’ try to suck their iced coffees through a straw. He dislikes it so much it gives him goosebumps and makes him want to snap out to the ones making the disgusting eating sounds.

But the sounds that are produced as she sucks him off, are sounds that no matter how nasty they are, will never annoy him.

He feels like a true king, the way how her head moves up and down between his legs. He will never be able to sit in front of his father’s desk again without remembering what is happening right now. And it feels so good, the way she takes him deeper and deeper. Her tongue slid against the sensitive skin where her nails were before.

His hips buck up, pushing his cock deeper into her mouth. He can feel it hit the back of her throat. The gagging sound she makes, makes him moan.

She presses her nails harshly into his thigh, changing his moan into a yelp of pain. For a moment, Aegon almost forgot who the real power had. Her teeth scrape against his cock as a final warning.

She only sucks the tip now, her tongue swirling around it, to let it pop out of her mouth only a second later. She looks up to his face, brows furrowed. “I told you not to move, Aegon.” The way she says his name makes him feel like a small child and he hates it.

He almost wants to cry when she stands up, ignoring his cock completely. He was so close to coming, painfully close. The tip of his cock is red and leaking with precum. “Not fair.” Aegon groans. “I was so close to making your mouth into a daycare.”

She ignores his disgusting joke. “Why did you break the rule, Aeg?” Her hands move beneath her dress, pulling her panties down in one motion.

Truth be told, he did not like how the other men were talking about her. He was not sure if it was him being possessive, or his ego that needed stroking. There is nothing better than letting dull people know you’re having (or fucking) what they want.

“I guess I didn’t like the way they talked about you.” Her eyes grow larger after his sentence, she clearly did not expect this answer. She climbs on his lap, her hands hold his face, her thumbs stroke over his burning cheeks. Her fingers move into his hair, to the back of his head. This moment feels strangely intimate, and it makes him more uncomfortable than her degrading words do.

“What were they saying?”

Aegon swallows.

“Filthy things only I am allowed to say.”

She kisses him for the first time this night and Aegon is grateful for it. He tastes himself in her mouth, her lips still wet with spit and him. He is fully aware of the fact she’s not wearing panties. Now her dress had ridden up her legs, he can finally feel her warm and wet core against him. Oh, how he wants to be inside her, to feel her cunt clench around his cock when he takes some of his control back. His painful erection hits her leg, as she moves up to deepen the kiss.

“Let me make it up to you.” He is almost willing to beg for it at this point, his hands stroking her back in an attempt to convince her he deserves it. “Please, I want to make you feel good.” She laughs hard at this. “The only thing you want is to fuck me. To spill inside me and to go back to your ‘dominant’ self after.”

She of course is right, but Aegon is too desperate and horny to fight her. “Please, I think I learned my lesson. I want you so bad, please, I would do anything.” She grabs his shoulder, leaning a bit back. The hand that is not holding onto his shoulders moves between her legs.

She’s touching herself, Aegon can’t see what exactly she’s doing beneath her dress, but he knows he wants to be the one to do it. “Anything you say?” Her head tilted to the right, her eyes finding his purple ones.

“Anything.”

She loosens up his tie, pulling the green silk fabric from his neck. His mother had made him wear it, said it belongs to his father.

“Hold your hands together.” Aegon raises his brow. “What?” She slaps his tie against his chest. “Do you want to fuck me or not Aegon?” There, she does it again. Saying his name like he is a piece of trash she needs to clean up. He does what he is told, pushing his wrists against each other.

She ties his hands together with the green silk. Making sure he cannot touch her and control what is about to happen.

She sinks down on him, her skin slapping against his. Aegon’s groans are filling up the office, as she sets the pace. Finally, he is inside her, but he can’t move, he can’t do anything. He is completely at her mercy. He hates that he loves it, to be commanded and tied up by her. She takes him so well, every inch of him filling her as if she was made to do so.

Her right hand is around his throat, pushing his head back. He is so stimulated, so embarrassingly close to his release already.

“You feel so good, baby.” His voice is low, and his eyes are closed.

“You better don’t come before I do.” She says then, but it is too late. Her words make him give in to his release.

In a way it is to punish her, Aegon hates that he likes what she does to him. Hates she is the one who can dominate him. So he climaxes, curses falling from his mouth. Her eyes narrowed, as his hips thrust upwards in the last moments of his aftershock.

He expects her to pull him out, to slap him maybe. Instead, she keeps on moving, in a frantic, rough manner.

It hurts so much, his soft flesh being ridden like this. Her moans are loud, drowning out his moans of pain. “The fuck you thought, coming before I came?” She slaps him.

“Shut up, I hate it when you act all silly and hurt when you get what you deserve.” Aegon his head falls back, feeling a bit foolish for liking the pain.

And when she finally comes, Aegon is panting as loud as she is. She kisses him on the mouth when she finally allows him to slip out of her. “I think you learned your lesson now.”

He can’t help but smile, for the game is over. They can go back to who they are now.

“Keep fucking me like that and I’ll tell father to hire you,” Aegon says. “And when I take over, you can be my assistant.”

He wants to fuck her on every surface in this office. Fuck her against the window while they watch the cars drive by. Fuck her on the plush couch his father always makes him wait on. Make her suck him off while he has online meetings, and let her ride his face while she makes important calls.

“Assitant?” She says in a mocking tone, destroying his fantasies. “I am made to lead, Aegon. Never to serve.”

She loosens up the tie, freeing his hands. She puts her panties back on and straightens her dress. “Clean up your face, it’s covered in my lipstick.” She advises him before leaving him alone.

Aegon grins as he watches her leave, oh, this is just the beginning.

--

@laedeviour @aegonswife

[yandere-3-sagau]

Hello! New anon here, idk if you do anything like this but i had an interesting thought the other day!

So yknow how you can name scaramouche right of course

So i named mine,,,,genuinely? Like i went out and looked up names (what can i say im down bad okay) and I found the name ‘Ena’ which means ‘gift from god’ (according to what i found-) or something like ‘blessed life’

So what if in a secret creator!sagau, the reader names him that and he dismisses it at first but then catches the reader having a look (sort of like a sad smile) every time they refer to him as that, so he finally asks what it means and they say its because they see him as being worthy of living. That they see him as a blessing from ‘the creator’ and they want him to see himself that way- (like not in a ‘more important than anyone else’ way, just in a ‘you exist therefore you deserve to live’ kinda way)

Idk if you like this but feel free to ignore this if you’re uncomfortable! Tysm for your time!

hehehe do you know that wanderer is my favorite? Quite similarly to you, I took my time searching for a good name. I named him Aziz. It’s an Arabic name and I thought it was fitting since his new beginning began in Sumeru, a place based on the middle east. While Aziz means to be strong and powerful, it also means dear, darling, and precious. If SAGAU were to ever be real, I would want him to know that he is precious and loved. <33

since this ask is about secret creator!reader, i am going to assume that wanderer is still unaware of your identity when you mention the meaning of his name.

