#trails of cold steel 2 spoilers

[trailsofmemes]

[ship-garbage-pile]

Return on that 50 Mira investment, Crow!

Music: Duran Duran- INVISIBLE

[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!!

[blooming-violets]

CREATURE LIKE ME || CHAPTER FIVE (part two): HELL

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Story Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.

Chapter Five p.2 Warnings (spoilers): this chapter is dark, serious depictions of torture (breaking bones, loss of finger nails, tooth extraction, use of whips, being held by chains) with lotta blood/gore mentioned, alluded reference to SA, emotional manipulation with gaslighting

Note: "anne" is Turkish for "mom/mother'',

This is the second half to chapter five. I decided to split it in half so it wasn't super long. Happy reading<3

[link to chapter index]

Clinking chains rattled in her ears. 

The sound swayed gently back and forth above her head. 

There was a tight, aching pain in her shoulders which throbbed with each slow beat of her heart. 

A quiet moan whimpered from her chapping lips. 

Her feet were dangling on unsteady ground. Her toes were just barely scraping the surface as she tried to keep her body from the constant sway. 

She felt like she was bobbing along the gentle waves of the ocean. 

Lost at sea. 

She had been dreaming of her mother. 

“Ah, welcome back, Aylin.” 

She knew that voice.  

She forced the sandbags from her lids as she struggled to open bleary eyes. 

“Mom…anne…”

Her words sounded foreign in her ears. Scratchy. Deep. Like they came from somewhere other than her own lips. 

A wavering face of a beautiful woman appeared in front of her. 

Her jawline could cut through steel. Soft, full lips that were stained with a juicy red which shimmered under the dull overhead light. 

Aylin focused in on the color as a drop of crimson trailed down the woman’s chin. 

“I’m not your mother, little one. Though I could be with the right persuasion.”

Calypso dabbed at the drop of red with her finger, sucking it into her mouth, and pulling it back out, clean, with a pop. She threw back her head and let out a laugh that echoed off the stone walls. 

Aylin flinched away from the venomous sound as it pierced her ears.

Panic started to overtake her senses the more they awoke. 

She was dangling upright with her arms outstretched above her head. Heavy, rusted cuffs locked her wrists in place with a chain descending from a thick, wooden beam of the ceiling. The tips of her bare feet just brushed against the cold, concrete floor. She was stripped of her clothes apart from her dark sports bra and matching underwear. A shiver wracked through her scantily clad body. 

“No!” Her panic seized in her throat, forcing her to shun away the grogginess grabbing hold of her mind, and flood her with horror. 

They were going to hurt her. 

She was in danger.

“Mom!” She screamed out, her shrill voice echoing off the walls, her desperation evident in her pleading tone. “Help me! Anne! Help me! Someone help me!” 

She thrashed at the chains holding her, her careful balance losing grip, as she spun around like a fish dangling from a line. Tears burned behind her eyes and spilled down her heated cheeks. 

She was scared.

Terrified. 

Left feeling like a little girl shrinking into her covers at the shadows dancing in the corner of her dark bedroom. 

The terror of the unknown was taking hold of her quickly draining sanity. 

“What are you doing? Where are my clothes?” Aylin cried. “This isn’t right! Let me go!” 

Sergei and Calypso both stood side by side against a large table opposite her. They watched her futile attempts with stone cold expressions. 

Finally, Sergei rolled his eyes, and stepped forward to halt her growing madness. He placed a large hand over her bound wrists to stop her spinning out of control. He held her steady with an exasperated sigh. 

“Enough.” His stern voice cut through her panic and made her hold her tongue from further outbursts. 

Her lip quivered in response, biting back another whimper. Her eyes darted around the room in a desperate attempt to take stock of everything she could see. 

Calypso was lounging against a large table behind Sergei’s back. She still donned her skimpy robe which did nothing to cover her body. It hung open to expose her large breasts and red, laced panties. She had never been one for modesty and used her beauty as a tool to command the room. Here, she was using it to keep the other woman in a constant state of unease. Aylin caught a glimpse of ominous looking tools scattered across the table’s surface behind the deadly woman. Nothing good could come from those. 

Her eyes sought out the wood burning stove glowing orange with dancing light against the back wall. It cast a wave of oppressive heat over everything it could reach. The chill of fear Aylin had felt upon waking was replaced with beads of sweat glistening over her bare skin. The glow from the fire was the only other light source besides a single, dull bulb dangling from the ceiling. 

The floor under her scraping toes was stained dark. Horrifying splattered stains trailed down to an old grate in the middle of the floor. Old blood stains. The implications of what she was looking at, and where she was placed, made bile rise in the back of her throat. 

This was a torture chamber. 

Hidden underground.

Away from the guild’s prying eyes. 

She had no doubt her screams would be muffled by the earth surrounding them. 

She had lived here her entire life and never once heard the cries of those who’d been unlucky enough to pay a visit down to the depths of this hell. 

No one knew where she was. 

No one would hear her. 

She was alone with two sadists. Two people who she once admired and wanted to be like. Two people who she used to trust with her life. Two people who had worn their masks so well, she never dared to look further. 

She could see them clearly now. 

They wore no masks down here. 

All she had was herself. 

A rustling noise over her shoulder grabbed her attention and she quickly craned her neck back to see a familiar, silver lined cage pushed into the far corner of the basement. 

Aylin’s heart leaped in shock.

The girl from the ceremony. 

She lay, curled into herself, at the bottom of the cage. Her naked body was caked with dried blood. Her hair was greased back from her dirt covered forehead. She had a fresh, openly bleeding wound leaking from her wrist onto the filthy concrete bottom of her cage. Her dull eyes rolled back in their bruised sockets as her head lulled against an outstretched arm. 

She was still alive. 

Barely. 

But she was breathing. 

They hadn’t finished her off the night Aylin ran. 

Though, a part of her wished that they had. The miserable, young girl looked to be in terrible shape. She might have been better off dead than trapped here. Aylin should have just killed her. Put her out of her misery. Now look at where she was. Right back where she probably started, trapped in a torture champer, covered in her own filth. 

Sergei hummed with approval as he allowed Aylin to quietly observe her surroundings. The sound drew her attention back to the man towering before her. A brushing of red stained his lips much like his wife’s. Aylin glanced back at the fresh cut on the wolf girl’s wrist. It was thin and precise. The curved dagger hanging at Sergei’s side was tipped with the same colored crimson.

Wait. 

No. They weren’t. They couldn’t be. That would go against every word they ever preached. It was impossible. It was…absolutely what they were doing. 

That was the wolf girl’s blood on their lips. 

They had been drinking her blood. 

Lycan blood. 

Aylin couldn’t recognize him anymore. He was no longer her revered guild leader but a stranger masking dark secrets. Secrets her dazed mind couldn’t even begin to unravel or comprehend. She couldn’t remember what made someone a Lycan. There was definitely some lengthy process that merged human cells with that of the wolf. But, blood drinking…that was…she didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know what it meant. Her body ached and her brain was in desperate need of a long sleep. Whatever they were doing, it couldn’t be good. 

He was no longer Sergei Kravinoff in her eyes but had made his final morph into Kraven the Hunter. This was her enemy. 

The caged girl let out a soft moan of pain. The sound of her rustling against the bottom of the cage filled the room as she tried to curl tighter into herself. 

“She’s not dead,” Aylin croaked out. “You kept her.”

“Surprised? We had a deal, don’t you remember?” He released his hand from her wrists and watched as she desperately tried to find purchase on her tiptoes to stop from swaying. He leered down at her like a puppet master pulling the strings of his doll. “You were supposed to bring me a heart. I sent you on a mission like I do with all new hunters. Go out, away from the safety of your party, and take out a single wolf all on your own. Return with their heart as proof of your kill and be welcomed with open arms into the big leagues. An honor among the Silver Colts. A tradition as old as time. Should be simple for someone who has trained their entire life with us, should it not? I sent you out with the highest of expectations. I even gave you additional orders to bring back important information on the pack. Anything of value we could use. You claim to have killed two wolves yet returned, a day late, with nothing to show. No information about the pack. No heart. Empty handed with nothing but a story.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Samuel’s daughter would never dare weave an elaborate tale to her leader. I helped train you. I’ve been on hunts with you. I’ve seen what you can do. I know that you can kill. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I wanted to believe your story, Aylin. I really did. And I do think that there’s a truth to it. I think you really did kill a few wolves that night but, I think, you’re forgetting something…important. Is there some little detail you might have forgotten about? Anything you might want to share with us?”

She adamantly shook her head, keeping her jaw locked tight, and pleading at him with her eyes. 

Kraven took a thick finger and traced it down her jawline until it landed under her rounded chin. He lifted her face up to his to study her imploring expression. 

“Such a beautiful girl,” he mused as the pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “You look just like your mother. There’s hardly a trace of Samuel in your features but I see his spirit in your soul. That fire burning behind your eyes. That hatred flowing through your veins that’s aimed in my direction. That, right there, is Sam. You’re the daughter of one of the best hunters this guild has ever seen. Apart from me, of course.” He smirked down at her. “You have talent. Purpose. Your future shines so bright here. So, what I can not seem to understand is why you refused to kill that pathetic creature-” his head jerked over her shoulder to the girl in the cage “-in front of everyone. I was giving you an out. A way to prove yourself to everyone. You fumbled the mission but I gave you everything you needed at that ceremony.” His voice was starting to rise as his temper grew. “I was handing you your new position in this guild on a silver platter! Why didn’t you follow through? What the fuck happened in that camp? What did you see out there, Aylin?! What changed you? Tell us!” 

His hand tightened painfully at her jaw and she flinched as specs of spit flew from his lips to hit her face. 

“Nothing!” She tried to advocate for herself by making her voice sound steady but it only came out as a wailing cry. “I swear, Sergei! I would never lie to you. I just got ambushed. I was overwhelmed. I was in the process of extracting that wolf’s heart when the whole pack showed up. I had to run or else I would have been ripped apart. I’m so sorry.” 

He gave her a smile though there was nothing warm behind it, “Oh, see, I believe that part. I believe you were ambushed. But none of that would explain why you refused my command in front of my guild during your ceremony. It was so easy, Aylin. Your future was right there. All it took was gutting that whore and giving me what I wanted. Any hunter should have been able to accomplish that! Even the new trainees who haven’t yet seen their first werewolf could have done it! If this was last week, you would have ripped her heart from her chest without a second thought. Something happened the night I sent you out to that camp. Something changed. I want to know what it was.” 

