#this guy fight with chainsaws on his head and arms

[ladsofsorrow24]

i saw a post about this somewhere yesterday

and the only thing i can say to anime-only is to wait and pay attention when season 2 dropped, because the answers are there sprinkled in between all of the chaos

[riality-check]

Steve, realistically, shouldn’t even be at this show. He doesn’t care about the band, he didn’t want to make the drive, and he had to bring Anna along because he couldn’t find a babysitter.

But he was going to suck it up to go with Dustin, who immediately bought tickets to see his favorite band when they went on sale. Who called Steve this morning to inform him, somehow both solemnly and frantically, that he had the worst food poisoning known to man, and, that until he stopped puking and shitting at the same time, he could not leave the bathroom.

Steve very much did not need to know that.

With Dustin went the rest of the Babysitters’ Club, all of them having eaten the same shady pizza and suffering the consequences. The only exception was Mike, lactose intolerant but cursed to take care of his idiot friends.

He texted Steve to ask if he had extra bleach. Steve dropped it outside the house because no way in hell was he entering that building.

Dustin assured him, amidst too much detail and shockingly disgusting background noise, that both tickets shouldn’t go to waste, and with no one able to babysit Anna, Steve should take advantage of both.

So, here he is. Standing in the first level - Dustin couldn’t get floor tickets, thank God - of a show for a metal band he has no intention of ever listening to and holding his four-year-old daughter, who has bright pink ear defenders looped around her neck in preparation for when it gets really, really loud.

“When are they starting?” she asks for the fourth time in as many minutes, with a sigh too big for her little body.

“In a few minutes,” Steve says, keeping an eye on the stage, where he watches the crew set up. Mad respect for them hustling so hard. He could never.

The seats are slowly filling up, and Steve feels a little sad for the first opener, a little sad that they don’t have a full house for their set.

A group of four guys takes the seats right next to Steve, with a pale, long-haired, big-eyed guy right next to him. He’s got tattoos on his arms and rings on all his fingers and a silver bar through his upper ear.

And he’s arguing emphatically with his friend next to him.

“I’m telling you, American Psycho is more recognizable!” he says, hands flying. Steve discreetly makes sure he and Anna aren’t within striking distance. “Not to mention cheaper!”

“A prop chainsaw,” his friend - a short white guy with shorter but equally wild hair - says, “can’t possibly be that hard to find by tomorrow.”

“We already have the axe!”

“I’m with Eddie,” the big white guy at the end of their group says. “I’m a sucker for American Psycho.”

“Okay, but I’m the guy who has to use the props,” the fourth friend, a Black guy with short braids who looks annoyed at this conversation, like they’ve had it before. “And I think I’d have more fun with the chainsaw.”

Eddie - the guy with long hair and heavy jewelry and hands with a mind of their own - rolls his eyes. It’s a full body movement, one that has him spinning to face Steve. When he does, his face cycles through a myriad of emotions too fast for Steve to really track.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. His eyes then dart down to Anna, who stares at him with her head cocked to the side. “Pretty dad. Dad. Pretty. Hi.”

“Eddie,” the short guy cautions.

“Yeah, sorry, anyway, can you be a tiebreaker for us?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Anna squirms, so he lets her out of his lap to stand, holding her hand all the while. “What do you need?”

“American Psycho or Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” the big guy asks.

“You gotta give him context.”

“No, I don’t, Jeff.”

The guy who said he’d be using the props - whatever that means - rolls his eyes and stops fighting.

“What’s American Psycho?” Anna asks, choosing the best time to pay attention to the conversation, like always.

“A movie you’re too young to see,” Steve says. “And the one I’m picking out of those two.”

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie says, using a tone that better fits Steve saving his drowning dog or something. He then turns to the rest of his friends and says, “I fucking told you!”

Anna gasps. “You’re not s’posed to say that!”

Jeff smothers a laugh behind his hands, while the other three guys stare at Anna, half confused, half admiring.

Eddie clears his throat, looking significantly abashed. "Sorry, Miss-"

"Anna," she says.

"Anna," Eddie finishes. Then he turns to Steve. "And you are?"

"Steve. No Mister for me though. I might be a dad, but I'm not that old."

"You are old, Daddy," Anna says.

Steve frowns down at her, where she stands at his feet. She's smiling, mischievous like she always is when she says something along these lines. "I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are! You're like, you're like, like, fifteen."

Jeff gives up on hiding his laughter.

"I'm older than fifteen," Steve says gently, trying not to laugh.

Anna’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Thank God for that,” Eddie mutters, then shuts his jaw with an audible click.

Steve tried to come up with an answer for that, but someone comes on a mic and starts playing the drums, so he moves the defenders over Anna’s ears and pays attention to the show instead.

It's... fun, he guesses. Fun if he were into it, maybe. The first opener has a lot of energy, even if the music isn't melodic enough for Steve's taste. He finds himself tapping along to the steady beat, moving slightly in his seat to the music.

It's nice background noise. He'd put this on while he grades papers. It's steady enough to fill his head but doesn't have a whole lot of lyrics he could get distracted by and sing along to.

Eddie and his friends, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. The short guy - Gareth, Steve thinks his name is - mimes the drum part of each song with startling accuracy. Archie jumps up and down, Jeff absolutely screams along, and Eddie-

Anna stares up at Eddie, eyes wide and jaw slacked as she watches him bang his head to the music.

Steve almost snaps a picture of it, this little moment, before the second song ends and Eddie snaps out of his zone.

He shakes the hair out of his face, then looks down at Anna, who's still staring at him. "What?"

She cocks her head to the side in a mirror of his. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The," she pauses, then starts shaking her head really hard, side to side. Steve puts a hand on her shoulder before she slams into the chairs in the row in front of them.

Eddie laughs. "The headbanging?"

"Yeah," Anna says, nodding.

"It's a way I move to the music," Eddie explains.

"Like dancing?"

"Sort of," Eddie says. "It's easier. I look stupid when I dance."

"You're not s'posed to say that," Anna tells him solemnly. "Right, Daddy?"

Steve meets Eddie's eyes. Even with the lights down, they're big and pretty and reflective, and Steve is going to kick himself so hard if he chickens out before he can get his number.

"Right," he says, still looking at Eddie. "We're not supposed to call ourselves stupid."

"Sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Don't be."

Anna tugs on Steve's hand, then Eddie's. "Teach me."

"Anna," Steve cautions.

"Can you please teach me?" she corrects.

Eddie glances down at Anna, then back up at Steve. "If it's-"

"Go ahead," Steve says because Eddie has more than passed the vibe check at this point.

Eddie crouches down as a new song starts up, and while Steve can't hear what he's telling her, he sees her smile, bright as day.

By the last song of the first opener, Anna is headbanging along with Eddie, off-beat in the say little kids always are but more than making up for it with effort.

Steve gives into the impulse to take a picture.

When the first opener finishes, Steve picks Anna back up and takes her ear defenders off.

"Woah," she says. "Can I keep them-"

"Nope," Steve says. "They stay on when the music is on. You heard it fine, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you-"

"I have my earplugs in," Steve says, pointing at them.

"So do I," Eddie says, and when he moves his hair back, sure enough, there are black earplugs nestled in his ears.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to wear earplugs," Steve says.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to come of a metal show," Eddie counters.

Anna climbs out of Steve's arms and onto his back, where she loops her arms around his shoulders and just hangs, like she does sometimes when she gets bored.

Weirdo kid, Steve thinks affectionately.

"That's because I'm not," Steve says. "I was supposed to come with a friend, but he got sick."

"Yikes," Eddie says. "You coming tomorrow, too?"

"I am," Steve says. "Are you?"

Eddie raises his eyebrows, like he didn't expect Steve to ask that. "Yeah, we'll be here. Not in these seats, though."

The lights go back down before Steve can ask what he means by that. He reaches behind him, scoops Anna back down on the ground, and puts her ear defenders on by the time the second opener strikes a scary-sounding opening chord.

Anna doesn't look scared at all. From the moment the music starts, she looks up at Eddie, and when he starts headbanging, she does, too.

Yup. Steve has effectively created a monster.

He contemplates, if Dustin is fine by tomorrow, skipping out on the show and giving his ticket to Anna, but that means not seeing Eddie again.

He really wants to see Eddie again, even if he won’t have the same seats.

Whatever that means.