Yandere!Wanderer x Secret!Creator!Reader

--

The wanderer didn’t really care for names. He’s had so many throughout the years that he could care less how people addressed him. 

So when the traveler gave him his name, he didn’t really think much of it. After all, it was a name given to him by his former enemy. What special meaning could it have? The traveler never explained it and he never thought to ask.

He kept the name for convenience but rarely ever used it. Many still referred to him as wanderer and he didn’t bother to correct them. There were times he had even forgotten that he had a new name. 

The first time he actually ever cares about his name is the first time he hears it from you. 

The name rolls so casually off your tongue it’s as if you’ve said it a thousand times. The soothing sound of your voice saying the name that belonged solely  to him makes him feel so strange that he doesn’t even realize that he’s never told you his name before. 

Though it sounds foreign at first, he quickly grows accustomed to being called his new name. 

However, every time you call him that name, you have a certain look in your eyes that he couldn’t quite understand. You look at him as if he holds the world in his hands yet it’s accompanied by a sense of sadness. 

Unbeknownst to him, every time you say his name, you’re reminded of his past. You think about how while erasing his previous names, he intended to erase his entire existence along with it and it breaks your heart. 

Though he has trouble recognizing emotions, he can sense your sadness.

Finally, he caves into his curiosity and asks why you always have that look on your face. Why you look like you want to cry whenever that name is mentioned.

“... do you know what your name means?” 

You gaze at him with such soft eyes that he almost forgets to answer.

“No, why?”

“Your name means ‘gift from god’ and ‘blessed life.’”

It takes some time to process, but after finally realizing what the meaning of his name is, the wanderer grows a bit angry. 

Gift from god? Blessed life?

The traveler must be mocking him.

How can he be a gift from god when he was abandoned by his mother, the God of Eternity? and what part of his life is blessed when he’s committed countless sins and all he’s experienced is tragedy. 

Wanderer remains silent but he can feel your gaze on him. Those eyes that to seem to see right though him. 

—

Later on, he approaches the traveler. 

“Why did you name me __?’“

The traveler pauses, surprised by the sudden question. 

“I... don’t know, if I’m being honest.”

Wanderer scoffs. “How can you not know? Are you mocking me?”

“No, I really don’t know. Now that I think about it, it really is quite strange,” the traveler says as they recall the moment the wanderer was named. 

“At the time, the name just slipped from my mouth.” 

“It just slipped from your mouth? You don’t even know what it means?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t. I’ve honestly never heard of the name before.”

Hearing this, the wanderer is a bit offended. It seems such little thought was put into his name. He thinks that maybe you were lying. He searched through many books in the Akademyia for the origin but he couldn’t find anything close to what you told him. 

The next time you call his name, he stops you. He tells you stop using it. Saddened, you ask him why.

“It’s a meaningless name and whatever you claimed it means doesn’t even suit me.”

“What do you mean? I...whoever named you must see you as a gift. Your life is a blessing to them.”

“The person that named me doesn’t even know the meaning.”

You grow quiet upon hearing this. You can’t refute him, unable to explain to him that you were the person to name him. 

You’re heartbroken that he thinks so little of himself. You want nothing more than to tell him that he really is a blessing. That he’s important to you and worthy of living. But you remain silent and he does as well. 

He stops going by that name and decides to go by wanderer instead. He’s confused by your eyes that well up with unshed tears when he asks you call him wanderer instead of the name you had given him. 

It isn’t until you are exposed that he understands.

You are the creator and it was you that bestowed the name upon him while you were living through the eyes of the traveler.

This revelation sparks so many questions. 

Why did you name him that? Do you really see him as a blessing? Does he really mean that much to you?

His heart is hopeful but more and more anxiety fills his being the longer his thinks about it. 

Are you upset that he stopped using his name? Do you think he isn’t proud of it?

He doesn’t know what he’d do if you decided to take it back. But even if you tried, he wouldn’t let you. Suddenly, it’s apart of who he is now - the basis of his identity. Anyone who calls him wanderer now is immediately corrected.

He wants to confront you but he hasn’t seen you since your identity was exposed. You’ve disappeared without a trace, leaving his heart empty.

Nothing but your voice can sooth his aching heart and he can’t rest until finds you.

Until he hears you call his name once more, now that he’s finally able to appreciate it’s meaning. 

[asliceofzosan]

in which Sanji is in Shells Town when Zoro eats the rice ball off the floor

It isn't often that Zeff's plans to get rid of him involve actually making Sanji leave the Baratie on a supply run (mostly because they never work. Sanji always comes back with more produce than the budget allows for which pisses the old geezer even more). But today, he was persistent that he go all the way to Shells Town. Fucking Shells Town. It isn't exactly the first place Sanji would think of when wanting quality ingredients.

However, if there's anything Sanji is, it's that he's stubborn. He'll comb through every market stall if he has to. He's coming back to the Baratie with three kilos of overpriced bluefin tuna if only to raise Zeff's blood sugar out of spite. Zeff raised a brat. So he's going to act like one.

Disembarking off of his boat, he makes a beeline first for a reputable restaurant in town. Cooks know what cooks want. He'd rather shave off time by asking a fellow chef where are the best places to get supplies. A few lovely ladies point him in the direction of a well-loved little restaurant at the edge of town and he each gives them a kiss on the back of their hand as a thank you.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintances, my angels." He says with a wink. Both girls only give him blank stares and walk away from him. He still sighs dreamily as they soon fade from view. It's a lot better than getting hit in the head.

He walks ahead to the restaurant, finding it a little crowded with a couple marines. No matter. Sanji isn't exactly known by face around the East Blue. He begrudgingly understands now why Zeff doesn't want to go here and instead forced Sanji onto his sailboat by himself.

With an irritated flick of his hair, he strides into the restaurant, sitting at a table near the window so he could light a quick cigarette before asking for the chef.

"We already have our order—"

"No. More food is better! Gotta feed the brain!"

Sanji's ears pick up the conversation in the table next to him as naturally as he does breathing. With the amount of times Zeff makes him wait tables instead of actually cooking in the kitchen, he's become skilled in the art of being a gossip. Tie him up in the middle of a marine base for admitting that, he doesn't care. There's only so much one can do to keep themselves entertained.

"We have to figure out a way to get inside the base."

"Luffy, I don't think that's a good idea–"

"It's not a good idea because I don't have a plan yet!"

"Well, what's your plan?"

"..."

"Luffy..."

"I'm getting there!"

Sanji chuckles. Whoever this Luffy kid is, he sure sounds interesting.

But before he could get another slice of their conversation, a commotion at the bar piques his interest even more. He uncrosses his legs, sitting up a little straighter, and watches as a blond man in a suit scolds a girl for running into him, calling her stupid and mocking her.