She swallowed. 

She didn’t know what to tell him. 

She had no answers for him. Any hint of the truth would be treason. Truth or lie, she was still the one chained up and begging for her life. She would be tortured either way. She’d be punished regardless of what she said. The only difference that would be made was Peter’s freedom. If she held her tongue, he could escape with his life. If she told the truth, he would be hunted down. 

But isn’t death what he wanted? Isn’t that what he had been begging her for all this time?

But it wasn’t what she wanted. 

And, right now, she was the one hanging from the chains. Not him. She was the one who still held the power over his life. If he was going to die, it would be at her hands. No one else was allowed to touch him. 

“I-” her words floundered. “Nothing…nothing happened…I just…wasn’t feeling well…” 

“Bullshit,” he spat back at her. 

Peter would live. She had made up her mind. She didn’t give a shit what he wanted. He was going to live whether he liked it or not. She refused to get tortured for someone who was just going to die anyway. No. He was going to stay alive as payment for whatever she was about to endure. That was the least he could do. 

Her jaw tightened with determination. They could do anything they wanted to her. She wouldn’t let her secrets fall. 

Calypso must have noted her change in attitude because she turned around to carefully examine each tool thrown onto the table before her. She appeared at her husband’s side with a pair of heavy, thick pliers and a daunting smile plastered to her lips. 

For a brief moment, as Aylin’s eyes landed on the tool, her resolve faltered. Fear flooded her veins. This was going to happen. This wasn’t a dream. This was real.

“I can get her to talk,” Calypso mewled in Kraven’s ear. “Let me give it a try. I’ll get whatever you need out of her.”

His eyes glanced from Aylin, down to the pliers in his wife’s hand, and he took a step back, crossing his arms, “Well? What do you say, kid? You can let us in on whatever it is you’re hiding or I can leave you alone with Cal for a bit. Hmm? Now is your chance. Forgiveness is still on the table. I just want the truth.” 

Aylin gave a soft, defeated sigh. She wasn’t going to talk. Whatever would happen, would happen. She gave up her control and resigned to her fate.

A look of genuine disappointment flashed across his face, “That’s a shame. I had such high hopes for you. You’re just like your father. Another failure. Another disappointment.” 

She didn’t understand what he meant. Her father had always loved him like a brother. They were best friends. Since when did he ever look at Kraven with hatred? He loved him. Just like she had loved him. Something wasn’t adding up in the story she was told. The webbed lie of her entire life went deeper than she could have ever imagined. 

“We can still fix you, Aylin. You just need a little rehabilitation to get you back on the right track. Don’t worry. You’ll fall in line soon enough.” 

Without another word, he turned with a stiff back and walked up the wooden stairs. The sound of grinding gears followed as the bookcase locked itself back into place.  

A silence fell over the room. 

The rickety breaths of the young wolf girl were all that filled her ears as she stared down Calypso. 

“Why do you still have her?” Aylin asked, hoping to potentially derail whatever horrors were going through Calypso’s mind. “She’s practically dead already. What more purpose could she have?” 

A pointy toothed grin flashed before her eyes. 

“She was your gift. A peace offering from Kraven, the mighty hunter, to his favorite protégé. A gift you threw back in his face.” She trailed the cold tip of the pliers down the inside of Aylin’s arm and over her armpit, enjoying the sight of the chained woman squirming beneath her. “Ticklish?” 

Aylin responded with a grunt and narrowed her eyes, “I thought we’re supposed to kill wolves. Not torture them. Why is she still here?” 

Calypso raised her thick, curved brows, “Because of you. You were supposed to be the one to kill her. Or did you already forget why you’re hanging by your wrists?” 

“I thought someone else had done it when I left,” she squeaked out. Shame washed over her. Whatever happened to that girl now was her fault. 

“We let whoever stuck around after you ran have their fun with her, don’t you worry, but her heart is yours. So, until you take it, she will be stuck down here…rotting. Waiting. Wishing for her demise.”

It was like Calypso could feel the guilt drowning Aylin because she flashed her a giddy smile. She dragged the pliers slowly down her bare side and over her hip, toying with her, drinking in her remorse. 

“That bitch has been here a long time, though. Long before she was meant for you. She’s served her purpose. We drained her of everything she could give. Her last hurrah, her final offer to the guild, was all for you. And you blew it. Want to tell me why? I’m starting to feel a little pinchy,” she clicked the pliers in front of Aylin’s face. 

With a heavy sigh, Alyin let head dip, “I told you. I wasn’t feeling well. I had to run home.” 

Home. The thoughts of her mother filled her vision. Nesrin had no idea where her daughter was. She hated whenever Aylin would disappear. She’d be putting on a fake smile and going about her day but her worry would be consuming her every fiber of being. This guild was never a place she belonged. She was weaker than the rest. She wouldn’t survive losing another child. 

Aylin should have been more thoughtful. She should have gotten her mother out before she escaped back to Peter. Her family should have been her first priority. Nesrin was her only flesh and blood she had left in this world. She shuddered to think what Kraven would do to her mother if Aylin didn’t cooperate. It was no longer just her or Peter’s life on the line. 

“And we already told you,” Calypso’s sultry voice cut through her building sorrows, “we don’t believe you. You’re a terrible liar. You and your gas station boyfriend. Peter, was his name? We watched you grow up. We know you better than anyone. You would never speak to an outsider, let alone, invite them on a camping trip. No, no. I think you did something stupid. Reckless.” Her eyes widened with a smile. “I think you took something or found something…or someone…you weren’t supposed to. I think you stumbled on more than you’re giving us. It wasn’t your fault.  You couldn’t have known what we were sending you into. We haven’t been entirely honest with you much like you haven’t been with us. It’s our fault for assuming that you’d be loyal to your family, to the people who raised you and loved you, and that you’d come back with important knowledge that Sergei’s been seeking. Your solo hunt was meant to be more than just another initiation. You were meant to become something great. You were meant to give your leader important information he’s been so desperately trying to find. He knew that pack was harboring secrets, he just needed confirmation from you to tell him what they were. Or, rather, who they were.”

Aylin’s breath caught in her throat. 

They knew so much more than they let on. 

The glint shining in Cal’s dark eyes told her everything she needed to know. 

“Ah,” Calypso remarked. “So he was right. He had a hunch that a certain wolf was being given refuge in that pack. Sergei believed they were keeping him hidden, safe from our prying eyes. It’s unusual for a wolf to split from one pack to another but I wouldn’t put it past that conniving bastard.” 

Refuge? Safe?

Maybe they didn’t know as much as they seemed. She had to be careful with every word she chose to speak down here. 

“Tell me, Linny, did you find what Serg wanted? He wanted intel. He wanted someone he’s been hunting for a long time. Were his sources correct? Did you find someone special at that camp?” 

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know who you’re looking for. The entire pack showed up in wolf form. I have no idea who they were. I didn’t stop to ask for their names when they were lunging at me. They could have been anyone. All I know is that I killed Serena…Selena…Sierra…whatever her name was, who was my initial target, and then another white wolf. If the person you’re looking for was a white wolf then they’re dead. If they’re not then I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“And, yet, somehow Sergei just so happened to overhear you mentioning a Peter. Do you know who Peter is? Peter Parker,” she spat at the name. “The only wolf to ever outsmart my husband. The only one to ever escape his grasp. He’s been hunting him for years now. It’s his little obsession. His white whale, if you will. He wants that creature's head mounted on his wall. Human or wolf, it doesn’t matter to him. A trophy is a trophy, after all.”

“Peter is a very common name,” Aylin covered. “There are probably so many Peter’s living in New York right this very second. Why the hell would you think I knew anything about that specific one? I told you where the Peter I met is from. I don’t know his last name. It wasn’t on his name tag and I never cared enough to ask. Go take a drive. Check out that gas station. He’ll probably be standing behind the counter, bored out of his mind, and definitely not turning into a werewolf. The dude just wants to ring up your lotto tickets and Slim Jims and get on with his life. And, if, on the very rare chance that he is that same Peter you’re looking for then, by all means, kill him. I literally do not care.”

She sounded so convincing that even she almost believed what she was saying. It would be a shame if anyone did actually go check out the gas station as the chances of a young guy named Peter working there, at this exact moment, were fairly slim. 

Calypso clucked her tongue to the roof of her mouth in annoyance. Her jaw ground back and forth as she mulled it over. 

“You’re still lying. You went to that camp as a killer and came back as a newly found pacifist.”

“I’m not a pacif-”

“Shut up. You’re hiding something.” She lifted the pliers to Aylin’s eye level. “You’re going to give me an exact play by play of your every move, every little detail, of your solo hunt. The second you leave anything out, or the moment you don’t give enough substance to your story, I’m going to use these. There’s so many fun things one can do with a pair of nice, sturdy pliers. Do you want to hear a few spoilers? First, I’ll use it to break your delicate, little pinky finger. A fun and exciting start to get your heart pumping. Then, we can move on to your nails. Ever had each individual nail ripped from its bed? Painful. Not deadly but just painful enough to get you squirming. Or, we could skip right over that, and go straight for your teeth! That would be fun! It’s not like you ever smile anyway. Your permanent scowl won’t miss a couple of teeth. After that we can go back to breaking some more appendages. There are ten fingers and ten toes, afterall. We have a lot to work with. Or we could skip to another tool to spice things up if it starts getting too repetitive. I am quite fond of a whip. If you’re good, I’ll even let you decide your fate. Don’t worry, kid, we’re going to get you set back onto the right path in no time.” 

Aylin refrained from showing any emotion despite the tears desperately wanting to form. Her shoulders were already switching from a dull ache to outright screaming in protest from holding most of her body weight. She closed her eyes in an attempt to help her mind dissociate. Before she could let it wander anywhere, they snapped back open when she felt Calypso’s hair tickling her cheek. The woman had pushed her way against Aylin’s side, snuggling her face against her neck like a lover going in for a kiss. She brought her lips to brush over the other’s carotid artery, letting her nails trail up her spine until they tangled in Aylin’s long hair, painfully jerking her head back with a crack. She whispered against her, her breath heating up her skin, and sending a flutter of shivers through her stomach. 

“I can hear your pulse. Feel it, quivering, under your skin. It’s a faint sound but I can make it out,” Calypso let out a soft moan as if the sound was turning her on, flicking out her tongue to trace over Aylin’s pulse point. “It’s delicious. I can hear so much now. Every little flutter of your heart. I can smell your fear radiating off your body. You’re scared. You should be. I can tell when people are lying to me. I can make you talk. Only the dead can hold secrets.” 

