#aki x reader

[vevelt32]

eleanor rigby, born 1986 | chapter 2

what the body remembers

hayakawa aki x reader

summary:

In winter of 1995, more than a year and a half after Aki meets Makima, he learns you are her right hand. 

You are practiced, polite, and move through the halls of Public Safety as if you were born in its walls. At any gathering, you are always the first to take Makima’s coat, always the first to calmly order each one of your coworkers’ favorite dishes, and always the last to leave. It’s largely by chance that he meets you at all: mostly by virtue of being Himeno’s partner and Makima’s subordinate, the former of whom refers to you as her “favorite shady person”. And even if he feels inexplicably unsettled—that strange, dully aching contraction of his body and mind when you say something completely unexpected—Aki, in the winter of 1995, barely knows you. The two of you are strangers. Coworkers. Civil servants, devoted to hunting down the race that is devils. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

He’s not sure when it all began to read like a lie.

chapters: after life: | what the body remembers

chapter notes/warnings: 14k+ words, aftermath of parental suicide, graphic gore, body horror, child death, xenophobia, child exploitation, underage substance use. inspired by @yuexiaoshuo's bluebird series, please read & give lots of love to their amazing work!!

playlist link: https://www.tumblr.com/vevelt32/822598484440104960/eleanor-rigby-born-1983-a-playlist?source=share

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i. between your hands, your only life; in your heart, a plan

Four years after Aki becomes a dependent of the state, he is asked—not for the final time—what he wants to become. 

The question is common, and it always has been. The first time was on a sheet of paper, decorated by miniature illustrations of professions regularly chosen by his classmates. A smiling man holding up a Y-shaped tube, one end tucked into his ears and the other connected to a round metal disc. Several spaces to the right, another wearing a puffed hat while holding up a spatula and a frying pan. Underneath, labels for each profession in case a kid did not know the name: doctor, chef, police officer, pilot, scientist, teacher, musician… Framed by it all, neatly spaced characters with tiny hiragana guiding above: “when I grow up I want to be…”, joined by three empty spaces below, numbered first to last. By then he had already learned to read the kanji, but Ino-sensei went over them anyway: those two characters there were pronounced “shokugyo”, meaning what they could see themselves doing in about fifteen years or so as adults. The answers could be put down in any script they wanted, and they would be collected by the end of class.

It was the first time Aki had been asked to rank his dreams. It was also the first time that, as the scratch of pencils began to fill the classroom, he realized none came to mind. 

He’s not sure what he ended up writing down back then. Probably whatever three careers he first laid eyes on. It doesn’t matter anymore, because by fifteen, he knows that all of it is more a formality than anything. A way to gauge a student’s level of aspiration, whether they intended to remain in local employment or become a highly educated, contributing member of society—and if they chose the latter, whether their grades were good enough for it. That said, by fifteen, he also knows how to answer formalities: with a willingness to live, work hard, and bring something to the table despite the circumstances that had befallen him. A Gun survivor, but not just surviving. 

That is why when the memory surfaces of his parents’ surprise at the paper he had filled out, pinned up for inspection on a class observation day; his father’s passing remark at dinner that they weren’t aware Aki wanted to become an explorer; the expression of astonishment, then understanding and amazement and pure joy on Taiyo’s face—

He buries it.  

Placed carefully on the cubicle desk in front of him: another survey. The words are stark this time, without phonetic manuals or visual aids for the imagination. At the very top, penned in unambiguous strokes:

1. Lawyer

The ambient chatter of the teachers’ office is punctuated by the sounds of Tanaka-sensei rummaging through his drawer. From a creased manila folder labeled “Hayakawa Aki”, he pulls out a document dated two years prior. After comparing the questionnaire on the table to its near identical, younger predecessor, he remarks on how rare it is to see a student so sure of what to pursue in the future; the only thing that seems to have changed between the papers is Aki’s handwriting. A good first choice, too—God knows they need more people in the legal system, especially with the rise of devil contracts nowadays. 

He proceeds to give Aki the brief rundown while tapping his cigarette on an ashtray between piles of half-graded tests. His marks would justify applying to any one of those specialized humanities high schools in Tokyo, but since he also had above-average results in the sciences, there was always the option to just go to a highly-ranked regular one. If he wanted, he could even try submitting to that American foreign exchange program open to a limited number of students in the prefecture. It was his choice, really.

He remembers the expectant look in Tanaka-sensei’s eyes—the pride and conviction that Hayakawa Aki had prevailed against all odds.

“Anywhere in Sapporo is fine,” Aki said.

In the spring of 1991, he graduates from Moiwa Junior High. The gymnasium crowd is a sea of dark navies, blacks, and charcoal greys. Between rows of crying mothers, he finds the familiar smile of a part-time counselor at Kita-No-Hoshi. Afterwards, she tells him and the five other orphanage kids there to line up for a photo with their diplomas. The picture is printed on an institutional brochure with some statistic detailing the ratio of kids that go on to finish secondary education to those who don’t. That same year, he enters a decent high school that falls into the top ten in Hokkaido. He knows nobody there. 

Then, after completing twelve years of formal education at age eighteen, he becomes a devil hunter. 

ii. 29/10/1995

In the summer of 1995, you walk through the streets of Manaus, Amazonas—Brazil. 

The Zona Franca is a crucible of humidity, the scent of diesel fuel, and a sweet, heavy rot that can only belong to the rainforest pressing at its edges. The docks in the distance have long disappeared behind bustling shoulders: indigenous river-dwellers, wealthy Japanese and European corporate executives, Brazilian merchants, working-class factory hands all rubbing shoulders in the same tangle of color. With the crowd comes a prevailing taste of hunger and oxidized iron, as pervasive as the pride locals carry for the tax-free city that is theirs. You melt into it easily—another cell joining the living, breathing organism. 

It beats like a heart, this place. Corrugated tin roofs stitched into scar tissue, assembly plants embedded in jungle flesh. The flash of familiar logos amidst everything foreign—Sony and Honda—is almost unsettling, like pieces of rural Saitama dropped into the selva. Of course, this is not sensible; outsourcing is not displacement, after all, and here, diversity is accepted as lifeblood more than anything. Men drag televisions across uneven pavement; others bargain over videocassette players still boxed in Japanese. Soon, these purchases will travel thousands of miles south before appearing in storefront windows with impossible markups. 

And there it is, at the center of it all. 

Concrete brutalism blends strangely with the forest creeping over the factory’s shoulders. Still, more is familiar than not: sunlight glinting off rows of orange chainsaws, metallic shrieks splitting sawdust haze, hammering punctuated by the occasional clatter of timber. Razor wire tops the perimeter; your eyes trace it once before falling to the sweat-stained uniform before you. 

“Documento.”

You stare, blankly. Two seconds linger in buzzing silence. Then, a slightly nervous laugh. In Japanese: “Of course” —stop, correct after in earnest— “claro!”

You fumble slightly with the card before handing it over; it’s taken without another glance in your direction. Soon after, a single thumb jerks over: you’re in. The entrance answers with a metallic screech as it drives open. 

Your responding grin wavers, all crooked front teeth and crinkled eyes. 

As you pass, a guard swats lazily at a fly and asks in Portuguese if you’re really a devil hunter. The one that checked your credentials just snorts, adjusts his shirt, and tells him to not stick his nose where it doesn’t belong if he wants to get paid. Still, he can’t seem to help commenting that a jittery guy like you won’t last two hours in the forest. How the hell do you even plan to communicate with the contractors?

You suppose, as the doors close behind you, that the point is a good one.

After all, you can barely understand the language.

iii. 2/1/1996

When you are twenty years old, you stand alone before five members of the Cabinet Secretariat for the second time in your life. 

The meeting is called into session two days after Makima leaves for Fukushima. You’ve lost count of how many there have been during the past six years, but somewhere along the way, her presence beside you had become a constant. It had never been a habit of yours to mind the cold, but Special Conference Room No. 1 has always been strangely so—despite your poor memory, you still remember the first conference leaving your arms and legs numb in a way that subzero weather had never been able to. When you reluctantly told Makima this, she simply smiled, lowered herself to your eye level, and asked if you knew many animals slept beside each other during the winter to stay warm. She would come with you next time; perhaps sharing the body heat of another person would put you more at ease. You weren’t entirely sure you were talking about the same thing, but looking into her gaze then, the chill had soon given way to the renewed pump of warmth beneath your skin, steady and fervent all the same. 

The cabinet members choose not to comment on the state of your hair. Still, the moment you enter, the mouth of the leftmost man almost takes the shape of a familiar name. It’s understandable, seeing as you’ve even styled it the way she would: a single plait down the back, an eyebrow-skimming fringe, two locks untucked to frame the face. At Public Safety headquarters, you let it down loose; ever since the Christmas dinner, the similarity in color alone had made half the devil hunters you came across mistake you for Makima—braiding it would only multiply the confusion. This time, however, held still before five figures under light spilling from rows of ceiling-length windows, you find it strangely comforting to just let the blunder happen.

You can tell it unnerves them. It doesn’t show in their expressions—it never has—yet you feel it in the momentary, scalding touch of unease that suffuses your fingertips. Whether their apprehension was from the seemingly unexpected visit from Makima, or the fact that you looked like her… 

-

Humans dislike losing control. 

You mull over the thought as winter air greets you at the Kyoto-bound shinkansen exit. If things had gone as they had preferred, you envision you would have never been assigned so close to her. Of course, in that world, they would have never received the intelligence they just did—or in all likelihood, not long enough before everyone else for it to be useful. 

Spotting the blacked-out vehicle across the busy sidewalk, you wonder if they would have made the trade. A waste of time to deliberate, but you have some on your hands before things are supposed to get hectic. 

The car door clicks behind you, and the outside stills into a landscape framed by plastic trim. You notice the leather already heated as you settle into the backseat, which is strange because you rarely ever ask for it anymore; you barely even notice the numbness in your fingers nowadays. Curious, you look up to see—

—cobalt-blue irises. 

Your gazes meet through the rearview mirror. There, you catch his eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

“Hayakawa-san,” you greet, after a moment of pause. 

Based on what you’ve heard from Himeno, he rarely shows such visible surprise. You think she’ll be disappointed to have missed it.

“Hello,” he says finally. Then: “Is Makima-san not here?” 

Ah. 

You offer a pleasant tilt of your lips as you peel off your trench coat and begin to fold it in practiced motions. “I’m afraid she’s on a personal mission,” you reply, placing the cotton gabardine beside you. You would provide him a concrete date, but there’s no telling how long this one will go.

He waits for a few more seconds, then seems to realize that this is all you can give him. 

“I see,” he says, fingers tightening subtly on the steering wheel. You suppress a smile. Coming from Hayakawa Aki, the disappointment is near theatrical. Himeno told you it was “bad”—“ridiculous”, even—but apparently, you had not understood the extent of it. 

You decide ignorance is kindest.

“Tokyo headquarters, please,” you request. 

iv. 29/10/1995

Evening, now. Well, maybe. The canopy makes it difficult to tell time—green twilight is all you have been seeing for many hours now. Beneath you, the dirt road is rough and rutted and makes the car jolt in a jarring way that would make anyone sick enough to throw up over the side. 

Or just you, perhaps.

The window ledge presses hard into the flesh of your arm as you collapse back into the passenger seat. You can almost smell the distasteful look the driver shoots at the (wetted) hand you slap onto the center console. Sour, a little fermented, near sulfuric in the sweltering air… 

That might just be your vomit, actually. You’re not sure you can differentiate between the two currently. 

Thirty-two minutes later, they throw you out onto rugged ground. Your eardrums are ripped off like bandaids and replaced with new, alien ones exposed to high-frequency pulsing, clicking calls, and wails far too plaintive to be human. Handheld flashlights replace headlights, and engines tick to a cool as boots sink wetly into soil. After being joined by the two men in the heavy truck from behind, they tell the five of you to scout the area. More accurately, three of you will; the rest will stand guard around the transport vehicles. Twenty percent bonus for patrollers. 

Of course, it’s common courtesy to not mention that the incentive comes with an eighty percent higher chance of never returning. Maybe with a limb or two missing, if you had luck accrued generationally.

Radios and torchlights are distributed. The latter blurs the volunteers’ faces into pale ovals, but the rigid shoulder that brushes past suggests that one of them is the burly man you’d seen getting into the convertible half a day earlier. A phlegmy hacking sound carries away into the forest—another hunter, gone. You press yourself against the car’s dented metal, shrinking in anticipation for rough, arbitrary hands dragging out the last enlistee—

—but the sound of doors slamming shut suggests the quota has already been filled. It makes you think the smallish girl in the backseat may have gone, too. Even at first glance, she’d seemed quite stealthy. 

That leaves you and the stone-faced veteran with one arm. Not a word is spared for you as he briskly walks away—to take point on the other side, probably. 

And then you’re alone. Well, not really, because your contractor sits several feet away behind a hunk of plastic-steel frame, but alone enough. Enough for it to suddenly hit you just how large this place is. It’s nighttime, but is it really? The sky above you should have stars, but instead it’s made up of a constellation of nothingness. You’re told that scientists predict life in the distant universe; it doesn’t seem so distant now, and there’s a trail of sweat on your nape making you acutely aware that those lifeforms might not be as abstract as they’re made up to be. 

It’s also a little ironic how the train of thought makes you ignorant to the organism in your immediate vicinity. 

“You’ve got guts, coming out here for your first time,” a voice says, and you jump, nearly striking the source through the lowered car window—before abruptly freezing. Mainly because you get the sudden, rational impression that breaking your contractor’s nose with his flashlight would get you killed quicker than any devil in these woods.  

“How…” you struggle, Portuguese broken at best and unintelligible at worst. “How could you…”

He gives a derisive kind of snort. “Your fuckin’ face.”