Steve decides not to focus on that. He decides instead to focus on the moment. He listens to the music. He lets Anna take his hand and dance with it. He bops his head along with hers, but not too hard because he can’t risk aggravating his whiplash.

He enjoys the show, even if it’s not his cup of tea. It’s easy to enjoy the show, with Eddie next to him. It’s easy to enjoy his wild hair and pretty jewelry and big eyes and contagious enthusiasm.

It’s easy to see the way Eddie looks at him.

It’s also very easy, after the venue clears and Anna falls asleep in the car on the way home, to forget to ask for his number.

Shit.

(Part 2 is alive!!)

[angelbarelywrites]

♡ tommy gets jealous | oneshot

♡ fandom; Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003/2006)

♡ characters; Thomas Hewitt

♡ reader; gender neutral

♡cw; mentions of kidnapping and violence, don’t date people who want to slash you irl not a good foundation for a relationship

♡notes; I put on my big boy panties and wrote something other than a bulleted list!!

I just love a good “i trust you but i sure as fuck don’t trust anybody else” type jealously trope. Also some Tommy doing ASL!! We love a (selectively?) mute king.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

You were an oblivious person. Most of the time, anyways. You’d been totally shocked when Luda Mae didn’t let you leave the night you arrived at the Hewitt house, totally shocked when Charlie told you Thomas was obsessed with you, and more surprised still that Charlie had been right.

You weren’t stupid— you put two and two together that these folks were cannibals as soon as you saw the basement. You nearly talked Monty into letting you go, and you slipped your restraints a couple times before you were settled in. You’d done well in school and still could read a book in one sitting.

Maybe… socially inept was a better word, harsh as it sounded. It was only people that you had a such a hard time with. You trusted them, but you could almost never wrap your head around what they were thinking.

Like the customers that stayed too long . It happened a lot. Bikers and tourists and all sorts of folks would stop in when you were working in the convenience store, and usually more than once a day a man would stay leaned on the counter, chatting away until his buddies were about to leave him. Sometimes they’d be alone, and Luda would give you a break early and they’d go off looking all huffy.

It very rarely occurred to you that the men were trying to flirt. You didn’t think of yourself as someone that happened to- and treated all customers the same. Why would they think you wanted to bang em when all you did was smile? Being nice was part of your job.

Luda Mae payed no mind to the men or your conversations. If there’d been any cause for concern, she’d be able to quash it very easily. But she found it endearing, especially your confusion and apathy when they did get balls enough to be blunt . In her mind you were so devoted to Thomas that other men were just nuisances.

That’s why no one had mentioned it to Thomas. He rarely came up to help now that you were there to help Luda Mae, but today there was extra stock, and her joints had been aching from the weather. You were on register, Luda Mae relaxed in a rocker on the porch, and Tommy stalked the aisles and put out trinkets and canned food and all the other junk you sold. You were trying not to go distract him and stood leaned over the counter, doodling on some scrap paper between customers.

“Well hello darlin,” A man drawled, hands on his belt buckle. He was trying too hard to be a real Texan, but he wasn’t from up North like you. “You got any cigarettes back there?”

“Sure do! Let’s see… got Camels, Lucky Strike- I really like these ones, the Salems, they’re menthol-“

“You look too sweet to smoke. I’ll take the Camels,”

“Well, only do it on special occasions,” you shrugged, not paying much attention as Thomas stalked towards the front “Anything else?”

“Well. That depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re free or not tonight.”

You blinked, then furrowed your brow “You tryna ask me out?”

“Well I- oho shit!” The man laughed uncomfortably as he noticed Thomas right behind him “You scared me there big guy-“

He huffed and slunk behind the counter as the man nervously tried to get back on topic “Anyways… ahem…so about that date-?”

You huffed and out a hand on your hip “Well, depends?”

He perked up a bit “On what?”

“If you can beat my boyfriend in a fight.” On cue Thomas wrapped his arms around you from behind, growling as he hooked his chin on your head.

The man quickly turned tail and mumbled something about being out of practice, forgetting the cigarettes completely. You could feel Tommy relax and turned to let him pick you up and set you on the counter. Even then you weren’t eye to eye with the giant of a man…but it was closer, and you liked feeling tiny anyway.

“…hi baby.” You cooed and loosely wrapped your arms around his neck. He huffed and nuzzled you, as he often did as a form of reassurance. You giggled and pecked his mask “Annoying, right?”

He nodded and scowled, keeping his grip tight on your hips

“…what’s wrong?”

He hesitated but pulled back to sign ‘Mine. All mine. Right?’

You giggled again “Of course! All yours- always.”

He smiled softly- the sort of expression only you could coax out of him ‘Always’

[cherry-cola-on-ice]

Can you write a story that has Thomas Hewitt getting jealous at a guy flirting with his S/O please love your work🙏🙏🙏🙏

Jealousy Jealousy

It shouldn't bug him so much. Especially after all this time.

It wasn't your fault after all. Anyone with eyes could see how beautiful you were. Everything about you was crafted by some higher being, sculpted from the stars and the skies. And you were so sweet, so kind. You brought a smile to even Uncle Monty's face.

And most of all, he knew you loved him. He repeatedly told himself, saying it over and over again in his head like his own personal mantra. As long as you loved him, he didn't need anything else.

Thomas's eyebrows furrowed as you laughed at the joke. He couldn't tell you jokes. But this stranger could. This handsome, younger man with perfect teeth and perfect hair. He looked like one of those men on the front of the harlequin novels Hoyt steals out of suitcases.

You laughed again, head thrown back. God, you were perfect. Too perfect for him. This stranger was the type of man you deserved.

From the back room of the gas station, Thomas shifted his weight nervously. He knew he should have left you at the house. It was a bad idea, just like Hoyt said. You brought to much attention to yourself. Unknowingly and unwittingly, of course. Never your intention.

But you had a magnetic power around you, drawing people in.

Your soft eyes were what made him fall in love with you. When his family first found you, hiding out in their barn, crying your eyes out, he felt a pang in his heart that was new to him. You looked scared and you were alone. Everyone else had left you, all meeting their ends by his chainsaw.

He asked you why you didn't struggle and you always shrugged "I guess they were never really my friends to begin with. They tried to leave me for dead. "

And he didn't question it at first. After all, it all brought you to him. You were his now.

But-

You should hate him. You should fight him. You shouldn't be able to stand the sight of him. You were better off with this man, this stranger who could give you the life you deserved. The overwhelming feeling of despair hit him like a shot to the stomach.

But then you turned to him. And smiled. That sweet smile, the one that lit up a room and light up his life. And it was directed at him. It was his smile.

And for a moment, all was right in the world. You chose him.

But then-

"So, I gotta wonder... What's a sweet thing like you doing in a shit hole like this?"

From afar, Thomas could see you bristle, your demeanor change from jovial to defense "What's that supposed to mean? There's nothing wrong with here."

The stranger laughed "Yeah, it's cute in tetanus shot kinda way. But nowhere such a hot piece of ass such as you should be. "

Thomas ought to punt this creep straight into a grinder. His fist balled up and he began stalking towards him-

Except you beat him to the punch. Quite literally.

The stranger fell to the floor, holding his bloody nose. Whimpering. Thomas was surprised, he didn't think this guy would go down that easily. The man wasn't as tall as him, but he was still a sizable man. And you floored him.

Looking back to you, he watched as you shook your hand out, cursing under your breath "Fucking hell, dude! Your face made out of concrete?!?"

"YOU BROKE MY NOSE, YOU BITCH!"

"Yeah, and I'll do it again if you don't get your ass outta here!"

The man, holding his bleeding nose, lifted himself off the ground, shooting daggers at you. Instinctively, Thomas placed his body between the two of you, glaring back at him.

The stranger, though looking absolutely terrified, feigned confidence and scoffed as he walked by. You grabbed Thomas's arm, shouting as the stranger left the store "Yeah! Get out here, you-"

Thomas spun you around, grabbing your face in his hands. He looked you over, looking for any signs of harms. You scrunched your nose "I'm fine, Thomas!"

Thomas huffed, pulling you close to him. You laughed in his arms, standing up on your tip toes to press a kiss to his mask. Thomas looked down at you, taking in the lovestruck look in your eyes.

Yeah, he had nothing to worry about.

[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!!