She placed a soft kiss against Aylin’s neck.  “Now it’s your turn to shine, little hunter. Tell me exactly what you did the day you stepped foot into that camp.”

She wished she wasn’t screaming. She wished she was strong enough to swallow the sound entirely. She wished she wasn’t giving Calypso the satisfaction of hearing her pain. 

But it was too much. 

This witch of a woman was true to her word. 

If Aylin dared to even pause in her rendition of her solo hunt, she was met with swift punishment. Three of the nails on her right hand were now scattered on the floor at her feet and her pinky and ring finger were snapped into an unnatural shape, bent at the knuckles, each pointing in two different directions. Her hands had gone completely numb apart from a dull, throbbing burn. It was probably a mixture of the torture being inflicted on them and fact that her blood was struggling to make the climb upward as they hung above her head. 

She’d hadn’t even reached the part where she killed Sierra yet and she hadn’t even had a chance to lie either. Every punishment was simply because she tried to take a breath between words. 

Calypso was diligent. When she said she wanted every single detail, she meant it. Every thought that Aylin had in the moment, every sight, every smell, every damn step she took, she was meant to recall with perfect accuracy. 

“And then what happened? Tell me the entire phone conversation you overheard.” 

Aylin was hiding outside of the main lodge under the open window to the kitchen. The rain had soaked through her hair and was cold against her scalp. It obscured her vision as the drops clung to her lashes. Sierra was inside cooking. Chicken. For Peter. She was talking on the phone to someone about Kateri and the way she was keeping Peter. She hadn’t liked the way he was being held. He was in terrible condition. His body was starting to fail. She was trying to feed him despite whatever Kateri had told her. That’s why she was cooking. Not for herself but for their prisoner. 

Because she wasn’t a terrible person. 

Aylin couldn’t tell any of that to Calypso. Anything with Peter had to be subtracted from the equation. 

A quick, biting slap to her face shot her head sideways. Tears blurred in her eyes but she managed to keep them from falling.

“You do not pause,” Calypso shouted at her. “When I ask you a question, you answer without hesitation!” 

“I was trying to remember…” 

She had been using that excuse the last few times without success. The state of her hands should be enough to determine that “remembering” something was not allowed. She was supposed to speak without thinking. The truth was harder to fabricate when you had no time to ponder.

“Sierra was inside,” she blubbered back through trapped tears. “She was on the phone in the kitchen. Cooking chicken. I could smell it. I don’t know who she was speaking to but she was gossiping about a woman named Kateri. Sometimes she called her Kat. I could gather from the way she spoke that Kat was their leader.” 

“And what exactly were they saying about her?”

“I don’t know!” Aylin cried. “I don’t remember every word! I think she said that Kat was a bad leader. She said she disagreed with the way she was running things. She didn’t like how she had been acting. It sounded like Kat was a bit of an asshole and Sierra was fed up with it. I could only hear one side of the conversation. I don’t know what the other person was saying. It was a short conversation. I only caught the end of it. Then she hung up, grabbed her stuff, and she went outside. That was when I followed her. I-”

Calypso caught Aylin’s jaw in her tight grasp and forced her head to look up at her. Her eyes were flashing with an accusatory distrust, “What did she do with the chicken?”

Aylin blinked, “I…I don’t know…she brought it with her, I think. I didn’t look through the window for fear of being spotted.” 

Dark eyes narrowed down at her, “She left the comfort of a warm kitchen with a dining area to do what exactly? Walk through the pouring rain with a plate of freshly cooked chicken? To go where and do what with it? Why would she leave the lodge at all after preparing a meal she’d been making? Why wouldn’t she sit down and start eating it herself? You said it was pouring rain. Why would she leave a warm kitchen? Was she taking it to someone? You said the camp was empty apart from her.” 

Fuck. Leaving Peter out of the narrative was creating holes in the story. 

Her pause was all it took to be labeled guilty. 

A precarious smile spread across Calypso’s lips. A look of glee settled onto her sharp features. Her long, pointed nails raked into skin as she clamped down harder on the other’s jaw. She had caught Aylin in her first lie. 

“Ah, do you hear that?” She teased. There was a sing-song undertone to her voice like she couldn’t be more pleased to catch her prey in her web. “That would be the flutter of your heart. The skip and the beat of someone panicking. It seems someone isn’t telling the whole truth. That’s very interesting. What could you possibly be hiding? Hmm?” 

Aylin tried to shake her head from Calypso’s grasp, her eyes wide with fear, “No! It’s not a lie! She was probably bringing it to her cabin! I killed her before she got to her destination! I never got a chance to see where she was going! I-” 

The pliers were against her lips before she could pull away. Her jaw was being crushed under Calypso’s tight grasp, bruising her skin, as her nails cut into Aylin’s flesh, drawing up beads of blood, to pry her mouth open. She was unnaturally strong as she forced open the young woman’s jaw as she desperately tried to thrash out of her hold.

“I told you what would happen if you lied,” Calypso grunted, her breath rapid with building adrenaline and excitement. Her eyes were flashing with elation as if she was getting high off the torture. “I laid it all out for you. I told you exactly what would happen. This is entirely your fault. Not mine. All you had to do was not lie. It was so easy, you silly girl.” A haughty laugh bubbled out her throat. “Now, which precious tooth should we grab to add my collection of trinkets? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…” 

Alyin kicked out her legs, feeling the sole of her foot connect with Calypso's shin, but the woman didn’t budge. She kicked and thrashed her body around, the sound of the chains violently rattling above her, with no success. Aylin was the weaker of the two. She couldn’t win this battle. She let out a strangled cry as the cold plier gripped onto one of her back, top molars. A tightness enveloped the tooth. She could feel the ridges of metal digging into her gums. Her eyes widened with horror and she struggled her body as hard as she could against her captor. 

But Calypso was stronger. 

With a sickening crack and an inhuman strength, a blinding pain scorched through Aylin’s every cell, as a piercing scream ripped from her throat. Roots were ripped straight from her socket in one fluid motion like her tooth didn’t give any resistance to Calypso's physical prowess. Thick, warm blood flooded her mouth and choked out her airway, cutting off her screech with a horrid gargling gag. She sputtered out a mouthful of blood, splattering it across Calypso’s face. Her vision blurred as the pain overtook her. A sharp headache split down her skull like a crack of lightning. Her body went limp, the weight of her being supported by her weakening wrists. Her chin bobbed down to her chest as her neck gave out. Blood gushed from her lips and hung in congealed strands of saliva being pulled downwards by gravity. Her entire head was nothing but agony. 

Calypso admired the red, dripping tooth still clutched in her pliers. She didn’t seem to mind the splattered blood across her face. She let out a proud, entranced smile.

Aylin could barely hear her through her fading mind as she started to drift off. 

“You know, I think this tooth is perfect for me. It can be a prized charm on a necklace. Yes, yes. This will do wonderfully…”

The crack of the leather whip echoed off the stone walls as it slashed through Aylin’s bare back. 

By the tenth hit, it had split through her sports bra, which now hung loosely in tatters at her chest. It wasn’t like the thin fabric had much to cushion the blows, anyway. 

By the thirtieth, she had lost consciousness again. It was her body’s way of protecting itself and conserving her energy.  

Calypso would stop for a few minutes, allow the pain to radiate throughout her body, let her take the time to really feel it, and then continue with her flogging. Short, quick, fast slices through her ravaged, chewed up skin. 

She had no idea what number she was up to now but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. 

She wasn’t even screaming or fighting it anymore. That’s how she knew it was bad. Once her body couldn’t even work up a scream, Aylin knew it was starting to fail her. Her heart beat was getting slower. If Calypso didn’t stop soon, she’d whip her to death. Maybe that was her goal? Maybe she was never supposed to leave this basement alive? She hoped it would happen quickly. 

The smell of rusty copper filled her nostrils. It was all she could smell now. All she could taste. So much blood. It felt like it was consuming every part of her. Her eyes only saw red. She was aware of the blood trailing down her back and soaking into her underwear but she couldn’t feel it anymore. She could hear it dripping from her lips, too. It landed in nearly perfect circles at her feet like drops of rain. 

She felt nothing and everything all at once. 

There was nothing but pain and nothing but emptiness. 

She didn’t know how long she’d been down here. It could have been hours or days or weeks. Time did exist in this basement. 

Only torment. 

She hadn’t even noticed when Calypso stopped her assault. It was only when she took a step in front of her, did she realize there were no more cracks from the whip. She was starting to shiver. Full body tremors shook through her despite the heat from the stove filling the room. Her teeth chattered together sending waves of pain through her jaw and up into her skull. She was losing too much blood. 

Calypso looked down at the broken girl with pity. She brushed her bloodied hands off on her robe and placed them tenderly against Aylin’s sore cheeks. Her head was being titled up until she was forced to make eye contact. Through wavering vision, she could make out a look of feigned compassion. 

“Oh, you poor thing. Look at you. What will Sergei think when he sees the mess you’ve become? He’ll be heartbroken. His favorite little toy, all broken at his feet.” Calypso caressed Alyin’s cheek with a soft touch that could be considered loving had she not just experienced the ravenous torturous side of her. She bunched up her robe to gently dab at the streaks of tears and blotches of blood along her face. Aylin was too weak to reject the soft, warm touch. She didn’t care if it was nothing but a ploy to screw with her fragile mind, she craved any kind of empathy she could get right now. Her bottom lip quivered. She wanted her mother. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was Nesrin caressing her cheek, instead. She could pretend it was backed with love instead of malice.

“Should we get you cleaned up before he comes down, sweet girl? He doesn’t want to see you in this state. Let’s fix you up, honey. Cal will make you all better.” She ran a soothing hand through Aylin’s hair to push it out of her face and tuck it behind her ears just like Nesrin used to do. “You’ve made a nasty mess of your back. Shredded it to pieces straight down to the bone. There’s an awful lot of blood. Don’t worry, I’ve got a wonderful homemade salve from my personal collection that should help put a stop to that pesky bleeding. I like to think of myself as a bit of an alchemist. No one else can create my little potions better than me. I know just to think to help with the blood. I’ll be right back. You hang in there.”

She shook the chains holding her up, sending an agonizing, shooting pain through Aylin’s entire body then placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and disappeared from sight. 

A whimper fell from her raw, bloody lips the moment she heard the gears of the bookcast close. 

She was finally alone. 