To that, you find it difficult to reply. 

“I’m not completely new,” you insist at last, perhaps a little too forcefully. 

A moment of stillness. The urge to raise the light and expose his expression is all-encompassing. 

Finally, he says, “Guess so,” and it creeps with a slight lilt of amusement, bluntly honed and all too knowing. The dialect makes you think he must be from down south. “Weren’t tempted by the extra pay, were you?”

Three more minutes, then the screams start ringing out.

v. 8/1/1996

Over the next week and a half after the cabinet meeting, you learn that everything Makima defaults to you in her absence. 

You were aware of the fact that your workload would increase while she was gone; this was a given, considering the amount of paperwork she completed on a daily basis. So were the additional meetings with higher-ups, and the occasionally (frequently, if you were being completely honest) drawn-out mission reports at several odd hours of the day. You had no issues with any of this—it would take time to adjust back to office work after so long, but there was no question about it being less physically taxing than the last year and a half you’d spent out in the field. 

What you hadn't expected, however, was for her driver to become yours. 

Actually, “driver” might be inaccurate. “Persistent volunteer”, perhaps. This is because you know for sure that chauffeuring you to headquarters isn’t in his job title, yet seven out of ten times a Public Safety vehicle waits outside of any conference you attend, Hayakawa Aki is in the front seat. The probability of him happening to be assigned missions in the same area you are, and of him happening to be passing by each time you leave, realistically seems much lower.

Admittedly, you are not very taken aback—Himeno had informed you of his dedication to your shared superior, and you quickly concluded that all of this was in the hopes of seeing her—but the feeling remains nonetheless. 

In any case, the two of you settle into some kind of pseudo-routine. First, you get in the car. Second, he silently checks that you are not Makima. Third, you greet each other. Fourth, you both sit in mutual, uncomplicated silence until you reach headquarters. Finally, there are the formalities of thanking him for the ride, his short nodding, the efficient goodbye. Then, of course: coming back face to face in Makima’s office and listening to his mission report as if the two of you hadn’t seen each other ten minutes prior. 

It’s not a very elaborate nor friendly ritual, but you suppose it’s something.

The quiet is something you are grateful for. Especially when you have attended twelve meetings in the past seven days, and each one has left your headache worse than the last. Target, erasure, yakuza—those words seem to be all that fill your mind nowadays. Safe to say, you welcome the eight days during which there’s no need for customary small talk because the devil hunter doing the favor of transporting you back to Public Safety is someone you already know. Well—to be fair, you’re acquainted with most people at the agency. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that you’re starting to see (and appreciate) what Himeno meant when she called her partner a man of strictly necessary words. You tell her this, and she just sighs before replying that she wished he talked more. 

Maybe that is why you are both surprised by the fact that, on the seventh day of—whatever this is, you say something to him that is not a greeting, thanks, or cue for him to begin his case review. 

“Hayakawa-san,” you say, when the car is stopped at a crossing. It’s not yet evening, but the stoplight distorts as if it is; you take this as a bad sign, and just hope that it doesn’t show in your voice. “Would you mind taking a detour?”

You think he glances back at you through the rearview mirror, but your eyes close for a moment too long to tell.

“No,” he replies. “Where to?”

The high-pitched chirping from the pedestrian light makes rounds in the space of your skull. Your hand blindly draws open the pleats of your coat, searching for the flap pocket where you store the engraved tin—mints, and… the plastic container—filled with antacids. Most of the time in a vehicle, you reflexively reach for the latter, but right now it’ll interfere with the substance you really need. Haphazardly, your fingers close over the rest: a miniature glass bottle for iron supplements, a crinkling pack of Vitamin C gummies. Not ideal, but they’ll do for now. 

Still, you’re not sure if the two will be able to hold you over until you arrive at headquarters.

“There’s a group of apartment blocks five streets down,” you tell him, gathering saliva in your mouth in preparation for swallowing the tablet dry. Not the first time you’ve had to do so without water, but it never seems to get any easier. The taste will hopefully be cleared away by the sweetness of the gummies. “You’ll have to take a left on the last.”

Blood deficiency isn’t uncommon to develop later in life. You had always assumed that it was something you were born with, but this was not the case. Gazing out the window, you find that it helps with the lightheadedness to spectate the hundreds out of millions of Tokyoites who are out and about on 4 PM on a Tuesday; to wonder whether they are leaving work early or just now clocking in, if their families are waiting for them at home, what they would like to eat for dinner, and if they have anemia. Possibly the elderly chestnut seller, as people over the age of 65 are susceptible. Much less likely is the adolescent boy walking through the crowd with the black randoseru—starting at puberty, girls are at significantly higher risk due to blood loss, diet, the ordinary inconveniences of becoming a woman. 

The female body goes through so many chronic changes, you think as your eyes travel some buildings ahead. They land on a woman, laughing with a man—her husband, and the two of them are expecting. You know this from occasional encounters in the hallways while leaving for work—you’d once helped her carry groceries to her floor. I'm always low on iron nowadays, she'd explained after thanking you with a relieved smile, one palm supporting her back. I love our little Takeru, but he does make me a bit dizzy sometimes. 

The hand is now replaced by her husband’s—unspoken, steadying—behind her waist.

“Here is fine,” you tell Aki. 

He pulls over beside the complex. It takes a few tries for him to get into the crowded space, but seeing as he likely just got his license upon turning twenty, his parallel parking skills aren’t by any means bad. All in all, it’s a welcome slowing of pace for your vertigo.

Golden light spills over your hands as you tuck the supplements back into your coat. Undoing your seatbelt and tugging the wool over your shoulders, you savor the warmth of the vehicle’s interior. The walk from the side road to your apartment lobby isn’t long—in fact, you envision less than thirty-two steps in between—but the sun is beginning to set, and the cold always feels a little more encompassing when you’re like this. 

Your hand is on the door handle when he speaks. 

“Do you need help?” he asks, and you can tell the question has been weighing on his mind from the way he regards you directly—eye-to-eye, not through the looking-glass. The line of his eyebrows is drawn imperceptibly. 

“No,” you reply. The word is short, a little more bare than any answer you would usually give. You blame your current state. It’s also far too curt of a response to a well-intentioned query, so you add: “You can return to headquarters first. Please don’t wait for me.”

He pauses. The glow of his side profile is momentarily displaced by the shadow of a passing motorcycle, leaving his expression difficult to make out. Composure? Concern? Skepticism, maybe? You wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to gauge whether this was an elaborate attempt for you to slack off during work hours. Reasonable, you suppose, since you asked him to drive you home in a work vehicle out of the blue. 

“How will you get back?” he questions.

Hayakawa Aki has a way of noticing things. That does not exclude you, his temporary superior. It’s quite admirable, really. You get why Himeno thinks so highly of him. 

You smile and tell him you’ll take the train. By the time he can respond, the door is clicking shut, and you are already gone. 

vi. 29/10/1995

You jerk when the first shriek pierces the air. Faraway, indistinct—you can’t tell if it’s child or adult, male or female. The only thing recognizable is the reek of it: pungent, fast-spreading, unmistakable fear. 

The jungle shudders around you, almost animate.

Your contractor pulls you into the passenger’s seat. You’re sweating and shaking and near pissing your pants, but you ask if you don’t need to wait for the others, there was only one scream, what about the others—

Too late already. The logging operation is canceled tonight. The area: contaminated.

There’s more exasperation in his voice than anything when he starts the engine. Distantly, you hear the click of the other truck’s door closing. He seals the windows and wrenches the steering column backwards like he’s done it thousands of times before. Mutters all the while, though the blood thudding in your ears renders most of it indistinct. Something about those bichos do mato and their fucking contracts.

You think your blood ought to be running cold, but the AC is turned up too high to tell.

vii. 1/12/1989

When you are fourteen years old, Makima gives you a journal for remembering. 

Two-hundred twenty-eight pages. Off-white paper, lined. The binding is softcover, lined with beige thread, and includes an elastic band to hold the entire thing closed. Tucked against the spine: a nondescript black pen for writing. 

She wanted you to grow the habit of recording each day’s events. Not just what happened—completing your first patrol, watching the sunset on the rooftop, meeting a new devil hunter—but also how it made you feel. For example: were you proud of yourself for successfully preventing that devil attack on five civilians? Did the colors of dusk make you feel calm, or uneasy for the end of daytime? Did you sense acceptance when you were talking to the man? Or instead, disapproval? Disgust? Things like these were important to document; they gave people insight into their deepest and truest thoughts, who they really were—who you were.

Memories shape who we are, she told you. Losing them takes away a piece of our identity. 

You looked down at the notebook in your hands, back up at her. You understood why she was giving it you, how it was meant to help—and still, you couldn't help but say in quiet, half-protest: 

But I remember things, Makima-san. 

She had just smiled and drawn you closer into her embrace. Your eyes closed as you felt the gentle drag of her fingers through your hair. The movement made the leatherbound cover press against your chest, and you wondered if you weren’t holding it, you would feel her heart beating against yours.  

Just in case, she murmured.

Looking back now, it makes you wonder how long she knew.

viii. 29/10/1995 

“I don’t want to die,” the girl tells you. 

She speaks Portuguese with an accent. At the end of her words is a distinct “sh” sound; you would have noticed if she had spoken at all, back in the car. You wonder if she had accounted for the possibility, and that was why she hadn’t. 

“I know,” you say, unmoving from where her head lies in your lap. The weight of it presses your knees against the damp forest floor.  

“I want my mother.” 

“I know,” you say again, applying pressure against the patch of darkness seeping through her wrapped lower abdomen. She barely flinches; illuminated by the fire, her eyes are glassy. You’ve long abandoned the foreign intonation to your own words in an effort to make them easily comprehensible. “Tell me about her. What does she look like?”

Head lolling slightly, she asks, “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” you reply. “Tell me about her.”

The light lines her features in sharp, jaunted angles, but you can tell from her voice that she cannot be older than her early teens. “Dark hair,” she begins slowly, then swallows before adding, “like yours. A little browner—this long. Her skin is warm. Her shoulders are slanted from carrying my brothers. And when she smiles, there are wrinkles—here. Right here.”

Calloused fingertips brush over the tops of your cheeks, just below the lower lashline.  

“Her voice,” you urge quietly.

The sound of her arm falling back to the ground is consumed by the high-pitched snap of wood and metal burning to the bone. Underlain by the pulse of the surrounding forest, her next breath is shuddering and raspy—the parts of her throat dismantled. “She is very good at singing. Always the low parts, and it sounds so beautiful,” she briefly closes her eyes, smothering the embers reflected there as if kindling an invisible memory. “Like harmonizing above water in a cave. She used to sing and dance a lot before she had us, and she wants to teach me how. I promised…” 

“You promised?” you murmur. 

“I promised—to learn. I always dreamed of dancing as well as she does…”

You cradle her gently. “Then dream, now.”

“But,” she struggles, “I haven't learned…” 

“You will,” you say. 

Your palm slides against the softness of her cheek, and her fingers rise to grip it. Again, you are reminded of her youth. In your arms is a child.

“Promise?” she breathes, this time in her native tongue. “Promise to teach me when I wake up?”

The inferno mirrored in her eyes gives back a face assembled from borrowed things. Hazily lit by melting vehicles and crumbling industry: a familiar mouth, crooked eyes. Half-remembered cheeks and rounded shoulders, made to embrace her own. You look down at her, brushing the matted hair from her sweat-slicked forehead. Smile, with all the warmth there is left. The way you imagine the woman in the girl’s memories might have—the way Makima did to you, on that winter day she found and saved you. 

When you speak, your voice is dulcet, melodic. A mother’s. 

“Promise.”

ix. 14/2/1990

“So you’d always know if a devil was tricking you?”

Himeno doesn't respond. Instead, she flicks open her lighter and watches the flame set the tip of her smoke aglow. Light dances in the darkness of her pupils as she inhales, breathes out. Grey, industrial mist escapes her. Your eyes follow the shift of her fingers, enraptured, as she sets the stick loosely between the tips of them. 

Her pupils, half-obscured by the lower lashline, tick to you in a single movement. 

“Do this one more time,” she says, “and I’ll kill you.”

Look down, aside, then away. 

Not too slow, because then it’ll seem like you are. But also not overly quick, so it doesn’t betray the fear once perpetually lodged in the crevices of you (underneath your fingernails, in the marrow of your bones, between the folds of your brain). A careful thing, a procedure you’ve created over years and years of trial and error. It seems like the habit has never left your body, even after all that’s happened. Even when the anatomy isn’t really yours, not anymore. 

You hate to think that the reflex is now the only thing you really own. 

Focus on an object in the environment. The sky has gone slightly dark—that mild purplish-blue right before the Tokyo skyline lights up in miniature stars, almost like a bruise two days old. It makes things in the distance a little too hazy to see. You suppose you could use the tiled floor under your hands, but all it does is remind you of your proximity to the woman beside you. Despite looking elsewhere, you can reconstruct her face from memory. In the past few weeks, you’ve been learning it by heart: darkish eyes that are blue up close, a subtly tapered chin, a mouth that used to grin a little more easily, even if it didn’t really with you. Maybe because of the scars and injuries she’s recently gotten—

You settle on counting the squares in the rooftop’s crisscrossed metal railing, but the thought still surfaces:

It must hurt.

Inadvertently, your gaze travels to her once more: another bad habit, back from when your life was full of them. You watch her take another drag as if it’s oxygen. Does it dull the pain?

Maybe you should ask if it hurts. It seems like a better choice than to just remain silent—like something her partner would have asked.

But by the time your lips part to speak, Himeno already is. 

“You didn't ask for a cigarette,” she states. 

You pause, then slowly look over. Slowly. 