[ddejavvu]

I would love something with spencer protecting/defending reader! Maybe like the team goes out for drinks and a guy can’t take no for an answer? And like reader is totally capable of protecting herself but it just makes her so soft that spencer will stand up for her and keep her safe 🥲

You're nearing minute three of the sleazeball across the bar from you eyeing you up, and you suppose you're making it worse by checking if he's still looking. Because he is, every single time, and now you've made it look like you're interested.

"Oh, shit," You grumble as he pushes off of the wall behind him, heading your way, "Creep-o's coming over."

Creep-o fights through the crowd to land beside you, leaning obnoxiously close on the sticky table you're sitting at.

"Hey," He drawls, liquor hot on his breath, "Saw you starin' at me."

"I'm not interested," You lean away from him, into Spencer's side, "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea."

"Oh, hard to get," Creep-o infers, "I get it."

"No, you really don't. I'm taken, I wasn't trying to flirt with you."

"You sure? I think you just want me to chase you," The man smirks cockily at his false win, "'Cause you sure glanced back at me a lot."

"No," You start, but Spencer rings an arm around your waist and squeezes gently, calming your rising annoyance.

"Are you a fan of horror movies?" Spencer leans over to ask the man, who looks slightly confused at the interruption.

"I've seen my fair share."

"Okay. So, you know when the music gets suspenseful, and the character is walking into a dark room, and you know the chainsaw murderer is hiding behind the door?"

The man nods, once, still confused.

"But you watch anyways, and get scared? Some things are too repulsive to look away from."

"You son of a bitch," The man starts, but Spencer's slid off his stool in a second flat and Morgan is behind him. Spencer could do damage, you know he's fought unsubs before, but Morgan is even more visually intimidating, and this guy doesn't want to take his chances.

"Walk away." Spencer advises him, and it looks like it physically pains Creep-o to do so. But he does, in case one of the tall men squared up in front of him decide to lunge.

When it's safe, Spencer and Morgan reclaim their seats, the former bumping his shoulder into yours as he sits. You lean into him gratefully, murmuring forlornly, "It was my fault. I was looking at him."

"But you said no," Spencer hums, kissing the crown of your head and slipping his arm around your waist again, "I hope you don't mind that I stepped in. I know you could have handled him. He just made me mad."

"I don't mind," You muse, reaching to swipe away a bead of condensation that's on the table, "I liked it. A lot."

"Yeah?" Spencer cracks a grin against your hairline, "Horror movie metaphors are what do it for you?"

"That and your fists clenched," You reach out with your wet-tipped finger to ghost it along Spencer's thumb, "That was hot, Spence."

[taintandviolent]

Going to a haunted house with my boy Max Cooperman

And even though it's not that great, he still gets scared. (He acts like he isn't to save face-)

Halloween prompt do with this as u will! 💜

warnings: language, reader being kinda' mean, Max being a little bitch, cock grabbing, uhhhhh I think that's it.

You bounce on your heels, excited. You love haunted houses, and everything about the season. Good or bad, you’re there for them. Except this time, you dragged Max with you. He swore up and down that he’s done haunts before, but the way his head sweeps back and forth, perking up in the direction of every little noise tells you otherwise. 

“Are you scared?” You jeer, looking over at Max. 

“What? Fuck no. This thing looks laaaame.” 

It does. Even from where he’s standing – behind you, which is totally a coincidence, by the way – he can see that this haunt looks very low-budget and very underwhelming. So why was his heart racing? 

The line shuffles forward, and in the distance, the jarring hum of chainsaws can be heard, paired with some high-pitched screams from patrons. He looks around, uncomfortably scanning his surroundings. He clocks a weird looking clown a few strides ahead in the line, snorting and snarling in unsuspecting faces. Not today, motherfucker. Max narrows his eyes, and crosses his arms, still watching him. His muscles flex mindlessly. 

“This looks super lame. Waste of ten bucks.” He jerks his chin over your shoulder, his eyes still locked on the ever-approaching clown. You follow his line of sight, and see the haunt clown approaching, toying with people in the line in front of you. 

“Okay, tough guy,” you say, nudging him hard back with your shoulder. He stumbles just slightly, and shoots you a disapproving look. 

Soon, it’s your turn, and you immediately swing him in front of you, not thinking twice about it. Max rights his shoulders, broadening them and marches inside like he’s ready to fight. Spoiler alert: he isn’t. 

As soon as you're inside, it takes a couple of seconds for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they do, you see a pair of feet and smirk. They aren’t very good at hiding themselves, but still, you brace yourself for the oncoming scare. A ghoul girl in the corner emerges from between the curtains, wailing loudly at you two. Her painted hand reaches for Max, and he rears back into you, letting out a high pitched, voice cracking yelp.

“Max!” You scream, laughing. “You can’t be serious!” 

“What! It was a loud noise, okay? Chill out, don’t make a big deal.” 

You snort and shake your head and shove him forward. Strobe lights flash in front of you and thick strips of black plastic, probably industrial trash bags, line the hallways. Max takes an apprehensive step, and cranes his neck around the corner. 

“Are you seriously scared?!” You shout, over the sounds of the haunt. 

“No I’m – AAAAHH FUCK!” A chainsaw revs, cutting him off as a knockoff Leatherface rounds the corner, holding the de-bladed chainsaw above his head before thrusting it in Max’s general direction. Again, Max rears back, knocking into you and you catch him at the shoulders, practically howling with laughter. 

“Fight or flight and you choose flight? Really? That’s a shocker.”

He huffs, embarrassed as he shuffles past the actor. “I was about to fucking hit him, I swear to god!” 

“Right, yeah, that’s why you screamed like a bitch?” 

Max has nothing to say to this, but if you could see his face, you’d see that he was totally tough and absolutely was gonna’ clock Leatherface. 

As you round a particularly dark corner, you urge him forward, pressing your stomach against his back. Your hands reach around his torso and cup his flaccid cock from outside his jeans. He jerks, but keeps it quiet. Shockingly. 

“Keep this up, and I’ll really give you something to scream about later.” 

With that, you shove him forward into the darkness towards the howls and screams. There was something kinda' cute about how scared and pathetic he was being, something that ignited a fire deep within your belly.

"Fresh meat!" You yelled, cupping your hands around your mouth.

"Shut up, shut up!"

[toggle1-mrfipp]

Chapter 182 I think is one of my favorite chapters in all of P2 because it does such a fantastic job with each of the three characters.

First, Yoru. I've said it before, but I love how this last arc has been for Yoru, giving her an emotional depths that she never had before, and showcasing just how unprepared and ill-equipped to deal with said emotions she really is. I've seen people saying that she's only trying to manipulate Denji and Asa, but I don't think that's the case: Makima spent the better part of a year manipulating varying governments around the world to turn Denji into Pochita, but Yoru can't go a single date without trying to turn him into a weapon. She is impulsive, spontaneous, immature, she acts purely on instinct, and we see just how wild she can be. In only a few chapters she goes from trying to blow his head off, to trying to beat shit out of him, to kissing him because she thinks he's cute and genuinely trying to motivate him to keep on moving. She's flying by the seat of her pants with no clue what she's doing, a complete loss of control on her part. A few chapters ago she was the embodiment of the fear of war who just killed possibly hundreds of people, and now she she can't look at the guy she just kissed like the tsundere she is. And to loop it back to her "I got over it line" and how unture that has to be. Her powers are fueled by guilt, the more guilt she feels in something's destruction the more powerful it is, and considering the sheer scale of destruction her Gun Devil Arm brought, the guilt she had in killing the Gun Devil, her self-proclaimed child, must be immense, but she says she "got over it", and I don't believe her.

Next, Asa. She is someone who has a lot of negative traits, and a lot of time they tend to overshadow her good trait. She is selfish, she is more concerned with looking like a good and moral person instead of actually being one, and her entire role in the Church was her ignoring any and all red flags, no matter how obvious they were, because she was obsessed with being a micro-celebrity, because she wanted to play out the fantasy of being Chainsaw Man's hero, to give her life meaning and to justify her own existence. At the core of all of that however, Asa does genuinely want to do good, she does want to help the people she feels that are important to her, and her trying to relate and comfort Denji was one of the few times that people had one something like that for him, one of the few she's gone out of her way to comfort someone, She was at her lowest, but he saved her, so she wanted to return the favor inn a way she thought would help, she just got caught up her own head along the way. Her speech at the end then made me realize something, that while it's been alluded to a few times, such as her death and the Falling Devil attack Asa has never actually vocalized what it is she actually wants, and it leaves me wondering what she was going to tell Denji before he threw up the Snow Devil.