Hot tears slipped down her cheeks to carve a path through the blood and sweat. Her wrists could hardly hold her weight anymore but they had no other choice but to keep her physically upright. The metal dug into her flesh causing the skin to start to chafe away. A fire was spreading across the slashed, open wounds of her dripping back. Her hair had soaked into the blood and stuck to the ravaged flesh. Every time her head bobbed, her hair would drag through the wounds and bring a fresh wave of pain. Her jaw ached in irritation at the bloody hole in her battered gums. Fingernails and broken bones were the least of her concern anymore. Her circulation no longer reached the tips of her fingers so they remained cold and numb. She’d rather have her every finger broken, one by one, than have another tooth extracted or endure the long, thin biting of the whip. 

She hadn’t even spoken in hours. Calypso was no longer trying to extract information from her. She was merely trying to break her into submission. She was teaching her what it meant to be a Silver Colt. 

Judging by the state she was in, Calypso had won. Whatever fight Aylin felt when she first woke up down here had floated off into the ether hand in hand with her waning sanity. 

She was broken. 

Her body and her spirit.

“First time being tortured?”

A soft, feminine voice startled Aylin. Her cloudy eyes sought out the sound of the young woman locked in the cage. She had forgotten she was there. She’d been too absorbed in her own plight that no one else in the world remained to exist apart from herself and Calypso. The wolf girl had managed to push herself into a sitting position against the bars. She stared back at Aylin through emotionless, hollow eyes. Aylin wondered if hers looked the same.They’d both been broken down here.

“You didn't do too bad for your first time. Held up pretty well. Didn’t give away anything they wanted. But that was just the beginning,” she muttered. “She'll clean you up so you don’t bleed out then she’ll send in Kraven. He’s even worse.” 

What could possibly be worse than what she’d already experienced? 

Aylin couldn’t form any words to reply. The chains clicked against each other as she tumbled backwards, losing her precarious balance, her arms outstretched in front of her as her head lolled back. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be on sturdy ground.

“You’re one of them so it might be different but I doubt it,” the woman continued, watching Aylin fight to stay conscious. “I thought I was strong until I spent weeks down here. I gave them everything they wanted and more. I gave up my entire pack, my family, my friends. I gave up everything I ever loved. The thing is, it’ll just slip right out of you. Whatever secrets you’re holding, it’ll come out before you can stop it. It’s not something you think about, it’s something your body just does. Call it self preservation, call it weakness, whatever it is, she’ll get it out of you if you don’t get out of here.” She paused to let out a series of hacking coughs. Splatters of dark blood dotted her lips. It was miraculous she was even able to speak. 

“The woman is worse than Kraven when it comes to physical pain but Kraven…” Her voice lowered. “He tortures you in ways that break your psyche. He’ll take whatever he wants from you, whenever he wants. Trust me, there’s nothing gentle about that man. She breaks your body and he breaks your mind until there’s nothing left for you to give.” 

Aylin’s stomach churned with nausea but she was too weak to force anything up. All she could do was blink slowly in the woman’s direction. She already had nothing left to give. No words. No apologies. Nothing. 

All she had was a low, rickety groan as her body failed her. 

“Eventually, they’re going to make you kill me. They’ll make you take my heart to prove that you’re still one of them like you were supposed to do before. She’ll clean you up, get you strong enough to stand, then make you prove your loyalty. Hopefully that’s sooner rather than later. But, when that time comes, I need you to do it. Make it quick.” Her eyes closed as her head rested back against the bars. Her gaunt cheeks and blackened eyes already resembled that of the dead. “You better not fuck it up this time. My death is long past overdue. Play along with their game. Make them think you’re reforming. Kill me. They’ll give you a knife for that. Then-” she paused to hack up some more blood. “-then you’ll be the one with the knife and they’ll be the ones with their guard down.” 

She gave Aylin an exhausted, blood smeared smile as her eyes closed to rest. 

“Give ‘em hell, hunter.” 

[Chapter Six]

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Tag List: @theorgansarerotting @ssecret @sincericida @liz-allyn @moonyslove78 @lazyxsquirrel @lxinesux @101maverick @moonyslove78

A/N: Please remember that writers love to listen to every tiny, little thought you've had about their work. If you liked a certain line or enjoyed a particular part, let us know! We're desperate attention whores who crave your feedback. It's what keep us writing. It makes us happy and feel appreciated for sharing our work.

[daily-rayless]

After basically a year, I'm finally done playing through all the Trails games I had access to -- replaying Sky, then playing through Sky 2 and the four Cold Steels for the first time.

I was pretty reluctant to get into it because it seemed like such a huge investment of time (it was), but I was also intrigued because it's a bunch of games telling an involved continuous story -- and that's unusual. In some ways, it felt very Suikoden-like, seeing characters and events from one arc show up later.

Also, whenever I posted about Trails (which I only did occasionally because I was worried about spoilers), I got people urging me to play the series, or encouraging me to keep going with it because there was lots of good stuff coming. And the people were right, there absolutely was. (And also, no one spoiled me.)

So anyway, enjoy this super unimpressed Fie. I liked a fair bit of the cast, but she was a standout.

[nikiniluna]

Something funny happened when I was playing Trails of Cold Steel I:

(Spoilers from chapter 2)

Remember that during chapter 2 Machias discovered that Rean was a noble and got mad at him for hiding it?

During the free day from this chapter, I went to the lower class chess club to talk to Machias and he was all “I don’t have anything to talk with you. Why don’t you go spend time with Jusis?” (Quite like a jealous boyfriend, don’t you think?)

And you know what I did right after? I did a bonding event with Jusis! LOL

My friend even told me that I acted as if Machias and I were an old-married couple!

[cuban-feminist-that-gives-a-hoot]

Persona 3 Reload, Part 2 *SPOILERS*

OK, I mentioned I needed a second post to talk about the voice acting because it would be too long and this is it. Once again, spoilers for those that either haven't played the original or Reload. If you haven't finished it, go fuck off and finish it now. Also, I've been sitting on this for too long, so I'm posting it now, months after I finished beating the game and my thoughts are still valid and still the same.

Have you finished playing Reload? OK, here we go.

This cast is...

GOATed with the Sauce!

It is such a good cast and I feel like I need to mention every single one in their own paragraph:

Aleks Le is a phenomenal Protagonist and he does an equally great job as Pharos and Ryoji. And his line work as Nyx Avatar? Sublime. I am so glad that he was the one picked. He did a great job and was the right choice from the get-go.

Zeno Robinson as Junpei goes above, beyond, and surpasses Vic Mignogna easily. Even if Vic Mignogna wasn't such a fucking walking example of a disastrous asshole (to severely understate it), it wouldn't have been hard to surpass him. He brings out every facet of Junpei so well: his insecurities, his pain, everything. He *is* Junpei Iori and I hope his career goes to even greater heights than he's already hit.

Heather Gonzalez was someone whose initial work, I did not get the greatest introduction to. I first heard her work when she stepped in to take over for Marisha Ray as Laura S. Arseid for Trails of Cold Steel IV and Trails into Reverie and I did not like her version of Laura at all. However, before I heard her as Yukari when I played the game fully, I did hear her as Cocolia Rand in Honkai Star Rail and got a much better impression of her and she's fantastic as Cocolia Rand. So, I wasn't sure how her Yukari was going to sound. After playing the game, I can happily say that she's great as Yukari. I was worrying for nothing and thought she did a fantastic job.

But not even she got the hate and vitriol that the fandom gave Alejandro Saab as Akihiko before the game came out. I felt so sorry for him getting so much shit over the different direction he went with his voice for him. And I'll admit I was worried about it too, but I wasn't about to be mad prematurely before I got to hear his performance in the game and I'm so glad I waited because he was fantastic. I was worried he was going to be 100% bravado the entire time, but luckily, that initial impression was wrong. SEGA and Atlus did him dirty by picking the scenes they did for previews before the character trailer came out. He pulled off every last scene perfectly: the awkwardness during Operation Babe Hunt, the sadness when grieving for Shinjiro. Every scene was done really well. The fandom pre-judged too hard before they gave his performance a chance. I do have one minor gripe: the way he says “I’ve been waiting for this!” is so off. I kind of miss how Liam O’Brien said it.

Suzie Yeung as Fuuka? Adorable! I loved her performance. It’s way better than the original. Although, I will miss that goofy line. You know the one: *gasp* The Enemy! No further notes needed. It’s just a solid performance all around.

Same goes for Dawn M. Bennett as Aigis. I like her Aigis a lot. She’s a lot more subtle in the change of tone from mechanical to human-like compared to Karen Strassman, so it’s harder to catch the change. Also, this is a minor nitpick for localization rather than her specifically, but… uhhh… Aigis should not know the term “goated with the sauce”. That’s a 2020s term, not one from 2009.

Koromaru’s new voice, Shinya Takahashi, has been doing it for a while now, starting with the movies. He’s a good choice and I’m glad he got to continue the role for the game.

Justine Lee as Ken Amada? 1000% improvement over the original from the games, holy shit. It’s a great choice and I hope that their career continues from here for sure.

I’ve saved my favorite for last because I have *thoughts* on Justice Slocum as Shinjiro and oh my god, he is so damn good as him! Every scene I got hear him perform in the game was a delight! He did a fantastic job and it was an honor to watch him play and beat Persona 3 FES fully. He is right there with Grant George on the performance level, with only one thing holding it back and that’s something that isn’t his fault at all and is a localization thing: I don’t think Reload Shinjiro has “Adios, asshole!” as a line, which is genuinely sad as that was Shinjiro’s best line. I would’ve loved to hear Justice’s take on it.

Strega’s voice actors are also great. Daman Mills as Takaya is probably his best performance yet. Chris Hackney is wonderful as Jin and this counts to at least five times I’ve had to put the beat down on a character he voices, and I like Merit Leighton’s Chidori so much. 10/10 casting, no notes.

It is so, so nice to have the S.Links voiced also. Extra special shoutout to Lucien Dodge as Akinari and Yong Yea as Mamoru. Goddamn, they're both so, so damn good in those roles. Overall, this cast is fantastic and I am bummed that Persona 3 Reload did not get the attention it deserved for a fantastic ensemble cast.