The stare she has on right now—the one fixed a point somewhere far away into the distance—is lacking. Surprise, betrayal, fury: none of the things that you expected to be there, supposed to be staining the shape of her voice, are. It makes it feel like you're stumbling around in a dark room, unable to see or hear or make a sound.

You think it would have sent a chill down your spine if your body still allowed it. 

The next words out of her are slow, deliberate:

“Sasaki-chan,” she says, “always asked for a cigarette.” Her eyes return to you. They don't scare you, you think, but your body thinks they do—yet another bad habit. “You never did.”

Either way, you suppose there’s no point to playing pretend anymore. 

“Oh,” you say. 

The skin melts off first. It's a viscous, gluey thing that dissolves back into the pores, a few tones darker than your usual. Always leaves you feeling a little colder than before, as if you’ve shed all your clothes. Your hair straightens slightly, and the set line of your nose and jaw thaws into something a little softer, younger. There’s the sound of flesh sliding against fabric as the uniform you’re wearing expands around you—or rather, you shrink in it. 

By the time you’re fully reverted, Himeno and you no longer sit shoulder-to-shoulder, and you have to look up at her when you ask:

“What else gave it away?”

Her expression is unreadable as she meets your gaze, but not as unreadable as before. 

“Sasaki-chan is dead,” she says finally. You focus intently this time on the color of her words (cool, winter-blue), the way the evening shadows move on her face (barely), the (not complete, but relative) stillness of it. To your relief, you finally begin to hear the beginnings of something recognizable. “I’ve got a new buddy now.”

Disgust, maybe. 

And… something ugly. Something tired. You think you know what that is, too.

You’d been suspecting it might have been the curls, which were much more difficult to replicate accurately than you'd expected. Now that there’s another explanation, you suppose the results aren’t entirely null; you don’t remember her looking at the partner called Sasaki the way she’s watching you now, but seeing as Sasaki’s dead, it seems like an appropriate reaction. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. You should have checked the imitation’s status before usage, but you didn’t. So you’d failed. 

Again.

“Sorry,” you tell her.

She lets out another opaque exhale, leaning backwards in a way that slants the strands framing her cheeks. The evening breeze drives the smoke directly into your eyes.

“No,” she replies, “you're not.”

“I'm… not,” you agree. 

Another day, another face. You thought it would get better over time, but it’s the opposite of how it was supposed to be. 

You are fifteen when you realize that Himeno understands you far better than you ever could her.

x. 29/10/1995

Eat or be eaten. Survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed, law of the jungle, every man for himself, and, in true canine fashion, dog eat dog. 

You think the last idiom should be edited if meant for practical, real-world use—which to be fair, it isn’t. No, it isn't uncommon for a hound to turn to cannibalism when faced with extreme hunger, stress, isolation, the like. But don’t all animals? Even humans—the cultural, social animal supposedly most repulsed by said idea—have resorted to the act when starvation outlasted taboo. Shipwrecks. Frozen expeditions. Brutal winter in the first American settler colonies, a plane crash stranding the Uruguayan rugby team high in the Andes. It takes hold agonizingly each time—after weeks of isolation, exhaustion, and the acute torment of being eaten alive by one’s own stomach—but in the end, it always does. And it’s rooted in the same biological frenzy and fear that dogs know.

Fear of starving. Fear of dying. Fear of disappearing. 

On an Earth populated with successful lifeforms that fight to live and breathe and eat, it’s inevitable that devils came to be. First came the primal fears—the original companions of life, simply because life wished to continue. Death. Then Darkness, the terror of being unable to see what could cause Death. To warn of the fatal dangers in the space around oneself, Falling. And of course, dread for even the slowest death of all: Aging. 

Then, the cultivated fears. Born from mankind were those like Curse, Gun, Eternity, and the rest—smaller, weaker devils that were born fearing Death just like humans. Like any organism, they instinctually sought to live. Except—unlike any other species—sustenance for them primarily came from the blood of people and each other.

Perhaps dogs eat dogs, and humans one another, but you have never seen an instinct so primal as the one that drives devils to devour other devils. 

Perhaps that is why you search the corpse for something conceptually absurd. 

Around you: carcasses. Limbs outstretched, all face-down. Above the nape, sunken depressions deform the previously spherical domes of their heads. The blunt-force impact of wood has left scalps swollen and ruptured, bones caving into pools of bruising beneath flesh. They’re barely human, really—just as recognizable as the dented pieces of vehicle littered across scorched grass. In the early dawn light, once-colorless liquid leaks from ears, glistening between clefts of jaw and neck; you imagine the cerebrospinal fluid leaking from their noses has long begun to enrich the Amazonian soil. 

You are on your knees before rotting carrion—a form that is vaguely humanoid, yet colossal in a way that is not. Most substantial, the head: a wide, flattened shaft stained in oxidized red. Fine etchings are carved into dark, petrified ironwood. 

Peel down the skin in long, fibrous strings, down to the ribcage woven with roots from the mangrove tree. There are splinters in your fingertips, gore beneath your nails. In the chest, toxic sap wells in a cavity of wood-grained beef. You have already excavated the heart and lungs; your skeleton vibrates with each pulse of the burl node you’d carefully buried deep in the earth with its human contractor. Next, you reach for the rotting log pit smelling of acidic miasma, easing through the parasitic vines attempting to strangle the wound shut. 

There, in the stomach, you find it. 

xi. 15/2/1990

“Makima-san,” you say, fingers brushing through soft fur, “I think I made someone mad.”

From the corner of your gaze, you watch her lower her cup of tea, revealing calm eyes and the subtle curves of her face. 

Tiramisu pants happily beneath your touch.

The dogs at home are not fussy things. Time, money, space—these are all things needed in extensive amounts to raise eight Siberian Huskies under one roof. And because you never had such resources in abundance, when Makima introduced you to them for the first time, you were fairly alarmed. It wasn’t just the overwhelming effect of countless canine bodies and lolling tongues crowding you all at once, although that did play a role; rather, it was the immediate concern of eight lives depending on one, and then of how much it all cost—the food bill, checkups, vaccines, what about emergency care—

—until Makima placed a warm hand on your shoulder, whistled a sharp note until the dogs were arranged in an obedient circle, and you realized with a start that there would be no need to worry.

“It’s the devil hunter I’m working on right now,” you continue, letting Cocoa nudge under your arm as you pat Tiramisu’s underbelly. “I didn't expect her to figure me out and get angry.” Your hand pauses, and the light-coated dog gives a curious tilt of her head. “Well, I knew it would make her angry, but…”

Makima sets down the glass, steam curling. A faint scent of earth fills the air. “You were following my orders,” she finishes gently.

You hesitate, searching for any traces of disappointment in her tone. Finding none, you nod slowly. “...Yes.” A moment passes before you add: “It was good practice, like you said it would be. I’ve gotten better at visualizing the hard parts.”

Makima hums—a quiet tone of consideration—before responding. “Then what’s bothering you?”

Cream Puff pads over to settle on your lap. 

For some reason, you find yourself unable to reply. Staring down at the tepid, woolly limbs sprawled across your legs, you consider why. 

What is bothering you?

People have always been more difficult than animals. At least, that’s what you imagine you would’ve concluded had you ever been able to afford raising one. Still, you’d never envisioned any pet—definitely not yours, seeing as you were far more likely to take in a stray than any socialized companion—could be as perfectly behaved as Makima’s. Even now, gathered around the low table in the living room, not one dog lunges for the biscuits between you. No matter what shape or form you take, they seem perfectly content to lie beside you, wanting nothing but your attention. Probably because unlike the friends and family of the many bodies and faces you'd stolen, they tell you apart by scent.

You don’t think anybody will be looking at you with such unconditional fondness for a long time.

All you can do is stare at the smooth, wooden expanse of the floor as the words leave your mouth. “Do you think they could have known that I was tricking them?” you ask quietly. “All of them?”

When you finally gather the courage to look back up at Makima, you find her smiling. She leans forward, resting her chin between the cradle of her thumb and index finger. “What do you think?”  

You follow her fifth digit brush indistinctly across the border of her lip.

Again, your gaze falls. You try to ignore that you've now failed to maintain eye contact with her for the third time in a row. 

The sudden, aimless trickle of thoughts is an old instinct, born from childhood: whenever someone would ask a question you didn’t know how to answer (are you waiting for your father? Why are you eating so little? No way, are the rumors true? How does it feel to—you know—be one of them?), your mind would scatter elsewhere instead. It seems you haven’t outgrown the bad habit, because all you can currently think of is escape. Into a memory, maybe, where a secure ending is already set and all conditions are known. Where there are no unknowns. 

Like the first time Makima bought you Shiroi Koibito cookies, identical to the ones in front of you now.

Until she’d taken you in, you’d never tasted Hokkaido’s most iconic souvenir. Ironic, considering you grew up there, but probably common among residents—after all, the product was designed as a gift for tourists. When Makima asked how you could tell, you replied that it was clear from the meticulous packaging for every biscuit, the European-style winter landscapes on the cover box, and the name. She’d tilted her head at this, and you went on to tentatively explain that as a local, there were only so many winters you could endure before the white landscape became more of a daily struggle than any kind of wonderland. To you, the season meant severe transit delays, freezing temperatures, and massive sheets of snow abruptly crashing off rooftops. It did have its moments, but mostly just in the movies. In reality, the good parts didn’t happen frequently enough to earn the term ‘shiroi koibito’—white lovers, the name of the confectionary line so closely tied with the snow-capped prefecture.

Then, she asked about you.

The question drew you out of your spiraling thoughts (whether you had spoken too much, too little, sounded overly childish or excessively resigned). Thankfully, your voice stayed level while asking what she meant.

Makima had only smiled—gently, as if she could read it all. “The ‘good parts’,” she said, repeating your own words back to you. “Tell me about yours.”

Involuntarily, you thought of cold days spent inside, curled against a steady shoulder. Images from a TV screen, flashing vibrant on the planes of your father’s glasses: Saturn’s pixelated rings, the towering Library of Alexandria, an endless scroll mapping the 13.8 billion-year history of the universe onto a single calendar year. Laughter spilling from your lips as a familiar weight tackled you into the snow, two shoulders sidled close for warmth. Looking into a boy’s eyes on a windy rooftop, and thinking that yes, maybe life was shitty, but this part might be okay. Better than okay.

Looking into a boy’s eyes as you wiped away the wetness on his cheeks, his grip tight around your wrist like he never wanted to let go.

Looking into a boy’s eyes for the last time as they dimmed, and he fell into a deep, unknowing sleep. 

You’d built many lies over your fifteen years of life, but you’ve only ever told one to Makima. You did so when she asked if you possess any special memories about the winters in Hokkaido, and you replied that none were so memorable. 

In a way, you guess it isn’t so different from her present question. 

What do you think? Do you think they could have noticed you weren’t the real version?

Finally, you lift your gaze to hers. “No.”

Or, rather: did they ever truly know the person you were imitating?

The more you speak, the more certain you become. “It wouldn’t be realistic,” you continue, testing the remark on your tongue. It tastes of nothing. “Most people don’t know each other so well.”

It tastes of nothing, but only when Makima’s lips curve in understanding do you hear the implication of your own words:

Most people don’t know each other so well. 

Except for Himeno and Sasaki. 

Makima takes a biscuit between her fingers, plate clinking softly. 

Except for me and—

When she speaks, you discover that you were waiting for the sound of her voice: for the quiet serenity of it, for the part that makes it all make sense again. Her words have never led you wrong.

“Why don't you try a little longer?” she asks.

You remember her lips closing around pale beige, and thinking the rounded shape looked so beautifully understated beside the delicate lines of her profile. Like something straight out of those old films your father used to watch, entirely ordinary except for that occasional scene where it felt like all the colors in the cosmos were coming to life. 

“Try a little longer?” you echoed.

“Get to know Himeno,” she said calmly. “Make yourself indispensable. Then determine whether there is truly something between two people that can’t be imitated.”

In the childhood you remembered, there had been no such thing as white lovers. Or maybe there had been—maybe you were wrong. You weren’t sure if it would matter. Either way:

Distance, you supposed, had a way of whitening everything.

xii. 6/11/1995

INCIDENT REPORT: PS-DIV0-1995-0111

Date of Incident: October 29 1995

Date Filed: November 1 1995

Reporting Officer: REDACTED

Location: REDACTED

Subject Entity: REDACTED, Borduna Devil 

Threat level: Class-B Intermediate, elevated following ingestion of REDACTED

Operational Summary: 

At 02:59 hours, Borduna Devil summoned by unregistered unidentified minor in central-north REDACTED amid ongoing covert operation in commercial expedition by Special Division 0 asset (status REDACTED). Target neutralized by REDACTED asset. REDACTED recovered. No evacuation completed prior to engagement. 

Chronology of Events: 

03:02: Borduna Devil eliminates 2 civilian devil hunters contracted for expedition. 

03:09: Borduna Devil attacks expedition vehicles, resulting in catastrophic thermal event. 

03:10: Three expedition supervisors and 1 contracted civilian devil hunter eliminated by Borduna Devil. Asset engages Borduna Devil. 

03:20: Target neutralized by asset. 

04:05: REDACTED recovered via manual on-field autopsy.

Casualties & Damages:

Civilian Casualties: 8 confirmed dead; 0 injured.

Personnel Status: Minimal physical injuries recorded.

Property Damage: Moderate. Limited fire caused by detonation of automobile engines. 

Officer Remarks:

Limited ingestion of REDACTED resulted in significant enhancement of target strength. Additionally, summoning and subsequent feeding of REDACTED to Borduna Devil may have been associated with ongoing conflict between REDACTED indigenous communities and commercial expeditions operating in the region.