Sanji quirks an eyebrow at him. No matter what, no man should speak to a little girl that way.

"You dropped my food."

This time, a man with green hair catches his attention and with a quick glance, Sanji sees that there is smushed up rice balls on the floor by the blond's feet. Sanji sees red immediately. He's just about to go over there and give the guy a piece of his mind when the green haired man kneels down, grabs a glob of dirty riceball, and puts it into his mouth.

Sanji tunnel visions on the way his lips move, slowly chewing, savoring the otherwise spoiled riceball in his mouth like it's the most delectable piece of food he's ever eaten. The whole restaurant watches with bated breath, but none held tightly in his chest as much as Sanji's is. The man scrapes every grain of rice off of the floor, licking the remaining traces off his fingers.

He doesn't know it yet, but Sanji's heart has spilled out of his chest, and is now in the hands of a dirty green haired swordsman. With each bite he takes of the sullied riceball, the more Sanji's soul is sucked out of his body and placed into a state of near heavenly revelation.

Then the swordsman picks up the plate and offers the other riceball to the irritated blond man across from him.

"Now you eat one and apologize to the girl."

Sanji doesn't know what happens to his heart because the aching in his chest feels like he's out of breath. Maybe he's dying. It feels a lot like it because suddenly Sanji genuinely has forgotten how to breathe in this moment.

It gets even worse when the fight breaks out. The man barely even breaks a sweat. In any other circumstance where there is a fight, Sanji would go right in and make sure none of the dishes fall to the floor. But it seems that even then, Sanji's interference isn't needed.

Because the man's hits are calculated, careful despite the rough and tumble of the fight. He barely even gets his swords out. And he, Sanji notices with a bright smile, makes sure none of the tables get hit. He contains it all in the small space in front of the bar.

The final nail in the coffin is when he takes a giant swig out of his mug, shakes it a bit to see if there's any more drink inside, and casually chucks it at an oncoming marine and knocks him out cold.

Now Sanji is used to falling in love easily with beautiful women. All they have to do is smile at him and he'll be on his knees for them. He has experience in that department.

But what is Sanji supposed to do when a brutish man with a kind heart glances at him briefly before taking the other riceball in his hand and shoving it in his mouth?

Sanji thinks that this is how he falls in love with a man.

His plate is wiped clean before he hands it back to the little girl, who looks up at the man with stars in her eyes.

Sanji figures that maybe the way he's staring at the man isn't too far off from how she's looking at him.

Sanji comes back to the Baratie with no supplies and an earful from Zeff that doesn't register in his brain.

His mind instead is filled with just the memory of the green haired man, his lips pursing ever so slightly around the riceball in his mouth, and the smallest smile he gives the little girl as he thanks her for the food.

Sanji wonders if he'll ever see him again.

He learns how to make different kinds of rice balls in the meantime.

---

A/N: did somebody say sanji would fall in love with zoro if he saw him eat food off the floor? say no more !!

EDIT: part two, debt and doing dishes is up!

[little-pondhead]

[inspired roughly by this post. My brain snails started going nuts so I thought it'd be easier to post this separately :)]

…

It was a lovely day in Gotham. Well, as lovely as it could be. The sun was up, peeking through the overhead cloud cover and making the buildings gleam in the rare sunlight. The air was fresher than usual, and faucets ran clear of strange and unusual toxins.

Somewhere in the Upper East Side, in a little neighborhood tucked away from the rest of the city, marched around the new boss of the area. She was a young girl, just barely in high school. But despite it being the middle of a work day, she wandered around her chosen streets, content to do whatever she wanted. Above her, a pair of siblings watched on and discussed the unique situation.

"So let me get this straight: that fourteen-year-old goth girl is a crime boss?"

Mia smiled at Leon, her older brother, and his dumbfounded expression as they rested on her balcony. "She's fifteen, actually. Her birthday just passed. We all got together and threw a block party for her!"

"You know how insane that sounds, right?" Leon turned to her, a bit miffed that she dared to say those words to his face. "She's a kid. Why do you all listen to her?"

Mia shrugged and sipped her beer. "She does good work. Holds her own pretty well, and the kid has connections. Good ones, too. That can be the difference between life and death in Gotham."

Leon rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I just don't get it. How did she end up in this line of work? Do child labor laws even apply here?? Why aren't the Bats doing anything?"

"Don't think about it too much, dipshit." Mia crushed her now-empty beer can in her hand and tucked it into a paper garbage bag hanging off of a hook on the balcony rail. A familiar set of green arrows was printed on the side.

"And now you're recycling?!" Leon realized. "When did you start doing that, Mia??"

The woman shrugged and got up, stretching. "Probably around the time Brambles absolutely reamed out Mrs. Zalinski for littering at the park."

"Wait, who's Brambles?" Leon scrambled upright and followed his sister inside.

Mia laughed. "Brambles is our fifteen-year-old crime boss!"

...

"I can't believe you got a cool name right off the bat," Danny grumbled, flopping onto Sam's bed face-first. Sam smirked and shoved him off with her foot. Danny just squawked and let himself ragdoll to the ground.

"It's your fault for not having a better gimmick." She said to his prone body. "Besides, it could've been worse."

"I think Inviso-Bill is the worst possible nickname for anyone." Danny groaned. "But you got something cool immediately. Who even thought up 'Brambles'? That's such a unique name!"

"Well the kids call you Grim; that's pretty cool."

Danny flopped over, twisting himself much farther than any human was supposed to just so he could glare at her face. "They only call me that cause one of the is obsessed with Harry Potter." He grumbled, pouting.

Sam just rolled her eyes and went back to sorting through piles of papers scattered all across her duvet. Since moving to Gotham several months ago, Sam had taken it upon herself to turn the experience into something useful rather than just moping all the time, as she originally wanted to. That 'something useful' had landed her as the newest crime boss in Gotham, with about a third of the Upper East Side as her current territory.

So many problems had popped up in the last year, and the group had decided that taking it on alone would never work. The GIW had been trying to close Amity's borders, Danny's parents had a scientific breakthrough, tensions in the Realms were high, etc. There was a lot on their plate! Sam's solution was to create a foothold in Gotham City. She would lay the foundations for Jazz to work in Arkham and forge a safer environment for the residents of Amity Park to sneak off to if the GIW went too far. She was essentially weaving a cushion for everyone to fall back on.

Danny, using the power of duplication, was splitting his focus between foiling his parent's plans and resolving issues with his rouges to create a united front. He was the main distraction, and Sam's own heavy hitter when she needed help establishing dominance.

Tucker planned to gather intel with the help of Technus and Jazz. They were trying to gather as much evidence as possible so they'd be in the clear when the whistle blew. The GIW would crash and burn, legally speaking. They were the bugs of the operation, spreading themselves thin and hoarding information like it was candy.