[asoulofatlantis]

one thing that I am ashamed of is that I had to be told about how oct genesis looked like pocket watches which made it clear that Sept terrion of time is what we are likely dealing with ( when I play trails games I tended to just read what was being said and letting the game tell me I didn't try to put much thought into it I didn't try analyzing what was being said and trying to predict the future. I should have realized it was kasim who got brainwashed ( and I tend to use walkthroughs alot

First of all: Never ever be ashamed of anything when playing games. What matters is that you enjoy it, nothing else. And there are many, many different ways on how to enjoy a game. Some people need to 100% a game, others rush through it to enjoy the story with the best possible pacing and don't give a damn about sidequests, others love to analyze every tiny detail and debate over any open question or possible solution for those. Some people love to play blind. Others watch a walkthrough while playing or read one to make sure they do everything they want the right way. Others use cheats/mods. All of this is fine as long as they are having fun. And if you are a weird person like me and do a little bit of it all than this is fine too. Have fun in whatever way you want when you play a game.

Now lets talk a moment about the septerion of time problem. First of all, a fun little story about me that might help you feel better: My friend is an author and an artist so she writes storys and books and draws pictures for them. I am reading her story for 16 years at this point so I know how she writes and I did look at her art for those 16 years now as well so I SHOULD understand what she draws. And my friend LOVES to use symbolism in her pictures and she also often hides hints and Spoilers in her pictures and even after 16 years I do not see any of them XD Even if she puts my nose on the fact that there are Spoilers or a lot of symbolism hidden in a picture. So in a sense, its like with Trails that you know the story and the writing long enough that you should be able to see it all and yet, you overlook the most obvious things, because some people (like me) just lack the ability to see stuff like this. And there is nothing wrong with that. I assure you, we do still see things other people don't, often without realizing it at first. And even if you do not see anything but the obvious, that is also just fine. It means more surprises for you!

I do not think it was THAT obvious that the Oct genesis look like Poket-Watches, given that we have seen Pocket-Watches in Cold Steel before and they do look very different from the Oct Genesis. Yes, if you know what it is, you see that it was meant to look kinda like one, but I do not think it is that obvious. On the other hand, in the very first Picture on the starting screen for Daybreak, Agnes holds something in her hands that has some sort of chain lightly swirling around her and from that angle, it does look like a pocket watch. But I would not have noticed ANYTHING about the symbolism of that picture if Kai had not have pushed it right into my face either ^^'

I really think the only real hint you get for the septerion of time in Daybreak is the fact that when the Genesis activates for the first time, things freeze in time. But that could have just been a weird side-effect of the Genesis too. And that is the next thing. In Trails, some things are intentional and others are just random. You never know what to expect, even if you analyze things and theories about their meaning. (I was way off with my analysis of the things in the Daybreak 2 Opening, even tho I was so darn sure I was right.)

Also... not everyone likes to think too much about the games they are playing and there is nothing wrong with it. You do not need to analyze scenes, try to predict the future of the series or see symbolism to enjoy a game.

Me personally? It entertains me to do that. It keeps me on my toes, even if we have to wait another 2 years for the next game. I am hardly ever right, but I don't care about that at all. For me it is just fun to analyze, theories and wonder. But not everyone needs to feel the same way. There is nothing wrong with just allowing the game to lead you through it and its secrets. On the contrary, this can be a very fun way to explore a game. And ehe Walkthrough helps you to not miss anything, so you get the full picture of everything the story wants you to know at this point.

Sometimes I feel like we Trails fans feel like we just have to understand everything Kondo and Falcpm throw at us, immediately if possible, because its been so many years and so many games. But that is stupid.

Just enjoy the story the way it unfolds right in front of your eyes and allow it to surprise you.

So one more time: Do not be ashamed of the way you play, as long as you have fun, that is all that matters!

[pessimisticromantic]

Cold Body, Warm Blood Ch. 3

Words: 6.1k M/M Astarion x Redeemed Durge - 18+

Tags: Drama & Romance Slow Burn Past Abuse Past Sexual Abuse Past Torture Past Violence Blood and Violence Hurt/ComfortAngst and Hurt/Comfort Falling In Love Nightmares Blood Drinking Blood Kink Read on AO3 (recommended) Chapter 3 of ? (WIP)

Chapter 1: Blood Like Wine (Read on AO3)

Chapter 2: The Sky Above (Read on AO3)

Disclaimer: I own nothing other than my mind

Spoilers for Act 1 & 2

Chapter 3: The Earth Below

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Astarion stood at a desk littered with books and strewn papers as he perused the contents of the various items, and peeked into the drawers for anything of note. He noticed a slight glimmer in the back of the drawer and pulled out a delicate-looking golden ring with an inlay of jade. He glanced at his companions as they chatted near a pile of books and slipped the ring into his pocket. He'd look closer at it later when he had a bit more privacy at camp.

Returning to his search, he opened a well-worn book. His eyes skimmed the page as Shadowheart and Wyll passed behind him and Shadowheart seemed to be teasing the warlock.

"Wyll, I've noticed you and Karlach spending more time together," Shadowheart said casually, but Astarion could practically hear her interest bleeding through her aloof tone.

Wyll coughed and sputtered out, "O-oh, yeah, she's a fantastic sparring partner. She keeps me on my toes." The warlock laughed, the sound a bit forced to Astarion's ears.

"Hm, is that all? You two seem to be hitting it off rather well, and she's told me how much she enjoys your company," the cleric replied, trailing off as the two moved further away from Astarion.

"Find anything interesting?" Tav asked as he approached the pale elf, scanning the papers and books scattered on the desk.

"A few baubles. Nothing of extreme note sadly," Astarion said turning his head to the half-elf who leaned to look over Astarion's shoulder at the book. Astarion could feel the heat rolling off of Tav's body and he had to stop himself from leaning back into that warmth. He watched as Tav's eyes skimmed the page, his lips moving as he read the words.

Tav's eyes flicked to Astarion's as his fingers brushed against the pale elf's arm, "Interesting. Well, let's see what the next floor holds for us. Shall we?"

Astarion nodded and said, "I'll be right there." As soon as Tav turned and joined back with Wyll and Shadowheart, Astarion slid the book into his pack. Apparently, tragic plays piqued their fearless leader's interest and Astarion found that morsel of information very intriguing.

They gathered on the elevator and Tav pressed the ascend button and they found themselves surrounded by automatons once they reached the upper floor. Everyone was frozen in place, uncertain of the situation when the largest of the automatons spoke, "New sounds through damp and dark oppression break / Is it the foe, that foul, contemptuous heel?"

Tav stared at the automaton, confusion plain on his face, so Astarion stepped in quickly his mind immediately recalling the prologue of the book in his pack, "Or art thou friend, a rescue from my lonely wake?"

Everyone looked back and forth between Astarion and the automaton as it spoke once again, "Come out of love for me, not love for blood and steel..." and the automaton bowed at Astarion, the rest of the automatons returned to a passive state, and it continued in its hollow metallic voice, "Command as you see fit, my lord, my liege."

Astarion cleared his throat and shifted his weight, "That will be all for now."

As the automaton shifted back to a passive state, Shadowheart whispered loudly, "How in the Hells did you know what to say, Astarion?"

Astarion shrugged, "I like to read. And this place is full of interesting little tidbits."

"That was part of the prologue of that book downstairs, right?" Tav mused and scratched at his beard-covered chin, the hairs rasping against his fingers.

"Do you think there are other commands for it?" Wyll asked curiosity clear in his voice as he looked around the broken rooftop.

"I believe so," Astarion said as he set down his pack and searched it for the scattered documents he had picked up earlier. "Ah, here we are."

Turning to the large automaton Astarion said, "How can I trust? How will I ever know? / How can I show myself, my darkest me?"

The automaton responded instantly, "If you do not your deepest secrets show? / Reveal your truth, give what you wish to see." and it proceeded to place a ring on the table nearby.

Tav found that he was fascinated by the entire exchange. He would have to borrow the papers Astarion had collected, and perhaps go fetch that book from downstairs as well. The prose sounded like it had come from the same source.

Astarion approached the table, still cautious as a stray cat in an alleyway of dogs, and picked up the ring and another parchment. Turning back to the automaton he read, "These empty sheets are all that's left of you / The last of all the thoughtless gifts you have." It was a bit too dramatic for Astarion's taste as he rolled his eyes at his companions. Wyll smiled at him, Shadowheart chuckled and shook her head, while Tav gave him a curiously thoughtful look. Astarion looked away from Tav's gaze, feeling a bit vulnerable under the man's stare.

"I will hold onto them; it's all that I can do. / I can't throw them away; I've never been that brave," the automaton replied and produced a large potion bottle filled with a ruby liquid.

Astarion took the vial, then walked back to his companions and handed the bottle to Tav. "You'll no doubt need this more than any of us," Astarion said with a grin.

Wyll laughed at the offended look Tav gave the pale elf as Shadowheart said, "It's getting late, lets's make our way back to the others now that we've inadvertently explored this arcane tower and discovered a few secrets."

"I'd like to take a quick detour to the third floor again, there was a book I'd like to read more of down there," Tav said as they gathered on the elevator.

Astarion cleared his throat and looking smug interrupted with a purr, "No need. I already laid claim to it, though I'm sure you can convince me to part ways with it if you ask nicely enough."

Tav's ears turned red as he looked away from Astarion's gaze and Shadowheart piped up, "Oh come now, Astarion, you can't tell me you could say no to our fearless leader. He's like a large golden version of Scratch and we all know you can't say no to that fleabag."

"Don't compare him to a dog!"

"Scratch doesn't have fleas!"

Tav and Astarion stared at one another, startled by the combined outbursts, and Shadowheart and Wyll burst into laughter.

"Damn, Shadowheart. You're too insightful for your own good," Wyll said as he chuckled.

"You don't know half of what I'm capable of, Blade of Frontiers," Shadowheart said as she gave Wyll a devious look, which caused Wyll to blush and look away as she pressed the button for the elevator to take them back to the ground floor.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Astarion rested his head in Tav's lap as the barbarian read quietly of the tragic play he had found in the arcane tower earlier in the day. They were settled comfortably against a pile of pillows in front of Astarion's tent near the campfire.

Tav's fingers gently carded through Astarion's curls and Astarion couldn't help but close his eyes and lose himself to the peaceful feeling.

Their next destination was across the waters of the Underdark. Astarion knew Tav was apprehensive about the trip, due to the unknown nature of what lay beyond, but the half-elf had agreed to help the myconids and that deep gnome, and nothing would stop the man from fulfilling his promises.

Astarion thought it was all quite ridiculous and they should at least get paid to help, but he honestly had a hard time saying no to the puppy dog looks Tav could give him. So he grumbled and huffed but always followed along with Tav's ideas.