And finally Denji. When to comes to trauma Denji shuts down and he distances himself from his problems; KIll his dad in self-defense? Hide those memories. Reze tells him that the life he lived wasn't good? Change the subject. Sad that Reze never showed up? Hey look it's Miss Makima! Killed Aki? Time to be a dog and not think again. Power's dead? Time to die. Can't date Asa? Time to fight a super big devil for the fans! I half-expected Denji to just lie there and take whatever Yoru was about to do to him, but instead he pushed her off of him, he resisted someone who was using sex against him, something he and never done, and it's clear that he is reaching his limit with Asa/Yoru and how he has gotten nothing but mixed signals from them. I really do feel like we're getting so much closer to him learning the truth about them. And then there is the end! Denji does not think about his trauma, he pushes it to the side so he does not have to think about it, we saw this with the Falling Devil attack where to not think about Aki and Power's death, he slices his brain up. I do not think that he has given either of them too much thought since the end of P1 because all he can think about is their deaths and the "role" he was forced into regarding them. But the snow made him think of them and that trip to Aki's family grave, it was a trip they had fun on, the last time they were all together before things turned out the way they did. Those were good and pleasant memories he had of Aki and Power, of the family they had with one another, and him reflecting on them is good. Aki said it himself on that trip, that he didn't think about the bad stuff because he had Denji and Power around, and while I feel like we're only just getting started with how messy this process will be for Denji, I do think this might be a good first step for healing for Denji.

Denji, Asa and Yoru each displayed amazing characterization in 182, and I can't wait to see where this will lead the three of them.

[anonymous-dentist]

REBLOGS WELCOME! :D

-

So therapy is going well.

-

“And you know what? You know what else, Mariana?”

“Yes? What?”

Slime leans closer, a sneer on his face as he says: “Your sex playlist sucks.”

And that is too far. Too far. 

Mariana tackles him out of his chair with an offended roar, ignoring Roier’s cries from the other side of the desk. 

“Gentleman, please!” Roier protests. “Not in the office, please! Take it outside!”

Slime’s face screws up in anger. He grabs Mariana’s shoulders, nails digging in through the spandex of Mariana’s suit. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, voice low. He meets Mariana’s eyes and brings his head closer; almost reflexively, Mariana does the same until their noses are brushing. 

“Is that what you want?” Slime repeats, his breath ghosting over Mariana’s lips. “Do you want to take it outside, Mariana?”

“Oh my God,” Roier says. 

“No,” Mariana replies. “I want you to kiss me.”

And he does.

-

Really, therapy is going well. Better than Mariana had expected, what with the single least experienced person on the island acting as his therapist. Because Roier of all people was obviously the best choice, ignore his murderous grudge against his ex… whatever, and his fun new hobby of putting children in pits to fight to the death. The guy whose last relationship ended in literal murder is obviously the best person to be the island’s court-mandated couples’ counselor. 

But, well, it’s working, surprisingly enough. Slime hasn’t wished death upon Mariana in days, and Mariana is almost allowed to tuck their daughter into bed. And Flippa? She’s happier than ever (though, really, that isn’t saying much.)

-

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Mariana? I’m meditating. Just like the doctor ordered.”

The chainsaw in Slime’s lap disagrees with that statement. As does the blood spattered across his face. And the dying BadBoyHalo groaning on the floor in front of him.

Bad rolls onto his back and looks up at Mariana pleadingly. He mouths, ‘help me’.

Flippa stands over him holding a gun three times too big for her tiny little egg hands. She waves it cheerfully in greeting as she notices Mariana in the doorway.

Mariana rolls his eyes and groans, throwing his arms into the air. “Chinga su madre, man, what did I tell you? Stop killing people on the rug! Do you know how hard it is to clean it?”

Bad coughs blood onto said rug indignantly. Bastard.

“Well, maybe people shouldn’t try and kill our daughter on the rug,” Slime calmly responds. He speaks slowly, and Mariana is thankful for it. His translator can only work so fast, and most of his husband’s murderous rampages go by too quickly for the translator to pick up. It’s a pain.

“Oh, is that what happened?” Mariana asks. 

Slowly, he walks towards Bad, whose eyes are slowly draining of life. He’s got maybe ten more seconds left before he’s forced to respawn. Mariana could save him right now. 

He pulls out his sword instead. 

Juanaflippa backs up, already covered in too much blood for her tastes. 

“He-” Mariana points at Slime. “-is the only person allowed to kill eggs. Mamahuevo, fuck you.”

As soon as Bad is dead, Slime jumps to his feet and pulls Mariana into a bruising kiss, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding him tight. The chainsaw digs into Mariana’s back slightly, but it’s hard to pay attention to that when his husband is right there. 

“You are so hot when you’re killing people,” Slime murmurs. 

And Mariana doesn’t quite understand what he said, his translator out of sight, but he knows when he’s being sweet talked well enough. 

“Me encantas,” Mariana says. “Now…” (What are the words?) “...put the chainsaw down and take me to bed.”

And he does.

-

Once, there was a time when Mariana couldn’t remember why he married Slime. Well. He still doesn’t know why he married Slime, or when. It just sort of happened one day, and maybe they should have gotten divorced long ago for Flippa’s sake. But, hey, they got married before they even knew each other. They spent most of their marriage apart. Now that they’re being forced together, Mariana can definitely see the appeal of being married to Slime. He’s funny, and he’s smart, and he’s very attractive. Who cares if he’s literally made out of slime? That just makes him special. 

A human, a slime, and an egg. What a family. 

-

Juanaflippa is still learning how to write. Her English is messy, but her Spanish is messier. Mariana tries not to think that it’s his fault for not being there for her, but he also knows that it is kind of his fault. He knows that, so Slime doesn’t need to keep rubbing it in like the asshole he is. 

“Oh, wow, Flippa! That’s great!” Slime coos upon being presented with Flippa’s most recent attempt at signmaking. Mariana can’t really understand what’s written, but he thinks that he knows one or two words: ‘mom’ and ‘dad’. 

Flippa hops up and down excitedly and quickly scrambles back up to her room to get another sign to work on. 

Mariana idly watches her go, sprawled out across Slime’s couch with his translator in his hand ticking away. One annoying thing about his husband is how fast he talks, it’s impossible to keep up. Literally impossible. Luckily, Mariana’s been working on his English when he’s been alone, so he can at least try to figure out what’s going on without having his translator out all of the time. 

Slime sighs and slumps onto the couch by Mariana’s feet. Without hesitation, Mariana kicks his legs up onto Slime’s lap; Slime doesn’t move them. 

“She’s learning so fast…” Slime says. 

Mariana nods. “Yes, you are a good teacher.”

“Yeah, I sure am.”

The accusation is left unsaid, but Mariana hears it, anyway. 

Lightly, he kicks Slime in the chest. “Hey, fuck you. I’ve been trying.”

“I’m sure you have,” Slime responds, and the condescension is dripping so thickly from his voice that it’s in a puddle on the floor. Or maybe that’s just Slime himself. 

Mariana kicks him again. He doesn’t say anything, though, because maybe therapy has been working. A week ago, they would have been yelling by now. Today, though? He’s happy enough to stew in his discontent. 

He likes the quiet, anyway. Slime is a lot prettier when he isn’t screaming his head off. Very nice to look at. Muy guapo. He pretends that Slime isn’t looking back if only because acknowledging it would make him blush, and he would like to keep his dignity, thank you very much. 

Eventually, Juanaflippa comes back downstairs with a new sign. 

‘Te quiero, papá,’ is written on it in shaky chicken-scratch letters, and it’s enough to almost make Mariana cry. Almost. 

He slips off of the couch and pulls Flippa into a hug. “Aww, Flippa, yo también te quiero.”

She wiggles in place happily. The wiggling becomes more enthusiastic when Slime goops his way into the hug as well, tucking his chin into the crook of Mariana’s neck. 

Slime says, “Te amo, Juanaflippa.” And, well, it’s not quite right, but he’s got the spirit. 

Mariana looks up at him with a slight pout. “What the fuck? Why don’t you say that to me?”