Signature: REDACTED

Approved by: Makima

xiii. 5/11/1995

The air smells of damp shoe soles as you feed the first deutsche mark into the payphone. Outside the booth, heels squeak and suitcase wheels whir against mopped floors. You wait for the coin to register with a heavy, metallic clink before inserting the next. 

Two zeroes, to signal an international outbound call from Germany; an eighty-one, to route it directly to Japan. Drop the leading null when entering three, the area code for Tokyo. There’s a worn note in your right pocket should you ever forget what to enter as the remaining digits, but this time, you still remember. Most of the time, you remember. You’ve only been unable to recall her phone number once or twice in the last five years. But even if it did slip your mind, your fingers have mapped this pattern so many times that you think your body would instinctively take care of the rest. Across countless payphones, the only things that have really changed are the country, the date, and occasionally, your age.

The dial tone stops, replaced by a high-pitched, double-ring signal. You’re vaguely aware of the receiver coating your hand in a thin layer of grease—moisture, sweat, possibly even fryer grease drifting over from the fast-food joint down in the main concourse. Still marginally better compared to the one in Canada. 

Then, a familiar voice. 

“Yeah, hello? Division two. If this isn’t a devil, call back later.”

“Himeno-san,” you say, watching the credit on the screen begin to drop rapidly. Ten point zero zero, nine point seven zero, nine point four zero deutsche marks. You would greet her, but assume from experience she’d probably like to spend the time discussing other things. “I have two minutes.”

A moment of silence—

—followed by a long, drawn out crackle from her side of the line. A sigh, probably. “Jeez,” she gripes, and you imagine her eyebrows knitting together the way they do whenever voicing a petty grievance or complaint. “It’s been a year and eight months, you know.”

You feel the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. “I know. I’ll apologize properly when I arrive in Japan.”

“You know that you’re not really sorry if you keep doing it again, right?”

“I’ll apologize for that, too.”

“Forget it,” she says. “You can pay me with dinner when you get back. Preferably with booze and a side of cigs.”

A lenient compromise. “Do you still smoke Wild Raven?”

She hums in agreement. “When are you landing? And where?”

You calculate automatically. Frankfurt to Tokyo takes roughly thirteen hours, though the weather reports in the terminal have been increasingly unpromising. The layover might extend for another few hours at best, more at worst. “Narita, maybe within the next day or so.”

“Uh huh,” she responds. You get the distinct impression she is frowning. “I meant a specific hour.”

Six point nine zero, six point six zero deutsche marks left. You consider how to explain your reply in the least amount of words possible—before settling on a modest four. “The layover weather’s shitty.”

At this, she lets out a rare laugh—real, tinged with surprise. “Wow,” she remarks. “Bad enough for you to swear? Delay must be terrible.” Then, a pause. “Hey, shouldn’t you be waiting inside for them to call for boarding? How’d you even get the money for this call?”

The first answer comes easily. “The payphone’s next to my gate,” you tell her. “And—”

The second is less straightforward. Remembering the suited figure in your periphery, you tilt your head backwards to give him a full view of the coy grin that spreads across your face. The band on his ring finger (not ideal, but you were in a rush) glints under fluorescent light as he gestures over his shoulder—to some kind of famous nightclub in Terminal 1, Hall C. Techno. Trance. Enormous speakers. Nothing of interest, really, except for the pair of lousy, five-mark coins he’d offered in exchange for your time. 

“—I had some money left over from the last time I was at this airport.” 

It’s a good thing she can’t see your face, you think. She has a strange ability to pinpoint when you’re lying—maybe because she’d known you back when you were clumsy at it. If she can nevertheless hear the fabrication in your voice, you know Public Safety policy makes for a good excuse; overseas assignments have always been classified, after all. That said, you also know that she hates that they are, so you try to compensate however you can. You do this firstly by telling her, “I’ll contact you when I land.”

She pauses. For a second, you think she’ll call you out on the flimsy restitution, but she doesn’t. “Fine,” she relents, and you can almost see her casual expression as she leans backwards. You think you hear Konoha in the background, the rookie she’d been training back when you were at headquarters, but recently you’ve been filling in silence too often for it to be convincing. “I’ll drive you home, then.”

One point eight zero. One point five zero. “You can drive?”

“Only because Aki hasn’t gotten his—”

You interrupt her at zero point nine zero. “Himeno-san, the line’s about to cut.”

She lets out an exhale quick enough to fast-track exasperation, then begins to talk at twice the speed. “Right, right. Don’t go dying while I’m offline, got it? I’ll—”

A sharp, heavy thunk inside the machine as the final denomination unit clears. The decapitation of Japanese mid-vowel is immediate, absolute, and leaves no trail. 

—kill you if you do.

The receiver drops back onto its hook with a plastic clack. You’re not in the habit of checking for leftover change; still, you let your fingernails scrape the bottom of the coin exchange to buy yourself some time while you think. 

For cigarettes and alcohol, the duty-free shops in the Central Building. You remember seeing Wild Raven packs with special packaging the last time you were at Narita, so you might get that. The western liquor—blended scotch whisky or cognac, maybe a Rémy Martin—would have to be bought with your older identification, although you would of course buy her dinner and drinks separately, too. Oh, not to mention the apfelwein already in your suitcase for her and Makima. Other than that… 

Aki. It’s the first time she’s mentioned her newest partner. You haven’t heard the name since last year, when Makima informed you of Public Safety’s newest addition right before you left for Korea. 

You begin to turn just as a slice of damp air hits your neck; the sound of polyglot chatter and the airport PA system cut through quiet. Smiling bright, you meet the blonde man’s gaze head-on. 

“Ready?” he asks, adjusting his trench coat with a kind of urgent excitement that seems to universally infect clubgoers. In contrast, the question is slow, each consonant pronounced as though he expects you to miss it.

Your eyes don’t stray to his hand. Not when you brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Not when you make a show of deliberating, nor when you slot your fingers between his like depositing coins into a meter. Not even when you wonder if his wife knows her husband picks up girls he thinks can’t speak German at Frankfurt Airport between his business trips. 

Hayakawa Aki, you muse. 

When you speak, your accent is light. Slightly uncertain. Softening the deutsch to give it a less guttural, more foreign texture, you tell him:

“Ready.”

xiv. 5/11/1995

Nestled in the crevices of your heart: a multitude of secrets uncleared to anyone beneath a certain level of security authorization. One of them is the location of the soundproofed room you stand in now. Another—likely even more confidential—is the contents of the stainless steel container held in your hands. 

They ask how many grams are needed for the mass to begin gravitating towards the main body. You reply that the specific thresholds are undefined, but based on precedents set by Gun Devil flesh, it could take anywhere between ten to fifty grams of pure, uncontaminated tissue. The next question is how much has already been recovered. Again, this is difficult to determine. The fragments are scattered across the world in miscellaneous places; the Amazon Rainforest may have seemed like an intuitive choice due to the timber harvesting there, but scraps have been found at stranger sites. Brazil, Canada, Korea, Mexico, Nigeria, China, the United States and USSR: there’s no saying whether the amount you’ve gathered over the last year and a half makes a majority of the total, or whether those pieces merely scratch the surface. 

And of course, most critically: is any other country aware of this information? The Soviet Hawks? The Americans or Chinese Internationalists? You tell them it’s possible, but unlikely. Firstly, you’ve covered all regions where logging rates are highest—areas they would check first if they thought to at all. Secondly, all government officials and civilian hunters known to possess explicit knowledge have either been eliminated or bribed into silence. Thirdly, governments are so preoccupied with acquiring Gun Devil flesh that any abnormal boost in devil activity should be attributed to the aforementioned entity. Regardless, the assumption that these facts will stay hidden for more than another year and a half is far-fetched. It would be preferable to find the target within said timeframe.

This begs the final question—where is it now? 

Until now, the queries have all had answers suggested or inferrable from mission reports. This one, however, does not. When you were younger, it always seemed counterintuitive that the most secret things were never recorded. Wasn't that kind of stuff the most important to remember? Now, you understand why. There is some information where even the most infinitesimal risk of exposure—whether that be due to existence in a throwaway note, an official document, or even an unbreakable cipher—cannot be condoned.

You step forward, and open the box.

Before you sit five suited men and women, surveying the contents in various states of deliberation. On your leftmost end, a sparsely haired man leaning on his wrist; the woman that sits beside him has adopted a similar position. Both of their children attend a prestigious preparatory academy in Tokyo. In the center, a hooked nose and half-lidded eyes; the owner of these features is distantly connected to the rightmost figure through a second niece. The cabinet member between them has no familial relations to the rest of the table, but has possibly been embezzling government funds since 1992. 

They’ve watched you grow up in this room. Observed while you learned to stand with your hands behind your back, the way Makima did. Here, you’ve shrunk under their gazes, shivered when you thought they weren’t looking, and signed countless unequal contracts. Now, illuminated by afternoon light, there isn’t a single part of you—not the unfamiliar, pale auburn of your locks, nor the calmness in your eyes—left hidden. The place at your side is empty, and you have long developed a resistance to the cold. 

In your hands, meat: burnt-orange, charcoal-black. Metallic fibers embed the tissue, resembling tiny saw-blade teeth. The air fills with a mechanical hum—then, the scent of old motor oil and rusted blood. The sample isn’t yet large enough to exactly pinpoint its owner, but crucially had stopped moving as soon as you landed at Narita Airport.

“We believe,” you say, “that Chainsaw is in Japan.”

xv. 19/9/1996

Over the years, you think Himeno has grown an irrational hatred for the words “overseas”, “classified”, and—most of all—“I’ll call you”. You take full responsibility for the last one because it’s pretty undeniable the source of her dislike for it is you. Specifically: the many, many occasions where you’ve told her you would contact her (when you got off the plane, when you arrived home, when you—as per her casual request—were bored enough to sit next to her while she downed five bottles of booze) and in fact did not. Well, you did, but always far past what she considered the due date. You’re admittedly surprised she still picks up every time. 

As for the other two terms, you choose not to shoulder the blame. Smiling, you tell her this is because you would never explicitly inform someone that you were on an “overseas” assignment or involved in anything “classified”. That would defeat the whole purpose of my job, don’t you think? She replies that you are full of shit.

At least now, you are twenty and can properly keep her company over a nice, long smoke. 

Himeno makes good on your compensation. Occasionally, she insists the experience requires “proper conditions”; this time, the two of you are lying in undershirts and underwear beneath the autumn sky. The table usually beside the terrace railing has been pushed aside for an unobstructed view. Apparently, cigarettes always taste better when you’re naked and out in the open—or in this case, as close as you can get to it without getting arrested for public-ish indecency. You told her you weren't sure you would relate to the sentiment, but didn’t mind trying anything once.

You’ve never had any particular attachment to smoking, but now you think there might’ve been a silver lining to starting at eighteen. Despite always meaning to experience the first stick with Himeno, it became clear the older you got that nicotine made people’s lips run loose. It was also unquestionable that the most efficient way to gather information was legally—without drawing unnecessary attention from a foreign state’s police, even if you could always mimic another ethnicity. Eventually, carrying a pack everywhere you went simply became practical. An added bonus, you supposed, was that you were closer to the smoking and drinking age (eighteen, not twenty like Japan) in most of the countries you operated in. By the first time you shared a cigarette with Himeno, you had gotten used to the fumes enough to enjoy the time without coughing your lungs out. That said, you did make a small show of wheezing—your debut as one of the many chain smokers at Public Safety wouldn’t be very convincing otherwise. She proclaims you as a natural, and you just smile.

It’s strange, you think. You’ve only recently begun to understand why smoking addicts exist. 

Dawn breeze filters through the space where cotton parts with your sternum. Soon, the clouds will turn fully orange and you’ll have to get ready for work. Right now, however, it’s simpler: just the two of you, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in and out at five thirty AM on a Tuesday morning.

Against the ashtray sitting between the two of you, a crisp tap. “So,” Himeno says, mumbling slightly as she sets the stick back between her lips, “you’re really leaving?”

You let out a faint hum of agreement, following the indistinct curl of exhaust. 

“So soon?”

Without a sideways glance, you ask calmly, “What do you mean?”

You can almost feel her stare on the curve of your cheek—that rare combination of sober and unyielding. “I mean,” she says easily, “that you’re usually here for longer after each assignment.”

“Something important came up this time,” you tell her. 

She responds without missing a beat. “There's always something important coming up at Public Safety.” 

The corners of your mouth draw upwards as you shift to face her; to meet that single, turquoise eye, tinged pinkish beige under daybreak. You take care to exhale in a way that doesn't engulf her face. “Are you worried, Himeno-san?”

Her expression would be unreadable to anyone else, but not to you.

Between the space of your ribs, something aches—dully, the way it does when already anticipated. You don’t need to look downwards to recognize her smoke is already discarded. You know what her next words will be. 

She searches your gaze, uncovered brow drawn in a way that shadows the subtle depth of her eyelid. “Is this because of Aki? Because he saw your episode?” she asks quietly. “Because if it is, that’s a stupid reason to leave.”

Many people say that Himeno is somewhat of a legend. Not just because of her reputation as one of the few long-term survivors in a profession with ever-increasing death tolls, but also because she’s maintained that playful and relaxed disposition throughout all of it. There isn’t a single veteran hunter who hasn't been on the other end of her tendency to get piss-drunk and kiss everyone in the general vicinity—except for maybe her mentor Kishibe, possibly because he never attends any of the dinner parties. And as jarring as this can be, it's always made things easier. Simpler. A little more childish, maybe, but also less terrifying. 

You think it helps that she expects to die young. The two of you joined Public Safety in 1990, when she was eighteen and you were fourteen, and by the time you met her a year later, she’d already lost her first buddy. The following one died three months after. Then, the next. And next. When you were eighteen, she was twenty-two and had officially lived through five partners. You rarely remember things in vivid detail, but you remember this: each loss made the look in her eye so hollow. So empty, to the point where it felt more like staring into blank space than solid, living tissue, completely and wholly unperceiving of you nor anything else. 