Astarion listened to the conversations that floated through the air: Wyll and Karlach chatting as they played with Scratch and that wretched owlbear cub; Shadowheart and Lae-zel arguing about dinner; Halsin's soft humming as he whittled away at a scrap of branch.

Astarion cracked open an eye and let it roam the camp, silently checking in on his companions on Tav's behalf. Gale was reading a book his conjured mage hand was holding aloft, as he did the dishes at the water barrel. Everyone was content and settling in for the night. Good. He wanted nothing to spoil this moment. Tav's large hands were surprisingly delicate as he massaged Astarion's scalp. Astarion closed his eyes and went back to drowsing.

Astarion realized he had fully fallen asleep after he felt Tav shift under him. Tav's arms pulled him close as the barbarian stood effortlessly with Astarion cradled against his chest. Astarion couldn't help but snuggle closer to the half-elf as he was carried. Astarion rarely slept in his tent anymore, preferring the comfort and warmth of Tav's body over the uncomfortable pallet he had fashioned for himself in the early days of their time together.

Tav stopped outside of his tent, feeling Astarion stir against his chest. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Mmmph, don't apologize, I would much rather wake up in your arms than stay in my dreams," Astarion mumbled against Tav's chest. He heard the soft intake of breath from Tav and pulled back to look up at the half-elf.

Tenderness flared in Tav's eyes as he spoke, "Can I kiss you?"

Astarion responded by sliding a hand up to Tav's neck half pulling himself up and half pulling Tav's face down to capture his lips. It was soft and tender, and Tav's arms held him gently. An overwhelming feeling of safety flooded through Astarion, and it brought back vague and fleeting memories of his childhood.

Tav broke the kiss and settled Astarion back onto his feet his hands lingering around the pale elf's waist as he spoke, "Do you need to feed tonight?"

At Tav's words, Astarion felt the gnawing hunger slam to the forefront of his mind and his mouth watered so much that he had to swallow hard before he spoke, "I wouldn't be opposed to it."

Tav grinned and laced his fingers with Astarion's as he pulled him into the privacy of his tent. Tav sat and unlaced the collar of his rough cotton shirt and Astarion joined him on the plush fur-lined bedroll. Astarion noticed the barely healed marks from a couple of nights ago on Tav's neck, and stopped the larger man's hands, "I have another idea."

He knelt and pushed Tav's sleeve up to his elbow and glanced at the half-elf. The man gave him a nod as his jaw muscle jumped, catching the moonlight that shone through the gap in the tent flap. He gently kissed the skin of Tav's wrist as his hunger thrummed through him and his stomach cramped painfully. He darted his tongue out before sinking his fangs into Tav's skin. He heard Tav's sharp hiss at the initial pain, then the low groan that filled the tent. He wasn't sure if it was Tav or himself that had made the noise but the blood coating his tongue and sliding down his throat took all of his attention.

Astarion could feel the pulse of Tav's heart as he drank. It always started fast and strong and he could easily tell when he needed to stop from how the half-elf's pulse would slow and weaken. He was always careful now, after the very first time Tav allowed him to feed, he had almost taken it too far and drained the man then and there.

Feeling Tav's pulse beginning to slow, he pulled away and realized they had shifted position. Astarion was practically straddling the man. Holding onto Tav's wrist he applied pressure to stem the flow of blood and said softly, "You'll never understand just how delicious you are."

Tav chuckled softly, cracking open an eye at Astarion. He shifted position, his free hand sliding around to the small of Astarion's back as he sat up. "Let me rectify that then," he said as he pressed his lips to Astarion's. His tongue slipped between Astarion's lips their tongues clashed and slid across one another. Tav's hand gripped the back of Astarion's shirt, pressing him close. Desire set his skin on fire as the vampire spawn's fang snagged his lower lip, breaking the skin just enough to cause a droplet of blood to well up.

Tav knew that a split lip would now bring this memory to the forefront of his mind. He growled into Astarion's mouth before he broke the kiss turning his head away to suck in a ragged breath. "Gods, you have too much control over me," he groaned as he rested his forehead against Astarion's shoulder.

Astarion barked out a laugh, "I don't see that as a problem." Lifting Tav's bitten wrist he licked away the now-dried blood both on the half-elf's wrist and from his hand that had staunched the bleeding. He felt Tav shudder underneath him and a coil of guilt twisted in his stomach, he didn't like being the cause of Tav's discomfort. "I could relieve some of your discomfort, love."

"Stop teasing me rogue," Tav growled tightening his grip on Astarion's hips.

Astarion pressed his lips to Tav's hair, "I apologize, my sweet. Sometimes my mouth runs faster than my brain and old habits pop out." Astarion pulled back and lifted Tav's chin so he could look at him, "Now, how about we settle down for the night and I read you more of that tragic play you've been fascinated with, hm?"

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Astarion watched Tav's face twist into a mask of fear and then utter rage before he realized the bite of the crossbow bolt in his gut. He looked down at the offending bolt buried deep in his guts and snarled at the blaze of pain that caused his knees to go out from underneath him.

He fell to his side, a grunt passing his lips as a fresh sheen of cold sweat beaded on his face despite the heat from the nearby lava pools. He watched as the duergar that had shot him only a handful of paces away, screamed as the dark and vengeful form of Tav fell on him.

Astarion watched impassively as the deep dwarf's scream was cut short in an explosion of viscera as Tav's hand axes came down in a flurry of savage blows.

Astarion's eyes fluttered as he heard Gale yell, "Tav! Behind you!"

Tav turned but not fast enough to fully block the blade that narrowly missed stabbing through his eye. Instead, the blade left a gruesome gash along Tav's temple that buried itself into his hairline above his ear. Blood sprang from the gash like a waterfall, coating the side of Tav's face in even more blood than was already there.

Another duergar fired off a crossbow bolt at Tav and it bit into the flesh of his thigh. Tav simply cleaved the shaft with one hand axe as he defended another sword thrust from Nere with the other hand axe. The two seemed evenly matched as they fought, a snarl on Nere's face and a look of cold fury on Tav's.

A bright light flashed and Astarion could hear the roar of flames as one of Gale's spells incinerated the deep dwarf that had fired off the bolt that hit Tav. He could hear somewhere behind him, the sound of Wyll fighting off a couple of enemies as well. The reverberating thuds of his eldritch blasts and a cut-off scream let Astarion know at least one foe wouldn't be standing back up.

Astarion blinked and when he opened his eyes again, Nere's body was cooling on the ground behind Tav, the drow's head sitting at an impossible angle, as the barbarian sprinted towards the rogue.

Tav slid to his knees at Astarion's side, the rage in his eyes still burning hot, as he cradled Astarion's head in one hand and pulled out a vial of red liquid from the pouch at his waist. He held the vial between his teeth as his fingers wrapped around the bolt and yanked causing a scream to rip through Astarion's throat. Tav's hand was shaking badly as he tossed the bolt away, but he managed to uncork the vial with his teeth before gently feeding it to Astarion.

Astarion felt the potion working immediately as his thready pulse stabilized and the gut wound partially healed. His vision swam from the pain but he still managed to find Tav's face through the haze. He managed a weak smile for the blood-soaked barbarian. Tav's face remained unchanged, all harsh lines, rage, and blood. His deep blue eyes had turned to steel as his attention was pulled away from Astarion.

"Take him back to camp. I have a head to collect." Tav said as he stood and stalked towards the dead body of Nere.

"Are you sure, Tav? We should stay just in case there are any more duergar-" Wyll began, his voice flooding with concern.

Gale stepped into Astarion's view and crouched to help pull Astarion to his feet, "Come on Wyll. I can't get him back by myself. Tav will be fine."

Astarion swayed as Gale held him up and then Wyll joined the wizard on Astarion's other side and they half carried the pale elf back in the direction of their camp.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Tav stalked back into the camp covered in blood and carrying a burlap sack that was stained dark with blood at the bottom. Halsin and Shadowheart approached the barbarian cautiously. The rage was still rolling off Tav in waves and neither wanted to agitate the man further. Halsin cleared his throat, "Astarion is well. Gale and Wyll got him here swiftly enough for myself and Shadowheart to heal him completely."

Tav's eyes met Halsin's and the fire inside his belly went out and exhaustion bled into his muscles. He gave the large druid a weary smile, "Good. Good. Thank you both." Looking down at the burlap sack clutched in his fist he shrugged, "Who wants to keep this safe, while I go clean up?"

Halsin grimaced and Shadowheart frowned but spoke up, "I'll keep it safe...is...is it Nere's head?" At Tav's nod, she took the bag gingerly and moved away.

"Now, sit down and let me look at that head wound. It's still bleeding, though I will admit it's difficult to tell," Halsin said as he steered Tav to the campfire. The druid turned Tav's head so he could see the gash on Tav's temple in the firelight. Murmuring Halsin pressed his fingers to Tav's cheek and a gentle blue-green magic swelled from Halsin and into the wound. Tav felt the relentless headache and dizziness dissipate. "Are there any other wounds that need attending," Halsin asked, giving Tav a cursory look.

"Yeah, let me dig out the rest of the bolt," Tav replied as he pulled out a dagger and got to work on the shaft of the bolt that was still embedded into the meat of his right thigh. Halsin noticed Astarion's approach from behind Tav but said nothing as he returned his attention back to the barbarian. Tav pulled the head of the bolt out, gritting his teeth at the pain and Halsin swiftly summoned the magic to heal the wound.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I believe there's someone that wants a word," Halsin said as he nodded at Astarion and moved away.

Tav spun and his eyes locked on to Astarion. Astarion stared back watching as emotions flooded over Tav's tired and bloody face. Concern and then relief were the most prominent, yet Astarion could tell from the set of Tav's jaw and the tightness around his eyes that anger lurked just below the surface. When the half-elf stepped closer it took all of Astarion's willpower not to step back.

Tav saw the flicker of panic in Astarion's eye and stopped short. His shoulders sagged as he let out a sigh, "I'm not angry at you, love. I'm angry with myself. I'm supposed to protect you.."

Astarion closed the distance between them and leaned to catch Tav's downcast eyes, "I'm fine, darling. Halsin and Shadowheart patched me up easily, they didn't even break a sweat."

Tav choked out in a low voice, "I was terrified I wasn't going to make it in time. I thought I was going to lose you, 'Star."

"I recall a certain someone saying, 'A measly crossbow bolt wound isn't enough to take me down', though I will admit, that wasn't a pleasant experience," Astarion said chuckling lightly. "There's no use worrying about what-ifs. Let's get you cleaned up, you look fucking terrible, darling."