Slime rolls his eyes. “Fine, I guess I can say it, I guess.”

And he does.

-

And then there’s the sex. But that was fine before, to be honest. The only thing that has improved about it is their playlist. 

-

Slime’s new house has a bedroom with enough space for the both of them, and it’s almost nice enough to make Mariana consider partially moving in. Almost. 

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room because, frankly, they aren’t ready to properly share a bed yet. But the floors are bare so as to make it easier to push their beds together when wanted. 

Mariana wants. 

He pokes his head out into the living room. Slime is right where he left him, facedown on the rug after a long day of renovating. Juanaflippa is asleep upstairs, nobody else is awake on the server to interrupt or eavesdrop, it’s the perfect opportunity. 

“Hey, Slime,” Mariana says, and that’s enough to get his husband to roll onto his back with a groan. 

“What are you still doing here?” Slime yawns. He covers his mouth halfheartedly, stretching his legs out sleepily. “I thought you went to bed.”

“I did,” Mariana confirms. “You have a bed. Come on, get into it with me.”

And usually that’s enough to get Slime up and moving, but he doesn’t so much as look at him. No, his eyes slip shut, and he lets his arms fall across his body like a mummy’s. 

Oh. He’s tired. 

“Estoy cansado,” Slime sighs. “Lo siento, mi novia. No sexo tonight.”

Mariana can’t help but be disappointed. The sex is one of his favorite things about their relationship. It’s the one thing that he and Slime could agree on before the court case, the one single bit of solidarity in their relationship. 

But… it is late, and maybe Mariana is a bit tired as well. 

So he goes out of the bedroom to pick Slime up, only buckling a little under his weight. (For a sentient pile of goo, he’s fucking heavy.)

Slime’s eyes flutter open, and his face wrinkles in confusion as he’s moved. He looks up at Mariana blearily, unsure as to what he’s doing. Honestly, Mariana doesn’t know what he’s doing, either. This is weird. 

“Your back is going to hurt if you sleep on the floor,” is Mariana’s excuse even though he knows fully well that Slime doesn’t have a spine. 

“Oh, cool, alright,” Slime says. If he snuggles into Mariana’s chest a little, neither acknowledges it. “Gracias.”

“De nada.”

He drops Slime into his bed and hesitates. What now? Does he… tuck him in? He’s a grown man, he can tuck himself in. 

Mariana turns to… go, he guesses, to go back to his own house, but he’s stopped by a goopy hand wrapping itself around his wrist and refusing to let go no matter how hard he tries to pull away. 

“Slime, come on, let go,” Mariana groans. “Maybe I want to go to bed too, huh?”

“Then get in here,” Slime says, and that’s all the warning Mariana gets before being yanked down with a yelp onto the bed. 

Slime hums, and then he’s out like a light, snork mimimi, and all. Mariana stares at him for a good moment, and then he sighs and takes his glasses off. He takes Slime’s glasses off as well, and, after placing them both onto the bedside table right next to each other, he lets himself relax. There isn’t quite enough room for the both of them, but he thinks it can make it work. 

And he does. 

-

So, yes, therapy has been working. It’s been working very well. 

(Now, if only someone could get the therapist a therapist. Mariana is starting to get sick of hearing about Roier’s relationship problems at what are supposed to be his therapy sessions. At this rate, Mariana is going to kill Spreen himself if only to stop the complaining.)

[rottenzombrainz]

Tokyo Debunker FriendFic - Jiro + Luca

Beginning Notes:

A very short fic based on the mini episode where Luca asks Jiro to spar! Also I'm deciding to call these friendly fanfics FriendFics™!! Because it's a super not cringe name!!

sfw (obvs), minor spoilers for chapters 7, 9, 1 and 2

I don't know if ghouls are allowed to use their artifacts when sparring in the canon, but in this fic, they can!!

"Jiro, I would like to spar with you!"

Luca was walking back to Frostheim with Kaito when he noticed Jiro talking to a general student and taking some notes. He waited patiently for their conversation to end before approaching Jiro.

Luca asked, straight and to the point. Jiro stared down at him with a blank expression

"Patient number 8631 - Lucas Errant. You said you wanted to spar with me? I told you before, I don't really recommend it."

"Please, just once is all I ask."

Jiro crossed his arms and looked Luca up and down

"Um- Luca!! dude?!? Sidebar?"

Kaito muttered, pulling Luca aside

"Kaito? What's going on?"

"Oh, right, you went on a mission with him recently, right? Perhaps you could give me some tips on his-"

"Are you crazy? You want to fight Frankenstein???"

"Luca!! I'm telling you, it's a bad idea. I know you're super strong and all, but that guy is an absolute murder machine!! And his artifact is a chainsaw- a fucking chainsaw!!!"

"Is that all you wanted? I need to get back to Mortkranken."

Luca pensively put his hand to his chin.

Jiro joined in, looking as apathetic as ever. Luca shook his head and asked oncemore.

"Jiro, please spar with me!"

Jiro sighed, crossing his arms again.

"If I say yes, will you stop asking me?"

Luca nodded, a small smile lighting his face. His smile quickly turned into a guarded frown as he heard the chime of an artifact chain being pulled.

"EEK! He's trying to fight you right here?!??"

Kaito screamed, hiding behind a nearby tree.

Nearby general students began to chatter among themselves as they huddled around the area.

"Is there a ghoul fight?" "I think so... the transfer student must have pissed off Frankenstein."

The whispers and rumors crescendoed as Luca took out his twin swords, forming an offensive stance.

Luca was the first to strike, dashing towards Jiro with elegance and poise. Jiro swiftly leaped out of the way with speed no onlooker was expecting.

Luca attempted to strike again only for one of his swords to be knocked out of his hand with the growl of a power tool. The audience surrounding him gasped and cheered at all the action as Luca jumped out of the way of a whirling chainsaw. He looked at Jiro's abdomen and realized... he was bleeding? But Luca never hit him...

"J-Jiro! You're bleeding! Are you alright?"

Luca's voice was laced with genuine concern for his sparring partner.

"Am I? Something must have reopened. I need to get back to Mortkranken."

Jiro returned his chainsaw to its keychain form and began to make a beeline for Mortkranken. All the students scrambled out of his way as he walked.

"Luca! He totally wiped the floor with you!! Maybe I do have a chance looking good next to you!"

Kaito chirped as he playfully wrapped an arm around Luca's shoulders. Luca stayed quiet as he replayed the match in his head. It was a short session, but he was still motivated to learn something from it.

Ending notes:

I wasn't lying when I said this fic was very short. I'm not very good at writing action :P I went to one of my cousin's ice hockey games to get into a pumped up mood... but I got distracted by the game and thoroughly enjoyed it. Still, I was pumped up afterwards!

I keep feeling like I need more words. More words more words!!! But that's just the hater in my head telling me I'm not a good writer. His name is Carson. I think I like writing shorter content for Tumblr though. It's a nice break from my work on my to-be-published stories. I'm still struggling with how I want to format my writing... but that's a problem for another day!

I hope you enjoyed reading this friendly little interaction between Jiro and Luca!! And if you have a pair or group of ghouls you'd like to see interact, send them in through the ask thing! I had fun writing this >w<

[shesmore-shoebill]

one of my fave things about watching people play horror/thriller games with a lot of action is the sort of quiet under the breath comments as truly terrible/terrifying things happen on screen. and the latter part of the video was FULL of those. too lazy to clip all of these + some of them are a bit. much. visually. but, some highlights.

(apologetically, after Ethan used his bare hands to fend off Mia attacking him with a knife, hands bloodied and cut up) [Amanda] "You did not win that fight, dude."

(after Ethan gets thrown through a wall by Mia) [Amanda] "Ok... she got strong."

(casually, while furiously attacking Mia with a hatchet) [Spencer] You hate to see a man kill his wife :/" [Amanda] "You really do."

(watching Ethan struggle to un-impale his hand that has been stabbed to the wall with a screwdriver) [Amanda] "....Doesn't seem that hard to take out..." [Spencer] "It really doesn't."

(watching Mia stagger towards an impaled Ethan, as she wields a chainsaw) [Amanda] "Okay... she's got a chainsaw, you gotta get out, bud."

(right before shooting Mia in the head as she tries to kill Ethan with a chainsaw) [Spencer] "guys... do not endorse this."