It used to be more obvious that she was afraid. Not on her face, but in her sweat, and under her sleeves, along the ridges of her throat. But recently, ever since your reappearance at headquarters, she mostly just smells of nicotine and stale Asahi Super Dry.

Is this because of Aki?

You let out a breath, light and tinted with mirth. Your elbow knocks slightly against hers, vacating the warm imprint where you’d been occupying. “I wouldn’t go for a reason like that,” you tell her. “People will find out sooner or later—I’ve always known that. I have more important things to worry about.”

“Then?”

The look you give her is curious. 

“Then,” she repeats slowly, “why are you leaving?”

That's what you’d thought: that Himeno now carried less dread in her scent. That at twenty-four, she might truly have become the kind of devil hunter into which Kishibe strove to mold the innumerable “dogs” he’d trained. 

Until you returned to Japan, and there it was again.

Fear, unadulterated. Not for herself—you knew she’d long given up on self-preservation—but for someone else. Truly, you don’t know how you didn't see it earlier.

“Devils don’t rest,” you say, smiling. “So how can I?”

xvi. 9/12/1995

Chainsaw is a dog. 

You ruminate on the fact as you lead the Division 3 devil hunter out into the cold. The concept is hard to believe, but true: the Hero of Hell, transformed into a round little puppy. It would be funny if not so disorienting based on everything you’ve heard; to imagine the entity licking at your heels the way Mocha or Tiramisu might do is near impossible. 

Your first thought was that it might be a stray, isolated in the woods of Fukushima and occasionally committing violence on anyone unlucky enough to come across its ribbed snout. Devils needed blood to recover, after all, and based on what you’d heard, Chainsaw was most likely in its weakest form. You wonder what it must be like to live as a solitary, scavenging mutt after aeons of being feared and revered in all capacities. Lonely, maybe. What you know for sure is that you’ve had enough canopies for a lifetime.

But Makima tells you that he is not, in fact, alone. 

Chainsaw is a dog, and that dog has an owner named Denji. Male, fifteen years old, no last name. Inherited from his late father: a multi-million debt, owed to the local yakuza. His main source of income is hunting low-level devils using his loyal companion’s nose-blade, but he also sells organs to scrape by (a kidney, right eye, and testicle). A rundown, rotting shack in the Aizu region is where he sleeps and eats when not out on commissions, which is to say not very often. None of this information is reported.

Safe to say, this was not expected. That’s alright. Public Safety always makes do with less-than-fortunate circumstances, and so do you.

The devil hunter’s scent is anticipatory. It holds a tinge of intimidation—customary, you’d say, when faced with the identity you’re wearing. Still, besides the lavender notes of her perfume, expectation makes up the most of it. According to her file, she’s been a longtime candidate for the vice candidate role of Division 3. Now that the position’s been emptied, you assume the preparatory look on her face is for that well-awaited promotion.

You let her begin. 

Almost like clockwork, she asks, “What brings you here, Makima-san?”

You smile that smile you know so well: lips curving up, eyes uncrinkled yet imbued with gentle, approachable warmth. Reaching into your coat, you uncap a pack of smokes in a smooth, practiced motion. “It’s nice to watch my favorite people enjoy a good meal together,” you tell her, offering her a stick.

Her eyebrows crease slightly. “Oh,” she says, slightly less certain as she takes it. Then, seemingly aware of her own hesitation, she counters smoothly—almost as if to gauge your own response— “Of course. It’s just quite rare to see you at these gatherings.”

“That’s true,” you agree, retrieving a lighter from your pocket. Light blue, inconspicuous—a gift from Himeno, who you mentally thank each time for refraining from some fancy, personalized engraving that would immediately give you away. “I’d like to attend more of them, when I have the time.”

When you flick on the flame, her eyes flick towards the movement once, twice. You realize why half a second too late. A kouhai is always obligated to kindle their senpai’s cigarette, after all, and Makima is unarguably the senior of the two. It’s a misstep on your part—perhaps from spending too much time adapting to American smoking etiquette—but you’ll draw a silver lining out of anything. This time, you shape the gesture into familiarity, adopting an inviting expression as you shield the glow for her to lean in. 

And she does, in the end. 

“I didn’t know you smoked, Makima-san,” she says, when both of you are breathing tepid gray into frigid air. 

Your features tinge with amusement in that familiar, all-too-knowing way. “I try to abstain,” you concede, “since it makes it too difficult to not get addicted otherwise.”

Again, she seems taken aback at the personal detail. She’s good, you think. Makes hiding the sentiment look natural; anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. Still, her surprise visibly intensifies when you tilt your head sideways at that knowing angle, survey her face, and finally, laugh at the barely perceptible purse of her mouth. “I recently went on a business trip to Fukushima,” you explain tenderly. “I believe it’s taken a toll on me because I’ve been craving these ever since.”

“Fukushima?” she manages. 

“Yes. Recently, the civilian devil hunters there have been causing quite a stir.”

Realization washes across her face as expected. “The black market,” she murmurs, then at your curious look supplies: “One of my close acquaintances works for Public Safety in Fukushima.” A slight pause—potentially deliberate—before she adds without a hitch, “It’s concerning, how rural areas have become a hotspot for the illegal trade of devil corpses by the Yakuza.” 

Frankly, the information she’s alerted you of carrying should not be by a devil hunter of her standing. The notice is appreciated; you believe the saying is something like “dress for the job you want, not the job you have”, although in her case you assume “dress” would be replaced with “speak”. Fortunately for her, it’s working, because the more you both converse, you’re increasingly convinced she could fit the mold of an ambitious division leader. The only reason you just let your gaze drift sideways, showing no sign of being caught unawares, is because unfortunately for her, there’s still more you need.

The two of you trade a few more pleasantries: if you’re visiting anywhere over the holidays (Sendai for her, to take care of her mother), what brand you smoke (whatever catches your eye; in an odd stroke of luck, the pack you’ve bought this time is her regular), how you liked the food inside (she preferred the yakiudon, you the motsuni). It takes two rounds of distant, drunken singing drifting from indoors for the conversation to turn back to work. You’ve found that it almost always does, with the people you meet. 

“I have heard of similar incidents…” she seems to consider her own words before offering, “Actually, the acquaintance I mentioned is a cousin of mine. He might be able to help coordinate some of the bureaucracy with Tokyo.” The tip of her cigarette has long been extinguished of its glow, any lingering smell blended with the izakaya’s old tatami. “If you’d like to connect, I wouldn’t mind giving you his contact details.”

There it is. 

You give her a calm smile. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like to take a look. Off the record, if you wouldn’t mind—I would be happy to put in a good word for you in return, Kana-san.”

-

Winter nights in Tokyo carry a sharp, metallic kind of moisture that stings the nose—although, looking down at the smoke balanced between your index and middle finger, you suppose the source of it might actually be closer than expected. 

As the Division 3 hunter recedes into the noren curtain separating alleyway and izakaya, you consider joining her. Lying has always been easier when injected with a little truth, and truthfully, you weren't lying when the motsuni was quite good. It's strange how being overseas has given you this peculiar urge to try all the dishes you used to with a side of cheap sake. Then again, it’s equally odd that your first drink was from a bottle of fortified wine in some Soviet apartment entryway (instead of a Japanese pub) where nobody would’ve once glanced twice if you were wearing your real age. 

If you go back in, it shouldn't be with this face. Although nobody here should know that Makima’s not currently in Tokyo, it’s obviously not a good idea to draw attention as her in a place so crowded. Watching the embers of your stick settle on scuffed ground, you decide the more sound choice is to just revert back for dinner. Yes, entering alone and as yourself might invite interest (you rarely attend dinner parties, and even less frequently without Makima at that), but it’ll have to do. You’d normally just copy one of the many street faces you’d memorized to minimize the risks, but today, considering the worsening vertigo from the amount of times you’ve used your contract, this would be unwise.

Like always, you visualize a reflection peering back at you. The square exhaust fan next to the frosted window: a pair of blinking eyes, an open mouth. For the eyebrows, a cluster of tangled power lines against the wall. Cast by a torn paper lantern, the planes of a face—

“Makima-san,” a voice says. 

You still.

-

Ah, shit. 

That is your first reaction to the fact that someone has witnessed you in the process of melting off your face. Well, not witnessed exactly, since your back is turned to the entrance, but still quite unfortunate because you know the higher ups would most definitely dock it from your pay if one of your abilities were exposed. Your only saving grace is that the sequence of transformation has always begun from your central body parts (your chest, per se) to your extremities, then appendages like your hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes.

That is to say, the whole of your head is now the colour of Makima’s, but your face is your own. Additionally, the situation makes it impossible to completely revert back into one identity or the other without risking getting caught by some random Public Safety officer who probably thinks you're their boss. It’s honestly the kind of mistake you believed you’d grown out of approximately five years ago. 

Well, you guess you can always say you got a dye job. Easy, simple; the decision happens in a split second. A bit of a hassle, considering you'll probably have to keep your hair like this for a while, but you've experienced worse. 

But when you turn around to greet the random officer in question—

You are met with blue eyes. 

Your second, most defining thought of the moment is that you are deeply, deeply fucked. 

xvii. 19/9/1996

It doesn't take much for you to notice Himeno has been silent for an atypical amount of time. Long enough that you burn through the cigarette you’re smoking; long enough that the sun is nearly up by the time you next speak. 

They’re almost audible, the words repeating in her mind all the while. 

Devils don’t rest, so how can I?

Finally, you decide to start with something simple. Uncomplicated, like asking what’s for breakfast. After a short moment of pause, she tells you the ham and cheese sandwiches stocked in her fridge from the local convenience store. Upon looking at the expiry date, it becomes apparent that the product is decently unsafe to eat, so instead the two of you shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed. You’re mildly surprised by the spare dress shirt you find in her closet—your size, smelling of fresh detergent even though you’re pretty sure you left it over at her house about three years ago. The first meal of the day is eaten at the Thai restaurant around the corner: Tom Yum Kun, papaya salad, Massaman Curry. All of it is delicious, and you consider it wouldn’t be so bad to live in this moment for the rest of your conceivable existence. You don’t voice this idea, of course. Then, for old times’ sake, you both ride the open-window tram to work side by side. 

You remember thinking throughout the entire morning that Himeno would ask you to quit, if you could. And you still hate that even if she did—and even if you could go back, answer her as your current, future self—you would not say yes. 

Even when she’s dead, and the eye patch in your closet is the only piece you have left of her. 

xviii. 16/7/1997

Sometimes, you wonder how Aki would answer if you asked him now which part of that night stayed with him, if any at all. Maybe the illicit smoking as a minor? The assumption wouldn’t be without evidence, since that was the first thing he reminded you of upon coming to stand beside you in that alleyway. Still, considering his devotion to Makima, you'd always found this strange; every strand of your hair looked identical to hers, and Aki had never been one to turn a blind eye—least of all to a resemblance so odd. Yet he did. And there was that unusual look on his face, too: something unblinking, involuntary, and shaded enough by evening to render the rest indecipherable. 

To your relief, however, the exchange never moved beyond the shredded plant matter neatly packaged in your hand before drifting into nothing.

You think, though, that if he asked you the question—which portion lingered for you—you’d reply with the part where the two of you were forced to sit side by side. 

xix. 9/12/1995

Back in the restaurant, now. The clock above the hanging paper menus reads 9:45 PM, though the long hand’s been chipped off and your eyesight’s egregious enough for a twenty-year-old that it might actually be ten-something. There are utensils clattering on tables, the sizzle of cuts of every kind being cooked in about ten different ways, occasional bouts of laughter filling the dimly lighted atmosphere. Kobayashi, one of those rare devil hunters who’s become a veteran with just a Fox Devil contract, has just asked the table about their childhood dreams. Prior to this, they were discussing the upcoming weekend baseball game when they caught both of you returning from a (perceived) smoke break, and urged you to sit—everywhere else was full, and the two rookies previously occupying those seats had gone for a walk to clear their heads. It would’ve been rude to turn them down.

You’re taking stock of the plastic menu with Konoha; she’s suggested an oolong-hai to pace yourselves, seeing as the night’s not ending anytime soon. The dishes spread across the laminated wood top have mostly been cleared, so you’re considering a couple plates of edamame to fill in the wait for the next round. 

“A lawyer,” Aki says.

Your gaze rises absentmindedly to the source of the voice beside you. 

Around you, a few people are nodding while others seem mildly taken aback; the rest are lost in indistinct discussions of their own. Next to you, Konoha lets out a surprised hum. 

Farther down the table, Kobayashi furrows his brows and purses his lips in a way that clearly indicates revelation. “Really?” A long moment passes before he adds, “You know, I was gonna mention that you’re the kind of guy that’d seem to suit a standard office job, but” —in a look of contemplation, the valley between his thumb and forefinger fits to his chin— “actually, I can’t imagine you doing anything else. Other than what you’re doing now, I mean. A lawyer, huh…” 

Aki seems unperturbed. “It’s just something I used to write down on future career surveys,” he says. 

Several minutes pass. You flag down a server, which admittedly takes more than one try—apparently, your ability to yell “sumimasen” across a room of noise and smoke is a skill that regresses with time. Four edamames, five oolong-hais, a hot sake. Then, as the waitress’s back disappears towards the narrow counter filled with moving limbs and spatulas and clinking, you hear your name.

Lifting your head from where you’ve been setting down the menu, you feel a handful of eyes shift to you. “Yes?”

“Childhood dreams? Careers? Anything?”