Dani was their wild card, their jester. She was keeping the JLD's attention focused solely on her and all the supernatural hijinks she was stirring up. When the time was right, she'd point them in the direction needed and let them loose. After winding them up so much, the hope was that the Justice League Dark would descend upon the GIW like hellfire.

But those were their future plans. Right now, Sam was in possession of specific files from Arkham Asylum and the GCPD. She was looking for anything to give her an edge in the upcoming meeting with a few other crime bosses. Some annual thing they host to renew Goonion contracts, see who's still alive, and examine how much the territory lines have changed. Stuff like that. Red Hood was supposed to be there, and she knew she needed an ironclad defense against him and his nosy colony of Bats.

Danny untwisted himself all of a sudden, making a weird face. "Sorry, got to go." He apologized. "Vlad just showed up to my house."

Sam waved him off. "Go, I'll be fine for today. Just be on time for the meeting on Friday. And I want you, not a double."

"You got it!" Danny did finger guns at her and promptly melted into a pile of green goo. Right on her bedroom floor!

Sam sighed and got up to throw a towel over the puddle. The ectoplasm would evaporate eventually, returning to the original Danny little by little. But for now, this would keep anyone from asking about it until it was all gone.

Sometimes she really hated living in student dorms. People always felt the need to burst into her room for no reason.

Who even made dorm rooms for high schoolers in the first place??

...

Jason couldn't help but stare at the new recruit.

Well, 'new recruit' wasn't exactly accurate. 'Potential to be the most headache-inducing supervillain' was more like it. Standing at a solid 5'10" with platform boots, Brambles, the newest crime lord who had taken over half of the Upper East Side in under four months, was almost tall enough to look him in the eye straight on. Which she tried to do anyways, tilting her chin up oh-so-slightly (in that stupid way aristocrats do when they want to look down at you) and glaring at him with open hostility.

Brambles was young, way too young to be in this line of business. At the start of the annual underground crime meeting (yes, they couldn't come up with a better name), she had announced that she was fifteen, went by she/her, and would snap the dick off of anyone who looked at her funny. Most everyone laughed at her, thinking it was an empty threat. Brambles proved it wasn't by sucker-punching a younger lieutenant who tried to get handsy with her five minutes into the meeting.

When the lieutenant's boss protested and threatened a gang war, Brambles had snapped her fingers and summoned what could only be a fucking pit demon from the depths of hell to threaten the man back. The creature looked like a teenager, just like Brambles, at first. But it was...off. The longer you looked, the worse it got.

It wore a draping black cloak that covered most of its body, with the ends turning to mist when it reached the floor. It had a pale, young face and white hair. Its eyes glowed just like Brambles', except they were a toxic green that made Jason's heart skip a beat in fear. The creature was snarling, with a fucking muzzle on it to keep its sharp teeth away from wandering fingers.

With a nod from Brambles, the creature bounded forward and knocked the guy to the floor, its arm elbow-deep into the guy's chest. The dude looked terrified, and a little sick "Would you rather lose a lieutenant or your life?" She had snarled, sounding almost a bit demonic herself. The other boss had backed down without another word, writing off his subordinate as dead and gone.

Instead of killing the guy, however, Brambles simply banished her little guard dog to a corner of the warehouse to play with its new toy in peace.

"Is she allowed to do that?" Someone whispered.

"They weren't unionized, so the Goonion won't say anything." Another answered.

It was the most awkward meeting in the history of the criminal underworld. No one even died since they were all focused on the newcomer.

Jason could feel a headache forming as the meeting came to an end. Brambles was still sitting in her chair. The creature had grown bored of its toy and was leaning against her, sprawled out lazily and barely flicking an ear at the onlookers in acknowledgment. A few people were idling around her, mostly women, trying to talk some big game and get on the kid's good side. Brambles was humoring them, taking tight control of the conversation when they got too prying.

Jason sighed. He knew he'd have to go over and have a talk with the kid, even if it was just for Bruce's files. He hauled himself upwards and stalked over. "Pardon me, ladies and gents, but I'm going to borrow the kiddo here for a moment."

The creature hissed at him, tensed at his approach. Brambles kept a tight grip on the back of its muzzle, keeping it grounded. The other criminals scattered like flies. They were the only two (three?) left in the warehouse within minutes.

Bramble rose to glare at him. "What." She spat. "If you're here to convince me not to get involved with anything, I will set Grim on your ass after lighting it on fire."

The creature, Grim, growled in agreement. The sound echoed strangely like he was hearing it from underwater.

"Relax, I'm not here to do any of that." Jason raised his hands in surrender, immediately abandoning that possible line of thought. "I'm just here to talk business. You're young, and while you don't want to admit it, inexperienced."

"Stop the fancy words, Red Hood." Brambles' eyes glowed again, and she released her hold on Grim's muzzle. "If you want to make a deal, say it to my face. If you're here to dig for information, either ask me or hit the road. I prefer honesty over flower talk, so tell me what you want before I take over your area, too."

Jason bristled. His vision was tinted green as he snapped, "What the fuck is your problem, kid?! I just wanted to make sure you were safe and not being forced to do this. I was even going to offer my support and protection if it was too much! I know you aren't going to stop, but that doesn't mean I want a kid to die just because they got into something they shouldn't and they think their fancy guard dog will always be there to protect them!"

Brambles' eyes stopped glowing, and her stare softened a bit. Grim went deadly still, just floating there, staring at Jason. His heart beat like crazy in his chest. What was he saying? It was all true, but he could've been nicer about it. Dick would've found a way to be nicer.

-krrrk- "Ibis, reporting in. I think you can trust him, guys. Even if he's a Bat, his connections and experience would be useful in our plans. Ibis out." -krrrk-

Jason flinched from the sudden noise, looking around to find the source. It sounded like it had come from everywhere, even inside his own helmet. Brambles immediately switched out her hostile look for an annoyed one, tapping an earpiece he hadn't noticed before.

"Ibis, you really have to stop opening up our comm lines to the public." She snapped, but there was no real heat to it. "And I thought I told you to stop eavesdropping!"

-krrrk- "Sorry, can't help it. I'm everywhere now! You shouldn't have given me this power." -krrrk-

Grim hissed.

-krrrk- "Don't hiss at me, young man! You were the one who suggested this!" -krrrk-

"I'm sorry, time out!" Jason made a T with his hands. The green from his vision had completely disappeared now. "What the FUCK is going on now?"

Brambles sighed, rubbing her temples. "You know what? Fine. We'll trust you. My name is Sam. Nice to meet you, Jason Todd."

Jason stepped back, immediately reaching for his gun. Grim darted forward and promptly flew through him, stealing all his weapons in one go. "I'm Danny!" Grim-Danny?-chirped in a human voice, giving him a shit-eating smile. "Sorry for the act, Mr. Hood. And sorry about the name drop, I'm the one that told them."