They settled down inside Tav's tent with a warm basin of water and clean rags. Tav stripped his blood-splattered chest piece off and grimaced at the aching in his muscles.

Astarion handed him a damp rag and Tav got to work cleaning blood off his hands and arms. Astarion sat across from him, the basin in between them, as he worked on cleaning as much blood and gore from Tav's chest piece as he could. Once his arms were clean, Tav knelt in front of the basin of water and dunked his face into the water scrubbing the blood away, making sure to get his hair as clean as he could manage. Pulling his head out of the water he watched the streams of water flow from the wet strands of his hair for a moment before wiping his face and slicking his hair back as he sat back on his haunches. He watched Astarion's eyes track the rivulets of water trailing down his bare chest.

Tav saw the moment Astarion realized he had been staring for the pale elf stilled and his eyes glanced up into Tav's. A blush spread on both of their faces but neither looked away.

"Thank you. For saving me today," Astarion said, finally looking away, back down to the task at hand.

"Of course. You're-" Tav started and cleared his throat as he wiped away the excess water on his body with a clean rag, "You're important. To me...to the group."

Astarion nodded absentmindedly, his fingers wiping at an already cleaned spot on Tav's leather armor. Tav knew the pale elf didn't believe him, at least not fully, but pressing the matter felt like a recipe for a fight. Grabbing the dirtied rags and the basin he stood and said, "I'll get fresh water and more rags." After a short time, Tav returned with a fresh basin of water and clean rags and set the supplies down in front of Astarion before sitting down once more. He began cleaning and sharpening his dual hand axes and by the time he was satisfied with the edge, Astarion was finished with Tav's chest piece and set it aside.

"You've got a hole in your trousers. I can mend them tonight while I patch my chest piece," Astarion said, his voice soft over the gentle noise of the camp winding down for the night.

Looking down at the hole in his trousers, Tav poked a finger at the bare skin beneath, "Oh well, I don't mind a little wear and tear." Looking up he flashed Astarion a grin and was glad when a smirk spread on the pale elf's face in response.

"You wouldn't, but I have higher standards. I can't let you walk about in a state of disarray, it would reflect poorly on me," Astarion said as he leaned close and dragged his forefinger across Tav's jaw which was sporting a fine growth of hair, "Which means you need to shave. You're beginning to look like Halsin when he's a bear."

Tav captured Astarion's hand and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles before releasing it, "As you wish. Though I have to confess, I don't have a razor." Turning he grabbed a freshly sharpened hand axe and gave a shrug, "I could always use this I guess?"

Astarion smiled humorlessly and pulled the hand axe from Tav's hand, "I think not. You're liable to give yourself more scars on that pretty face of yours. I'll retrieve a few supplies. Make yourself useful and fetch fresh water."

Astarion slipped out of the tent and Tav followed with the used rags and the water basin soon after. He dumped the reddened water out, refilled the basin with fresh water from the water barrel, and made his way back to his tent. Settling cross-legged on his bedroll he waited patiently for Astarion's return, letting his mind wander.

A faint memory crawled to the surface of his mind. He was looking down at his hands and they were slick with crimson blood. Joy and pleasure thrummed through his body as he reveled in the feeling of someone else's life being ripped apart with his hands. Disgust and panic flooded through him as his eyes snapped open. He was breathing heavily and a sheen of sweat coated his skin. His stomach felt like it was doing somersaults and he battled the need to vomit. Putting his head between his knees he tried to get his breathing under control. Tav shivered as his body finally calmed and he heard a soft inhale. Lifting his head, Tav saw that Astarion had reentered the tent, a look of concern knitting his brow.

Tav stood, stooping as his head brushed the top of the tent, "Here, let me help." Reaching out he took some of the supplies from Astarion's arms and they both sat.

Astarion set aside his chest piece and the tailoring kit as he spoke, "Tadpole giving you trouble?"

Tav shrugged and changed the conversation awkwardly, "Ah, well, I see you found a razor. Hm, that's quite sharp." A bead of blood welled up on Tav's thumb after he tested the razor's edge.

Astarion leaned forward taking the razor as Tav wiped the blood on his trousers. "Yes well, it was practically brand new when I...found it back in the druid's grove. Honestly, I'm more worried about you shaving with this razor than that hand axe of yours. You're not very dextrous."

Tav snorted a laugh as he replied, "Then how about you shave me? Since my beard offends you so greatly."

A sparkle danced in Astarion's ruby-colored eyes at the suggestion. Tapping a finger to his chin he cocked his head at Tav and said, "I accept your challenge, barbarian." Tav couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face as Astarion opened a jar and said, "Get comfortable, and wipe that smirk off your face, or else you'll make this much harder."

Tav did his best to fight the smile and watched as Astarion dipped two fingers into the jar and spread a vanilla-scented cream on Tav's jaw. "And where did you find shaving cream in the middle of the Sword Coast?"

Astarion flashed Tav a wicked grin as he slathered more cream on Tav's cheek, "I'm not sure I should tell you. You might give me that look."

"What look?"

The pale elf tisked and wiped the extra cream he had applied off Tav's lips as he spoke, "The one of vague disappointment whenever you catch me stealing, or lying. Now quiet down and stay as still as you can." Astarion maneuvered Tav's body so he could move around and began gently shaving the week's worth of hair growth that decorated the lower half of Tav's face. "I already know you're going to ask how I know how to shave, even though I do not need the skill." Shifting position he turned Tav's head to get a better angle and continued, "Before I became a magistrate, I apprenticed with a tailor for a couple of years before I decided to pursue being a magistrate. I admit I had a ridiculous crush on my mentor and learned many things from him."

"Hilarious enough, I don't remember what he looked like, even though he was the one that convinced me to pursue the path to becoming a magistrate," Astarion said softly as he finished shaving the last patch of Tav's beard. He set aside the razor and using a rag wiped away the remaining spots of leftover cream.

Feeling his now smooth chin and jaw Tav said, "He taught you well, if you still remembered how to do so after 200 years."

Astarion's fingertips gently traced Tav's jawline and in an almost whisper he said, "I remember he had a strong jaw like you," and his hand and eyes dropped to Tav's hand as he lifted it and traced the many scars on Tav's large hands, "His hands were much slimmer than yours. His fingers were long and precise in his work. He was a masterful tailor and even embroidered a shirt of mine, as a gift when I became a magistrate." Tav saw the sparkle of tears in Astarion's downturned eyes, yet the tears did not fall. "I wish I could remember him better. At least his name or face, but no...all I have now are vague memories, but you're no stranger to that, I guess," he said, his voice tight with a slight quiver as he spoke.

Tav felt a lump form in his throat so he squeezed Astarion's hand, "I'm sorry, 'Star. I know it's not much consolation," and pausing he cupped Astarion's cheek and pulled the pale elf closer so that their foreheads rested against one another, "However, I plan on making as many new memories as I can with you. I want to cherish every moment I have with you, for as long as you'll have me."

Tav felt Astarion shudder at his words, so he pressed a kiss to Astarion's forehead and then pulled him into a hug. Astarion's arms wrapped around Tav's chest as Tav buried his fingers in Astarion's silver locks.

After a few comfortable moments, Astarion mumbled something against Tav's neck that Tav couldn't quite understand so he pulled back and Astarion repeated himself, "The vanilla smells nice on you," he trailed off as he pressed a kiss to Tav's lips. Tav's brain felt like it had short-circuited, but he couldn't help but melt into the kiss after a moment, and it was over far too soon. "Sorry. The urge was too great. Now put on a shirt, or else I'll be too distracted to patch up my armor."

Tav grinned and said, "You know I like to sleep shirtless."

Astarion scoffed, "Oh, I know. However, I still need those pants of yours so I can mend them and I'm honestly not sure if you have another pair. And you being nearby practically naked will definitely distract me from my work." He turned and leaned to pull his armor and sewing kit closer.

"I do have another pair of trousers," Tav replied, pulling on his shirt and began undoing the laces to his trousers. He saw Astarion's eyes flicker to where his fingers worked and fought to control his desire for the pale elf after seeing his desire mirrored in those ruby eyes.

Astarion turned away, putting his back to Tav as the half-elf finished partially undressing and then redressing in another pair of pants he had pulled from his backpack.

Tav slid closer to Astarion, resting his chin on the rogue's shoulder, and setting the trousers down next to Astarion's knee, "I'll leave you to it then," he said as he pressed a kiss to Astarion's neck before pulling away to get comfortable on the rest of the bedroll.

Tav watched Astarion work on mending their clothing until his mind finally drifted into a dreamless sleep with a warm feeling settling in his chest.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Read on AO3 (recommended)

[rosemarycupcake42]

I love you Tumblr mwah

(Spoilers for Trails of Cold Steel 2/3 if anybody cares lol)

Thanks for coming to Sad Times with me ur host, I miss my husband

[gefdreamsofthesea]

I love the Trails series but it's such a hard series to recommend because the Sky trilogy is amazing but it's so. fucking. slow. Zero is a decent place to start if you don't mind playing as cops (to be fair the rest of the police department fucking hates you for a whole game). The first Cold Steel game is like "this series needs more pervy fanservice" and it gets worse apparently (no spoilers pls I'm still on Cold Steel 2). I've heard Reverie is amazing but you absolutely must not start there as you will understand nothing.

[trailsofmemes]

[notontumblr]

Character Analysis: Rean’s Opposite (CS1/2 spoilers)

Okay this gonna be super long and maybe pointless, but Trails is very big foreshadowing and catching people by surprise so I might as get my thoughts out there. 

So lots of people talk about Crow and Rean’s differences and insinuate how they're opposites. It's an easy claim to make, but I'm going to argue that while Rean sure has an opposite, it's not Crow. If anything, Rean and Crow are two sides of the same coin.  While there's some opposing traits- they are fundamentally the same deep down. You could write an entire essay on this and their relationship, it’s a very important relationship. But I'm not here to talk about Crow. I'm here to talk about Rean's true opposite.

And that is Elliot Craig. 

There’s a lot of ways they differ in ways that had to be intentional, so I’ll just break it down into categories. 

Battle Abilities

I’ll start with the most obvious one - Rean and Elliot are opposites in fights. Rean is a melee DPS/Tank while Elliot’s a Healer/Ranged DPS. In other words, Rean is a sword fighter while Elliot’s a mage. 