Coincidentally, the one job people (albeit just your father, that one old neighbor, and your childhood best friend) have said you would be good at was an attorney. Looking back, you surmise it was probably because the work required a lot of conceding and reworking and settling on less than what’s wanted, and you’ve undeniably always had a skill for these things. That said, you might have for a while also wanted it yourself. There were people like you that you wanted to protect—mostly because no one else would. Unfortunately, these people—like you—were poor. Not just in the terms of being strapped for cash, which they oftentimes were, but legally. They were treated as subhumans. The combination of their economic struggles and civic status meant that if you ever wanted to become of any real help, it would make most sense to work as a government-sponsored public defense attorney. 

And unfortunately, this was never possible.

You reply with a small smile that is only slightly self-conscious. “I’m afraid not.”

“Then,” someone says incredulously, “both of you always planned to become this? Devil hunters?”

You keep being reminded that Aki’s eyes are blue; it's a bit of a jarring experience, even though you know what to expect each time. “Yes,” he replies, and there's no lack of conviction in it. “I did.”

There’s a vagueish curve on your lips as you offer the table a concurring nod. 

The conversation’s already drifted by the time your draft beer disconnects from its coaster with a quiet click. When you tilt your head back for the last of it, Aki doesn't ask again whether you're a minor—maybe because he’s realized the year is coming to a close, and you'll be legal within twenty-two days at most.

Can it be called a dream if you’re aware it’s unattainable? In the case that it can't, you arguably never dreamed of becoming a lawyer. In the end, you don’t think it really matters. What’s definite is that you no longer think of the boy who told you the impossible was possible—just for the sake of convincing you otherwise. 

If Aki asked why you remembered this part, you’d tell him it was because you wondered, for the first time in years, what your best friend would think of you now. 

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

notes: ayy another chapter out!! say hello to our protagonist/reader :) i'd love to hear what u think ab her in the comments; any and all feedback is appreciated <3

[saeitoshismicrobangs]

wildflower

aki hayakawa x reader

word count: 2.1k

chapter: two

summary: after being discovered by makima as the axe devil, you find yourself in the middle of tokyo as a member of public safety assigned to special division four.

tags: fem!reader, use of y/n, slow burn, fluff, filler, slight angst, hayakawa family, title is a beach house song, mostly canon compliant (?), but the timeline is a little off so don’t think too hard

a/n: yay chapter two! there may be spelling or grammar mistakes as well as ooc. keep in mind i’m making up these devils. i am not fujimoto. don’t come for me. okay i’m done bye have fun reading !

the golden rays of morning sunlight dance like honey across your skin. the scent of freshly made breakfast hangs in the air as you slowly open your eyes.

but it’s hard to appreciate any of that when the two banes of your existence are yelling at each other on the other side of the apartment.

“POWER, STOP TOUCHING ME!” denji is shouting at the top of his lungs. this has clearly been going on for a while. you’re surprised it didn’t wake you up sooner.

you sit up and rub your eyes, trying to make out the frantically moving figures seemingly so far from you. as your eyes focus, you see this: power and denji sitting by the door.

denji is attempting to put his shoes on, and power is practically on top of him. she’s just close enough to aggravate him, but technically isn't touching him at all.

“i am not doing anything, denji.” she has a devilish grin as the words tumble from her mouth. it seems like the fiend side of her is hyperactive today. well more than usual, anyways.

aki is in the kitchen, presumably finishing up some dishes from the recently prepared meal. “will the two of you cut it out? i’m tired of your incessant arguing.” you catch him shake his head in annoyance as he continues his task at hand.

the two goons start shouting again, but this time at aki. “WE AREN’T EVEN ARGUING. STOP NAGGING, AKI.”

“YEAH, WHAT THE CHAINSAW BOY SAID. STOP NAGGING, AKI.”

both power and denji give aki a death glare. he just rolls his eyes. “aren’t you two gonna be late?”

power looks down at her wrist. there’s no watch. “YES, WE ARE. DENJI, WE MUST LEAVE.”

denji is quick to believe her regardless. “ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, I’M COMING, POWY, GIMME A SEC.” he finally slips on his sneakers and he and power exit the apartment, practically sprinting out the door.

if you’re being honest, those two are really entertaining. you haven’t lived together long enough to be put off by the arguing just yet.

a smile you don’t realize is there has planted itself firmly on your face as a result of denji and power’s antics.

“are you just gonna keep grinning like an idiot or are you gonna come have breakfast?” aki asks from the kitchen. his tone is irritated, but you’re unsure if it’s because of you or the demon twins.

you yawn, eyes still puffy from sleep. “aren’t we gonna be late? you just sent denji and power out for patrol as if we don’t have to do the same thing today.”

“most of the time i send them out early so i don’t have to deal with them for as long. they always end up getting side tracked or lost and end up late if i dont, so it’s for the best. plus, patrol isn’t at a specific time. we just respond to reports as they come in.”

you didn’t know that. “oh. okay. well in that case, yes, i’d like some breakfast. thank you.” you stand up and head towards the kitchen to find out for yourself what’s waiting for you.

“i made-“ aki begins, but you cut him off without thinking.

“ooh, yum, rice and eggs! OOH, TOAST TOO?” everything is already neatly plated and arranged for you. “aki, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

he continues washing the dishes, not bothering to look at you as he speaks. “i just wanted to clean everything i could. don’t go feeling too special.”

you smirk. “or…you’re actually secretly a nice guy.”

he scoffs. “i don’t have time for this.” he quickly dries his hands off and leaves the kitchen.

“aren’t you gonna eat?”

“already did,” he calls, now halfway to his room. “clean up when you’re done.”

“…okay.” he’s such an odd guy.

***

“so…remind me again of the objective here.” a sheepish grin is plastered on your face. you weren’t paying attention the first time he explained.

he sighs. “how many times are you gonna forget? you know what, nevermind. it’s simple. we find the devil and we kill it.”

you look at up him, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. “simple?”

he raises an eyebrow back, mirroring your expression. “the plan is simple. i never said anything about the act itself. let’s worry about that when we find the damn thing.”

the call came in around lunch time. a civilian reported a ‘cute-looking’ devil lurking in the alley near their apartment. “why would a flower devil be in the city, anyways? seems like kind of a rural thing, no?”

aki doesn’t hesitate responding. “don’t ask me. all i know is it needs to die.”

you don’t respond. you’re sort of taken aback by his urge to kill all devils. it’s unfortunate, given your own circumstances, but it’s not like he can kill you.

not without consequence.

you’re entirely curious as to what his issue with devils really is. almost more so how he ended up living with three of them.

but you don’t, because you know what it feels like to be asked a question that has an answer you don’t want to give.

the two of you walk in silence for a little while, both on the lookout for this so-called flower devil.

your neck is sore from being constantly turned into every alley you walk past. “where is this thing?” you complain.

“if i knew the answer to that, don’t you think we’d be done by now?” his irritated voice carries through the sparsely populated streets. you’re on a less busy side of town, but there are still a few people walking around.

you look at him in slight disbelief and exasperation. is he serious? “it was a rhetorical question.”

he’s still not looking at you, too ‘busy’ with the search. he mutter something under his breath, just loud enough to make out. but you want to hear him say it.

“what was that?” your tone becomes more exasperated as the interaction continues. this one on top of all the others.

“i said, “yeah, sure.” do we have a problem?” his neck is turned in the opposite direction of yours, the backs of your heads facing each other.

this time, you do turn to face him. “yeah, actually, i think you’re the one with the problem. i tried to be civil, but your bad attitude is pissing me off. what could i have possibly done to you?”

he, like you, turns to see your face. his words are sarcastic, but laced with frustration. “oh, yeah, what could you have possibly done?”

you’re both stopped, standing near the edge of an apartment complex. “what the fuck, are you saying i actually did something?”

he scoffs. “what do you think?”

“stop with the stupid questions and tell me what you mean. i’m done trying to solve your riddles.” you cross your arms, awaiting a response.

“well let’s go down the list, shall we?” he keeps a tally on his hand as he speaks. “first, you barge into my home. then, you say you’re living with me. now, you’re a permanent fixture, eating my food and sleeping in my living room. to top it all off, you’re my new partner. a devil. are those enough reasons for you, or should i keep going?”

rage boils inside you. “everything you just said is completely unfair. none of the circumstances were my fault or my choice. do you actually, whole heartedly believe i want to sleep in your living room? or that i want to live in a home i’m clearly not welcome in? i can’t afford anything else. and also, it’s not like i asked to live with you. you’re blaming me for decisions that makima made. instead of being an asshole, why don’t you use your head and blame someone who’s actually guilty of making your life a living hell. it wasn’t me.”

before he says anything, you hear something coming from the alley to your right.

you look down to see vines crawl across the pavement, nearing yours and aki’s feet. they’re moving slowly, but you have a feeling they’re not coming to help you.

you quickly step back, but aki isn’t fortunate enough to notice what you did. he’s still reeling from what you said just moments ago.

his eyes widen as he feels the vines slowly wrap around his ankles, anchoring him to the ground.

you don’t know what to do. your mind is running a mile a minute as you try to find a solution. “aki, uh. don’t move. i think. or maybe do. i don’t know. this is a lot. i’ve never done this before.”

he calms his demeanor as the vines tighten their grip. he can see your stress. “hey, look, it’s alright. if i try to move, the devil is only gonna grab tighter. you’re gonna have to deal with this one, okay?”

this is your first mission. you can’t handle this alone. you need him there. “aki, i don’t know if i can do this. i’ve never done this before.”

“it doesn’t matter whether you think you can or not because you’re gonna have to. you can, though. makima put you on this division for a reason. you’re more than capable.” he’s…reassuring you? why’s it working?

you take a deep breath, trying to steady your excessively beating heart. “okay, yeah, no, you’re right. i can. i will. i got this. right? yeah, i do. right?” you don’t wait for a response. instead, you follow the vines into the alley, transforming as you do.

turning the corner, all you see is a white flower planted in the middle with the vines connected to it. it’s a small thing, one that could easily be crushed.

in theory.

this may be your first misson, but it’s not your first encounter with a devil.

though in the past you would just run away, so you guess it might as well be.

your first thought is to break aki free. with your axe in your dominant hand, you raise it behind your head to prepare a throw at the vines. if you can break those, hopefully aki can get loose and help you out.

your back is turned to the small flower as you aim, trying to find the best angle to cut through the thick trailing stems.

behind you is a sound that can only be described as a plant growing at a rapid speed. the sound gets higher and higher above you, causing you to whip around, forgetting your original objective.

the small flower you could’ve easily taken out moments ago has now turned into the devil you originally imagined.

it’s a few feet taller than you, and oddly cute. the person who called this in was right. it’s a flower, the same as before, but much taller. its eyes are a little lopsided, but in an endearing way. its pupils are dilated to the point that it looks like a cute puppy.

the only threatening thing about it is its height.

and maybe the fact that its strong enough to hold aki down.

you’re still stressed, but not about it killing you. about you killing it. it’s so cute and looks harmless. what’s the point of taking its life?

the answer to that question hit you in the head. literally.

the vines lifted aki by his feet and held him upside down. they pulled him closer to the devil, hitting you in the head as they did so.

your hands immediately reach for the back of your head, trying to suppress the pain. “fuck, ow. god, that really hurt.”

aki is struggling, trying to get away from his impending doom. his voice is strained as he calls out to you, trying to regain your attention. “can you do something about this? i’m really not trying to be killed by something that looks this benign.”

“YES, SORRY.” you yell back to him. the vines are holding aki right above the flower devil’s head. “OKAY, THIS MIGHT HURT.” you grab hold of another axe from your spine, both hands behind your head.

“WHAT?” aki shouts in concern.

“NOTHING, JUST BRACE YOURSELF.” with that, you throw the axe with full force. it hits the just near his ankles, breaking him free.

he falls straight to the ground. “OW. DAMN IT.”

“I TOLD YOU TO BRACE YOURSELF.”

he gets up quickly, using the axe you just threw to catch the devil from behind.

it works, and the flower devil is completely taken care of.

the adrenaline wears off, and so does your transformation. “thanks for that, aki.”

“uh huh, sure. maybe next time warn me if you’re gonna have me drop 10 feet to the ground though.” you notice the green devil goop that sprayed on his face after dealing with the flower devil.

you give him a sheepish grin. “noted.”

[hayakawalove]

Desperation is a Tricky Thing

Summary: You and Aki having a quickie in a friend's bathroom.

A/N: Hello! Just something I whipped up real quick. I hope you enjoy! As always, comments are appreciated <3

CW: NSFW, Vaginal Sex, Quickies, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Grinding, Biting, Desperation, AFAB Reader, Gender Neutral Reader

W/C: 1,410

Thank you to cafekitsune for the banner

Aki. 

The way you moan his name sends a shiver down Aki’s spine. His name never sounds as beautiful as it does when it falls from your lips. Even when it’s rushed and softer than normal. The two of you have to be quiet. Really, you shouldn’t be doing this at all, but Aki has always had a hard time saying no to you. 

Aki drags his lips down the side of your throat, raising one of your thighs to hook around his waist. Normally he would much rather prefer to take you to bed and have you spread out, but this would have to do. You had been needy all day, more so than usual. It was a miracle the two of you were able to leave the house at all. Your mutual friend was having a house warming and the two of you just had to come. Well you did, and you’re about to warm the house up even more. If your friend knew what the two of you were doing in their spare bathroom they would certainly have words with you.

Luckily you weren’t the only guests. Aki hopes that means your missing presence would go under the radar. 

Your hips twitch as you start to hump against him. It’s a small bathroom and the air is quickly heating up with your shared breaths. 

“Aki, need you so bad.” You whine, desperate fingers grabbing at his shirt. 

“I know, I know.” He lets you yank up his shirt just a little in order to feel the hard lines of his stomach. 