-krrrk- "I'm Tucker! There are more of us, but they're busy. I have literally so many questions for you, Mr. Hood." -krrrk-

"Now that introductions are over-Danny don't eat his smoke bombs, you're not gonna look like Dorathea-we'd like your help."

Jason squinted at them. "You understand this is all suspicious as fuck, right? And how did a pit demon find out who I am?"

-krrrk- "Yeah, we know. But lives are on the line here, and I think you'd really be a help!" -krrrk-

Brambles-Sam-sighed and pulled out a flash drive. "I was going to use this as leverage, but I guess it'll have to be useful in other ways." She tossed it to Jason, who numbly caught it. "Look over it if you want. If you don't, then just burn it. Do not try to plug it into the Batcomputer. Don't try to send it to the Batcomputer, either. A virus will target that specific IP address as soon as it makes contact. Any other computer is fine."

"Look it over, and we can go from there," Danny added, spinning in midair while chomping on one of Jason's knives. (His good one, too!) "And I'm not a pit demon, but I am dead. That's how I knew about you. Whatever brought you back to life gave the Realms a real headache for a while. It wasn't hard to look you up in the records."

"This is so much information. Lives are on the line? And two, three kids are dealing with it? By becoming crime bosses?"

-krrrk- "Technically, Sam's the only crime boss here. And that was kind of an accident. She was supposed to create a safe foothold in Gotham in case we needed to evacuate our town. But we all got cool nicknames out of it! And you're the only adult we've told this stuff to!" -krrrk-

"I'm what?"

"The only adult." Sam's unwavering gaze seemed to pierce his soul. "There are quite literally no other adults that can help, Red Hood. None that we trust, not really. Any adult intervention needs to be planned carefully so it doesn't backfire on us. We're trusting you here, Jason. Not only are you like us, which technically puts you in danger too, but you have power and connections to support a whole town of people the government wants to eradicate."

Jason looked at the little green flash drive in his hand. He didn't want to ask. "And this...?"

"A fruit basket," Sam said simply. "Originally, it was supposed to be blackmail. But instead, this is a present to show our goodwill and faith. To show you our skills. That drive contains information on other gangs, upcoming rogue attacks, chemical breakdowns of Joker Venom and Fear Gas, unfinished antidote formulas, etc. Tucker and his team scoured the underbelly of Gotham and gathered dirt on every single prominent figurehead. Including Bruce Wayne, should you choose to use it."

"I would never-"

"But you've thought about it." Danny cut in and scratched his neck. Jason's hands shook. "It's not a bad thing. It's just the nature of the dead. Wanting to right the wrongs left over from their time with the living. Even if you walk and breathe now, that doesn't mean desire disappears."

"The point is, we need help. Even if I'm loathe to admit it." Sam rolled her eyes, and suddenly, Jason didn't see a potential supervillain in the making. He saw a teenager trying her best, shouldering the responsibility of hundreds of people, both in Gotham and her hometown. Danny looked the same, no matter how other-worldly he was. What battles were they facing? Why weren't there any adults to turn to? What kind of lives were they leading if they immediately trusted a known crime lord with their lives upon the first meeting?

"I'll think about it." Jason finally said. Danny trilled in excitement, and some tension bled out of Sam's shoulders. "If the situation is bad enough, however, I'm calling in someone else for help."

Danny shrugged. "As long as it ain't Batman! I don't think he'll appreciate us smuggling a town of liminals into his city."

Sam poked Danny's shoulder, prompting him to look at her. "Let's go, before you break his brain with more info-dumping. Bye Red Hood!"

"Uh, yeah. Goodbye!" Jason stuttered. He watched the two kids walk towards the exit door, before shimmering out of sight before they even touched the handle.

What the fuck.

[cloudedmoonofficial]

Field Colony Keepers

Meadowleap had been doing this for a long time, but it was always a disappointment to everyone when it was time to move from South Base to North Base. Mistysnow had received the signs from the Spirits telling them that they would need to move soon. The whole colony would do its part to tidy up the South Base before they left and that would be that.

But the Keepers were always busier around this time. Meadowleap joked with Mistysnow that her body read the signs from the Spirits better than she could because her right leg would always start acting up right before the move. Luckily, she had plenty of younger cats to help out.

Jaggedstripe and Ambereyes actually seemed excited about the move this year. But Meadowleap knew why. Ambereyes had her kitten, Peach, just a few months ago and Jaggedstripe was planning on having kittens this spring, so all their attention was focused on making the North and East Base’s nursery it’s best. It was Ambereyes’ second litter and little Peach had put a twinkle in her mother’s eye. She no doubt wanted to get Peach into the much safer North Base, even if the journey there would be a tad harrowing. Jaggedstripe was over the moon. Meadowleap tried not to give him a pity smile whenever he talked about how Fernface had actually said she wanted to have kittens with him. That’s none of your business, Meadowleap. She told herself. She was happy that Jaggedstripe was happy, at least.

Meadowleap couldn’t blame them for being excited. She was excited about her litter coming soon as well. This would be her last one. Mudnose and her had only been together for a few years now, and they both wanted kittens, but were getting on in years. Their first litter, Clay and Thrush, were halfway along into their New-Claw training and would no doubt finish by the end of Spring. Mudnose and Meadowleap proudly watched them grow up and Meadowleap couldn’t have been happier to know that after their base training with her, Mudnose could continue having a watchful eye over them as a Mentor during their Field training. 

But two kittens wasn’t enough. Meadowleap had raised many kittens in her time as a Keeper, but she wanted a few more to call her own. Just one more before Mudnose and I retire and join the Council. She liked the sound of that. This time next year, Mudnose and I can relax at the North Base and let the others take care of us.

Today they were cleaning out the storage of the South Base. Field Colony’s South Base had a very convenient tunnel that was big enough and wide enough to fit the whole Colony in when the weather got stormy. Last night a surprise storm had woken them in the middle of night and everyone rushed into the tunnel, which meant that the next day things had to be cleaned up.

“Spirits, I already thought this place could use some work, but everyone dragged all the rain from out there, in here!” Complained Jaggedstripe, poking at the pile of now soggy grasses and moss. He sighed. “I was hoping we’d get some things moved over to the North Base today.”

Meadowleap could hear a pout from Jaggedstripe even without turning around to look at him. She worked on reorganizing the extra vine they gathered for weaving grass walls.

“This should only take us this morning if we work hard.” Ambereyes said. Jaggedstripe sighed again.

“Could you use some help?” a voice from the tunnel entrance called.

Meadowleap turned to see Clay and Thrush walking into the tunnel. Clay was beaming, like always. My little ray of sunshine. Meadowleap thought. Thrush seemed less happy. Meadowleap wondered if Clay had begged Thrush to come along. 