Their crafts are also pretty opposing too. Both of them get their buff craft early on. Rean’s boosts Strength and gives a little CP (the power meter that goes up when you give or take damage), while Elliot’s boosts defense and heals HP. Rean favors going on the offense, while Elliot favors defense. Their other crafts don’t share much overlap either:

Rean: Physical attacks with an increased chance to unbalance enemies. Meant to lay on the hurt whether it be him hitting as many enemies as possible, causing burn status (which causes extra damage each turn), or even being extra enough to summon his robot friend to step on baddies. In CS2 he even gets a special form that increases his damage output. 

Elliot: Only two attack crafts that can’t unbalance enemies. Instead of laying on the hurt, he puts enemies to sleep. His other crafts are a healing craft and one that scans enemy data - in CS2 this gets upgraded to one that will decrease the enemies attack strength when he scans - once again showing he’s favors defense. He’s also the only character with a healing S-Craft. 

Even their elements are opposite. Rean’s elements are Fire and Time (aka darkness), while Elliot’s are Water and Space (aka light). 

Backgrounds

Obviously with the reveal near the end of CS2 of Osborne being Rean’s dad, CS3 goes more into his past and gives more to say about this. But since that hasn’t been localized, I’ll just keep it to info we know from CS1/2 to spare people spoilers.

First, it’s easy to point out their social classes. Rean is an adopted noble from the countryside while Elliot’s a commoner that grew up in a big city - you couldn’t have more opposite upbringings. Sure, Rean is a commoner by birth, but his birth dad is none other than the most powerful and well known commoner in the country. Meanwhile while Elliot’s dad is a commoner with some status being a Lt. General - it’s much more limited, and only people involved with military are familiar with the name.  

Both Rean and Elliot have one sister - Elise is younger while Fiona is older. That makes the relationship dynamic fundamentally different. Both Elise and Fiona really care for their brothers, but Rean is overprotective of Elise while Fiona is the one whose overprotective of Elliot. Even their personalities are pretty different- Elise is a Tsundere through and through. Meanwhile Fiona is sweet and cheerful- but is a force of nature when she wants something. If you talk to the Craigs during the 2nd day of the school festival, you find out even Craig the Red is intimidated by her. 

Speaking of fathers, let’s talk about their relationships with their living parents. Elliot’s relationship with his dad is the focus of his character arc. When Elliot first talks about him, you get the impression that he’s an aloof and intimidating figure that’s trying to push Elliot to be like him. However when you actually meet him.......the stories don’t quite line up. 

While Olaf IS a pushy and intimidating figure, he’s also a very loving dad that openly affectionate and tries to be there for his kids. He even makes sure to attend Elliot’s concert at the school festival despite the worsening situation in Crossbell.  

Even his pushiness has more noble reasons behind it. If you choose to spend time with Elliot during the bonfire, he says this about what he realized with his dad:

"He wasn't against me going to the music academy because he was against me pursuing a career in music. He didn't want me to lock myself into it. He wanted me to be able to decide for myself just what path I wanted to follow. And more importantly, he wanted me to have the strength to do so, even if people around me tried to stand in my way..."

While Elliot says he’s just speculating, CS2 shows that he’s not far off. After reuniting with his son and seeing how strong Elliot’s become, he tells Elliot he’ll support him in whatever path he chooses. Olaf Craig wants his kids to be independent and strong enough to fight for that independence - even if it means going against him.

Another important element of Olaf's parenting? Is his honesty with his kids even when it’s an ugly truth. One example is when Fiona gets captured, the Craig kids know that if their dad has to choose between his duty and their lives- he’ll choose his duty no matter how much it hurts. Imagine a dad as loving as Olaf having to admit that to his kids. Even if it’s questionable if there’s a point of being TOO honest with your kids (hearing how your dad would let you DIE if necessary couldn’t have helped Elliot’s self-esteem issues, I’m just saying), it’s clear he feels it’s better to be honest no matter what.

Rean’s parents, adopted and biological, are the opposite. Let’s start with the Schwarzers. They are a nice and loving folk when you meet them, not at all intimidating. But they actually have their own ambitions for him, revealed mostly in the Drama CD for the CS1 Ymir trip. Rean’s mom wants Rean and Elise to get married and take over his father’s lordship - even though Rean doesn’t want that. While their intentions aren’t necessarily bad ones (though wanting him to marry his adopted sister is worrying), they're planning to use Rean for their own dreams.

And then there’s the honesty thing. The Schwarzers aren’t honest with their kids. Elise didn’t find out Rean was adopted until she was 12, and as for Rean? They pretend they don’t know who Rean’s birth parents are, but you find out in CS2 they knew all along. This exchange in the drama CD sums up their stance on ugly truths:

Rean: The reason why I want to learn more about myself is because I want to become the real Rean Schwarzer. To be proud as a member of this important family, and at the same time, as a comrade for my friends. Therefore, I must find the truth no matter what it takes. Teo Schwarzer: ...No matter how cruel the truth may be?

This shows Teo Schwarzer’s willing to lie and hide things if he feels the truth is too cruel. His stance is a sympathetic one. He wants to shield their kids from the ugly truths as many parents are tempted to do. But in the end, it just ends up hurting their relationship with Rean more than anything else. 

But at least the Schwarzer’s hearts are in the right place, unlike that asshole of a biological dad. Osborne isn’t even subtle about his willingness to use his own son for his ambitions. The moment the civil war ends, he throws his son into helping him conquer Crossbell. As for not being honest, well the fact he hid his identity as Rean’s father until Rean remembered something says it all. While Olaf is raising his kids to be independent adults with a full understanding of the world, Osborne sees his son as a tool that’s on a need-to-know basis. 

Personality

It’s pretty easy to see where Elliot and Rean differ in personality. While Elliot’s timid, Rean’s outspoken. Rean enjoys fighting, Elliot would rather play music. Rean notices girls on several occasions, Elliot notices the guys more during swim class. Rean is regularly in the center of attention, Elliot is regularly overlooked both in game, and by fans. The list goes on about how their personalities differ, but there’s one major theme:

If there’s one thing everyone knows about Elliot it’s that he’s obsessive about music. He practices constantly, he’s a perfectionist, his room is full music stuff- literally he’s a stone throw away from being an Ace Attorney character his obsession is so strong. But if you look carefully, it isn’t so much about music as he’s someone who when he devotes himself to something, he does it at 200%. In the last dorm visit while most characters express something vague like “our paths will cross again” or agreements to meet up sometime if you pick them for their closest bond, Elliot says this: 

In other words, Elliot is the one character that REFUSES to break up or put his relationship on hold. He’s too devoted. Notably, you get his first S-Craft only after he decides he’s glad to be at Thors and becomes determined not fall behind everyone. 

Rean on the other hand is a drifter that doesn’t commit. He studied 8 Leaves, but he stopped after beginner’s rank. He learned the lute, but he wasn’t serious about it and fell out of practice. He never joins a club (seriously Rean would’ve it killed you to join Fishing Club??). At the end of CS2 when it comes time for Class VII to separate so they can pursue their own goals -- Rean doesn’t really have one, so he stays at Thors, because it’s the only place he ever felt like he belonged. 

Character Arcs

Let’s start with where Elliot and Rean were at the start of CS1

Elliot: Pressured to be in the military by his father. Not confident, and a bit at a loss at what his future would be. 

Rean: Enrolling in Thors despite it putting his parents out. Fairly confident in pursuing his plan of easing his perceived family’s burden after graduation.  

Now look at the end of CS2 where they were at:

Elliot: Enrolling in the Music Academy despite his father’s original wishes. Armed with confidence, he committed to a plan to find a way to use music to help the world. 

Rean: Pressured to be in the military by his father. Confidence shaken, at a real loss about his future.  

The situations are different obviously, but they basically switched places over the course of two games.  Generally speaking when stories do that, it’s intentional for some reason or another.

What does it all Mean? 

Truthfully? It might mean nothing. Or it might not. 

It’s impossible to say until CS3 and 4 get released and localized. Maybe Elliot will have an important role to play in the Erebonia arc, or maybe there was a plan and they scrapped it. Or maybe it’s a red herring. With the Trails series, it is hard to tell because they really do like to give hints along the way that you don’t pick up until later. 

But I do believe it’s not all coincidental. For one, in the character line-ups Elliot is almost always listed right after Alisa (the designated main heroine) in terms of importance. And second?

They outright say it in the game.

Thank you all 2 people that read this, this has been my TED talk. 

[rehncohro]

This was the most shocking out of all of the reveals in this series.

[fury-brand]

Irina Reinford is so damn interesting for a bit character. You don't get much on her but what you do get is always the product of some decision she made and consequence took on. That's looking more the case with Rufus too. It makes me wish the core class VII cast had less reactive writing and also got built up by making interesting decisions.

[magpul21]

Since I know you ship them, Rean x Sara, 4, 5, 6, 14, 19

 Heheh, alright, I get to talk about my ToCS OTP for Rean! Alright, here we go.

4) Do you prefer canon ideas or do you have your own headcanons for them? - I’m gonna have to say I prefer canon ideas. I don’t really delve into headcanons all that much, to be frank. Doesn’t bother me, though, as the canon approach with these two is good for me.

5) Favorite canon moment of them?- Hmm, this is tough since the romance routes for everyone are technically non-canon. So if we’re going with the regular canon, one of my favorite moments would probably have to be when Sara calls Rean after he gets his routine with the Student Council squared away. She basically tells him that she can already tell that he’s trying to find himself and gives him some pretty sound advice for that task. Despite her appearance and not knowing him for that long, she basically already has him pegged and is hard at work at helping him out. Another favorite moment of mine would probably be the *SPOILERS, I GUESS* kiss she gives him on the cheek in CS3… Because it’s CANON!

6) Least favorite canon moment of them?- …Hmmm… Come to think of it, I can’t really think of many canon moments of these two that I would say are my least favorite. I legit can’t think of any right now, sorry! (Though, that might be because I’m tired as all hell at the moment).

14) Is there a pairing that you think rivals them?- In general terms, for the record, I don’t really compare ships from different fandoms to each other. It’s just never been a thing for me. In Cold Steel terms, I’d have to say not really. But Rean x Laura IS a close second. With Rean x Fie being third, and Rean x Towa being fourth, as well.

19) On an estimate, how many posts have you made about them? - Huh. I guess this would probably be the first one, actually. I don’t really have much in the way of ability to make my own posts and there isn’t much on this ship out there in general, sadly. Guess we’re in the same boat on that front, huh?