(while being forcefed some kind of gross looking intestine) [Angela] "It's giving Garreettt :/"

(after Jack destroys the entire dining table with a shovel and threatens Ethan) [Amanda] "Not gonna have a table :/"

(while/immediately after Ethan gets his leg chopped off by a shovel) [Amanda] "-oh that's OUR leg."

(cop gets head cut in half by shovel) [Spencer] "He got scooped."

(after Jack breaks Ethans arm as he's trying to escape by stealing his car) [Amanda] "WE CAN'T DRIVE LIKE THAT."

(watching the car erupt into flames with Jack in it) [Amanda] "okay... well...."

[gaslightgatekeepgirlbosscombat]

Group A, Round 1, Poll 4:

Propaganda under the cut

Azula

Personal gain and because she was gaslit herself.

100% pure girlboss. So good at lying and manipulating that the magic human lie detector can’t figure her out. Gatekeeps her father’s “love” from her brother

Azula was considered a prodigy in firebending at a young age. And she manipulates and plots to get what she wants.

They (gas)lit stuff on fire, gatekeeped the avatar from the Fire Nation, and girlbossed all the way into insanity

Akane Kurashiki

Zero Escape spoilers! Akane Kurashiki is dead. Died in an incinerator as a child. But she's right here, isn't she? She's talking about mummies and the Titanic and I'm holding her in my arms. But also she's Zero, mastermind who trapped us here and threatened our lives. That guy literally just exploded. But Akane couldn't have done that, she's so sweet and she's so scared. Also she's dead? But wait, she's right here, and she has a fever again.

lied to a group of ppl including her childhood bestie so they'd enter a death game she planned, she's so funny. also later planned another death game to save the earth etc

GASLIGHT: - Lies to everyone and pretends to just be an innocent quirky girl when in reality, she is the mastermind behind the situation everyone has been put in. - Pretends to be sad and concerned when the bastard who almost killed her pretends to do a heroic sacrifice to get everyone's sympathy. - Pretends she's put bombs inside everyone's stomachs. Really, she only put bombs inside the people she wants revenge on. - Pretends that she and her brother aren't related. - Erases her fiancé's memories and makes him forget he proposed to her so she can go to the moon and stop the outbreak of an apocalyptic virus without him getting in the way. - Puts herself into a schrodinger's cat situation where she's both living and dead until you decide what door to walk through. - Manipulates her way into a Mars mission program. - Makes a guy think he is 45 years younger than he actually is. - Pretends she is going to stab two people to force them back in time. - Manipulates a child into participating in his father's research so he can act as a spare if necessary. GATEKEEP: - A psychic who gains near omniscience in some circumstances, but refuses to explain snything unless it suits her plans. - Says ""Only God decides who lives and dies!"" But she kills several people. Perhaps only God and Akane Kurahiki decide who lives and dies. Or maybe they're the same person? - Manipulates a woman into breaking up with a man so she can kidnap him and bring him to the moon. - Refuses to let her boyfriend meet her when it doesn't suit her plans. - Kidnaps two women and puts them into a coma for 45 years. GIRLBOSS: - Very willing to kill to achieve her goals or get revenge. - Queen of random trivia. Will info dump about her interests whenever it suits her (including when she is trapped in a freezer with two people). - If anyone touches a hair on her boyfriend's head she will not hesitate to cut them down with a chainsaw. - Stages not one but two mass kidnappings and killing games (that we know of). - Great at multitasking, she manged to save her own life and dispose of the people who almost killed her at the same time. - Uses her knowledge of the future to manipulate the stock market and become super rich. If that doesn't scream girlboss I don't know what does. - Starts her own organisation to fight cult leaders and save the world. - Has two nemeses, the CEO of a pharmaceutical company, whose life she completely destroys and a >100 year old cult leader. - Co-runs a moonbase where she has command of AIs and robots.

[cockslutpadalecki]

Say You Won’t Let Go

Summary: After a bad experience at a haunted house attraction when you were a kid, you promised never to step foot in one again, but Dean helps you to overcome your fear.

Characters: Dean Winchester x F!Reader.

Words: 1.2K.

Warnings: mostly fluff.

A/N: Written a very long time ago for a Halloween Patron. Thank you to my pre-readers @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons ❤️ While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Please support our content creators by sharing and reblogging our work.

Dean does nothing but complain the entire time you’re standing in the queue waiting to enter the haunted house. “Lame” and “predictable” are his preferred choice of words as he begins to repeat himself once he’s run out of reasons as to why they’re so crap.

You know he’s doing it in part to help calm your unease— after confiding in him that ever since you’ve been scared at one when you were a little girl, you’ve stayed well clear of anything remotely resembling a haunted house at Halloween. You feel ridiculous considering the things he and Sam fight for a living, but he’s never made you feel embarrassed for your childhood fear and instead tries to help you overcome it.

Last year in Beloit failed spectacularly when you were met at the door by a man dressed like Ash from The Evil Dead wielding a chainsaw and the year before that, in Sioux Falls, you hadn’t even made it out of the Impala. Just the sight of the spooky house peering through the fog— which you hoped to god had been intentional— was enough for you to plead with Dean to drive you back to the bunker and let you sit out the rest of the night under a blanket fort with a mountain of candy.

After two failed attempts, you’ve almost lost faith you’ll ever surmount your phobia, but the idea of Dean being there to, in some way, protect you from the phony ghosts and monsters waiting to pop out at you has helped to ease your apprehension. And so far, the scariest thing you’ve come up against are the poor attitudes of the kids standing in the queue behind you.

You can see Dean’s jaw tightening with every passing minute and the interruption of the guy monitoring the door couldn’t have come at a better time: “Hey leather jacket dude! Your turn!”

You step forward with trepidation, and Dean mouths at you to ask if you’re alright. You nod silently, sucking in a deep breath amidst the cotton-wool dry texture your mouth has suddenly formed as you step towards the entrance, mentally trying to prepare yourself for the fright no doubt waiting for you on the other side.

-

Dean’s hand finds yours as soon as you pass over the threshold. It’s almost pitch black inside which almost helps to stifle your fears a little, the darkness swallowing the images of the scariest things your mind can conjure up. Yet at the same time, the darkness isn’t a comfort. Who knows what could be lurking in the shadows ready to snatch you away from Dean’s warm grip?

Your chest starts to slowly constrict and you can feel your fingers slipping from Dean’s as the sweat in your palm makes it hard to keep hold of him. Once you round the first corner, the strobe lighting coming from a doorway off to your left illuminates the hallway just enough to make out the fake cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and the almost juvenile decorations covering the walls. The overwhelming urge to run subsides as you study the place through squinted eyes, the detail in the decorating incredibly lacklustre compared to what you’re used to.

Who decorated this place? A ten year old? Your inner thoughts jibe taking on the sound of Dean’s voice which instantly calms you.

“Well that’s fake,” he mutters, pointing at a severed arm laid out on a surgical table amongst blood-spattered weapons. You glance down and scoff a little— it almost looks like it’s made out of papier-mâché and smothered in corn syrup.

Who made that? A second grader? There it is again. With every passing moment, you head deeper into the house and with your eyes on the cheaply made scares, you start to feel less and less on edge.

Turning the last corner, you know you’re nearly home free when you notice the fire exit sign with its eerie green glow looming in the distance as your gaze is distracted by movement coming from a curtain below and to the left of it. Through the dim light, you can just make out the shape of a person hiding poorly behind it in what you think is a Jason Voorhees mask and as you head closer, you brace yourself for the impending scare.

Any minute now. Any minute now. Any minute now.

Dean’s distracted by a mannequin dressed as a poor imitation of Leatherface, chuckling to himself as ‘Jason’ jumps out with the least convincing yell you’ve ever heard, wielding what looked like a kid’s prop knife. It’s… boring. You actually smile, expecting to hear Dean’s laugh from beside you, but instead he screams at the figure ahead of you and squeezes your fingers so tight, you think he’s going to snap them off.

“Ow Dean!” You chastise sharply, trying to pull your hand from his grip as you stifle a giggle.

“So— sorry,” he mumbles, a hint of humiliation in his tone as he lifts your hand to his mouth and gives your knuckles a gentle kiss. “C’mon, this dump blows. Let’s get outta here,” he adds with a little more bravado.

You nod. “Let’s.”