“Well, look who it is!” Meadowleap purred. She gave both of her kittens a lick on the head. “You're not wandering off from the Mentors, are you?”

“Nah,” Clay responded. “I asked Dad if we could come. He thought it was a good idea.”

“He was going to show us the North Base’s hunting grounds,” Thrush complained. Then she gave Clay a nudge, “But this idiot had to open his big mouth.”

“We’ll see it eventually, Thrush!” He pushed her back. “Besides, I thought you were scared of getting close to the Shadow Forest?” 

“Am not!” She scoffed. She put a paw on his head and messed up the fur there while smearing mud on his face. “Whatever, Momma’s boy.”

Clay shook it off and laughed. He turned his attention back to the Keepers. “So what do you need?”

Meadowleap purred. With Clay and Thrush’s help, things should get done much faster. Meadowleap couldn’t ask for two better kittens.

Art by Tennelle and Snap

[luveline]

Hi I’ve never actually sent a request before so I hope I’m doing this right lol. I was so excited when I saw you wanted to more writing for the Steve zombie au before the established relationship. I die for grumpy pining. I was thinking maybe more reluctant comforting like maybe a thunderstorm or something or honestly just whatever you see fit. I love your writing and your Steve is unmatched. Either way request taken or not I’m sending all the love and good vibes.

hi! thank you for your request my love! steve zombie au —you and steve are surviving together when a freak storm begins, and he can’t stop himself from trying to make you feel better. fem!reader

"In," Steve ushers quickly, "in, in!" 

You force yourself through a gap that's too small for you into the warehouse you've found and out of the rain, an instant bruise forming on your shoulder. You understand his hurry, but it really does hurt. He has similar trouble forcing himself inside. 

Thunder cracks behind him. You jump hard at the sound. "It sounds like it's right on top of us," you say. 

"It might be. Come on," he says, taking your arm into his icy hand, "this way." 

Worried that the storm might be winds from a hurricane at the East Coast, you and Steve had immediately abandoned your plan to start walking up highway I-69 and backtracked to the last building you'd seen on the way, a packing house for toiletries. You hadn't bothered coming inside beforehand, neither of you in want of any necessities that aren't canned goods (or, imagine, fresh food).

You wish you had. Not only would the storm have started while you were already sheltered, but you might have been able to navigate the absolute shitshow of a floor plan without nearly breaking your neck. 

You slip on a greasy patch of floor and Steve yanks you up. He doesn't do it to be cruel; if he hadn't pulled hard you would've fell flat on your face. 

"Shit," he hisses.

"Sorry–" 

"No, just– come on, this way," he says. 

His hair is plastered to his face, soaked despite the hood of his coat and the beanie he'd been wearing, The rain is torrential and freezing cold, carrying a chill that permeates down to the bone. You're less wet than he was, as he'd taken the tarp you sleep under from his backpack and made you wear it like a poncho. 

You don't know if he hates you, when he does stuff like that. He certainly doesn't like you. You figure he resents you for saving his life and not having the grace to insist you part ways. How could you? Everybody was running away, fleeing from the geek cul-de-sac Indiana had become, and nobody who wanted anything to do with you had survived the initial wave. You'd been completely alone, terrified, and you'd risked your life to save him anyways. So when he asked if you were alone, you were honest. When he said, You better come with me, then, you didn't think about it for a minute. 

He probably regrets it in moments like this. And it's worse because you like him. Hero worship, maybe, Steve keeps keeping you alive and you want him to like you more and more every day. 

It's why you hate fucking up. You just want him to see you properly, and not as a girl he has to protect. You want him to know you can protect him back. 

You take the initiative and lead him toward the back of the huge room. He doesn't protest. You figure a corner of the structure would be safer than the middle where the ceiling could sag, and away from the centre of the walls where big windows lined with metal shutters sit. 

Together, you knock coffee pots and plastic cups off of a long table and drag it toward the corner to use as a make shift shield. It's the most protection you can get. 

You sit down, relieved. It can't be ten seconds until your body remembers how cold it is, soaked as you are. 

You already know what to do, and despite the shyness that comes with stripping in front of a boy, and especially a boy that you like, you undress anyways. Shoes first, then your coat. Steve starts to do the same, and you try not to look at one another. 

There are lots of things you worry about, but the stupidest one is body hair. You can't help it —when hair removal is engrained in the feminine experience from birth, it becomes a habit. It's not even that you think it's bad, but you worry that Steve thinks it's gross. Then you remember how many times you've heard one another pee and shake your head at yourself. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asks, shirtless as he pulls his second (and last) pair of jeans over tacky legs. 

You're shirtless too. "Nothing." 

"Your bra is wet." 

You look down at your bra and blink. It's cold, and everyone knows what happens when it's cold and you're braless. "It's the only one I have, I don't wanna flash you." 

"You…" He cracks a very rare smile. It's a twitch of the corner of his lips and nothing more, but it helps you to relax. "I'm not trying anything, but you should take it off. You can wear my hoodie if you're uncomfortable." 

"I guess it's dumb to care." 

"I don't think it's dumb," he says, his head craned as another crack of thunder bellows outside. "You deserve to feel comfortable. I won't look, I swear, I just don't want you to be cold." He looks away from you. "You'll get sick. Then we'd be really fucked."  

You nod. You slip out of your bra and put on your second (and last) t-shirt, which is thinner than the first. You shove your arms in his hoodie but don't zip it closed. 

Steve takes the blanket from his pack and, now wearing his shirt and fresh socks, slots himself next to you and pulls the blanket over your laps. It's an odd juxtaposition: he worries about your privacy but not your personal space. 

"I think it's getting worse," you mumble, head tilted to the side as you listen to the wind roar. 

"We'll be okay." 

You put your hand on your thigh. He puts his hand on his. You slouch against the wall and know you won't be getting any sleep tonight, not while the wind rails.

Time passes like a dragging weight. You wince at every loud whoosh of air, and can't help leaning into Steve's side when somewhere in the warehouse a machine begins to creak. The cold bites your nose, and your toes are stiff despite your new socks. 

You and Steve don't talk much, but eventually he speaks up. 

"Do you need another pair of socks?" he asks. 

"No, it's okay." 

"I won't mind," he says. 

"What if you need them?" 

He gets them out of his pack and tosses them into your lap. You take them, but the wind has seized you up, afraid that any minute now you'll get a storm surge. 

"Hurricanes can't get this far in, can they?" you ask quietly. 

"No. I don't think so." 

You nod your head. "It's loud." 

"I know." 

You put his socks on and try to be level-headed. You think it might be the constant heavy stress that surviving in the wild and against the threat of flesh-eating creatures has put you under that's made you so fragile. A storm wouldn't have scared you this severely before. But your brain is under fire basically every second of the day, even in your sleep, and it weakens your resolve. You've never understood how Steve can be strong in the face of all this awful. 