Aki tries to suppress a shiver but it’s impossible, the sensation spreading throughout his body as you drag your nails along his skin. His hips buck up into you and you moan instantaneously. Aki presses his mouth against yours to help dull the sounds, much to his chagrin. 

The two of you could faintly hear music playing from the living room, but Aki was worried it wouldn’t be enough. 

“Turn around for me.” Aki murmurs, pulling apart from your lips, while gently setting your leg down. 

You light up at his words, not quite a command but certainly more than a suggestion. You face away from him, leaning your hands up against the bathroom door. Aki loves being able to see your face when you cum, but he knows he’s running out of time and this angle will get you there much quicker. 

His hands are gentle as they trail down your body, and his fingers start to tug at your pants. He reaches around in front of you and unbuttons them with ease, helping slide them down to your calves. If he had time to marvel at the sight he would notice how your slick was sticking to your underwear, a string of it snapping the further it got away from your cunt. Aki keeps his arm wrapped in front of you while he presses two fingers to your swollen clit. So, so needy. He swipes back and forth a couple of times and hears the way you whimper quietly. 

There’s not enough time to do everything he wants to do. 

Aki brings his hands back to himself and pulls up his shirt, briefly tucking it between his teeth while he frees his cock. He gives it one, two, three pumps before he lines it up with your aching entrance. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, swiping his tip against you. 

“Yes, yes, oh please-“ you whine out softly, pressing your ass against him. He slides into your pussy with ease, bottoming out much quicker than normal. “…fuck” 

Aki mouths the same curse word before tipping his head back, allowing his eyes to roll to the back of his head for a moment. You always feel so damn good. Like your bodies were made for each other. 

He holds onto your hip and eases himself out before pressing in once more, building up a steady pace. Aki keeps his other hand propped up on the door right beside your face. The proximity must be getting to your head, because you turn your face to nip and kiss at his forearm as he fucks you. 

The party continues on across the house, music thumping while voices chat with each other. Surely someone would realize soon, right? Aki had excused himself to go to the bathroom (he really did have to go) and you got up to follow him instantly. It only took a couple of minutes before the two of you found yourselves in this position. 

“Want you so bad baby, need you.” You’re grumbling against the skin on his arm, sinking your teeth in at a particularly deep thrust. 

“I’m right here, you have me.” He responds breathlessly. You always have me. 

Aki offers up his body like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. He slithers his hand from your hip to your pussy once more, rubbing circles against your clit as he fucks you from behind. 

“Oh my fucking god, Aki,” you’re whining a bit louder now, the sounds of your pleasure going straight to his heart. Your hips are starting to press back now while you try to fuck yourself on his cock. 

You’re drenched. You must have needed this so, so bad if the slick coating his cock was anything to go by. You’re making a mess and you haven’t even cum yet. Aki loves you for it. 

Aki clenches his jaw tightly, trying to maintain composure as you rhythmically clench around him. Everything is warm and wet and if Aki was more impatient he probably would have finished within seconds of sliding into you. 

He knows what you need, so he gives it to you all. His fingers speed up against your clit, massaging it messily while fucking into you faster. You’ve released his arm (leaving a deep bite mark and spit) and instead keep your face pressed up against the door. A dangerous thing to do on the off chance that somebody may walk past the bathroom.

“You feel so good, sweetheart.” He mutters under his breath, baring his teeth momentarily when you clench around him harder at the compliment. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you chant quietly. Your mind must be elsewhere completely, succumbing to the pleasure fully. 

Aki doesn’t mind. In fact, he’s glad he can make you feel this way. Glad that he can be of service to you. 

He fucks into you from behind while rubbing at your clit, his hushed pants of pleasure echoing throughout the bathroom alongside your moans. 

“G-Gonna cum,” you whisper. “It’s too much,” as if you haven’t been begging for it for hours. 

“It’s okay baby, you can do it.” Aki gently encourages you, voice soft as he fucks into you harder. The sounds of him filling you up over and over again would be embarrassing if you weren’t so turned on. 

“I’m gonna b-be loud” you warn, your body trembling against the bathroom door. He finds your momentary clarity endearing, and he rewards you with a kiss to the side of your head. . 

“Just let it happen, baby.” He really shouldn’t say it, but he can’t stop himself. He’ll deal with the ramifications later. 

Your pussy clenches around him, spasming around his cock as you cum on his cock. True to your word, your mouth drops open to let out a loud moan but Aki is quicker than you. He clamps one hand on your mouth while using his other to rub you through your orgasm. 

“Good job, sweetheart.” He praises you. 

“Aki…” you groan beneath his palm. 

That’s what does it. 

His cum fills you up, quiet grunts escaping his lips as his hips falter. Aki rests his forehead on your shoulder once he finishes, his body mindlessly continuing to hump into you. 

You reach around and drag your fingers through his hair, a soft smile on your face. He tenderly kisses the skin of your shoulder before easing himself from you, his cum already starting to leak down your legs. 

“Let me get that,” Aki says quietly, tucking himself back in his pants with one hand while grabbing a wad of toilet paper with the other. 

He’s kneeling behind you, softly cleaning his cum from you with a tissue when a knock rings out on the other side of the bathroom door. 

“Uh, is anyone in there?” 

You and Aki freeze in your tracks. 

Shit.

Tag List: @mikisspeaks, @dinolvrrr, @sakui1, @reiluvr, @gothiccwhore666, @bunviixo, @succubussdreams

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[mtsudaa]

AKI HAYAKAWA | FUCKING YOU VS MAKING LOVE

Aki x f!Reader One-Shot.

Aki Fucking you vs Making love to you. (wc: 3.9k)

A.N: This took a while to finish but I did it!! 🥹 I hope you guys like it🫶

Content & Warnings: explicit sexual content :: established relationship :: rough sex :: degradation :: biting :: spanking :: praise kink :: body worship :: emotional sex :: soft choking :: cumshot :: pet names :: praise :: body worship :: graphic descriptions :: penetrative sex :: aftercare :: emotional vulnerability

Fucking you

The apartment door slams harder than it should.

You look up from the book you've been reading on the couch, startled by the sound. It's only six-thirty—Aki's never home this early. Your first thought is that something's wrong, that maybe someone got hurt on a mission, but then he appears in the doorway and you realize the problem is him.

He looks like hell.

His dark bluish-black hair has loosed a bit from its usual short ponytail, stray strands falling around his pale face. There's blood on his shirt—not his, you hope—and his sharp blue eyes are stormy in a way you've only seen a handful of times. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

"Aki? What happened—"

"Don't." His voice is rough, strained. He's still standing in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like he's physically holding himself back. "Don't ask me about my day. Please."

You set your book aside slowly, watching him. He's always so controlled, so careful with his emotions. Seeing him like this—barely restrained, something dangerous simmering just beneath the surface—makes your pulse quicken.

"Okay," you say softly. "What do you need?"

His eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity in them makes your breath catch. "You."

One word. That's all it takes.

He crosses the room in three long strides, and then his mouth is on yours, brutal and demanding. There's nothing gentle about this kiss—it's all teeth and tongue and barely controlled violence. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you up from the couch and against his body.

You can feel how hard he is already, pressing against your stomach through his work pants. Can feel the tension vibrating through every muscle in his body. He's wound so tight he might shatter, and he needs you to help him break.

"Bedroom," he growls against your mouth. "Now."

You go, and he follows close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back. The moment you cross the threshold, his hands are on you again, spinning you around and walking you backward until your legs hit the bed.

There's a difference between when Aki fucks you and when he makes love to you.

When he fucks you, it's raw. Primal. He takes what he needs with an intensity that borders on feral, using your body to exorcise whatever demons are chasing him. His control slips, and he lets himself be rough in ways he'd never allow otherwise. The degradation, the biting, the bruising grip of his fingers—it's all part of how he releases the pressure that builds up inside him from being so goddamn responsible all the time.

But when he makes love to you, it's worship. Every touch is reverent, every kiss a prayer. He takes his time learning your body like it's the first time, like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every place that makes you gasp. He's soft and sweet and so full of emotion it sometimes overwhelms you both. The way he looks at you like you're the only good thing in his life, the way he whispers how much he loves you between kisses—that's when you see the man beneath the devil hunter.

Tonight, he needs to fuck.

"Take off your clothes," he orders, stepping back just enough to watch you. "All of them. Now."

Your hands shake slightly as you obey, pulling your shirt over your head, unhooking your bra, sliding your pants and underwear down your legs. His eyes track every movement, dark and hungry, and you can see his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths.

When you're bare before him, he makes a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a growl.

"On the bed. Hands and knees."

You climb onto the mattress, positioning yourself the way he wants, and you hear him moving behind you. The clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric. You glance over your shoulder and watch as he reaches up to pull the elastic from his hair, letting the short ponytail fall loose. The strands stick up slightly, messy and wild, and it makes him look younger. More dangerous.

He catches you looking and his lips curl into something that's not quite a smile. "Eyes forward."

You obey, facing the headboard, and then his hands are on you. Rough. Possessive. He runs his palms up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your ass, up your spine. Not gentle, not teasing—claiming.

"Do you know what kind of day I had?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Do you know what I had to deal with?"

You shake your head, not trusting your voice.

"Devils. Incompetent partners. Paperwork. Everyone wanting something from me, needing me to fix their fuck-ups, expecting me to have all the goddamn answers." His hand comes down on your ass without warning—a sharp crack that makes you gasp. "And the whole time, all I could think about was coming home and burying myself in this perfect pussy."

Another spank, harder this time. You cry out, and he soothes the sting with his palm before delivering another.

"Count," he demands. "I want to hear you."

"One," you gasp.

He spanks you again, the other cheek this time. "Two."

By the time you reach ten, you're trembling, pushing back against nothing, desperate for him to touch you where you need it most. Your ass is burning, and you know you'll have his handprints on your skin tomorrow, but god, you don't care.

"Look at you," he murmurs, running his fingers through your folds. You're soaked, dripping, and he makes an approving sound. "So fucking wet from just a little pain. You love when I use you like this, don't you? Love being my little slut."

"Yes," you whimper. "Yes, Aki, please—"

"Please what?" He slides two fingers inside you roughly, no warning, and you nearly collapse forward. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want."

"Want you to fuck me," you manage. "Please, I need—need your cock—"

He withdraws his fingers and you hear him spit, feel the wetness as he strokes himself. Then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your entrance, and he doesn't give you time to prepare.

He slams into you in one brutal thrust.

The stretch is intense, almost too much, and you cry out, fisting the sheets. He's so deep like this, hitting places that make your vision blur, and he doesn't give you a moment to adjust before he's moving.

Harsh. Fast. Unrelenting.

Each thrust drives you forward on the bed, and you have to brace yourself against the headboard to keep from being pushed into it. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, obscene and perfect, mixed with your gasps and his rough breathing.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Fuck, you feel so good. So tight and wet and perfect. Like this cunt was made just for me to use."

His words are filthy, degrading, and they make you clench around him involuntarily. He notices, of course he does, and he leans forward to bite down on your shoulder blade.

"You like that?" he growls against your skin. "Like when I talk to you like the desperate little whore you are?"

"Yes," you sob. "Yes, god, yes—"

One hand leaves your hip to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back sharply. The angle changes and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars with every thrust.

"That's it," he pants. "Take it. Take everything I give you. This is what you're good for, isn't it? Being my perfect little fucktoy when I need to let go."

The degradation mixed with the brutal pace is overwhelming. You can feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly, and you're so close, so fucking close—

His other hand snakes around to find your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and that's all it takes. You come with a scream, your whole body shaking, clenching around him so hard you see spots.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" His rhythm falters, becomes erratic. He's close, so fucking close, and he pulls out abruptly, his cock glistening with your arousal.

"Stay just like that," he commands, his voice rough and strained. He wraps his hand around himself, stroking hard and fast, chasing his release. You can hear his breathing turn ragged, feel the tension radiating off him.

"Dirty girl," he growls. "Taking my cock like that. Gonna come all over this perfect ass."

His strokes become more frantic, and you arch your back slightly, presenting yourself to him. The vulnerability of it—waiting for him, knowing exactly what's coming—makes your pussy clench around nothing.

"Fuck—" He groans, a low, guttural sound, and then he's coming. Thick ropes of cum spill across your lower back and ass, coating your skin. He strokes himself through it, making sure to cover you completely, and the degradation of it—being marked like this, claimed in such a primal way—sends a shiver through you.

He's breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around himself as he watches his release drip down your skin. For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you like this—marked, used, completely his.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

He disappears into the bathroom, and you hear water running. When he returns, the intensity has drained from his face, replaced by something softer—tenderness mixed with a hint of guilt. He carries a warm washcloth and kneels beside you on the bed.

"Let me take care of you," he says quietly, his voice stripped of its earlier roughness.

He's gentle as he wipes your back and ass, cleaning away every trace of what just happened. His touch is careful, reverent even, and when he's finished, he helps you turn over. You meet his blue eyes, and there's a vulnerability there that wasn't present moments ago.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Was I too rough?"

"No," you assure him, reaching up to touch his cheek. "I'm okay. I promise."

He exhales slowly, like he's been holding his breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come home and taken it out on you like that. You didn't deserve—"

"Aki." You wait for his eyes to meet yours. "I wanted it. You know I did. I can take it."

Something in his expression softens at your words. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. When he pulls back, his hand finds yours.

"I love you," he says simply. "So much."

"I love you too," you whisper back.

He settles beside you, pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow, feeling the tension melt from his body. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder as the two of you drift into comfortable silence, wrapped up in each other in the quiet aftermath.

vs.

Loving You

The restaurant was perfect.

Not fancy—Aki's never been one for expensive places—but cozy. Warm lighting, good food, the kind of place where you can talk for hours without feeling rushed. And you did talk, about everything and nothing, his hand finding yours across the table more than once.