Dean’s hand holds yours a little tighter than before and by the time you reach the exit, you’ve never felt less scared in your life.

-

The entire ride back to the bunker, you talk animatedly, unable to hide your excitement that you may be on your way to overcoming your phobia. You know it’s premature to assume such things, considering that that particular haunted house wouldn’t have even scared a bunch of kindergarten kids, but you take it as a win nonetheless. You can tell Dean is happy for you, but you know he’s pissed he’s $20 out of pocket for admission, and trying his best to hide the fact he got more scared than you.

“Sorry that was such a bust,” you say softly as Dean pulls up outside the bunker, shifting the Impala into park.

He glances at you with a sincere smile. “Don’t be sorry, I’m just glad it helped.”

“So,” you smirk, “that lame Jason was really something, huh?”

“Yeah, totally,” he shrugs, looking away to concentrate a little too closely on turning off the ignition. “So lame.”

“You scream like a girl.”

Dean snaps his head to glare at you. “I do not.”

“Oh please, you were totally crapping yourself in there.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.” Dean narrows his eyes with a pout and huffs loudly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sam,” you laugh gently, beaming at him.

“You better not, or I’ll hunt you down.”

“Ooh, don’t tease me like that,” you flirt, sliding across the front seat to snuggle up next to Dean. “So, now we’ve done my thing, wanna snuggle up in bed, eat our weight in popcorn and watch some movies?”

“That sounds perfect. Any preferences?”

“I hear My Bloody Valentine is pretty poor, but the lead guy is supposed to be super hot,” you gush.

He pretends to act offended. “Lead guy, huh? Is he hotter than me?”

You lean in with a timid smile and press your lips gently against his. “Nobody’s hotter than you, Dean Winchester.”

[hugsandchaos]

Dinotrux x Murder Drones still has me by the neck, so I want to start a small debate.

Which would win in a fight: A murder drone or a t-trux?

Because a murder drone’s small size combined with their speed could be an advantage, and they have a vast range of weapons. Claws, guns, RPGs, their acid tail, the list goes on! They also regrow and reattach limbs, which we saw in the first episode when N regrew his own head, in episode 3 when he and V put themselves back together, and in the final episode when J and V seemed to regrow their arms and legs in a matter of seconds.

However, their metal might be thinner and more easily bent and broken, not to mention their weight is probably not much compared to a t-trux, which means it wouldn’t take much to knock a murder drone off its feet or crush its insides.

Another thing we need to remember is that the murder drone would be heavily dependent on the weather. If it’s too warm, they might not stand much of a chance. If it’s cold, then they will be able to fight. If it’s a storm, especially a bad blizzard at night, they’d be at their highest advantage point not only because of the low temperatures helping them last longer, but also the harsh winds, snow, and darkness would make it harder for the t-trux to see the murder drone coming.

Remember, Copper 9 was basically in nuclear winter, and murder drones were built to survive the unbelievably intense and inhospitable storms that plagued the planet, and they’re nocturnal, so I’m very sure that storms and darkness aren’t a problem for our murder drone.

Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that they can fly. That’d give them a huge advantage to strike from above.

Going back to speed, the murder drone would have the advantage depending on if they’re flying or not. Walking and running might be too slow to escape a t-trux, but their wings would carry them to speeds above 100, which would definitely make them much faster.

Now let’s move on to the t-trux.

A t-trux’s engine is built for power, and as far as I know, it runs the hottest of all Dinotrux engines. T-trux are able to sniff out ore, which by extent could mean they might be able to smell metal. I know some might disagree with me on this, but in one of the episodes, Ty specified that he was getting a wiff of iron and “the slightest hint of magnesium”, so am I wrong for liking the idea he might be able to smell being made of metal as well if he tried?

Regardless, a t-trux would have the size and possibly strength advantage over a murder drone. Definitely the size, strength is a bit debatable since we don’t know if it’s a murder drone’s weight or strength that keeps them from being carried away by the strong winds of Copper 9. I’m guessing weight, which would make me rethink my previous statement about a murder drone being easily moved by a t-trux.

Moving on, dinotrux seem to have tougher external plating than drones, but I’m not entirely sure we could add “armor” to the list of advantages a t-trux has. N was able to dig his claws into a door that looked just as tough as a dinotrux and force it open. Not only that, but he played with one of his hands a little and spoke without any strain in his voice, suggesting it wasn’t much of a struggle. He also left claw marks in the walls during his attack.

Next, t-trux tails have some sort of weapon at the end. Ty has a wrecking ball, D-Structs had a wrecking mace before he lost that and got a chainsaw tail, and then Skrap-It made him his claw, and D-Stroy… I don’t know what that thing was, but it was spiny and definitely did some damage. So it looks like what kind of tail varies from t-trux to t-trux, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a wrecking ball was common.

However, going back to their size, it could also be a disadvantage because it’d make them a bigger and easier target, and if the murder drone were to escape through a small tunnel, they wouldn’t be able to follow.

What do you guys think?

[kirlias452]

Is it alright if you could write about Poly dark purveyors when their s/o is sick/dismembered?

THIS TOOK ME SO LONG AAAAAAA HOPE YOU LIKE ITTTT

Note: Reader is G/N and is a rock opera purveyor with their weapon being a violin scythe.

🎶 You were a rock opera purveyor (a representation of Swan’s resentment towards everything). You fought with the other purveyors and made it harder for Juliet to stop Swan’s plans. It was a tag team effort in both stalling her and trying to take her down.

🎶 After Defeating Lewis Legend, Juliet— now face-to-face with you was ready to stop Swan’s plan. On one hand— you didn’t want to hurt her too bad, but on the other, she killed your dear friends. Juliet had to suffer for that. You readied your violin weapon with Juliet prepared to take down the very last purveyor — You.

🎶 After dodging the swings of your scythe, Juliet saw an opening and struck your shoulder blade with her chainsaw. That male head on her hip shouted in surprise as your now detached arm launched at Juliet and began to scratch at her.

🎶 You gave her a twisted smile and you held onto your scythe with a hard grip. The detached head on Juliet’s hip made a comment about how she had to avoid the severed moving limb along with your scythe attacks. Juliet chimed in; saying how gross it was with how it moved.

🎶 You tried to get another strong swing at her but she quickly dodged it and went for your remaining shoulder blade, cutting it clean off and dropping your scythe.

🎶This in response made you scream in anger at the cheerleader, not only for the loss of your buddies, but also your arms.

🎶You yelled and cursed at her with all your might as your arms began attacking Juliet. You felt your arms grow back as you went and snatched your scythe up.

🎶You stated to the cheerleader that you would finish her off and complete the ritual to summon Killabilly. The smile you gave her was wide and bearing sharp teeth, as you got into your fighting stance.

🎶 Juliet had dodged your strongest scythe attack once more as she summersaulted in the air and pierced her chainsaw through your torso and moving it upwards. Your upper body was cut in halve.

🎶 You gave her a cold remark on how she had succeeded in completing the ritual, now that you had fulfilled your role in it. You fell to your knees as large amounts of blood pooled from below your opened wound. You let out a mocking giggle as Juliet ran towards you with a grimace and swung her weapon down hard on you.

🎶 You woke up back in Rotten World after Juliet had taken you out. It was infuriating how you have to see your darlings also get taken out by that girl with her talking head buddy.

🎶You looked to see Killabilly back on his throne, looking worse for wear. ‘The King of zombies… failed?’ You thought to yourself in disbelief as you looked around for you and your friend’s hideout. You haven’t noticed that your body was still in pieces thanks to Juliet.

🎶You huffed in annoyance and you manoeuvred one of your limbs near your severed head so you could rest on it.

🎶 After a few minutes of taking a nap, you felt someone pick your head up, this caused your eyes to shoot open as you looked at the person holding your severed head; it was Zed, one of your darlings.

🎶 He held you by the sides of your head and let out a slightly drawn-out ‘fuck me’ in a hushed tone as he inspected your other body parts. The others looked at your dismembered body in both shock and slight concern. Juliet gave you the worst out of the others.

🎶 “Dang babe,—“ Josey picked your left arm up, “That cheerleader girl messed you up real good.” He looked over the arm, seeing if it was damaged. Luckily it wasn’t, but still.