"It'll be okay," he says again. 

"No, I know…" you say. You don't know, but you don't want to bother him. "I'm fine." 

Thunder cracks at exactly the wrong moment, simultaneous with a sound like a window rattling in its frame. You flinch at his side, your hand jumping on his thigh. 

You go to pull it away and he flattens it to his leg. 

"It's okay," he says, his sternness melting into a softer reassurance. His hair lays in damp curls below his ears, and his face is pale from a lack of sun. "It's just wind. We don't get hurricanes, and if we did, the walls are concrete. You think wind and rain can get through three feet of stone?" 

He lets your hand go. You take it as a queue to remove it.

"Sorry, I don't know why I…" 

Steve clears his throat. "You're not–" He couldn't know what you were going to say about yourself, and you have no idea what he might've said himself. "You don't have to be sorry. For this, anyways. You should be super sorry about other stuff, like losing your pen knife, and trying to convince me to eat that frog," —he pauses as you laugh, the hint of a smile playing on his lips— "but don't bother being sorry about this." 

"People eat frogs," you say quietly, leaning your head against the wall and looking at him through one eye. 

He follows your example and sits the same. After a moment, he pulls the slipped blanket up to your stomach again. "I don't care what people eat. I'm not eating frogs." 

"I didn't want to eat one either," you say. You hadn't. "They do eat them, though." 

"I'm sure they do. Cooked, and with spices. Not raw and covered in dirt. And dead." 

You'd only been joking about eating the frog, but you were both hungry enough to stare at it for a half-second too long. 

Rain drums the ceiling like a far away thrumming. You know you must look awful, wet and dirty. You'd managed to brush your teeth this morning at the very least, but you can't imagine you're the kind of girl Steve would ever want, then or now. 

His gaze dips to your neck. It rests there. 

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he says, stilted once again. "Things… things will be okay. They'll get better. We have to make it out of here." 

Steve has people he needs to find. You'll follow him anywhere at this point, not for love, but he's a good guy, even if he glares more than he talks. He knows how to protect you both. He does stuff he doesn't have to do, like this. His vaguely awkward comfort. His extra socks.

"I know," you say. "We'll be fine."

He nods. You tell yourself that you're imagining the tenderness he puts into such a simple gesture. “Exactly. You worry too much.”

[sokkastyles]

No but I do find it extremely performative when certain parts of the fandom are like "this part of atla and this nonwhite culture is symbolic for the bad parts of white American imperialism but this other nonwhite culture represents the good parts."

I'm talking about the people who say with their whole chest that Aang should use his power as Avatar to abolish the fire nation monarchy or destroy them as a political entity and culture, without recognizing that Aang is as much a creation of white American authors as Zuko is. And what's more, Aang is the hero. His power and authority is never questioned the way Zuko is forced to question his.

Even if we use the fire nation as a 1:1 representation of Japan - which doesn't work in any case because it's a fantasy show that pulls from so many different cultural influences - even if we did pretend the fire nation was Japan, though, like I guess we all forgot the atrocities America committed in Japan in the name of world peace.

"Aang should use his Avatar powers to destroy the Fire Nation" sounds a lot like "let's nuke them" at a certain point.

"Aang should abolish the Fire Nation monarchy and establish a democracy" sounds a lot like what America did in the Middle East.

The thing about imperialism is that it never comes in announcing itself as the bad guy, it always presents itself in terms of the greater good. This is something that atla itself actually addresses but the fandom apparently forgot.

[rccxox]

I’m sorry, but as one of the many people who were there from the start this “apology” is truly baffling.

The only reason I kept asking Red and Flynn to handle this and DMs is that even if we go to the east common room Red has ignored the fact that there are other minors in here even if they go to the east common room it still makes them uncomfortable and I tried saying it but they didn’t get the hint. no offense, but the thing that pissed me off is how the mod team decided to give Crimson probation which was weird in my opinion and people were disgusted by it. Laci said she sent proof even though it was censored to protect those victims, 2 victims came forward and she decided not to give in to the fact Laci could send it to you UNCENSORED.

And when you started the apology (in Discord), I read it thoroughly, let’s break it down hm?

Here are the screenshots of Red’s apology if you fully want to read them.

The side server comment threw me off because if it happened there and you say “safe place” and apparently if it doesn’t happen here we’re all good. I understand if it’s something you normally don’t do.

But god forbid if we keep minors in our “safe space” safe.

“They’d been ‘investigating’ crimson on their own before digging up the nsfw stuff” First off, they were gathering up enough evidence for the proof you so desperately need and whine about.

“But they reported it literal hours after it happened so. Another lie.” I understand shit like this is severe and sensitive but damn I guess people don’t deserve time.

Do I need to explain the “crying wolf” is so disrespectful imo, but who would lie about something like this??

Heavily edited is so icky because Laci had them censored for the victims' comfort and you didn’t even see where she said she could hand it to you uncensored.

Happy to listen to our concerns but do a mass ban on people who spoke out? Okay…

There are, of course screen shots but Tumblr only has ten images per post (lmao)

Red also apologized to crimson which was so fucking weird to EVERYONE.

And for Flynn to come in, and this doesn't mean any disrespect when she started talking about how laci was stirring up in the middle of the drama, when all she did was give you all the evidence, The needed talked about how she was an unreliable source when she gave them ALL the evidence.

And when I told Flynn it was very disrespectful for her to say that she said that's what she noticed but Laci didn't mean any type of offense or disrespect and what matters if you want it uncensored evidence there's something called asking she would have provided it to you and when you sent that screenshot with who was a minor and who was an adult in the server I was just like did you actually see if she (laci) was okay with that being spread but I never got to that because I don't want to “start” more drama. People are upset with Red because she didn't acknowledge the 2 victims that have come forward and said that crimson has done that to them BOTH. kind of sounds like she (red) was victim blaming in my personal opinion, This was something they needed to talk out privately because it's easier to deal with the on one on one then rather than 600 people coming at red. There were new people coming into the chat, and they got caught in the hay fire because they didn't have the full picture. There's a reason we can't do this publicly because if you do this privately you can have awhile to dissect everything, and somebody told me “oh somebody would complain about the lack of transparency” but they could have said “we're gonna settle this in DMs. We're gonna mute this channel for a bit, and when I need to, I don't want to hear any more about it, because we're gonna deal with it in dm’s”. that's all they needed to know, there were people there who didn't have the full picture.

I'm really exhausted and it’s five in the morning .

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hi, I really love your posts, they are so well-structured and researched and I agree with a lot of your takes. I was wondering firstly if you had any headcanons about people’s accents outside of standard RP english (which there was an over-representation of in the movies)? i found a really good post on this by @lotstradamus. I also wondered if there are any characters you headcanon as PoC that are not explicitly stated like Blaise, Angelina, Kingsley, Dean, the Patil twins and Cho? Also, what are your favourite fic recs for HP (Tomarry, Gen or Harry/Others)? I am trying to expand my fic list. Thanks :)

Hi, 👋

Thank you so much!