🎶 “Aye, y’ got closer than any of us to beating that bitch, that’s f’ sure!” Vikkie boasted with a small chuckle he grabbed your torso

🎶 “It’s not every day that some dude gets to be the last to summon the big guy, man.” Mariska pointed out as she pulled out a needle and thread.

🎶 Lewis had to put your body parts in the right places, giving you a slight glance before looking at Mariska. “Gotta hand it to ‘em; Sunshine over here put up a good fight.” Their compliments at least made you feel happy wile the zombie hippie stitched your limbs back together.

🎶 Once you got your body back together, you immediately thanked them for their effort and kindness. It’s not the first time you had to be stitched back together.

🎶 Vikkie went up to you and gave you a bear hug,

“My little ástvinur is all good now!” He let out a hearty laugh, giving you a kiss on the cheek for good measure.

🎶 Letting you go, you went to the others and gave them a warm smile and held you arms out to the others, lightly blushing.

“I’m so glad to have such lovers like you.”

🎶 Zed chuckled, rubbing the back of his head,

“C’mon bud, don’t get all soft on us now, you’re gonna make my heart start beating.”

🎶 You giggled at the punk zombies statement, giving him a light peck on the cheek.

[reputationmunson]

Lavender Wishes | Robin Buckley x reader

summary: your first sleep over with your girlfriend, robin <3

content: fluff, mentions of eating, swearing, brief mention of the upside down, no pronouns directed towards reader, no use of y/n, pet names

word count: [1.5k]

“Oh, I want m&ms too! And don’t forget the popcorn!”

“It’s gonna be hard to forget anything, robs, since you want the whole store” you joke as she rambles over the phone about all the snacks she wants.

“Not the whole store. Maybe half”

“Alright, but you’re gonna owe me a lot of kisses tonight” you bargain, knowing she’s already planning on doing that.

“Yeah, I can do that. Now hurry up and get to the store so I can hold up my end of the deal soon”

You say your goodbyes and hang up the phone and quickly head to the store. Tonight was the first night you’re staying with Robin since you started dating. The relationship was fairly new, but it’s felt like you’ve been together for years. Everything felt so natural with her and you weren’t even nervous about tonight.

Okay… the nervous part was kind of a lie. Of course Robin makes you feel comfortable, but anyone would feel at least a little bit nervous about staying the night with their partner for the first time.

-

After a trip to the supermarket and way too many snacks for one night, you finally arrive at Robin’s house.

You take a minute and give yourself a pep talk before walking up and knocking on her door.

“Oh my god, it’s about time! I almost died of boredom” Robin throws her arms around you and you try to hug her back as best as you can with your hands full.

She grabs some of the bags and drags you into the house, leading you into the kitchen to put all the snacks on the counter.

“I’ve been here for three whole minutes and still haven’t gotten a kiss. What are you gonna do about that, Buckley”

She smirks at you and cradles your face in her hands before leaning into you. You can’t help the smile that forms on your face and the giggle that escapes you as she kisses your lips.

“I’ve been waiting on that all day and now you’re laughing at me?” she says with the biggest smile on her face "Don't make me revoke your all access pass to these” she points to her lips and makes you laugh even harder. She’s 110% joking and you know that because she always claims that she’d probably die if she never got to kiss you again.

“Lemme make it up to you”

Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass as you kiss her in the kitchen, barely coming up for air unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“Wow. Now I know what that song by Berlin was talking about” She says when she pulls away from you and you look at her, puzzled.

“That one song from Top Gun. Take my breath away” She clarifies and you chuckle.

“You’re so cheesy. Also, remind Harrington he’s not allowed to pick that movie again next time for movie night”

“But that would break his heart… so yeah I’ll do it and speaking of movies, I got about a thousand of them so go pick one out and I’ll make the popcorn.” she gives you a peck and you head to the living room.

Robin really wasn’t kidding about her getting a thousand movies because there’s a stack of them about a mile high on the coffee table. You decide to go with a horror, knowing she’ll have to cuddle up to you for protection.

Your girlfriend has fought against monsters from a weird, alternate dimension, but she draws the line at a guy with chainsaw.

“What are we watchin’ first?” She asks with a big bowl of popcorn and your favorite candy in her hands.

“Texas chainsaw!” you answer, excitedly and she groans. “I knew you’d do this to me. Next time I’m only getting movies that I like and don’t give me nightmares”

“Didn’t you fight evil Russians and that mind slayer thing?”

“Mind flayer and I’d take either of those things over some weirdo who harvests peoples skin”

“Pleeeeaasse, baby, for me?” you give her your best pout and puppy dog eyes and she gives in within two seconds. “Fine, but don’t expect that to work every time” she points her finger at you. “you know you can never say no to me” she doesn’t deny it.

_

It’s not even ten minutes into the movie before Robin is laying on top of you with her face hidden in your neck. Your hand rests on top of her head and you play with her hair to comfort her.

“Do you want me to change the movie, robs?”

“No, ‘cause then you’d have to get up” she whines and you huff out a laugh. “I have to get up anyway because I have to pee”

She looks up at you and furrows her brow. “And leave me alone? I told you not to drink your soda that fast!”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll pause the movie and the door is locked.”

“A locked door isn’t going to stop a chainsaw! They are literally made to chop wood and take a wild guess what my front door is made of!”

God, you love her so much. You know it’s crazy to even think that this early into the relationship, but you were friends long before you started dating. Plus, it’s Robin. You’d be crazy not to be in love with her.

When she finally gets up to let you move, she dramatically throws herself back on the couch with a loud huff. You lovingly roll your eyes and pause the movie before going to the bathroom.

“When you’re done can you bring me some more candy?” she yells and you already know she’s going to be like a toddler on a sugar high.

You come back to the living room with m&ms in hand and Robin is pretending to be dead on the couch. “Oh no, she’s dead! Guess I have to eat these m&m’s all by myself”

She opens one eye to look at you “False alarm, I guess. Don’t worry I’ll help you eat those”

You toss the m&ms at her and go to change the movie. “Actually, I’m kinda tired. Wanna go to bed?’’ she suggests. “Robin, it’s 9 p.m.” you deadpan.

“Okay, bedtime police. I wanna change into pjs and cuddle in my bed”

“Fine, but only if you bring the candy with you”

She jumps up, grabs the candy and practically sprints towards her bedroom. You grab your bag and get ready for bed in the bathroom.

When you enter Robin’s room, she’s changed into only a sports bra and sweats. Your gaze can’t help but linger.

“Wow, perv! You’re just as bad as Steve” she jokes and you get into bed to snuggle up to her.

“I can’t help it. They’re hypnotizing” you say, referring to her boobs and she snorts.

“So, I was, um, thinking about how it’s only friday and we both have the weekend off, so maybe you could stay tomorrow night too? Of course, you don’t have to or anything I just thought that it might be-”

“I’d love to stay all weekend and conveniently enough, I brought plenty of clothes for the whole weekend” you say before she finishes her sentence.

“I knew you would. just can’t get enough of me”

you start to drift asleep as she rubs your back, but all of the sudden she gets a burst of energy.

“babe, i had too much sugar. Let’s do something fun!”

“I had a feeling this would happen. Alright, what do ya wanna do?”

“Let me paint your nails! I promise I won’t mess it up this time ”

Every time you’ve let Robin paint your nails, she’s made an absolute mess. There was one time she spilled a bottle on the carpet because she was flailing her arms around while telling a story.

“Okay, I’m in. show me what ya got”

Robin displays ten different nail polish colors and goes into detail about what she likes about each one. it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

“And this one I think would really make your eyes pop. you always look so good in this color”

“What’s the name of the color?”

“Lavender wishes. Cute, right?”

“Adorable” you hold your hand out to her and she starts her masterpiece. Her concentrated face is so fucking cute you can’t help smiling. Usually, Robin is such a chatterbox, but she’s too focused on doing this perfectly that she hasn’t said a word.

“All done. Do you like it?” she asks when she finishes

“I love it. Thank you, baby”

Robin gently blows on your fingertips until they are dry. When she’s done, she kisses both of your hands and helps you up off of the floor.

“That was some tedious work. Wanna go to sleep?” she asks and you nod. You wrap your arms around each other and tangle yourselves together under the blanket.

Both of you end up staying awake until the hours of the night when it feels like the rest of the world is asleep. You talk about anything, nothing, and everything in between.

It’s the best Friday night you’ve ever had.