Okay, so I found @lotstradamus's post you mentioned here and she explains UK and Ireland accents way better than I, a non-brit whose only time standing on British soil was in the London airport for a connection flight, ever could. Additionally, I'm shit at recognizing accents from hearing even when these are accents I know well. That being said, I have been thinking a lot about where in the UK & Ireland characters came from so I will use that (& the power of Google) to infer about the accents, since they tend to be regional.

I would love to hear about my attempt from any actual Brits who can help me with this. (Also, I'm not going to be mentioning the movie accents, as yes, there definitely aren't enough accents there, but also, I don't really know how to tell the difference between many British accents from hearing alone, so...) I also tried to add video/recording examples for how the accents would sound like for all the non-brits like me for whom the accent name would say literally nothing. Without further ado:

HP characters accents

Let's start with the characters we know for sure where they are from:

We know Harry is from Surry, so his accent should be southern but from an upper-middle-class area near London, so he should be close-ish to RP. (Tom Felton was born in 1980 in Surrey, so he's probably close to Harry's accent)

Sirius grew up in Grimmauld Place in London so as rebellious as he wants to be he still sounds like a posh-as-hell Londoner. (Example)

The Weasleys, Luna Lovegood, and Cedric Diggory all grew up in Ottery St Catchpole which is in Devon, so they all have a West Country accent.

(the children at least, the parents might have different accents. Like, Molly I think sounds a bit posher since the Prewetts seem at least upper-middle-class).

Albus Dumbledore was born in Mould-on-the-Wold before his family moved to Godric's Hallow after his father's arrest. As Mould-on-the-Wold might be based on Stow-on-the-Wold, I'd take it that it's located around the same area in Gloucestershire. As such his accent would probably be a West country accent for the most part.

Abeforth's accent is similarly West Country, except add some random bits of highland slang he might've picked up from all his years at Hogsmeade and without any smoothening over.

Google has informed me Hagrid's dialect written in the books is a West Country dialect, which is the same as the Weasleys, Diggorys, Lovegoods, and Dumbledores (there are a lot of wizards in West Country)

(West Country Example 1, West Country Example 2, West Country Example 3) - think movie Hagrid for all of them.

James Potter and the entire Potter family (and the Abbotts as well, actually, so Hannah too) are from Godric's Hallow which is somewhere in the West Country, but, James is also from a rich family, so he likely sounds closer to RP than the Weasleys. So his accent should be a general southern posh that isn't quite perfect RP but closer to it than to West Country accent. (Example)

Tom Riddle is one I have a specific headcanon about. Like, he grew up in an underfunded orphanage that was most likely in East End London — young Tommy had a Cockney accent and he spent his first month at Hogwarts learning to mimic all the posh purebloods around him. So Tom probably sounds like the perfect dictionary version of RP as he is actively hiding his accent. (Cockney example, another one, RP example)

Snape, probably does something similar. He grew up in slums in Cokeworth which is somewhere in the Midlands, so I think he is actively hiding his accent too so he could fit in with his posh pureblood peers in Slytherin better.

Lily probably has a similar accent to Snape, just, probably like a softer version of it, idk, that's what I'm thinking.

Now the midlands is an area that encompasses a lot of different accents, so I wanted to narrow it down a bit more. I found this post by @potions-and-potters that placed Cokeworth in the black country, and it sounds right considering the industrial vibe of the town and the descriptions we get. So, Lily and Snape had variations of the black country accent. The Snape we meet in the book speaks the same dictionary RP as Voldemort, probably (Example 1, Example 2 of Lily's and Snape's accents)

Draco and the Malfoy family are from Wiltshire which is also in the West Country, but because you know the Malfoys sound posh, it would be closer to RP (not too different from James' accent probably), but with a bit of a drawl since in the books they are described often as "drawling".

McGonagall is the most Scottish character there is so she has to have a Scottish accent. On Pottermore it's written she grew up in the Highlands of Scotland:

She grew up in the Highlands of Scotland

(from Pottermore)

So she has a Highlands accent (Example 1, Example 2). I find this sort of Scottish accent fits McGonagall quite well since it's very clear and deliberate.

Seamus Finnigan has to be Irish, as he is mentioned to be a fan of the Quidditch Team Kenmare Kestrels, he likely is from the area, which is around south Ireland. (Example)

Stan Shunpike is written as speaking in a Cockney dialect according to Google.

Dean Thomas is a fan of the West Ham United Football Club which is located in London, so Dean is likely from London and has a London accent. (Went for a South London accent).

We know Justing Flich-Fletchy had his name down for Eton, as @lotstradamus mentioned, so he's also a super posh RP-ish speaker. (More examples)

Tonks uses "wotcher" a lot which is common in North London dialects, so I'm going to go with a North London accent for her. (Example)

Now, for characters I don't know where they are from it's much harder to guess accents because I'm not British and can't get accent "vibes", unfortunately, so I'm only going based on locations and gut feelings.

I can say Hermione always sounds very RP and kinda posh in my head, I imagine books Hermione sounding pretty much like Emma Watson. As we know she comes from a well-to-do middle-class family, it even makes some sense. (Example)

(I also think it's funny to have Harry and Hermione both sounding all RP and Ron speaking more similar to movie Hagrid)

I kinda want to give Remus an accent that isn't RP, just because I feel like it and there are so many posh speakers on this list already and his mom is said to be Welsh:

On an investigative trip into a dense Welsh forest in which a particularly vicious Boggart was supposed to be lurking, Lyall ran across his future wife. Hope Howell, a beautiful Muggle girl who worked in an insurance office in Cardiff

(from Pottermore)

I decided I wanted Remus to be Welsh, so I gave him a South Welsh accent in my head. (Example)

Since there's no one on this list from the north, I'd like Neville to keep Matthew Lewis' Yorkshire accent. (Example)

Trelawney is a cornish name and JKR chose it on purpose:

I love Cornish surnames, and had never used one until the third book in the series, so that is how Professor Trelawney got her family name.

(from Pottermore)

So, I'll take it to mean Trelawney is from Cornwell and has a Cornish accent. (Examples)

I have no clue about Peter.

If any Brits are reading this, how did I do?

As for your other questions: not really.

I mean, Harry is pretty detailed with character descriptions (especially for the main ones, including himself and Hermione who are often headcanoned as having darker skin but are described as white in the books on multiple occasions) so I never really felt there was headcanon space there for the characters I cared for. Personally, I try to keep my headcanons as canon compliant as I can so if someone has a description, I won't come up with a different one.

As for fics, I don't really do fic recs, so I'm sorry I can't help you with that.