Now you're walking home together through the quiet Tokyo streets, his arm around your shoulders, and you can't remember the last time you saw him this relaxed. No tension in his shoulders, no tightness around his eyes. Just... peaceful.

"Thank you for tonight," he says as you climb the stairs to your apartment. "I know I'm not always the easiest person to be with."

You stop on the landing, turning to face him. "Aki, you don't have to thank me for wanting to spend time with you."

He cups your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I know. But I want to anyway."

He kisses you, soft and sweet, and you melt into it. This is different from the desperate kisses of a few nights ago, different from the rough claiming. This is just... love. Pure and simple.

When you finally make it inside, he doesn't let go of you. His hands stay on your waist as you kick off your shoes, as you hang up your jacket. Like he needs to keep touching you, needs to maintain that connection.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you toward the bedroom.

There's a difference in how Aki makes love to you when he's not trying to apologize for being rough, when he's not driven by stress or guilt or the need to prove something. When it's just love—pure, uncomplicated devotion—he's unhurried. Patient. Every touch is intentional, every kiss deliberate. He takes his time because he wants to, not because he's trying to make up for something. The "I love you"s come naturally, easily, like breathing. Like he can't help but say them because they're simply true.

Tonight, there's no urgency. No desperation. Just the two of you, and all the time in the world.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you to stand between his legs. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, over your hips, settling at your waist. He looks up at you, and the softness in his blue eyes makes your breath catch.

"You're so beautiful," he says quietly. "I don't tell you that enough."

"You tell me all the time," you say, running your fingers through his hair. It's down tonight, falling loose around his face, and you love how it makes him look softer. Younger.

"Not enough," he insists. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your stomach through your dress. "Never enough."

His hands find the zipper at your back, and he draws it down slowly, his finger tips brushing against your spine. The dress falls away, pooling at your feet, and he makes a soft sound of appreciation.

"Perfect," he murmurs. "You're perfect."

He stands, his hands never leaving your body, and guides you backward until your legs hit the bed. You sit, then lie back, and he follows you down, settling between your legs.

"I love you," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "I love you so much."

He kisses you deeply, thoroughly, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow dance. There's no rush, no urgency. Just the two of you, learning each other all over again.

His hands map your body with reverent touches. Over your ribs, across your stomach, up to cup your breasts through your bra. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, across your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts.

"Can I?" he asks, his fingers on the clasp of your bra.

"Yes," you breathe.

He unhooks it and slides it off, tossing it aside, and then his mouth is on you. He takes his time with each breast, sucking and licking and kissing until you're arching into him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Love the sounds you make," he murmurs against your skin. "Love how responsive you are for me, pretty girl."

He continues his journey downward, pressing kisses to your ribs, your stomach, your hips. When he reaches the waistband of your underwear, he looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire but still so soft.

"Let me taste you," he says. "Please."

You nod, and he hooks his fingers in the fabric, sliding it down your legs. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider, and he settles between them with a contented sigh.

The first touch of his tongue makes you gasp. He starts slow, exploring, relearning what makes you moan. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open for him, and he takes his time.

"So sweet," he murmurs between licks. "Could do this for hours, baby. Could spend the rest of my life between your legs."

He finds your clit and circles it with his tongue, slow and deliberate, and you feel the pleasure building gradually. Not the sharp, intense climb from when he's rough, but a slow, rolling wave that builds and builds.

When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to find that spot, you cry out. He hums in approval, the vibration adding another layer of sensation, and keeps working you with patient precision.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let go for me, sweetheart. Want to feel you come on my tongue."

It takes time, but he doesn't rush. He just keeps going, steady and sure, until you're trembling on the edge. And when you finally fall, it's with his name on your lips and your fingers tight in his hair.

He works you through it, gentling his touches as you come down, and then he's kissing his way back up your body. When he reaches your mouth, you taste yourself on his lips.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you manage, still breathless. "Aki, please—need you inside me."

He sits back on his heels and starts unbuttoning his shirt. You watch, admiring the lean muscle of his chest and stomach as he reveals them. He's beautiful—pale skin, defined muscles, the scars that tell the story of his work. When he's bare before you, he pauses.

"You're staring," he says, but there's a smile playing at his lips.

"Can you blame me?"

He laughs softly and leans down to kiss you again. "No. I suppose I can't."

He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and looks into your eyes.

"I love you," he says again. "I need you to know that. Need you to feel it."

"I do," you promise. "I feel it, Aki. I love you too."

He enters you slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. When he's fully seated, he pauses, letting you adjust, and the intimacy of the moment is almost overwhelming.

"You feel so good," he breathes. "So perfect. Like you were made for me."

He starts to move, and it's slow. Deliberate. Each thrust is deep and measured, angled to make you feel every inch of him. He keeps one hand on your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, while the other intertwines with yours beside your head.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. "So beautiful like this, angel. Love seeing you like this. Love being inside you."

The pace is unhurried, almost lazy, and it's perfect. You can feel every shift, every movement, every place where your bodies connect. It's intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Aki," you gasp as he hits that spot inside you. "God, Aki—"

"I know, baby. I know." He adjusts slightly, making sure to hit it with every thrust. "Feel so good around me. So tight and warm and perfect."

He leans down to kiss you, deep and slow, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groans into your mouth, his rhythm stuttering for just a moment before he regains control.

"Love you," he whispers against your lips. "Love you so much. Don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm so grateful. So fucking grateful."

The emotion in his voice makes tears prick at your eyes. You pull him closer, needing to feel all of him, and he responds by deepening his thrusts.

"You deserve everything," you tell him. "Everything good, Aki. You deserve to be loved like this."

He makes a choked sound and buries his face in your neck. His pace picks up slightly, still controlled but with more urgency now, and you can feel your orgasm building again.

"Touch yourself for me," he says. "Want to feel you come around me, pretty girl. Want to feel you fall apart."

You slide your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you gasp. He watches your face, his eyes dark and intense, and the intimacy of it—him watching you pleasure yourself while he's inside you—is almost too much.

"That's it," he encourages. "So good, baby. So perfect. Love watching you like this. Love knowing I make you feel this good."

Your orgasm builds slowly, a warm pressure that spreads through your whole body. When it finally hits, it's gentle but deep, rolling through you in waves that seem to go on forever. You clench around him, and he groans, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel so good when you come. So fucking good."

He keeps moving, working you through it, and when you finally come down, you're trembling. He kisses you softly, tenderly, and you can feel him getting close.

"Where do you want me?" he asks.

"Inside," you whisper. "Always inside."

He buries his face in your neck, his thrusts becoming less controlled. "Love you," he chants. "Love you, love you, love you—"

When he comes, it's with a low groan and your name on his lips. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the warmth of his release, and you hold him close as he shakes.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just lie there, wrapped in each other, breathing in sync. His weight is comforting, grounding, and you run your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness of it.

"I love you," he murmurs eventually, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes are soft, content, and there's a small smile on his lips. "Thank you for tonight. For everything."

"I love you too," you say, cupping his face. "Always."

He kisses you once more, soft and sweet, and then carefully pulls out. You both wince at the sensitivity, and he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him.

"Stay here," he says. "I'll get something to clean us up."

He returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you gently, pressing kisses to your thighs as he does. When he's done, he tosses it aside and pulls you back into his arms.

"Best date night ever," you murmur against his chest.

He laughs softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "We should do it more often. The date part, I mean. I know I get caught up in work, but you deserve—"

"Aki." You tilt your head up to look at him. "I'm happy. Right here, right now, with you. That's all I need."

His eyes soften, and he cups your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "How did I get so lucky?"

"I ask myself the same thing," you say with a smile.

He kisses you again, slow and deep, and you lose yourself in it. In him. In this moment of perfect peace.

When you finally pull apart, you're both smiling.

"I love you," he says for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

"I love you too," you whisper back.

And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, you think that this—this quiet, gentle love—is just as powerful as the passionate intensity. Maybe more so, because it's built on trust and understanding and the simple joy of being together.

This is what it means to truly love someone. To know all their sides—the rough and the gentle, the desperate and the tender—and to cherish every single one.

To be loved in return, just as completely.

If you find any mistakes lmk👀

Taglist:

@beereadzzz @inumakiholic67 @ghstfacee

[saeitoshismicrobangs]

wildflower

aki hayakawa x reader

word count: 2.0k

chapter: one

summary: after being discovered by makima as the axe devil, you find yourself in the middle of tokyo as a member of public safety assigned to special division four.

tags: fem!reader, use of y/n, slow burn, fluff, filler, slight angst, hayakawa family, title is a beach house song, mostly canon compliant, but the timeline is a little off so don’t think too hard, cross posted on tiktok**

a/n: i am an amateur writer, so please keep that in mind while reading! my story may contain ooc as well grammar/spelling mistakes. this blog is anti-ai and will be staying that way. i please refrain from copying or feeding my work into ai. happy reading! <3

**this story has been posted on tiktok with a few texts between characters. they are not essential to the plot, but do add to it if you are interested in that.

your first thought upon entering the room is how meticulously everything is arranged. there isn’t a single paper clip or book out of place. the office is clean. controlled. just like the woman on the other side of the desk.

across from you sits the pink-haired lady who discovered you just yesterday. she came to you with promises of a better life, ones that you didn’t mind the idea of. she told you the story of a boy similar to you who she also saved.

before, he lived alone in a shack with a devil and millions of yen worth of debt. now, he’s working and fighting and eating tons of food. she said he’s happy. maybe that could be you. she certainly seems to think so.

the promises sound genuine coming out of her mouth, but you can’t get past the look in her eyes. there’s something off about her. it’s like this entire time she’s been looking through you, not at you. though the strange thing about it is that even with her back turned, she’s still able to tell it’s you.

you're facing the windows, so naturally, with nothing else to do, you stare outside. you've only ever been to tokyo a few times in your life, most of it being spent in an impoverished rural area just outside it.

“they should be here any minute,” makima says, her eyes trained on the door just behind you. like clockwork, there’s a polite knock. “come in.”

as the doorknob twists, you turn around to see three people step in the office. it’s a younger boy, presumably the one she described to you, a girl with red horns, and a guy around your age with a sword and a topknot.

they each file in and stand near the desk. you glance back to see makima is also standing. you rise, feeling like the odd one out.

the guy with the topknot looks annoyed, but his tone is completely professional as he speaks. “hello, miss makima.” beside him stands the younger boy who is completely fixated on the woman behind you. he’s practically drooling.

"hello. aki, denji, power," makima gestures to you. you try to straighten your appearance as you feel their eyes fall onto you. she continues. "this is y/n. she is a hybrid. just like you, denji." you notice the sandy-haired boy's face light up. "she is going to be joining special division four."

"she looks like a human, she hath no purpose here!" the girl with the horns yells, her abrasive voice filling the office.

"power," the pink haired woman starts. immediately, power's demeanor changes. she shrinks into herself and now looks genuinely sorry? scared? afraid?

the yelling makes you forget about the other people in the room for a moment until another unfamiliar voice chimes in. it's denji. "so what kinda devil are you? i'm the chainsaw devil. pretty cool, huh? i even have this chord on my chest that-"

"denji. you shouldn't discuss the details in front of someone you met ten seconds ago." this time, it's the guy with the topknot speaking. he's been pretty quiet this entire time, but you can tell he's upset. angry, even. at denji? or is it something else?

you search your mind for something to deescalate the situation. "if it helps i could tell you about myself?" denji looks up at you and nods vigorously. you can tell he’s trying to restrain himself. “okay, well uh, i'm the axe devil-“

betore you can say more, denji cuts you off.

"WOW COOL! axe devil, really? we should fight sometime. or maybe do some other things together...heh."

your eyebrows knit in confusion at his insinuation. "sorry?"

denji scratches the back of his head. "my bad."

"oh."

makima clears her throat before addressing the room. "alright, well, we can get into the specifics before your first mission together. for now, this is everything you will need to know."

"thank you, miss makima," the guy with the top knot says, and the two others follow behind him as they exit, leaving you alone with makima once again. on their way out, you hear denji ask aki something about the rest of the division. you make a mental note to ask about that later.

like before, makima takes a seat, and you do the same. you anxiously fidget with your fingers for a moment before speaking. "so, i wanted to ask about my living arrangement. you mentioned putting me up somewhere since i can't really afford anything..." you trail off, hoping she'll take over so you don't have to speak anymore.

thankfully, she does. "yes, i did say that. i will have you stay with aki, denji, and power. i'm sure aki won't mind another roommate." another?

"okay." you don't really know what else to say besides that, so you don't say anything. you’re just grateful she’s not going back on her word.

"i'll leave you with his cellphone number and his address. call or text him when you're on your way."

an uncomfortable beat passes. "i'm sorry, but does he know about this? i don't wanna just show up where i wasn't invited."

makima lifts her head. her eyes are on you, but again, it's as if they're looking through you, not at you. "aki will be okay. you won't have any trouble."

..alright."

***

you approach the apartment door hesitantly. aki seemed pissed when you texted. how will he react when you finally show up, not to mention, four hours later? what if he turns you away?

you got pretty lost on your way to his place seeing as this is one of your first times in tokyo. cities are very confusing. nobody helped you get there, but you still managed to arrive. you aren’t completely helpless.

apprehensively, you consider turning around. though it’s not like you have anywhere else to go. so, you finally decide to go inside. before you can even knock on the door, it swings open. denji is now standing before you, grinning from ear to ear.

“it’s you!” he shouts. “i mean, uh, hey.” you’re taken aback by his initial enthusiasm. the complete opposite of aki.

“how did you know i was out here?”

“oh, power said she smelled you so i came to see for myself.”

“smelled?”

“yeah, people like us have a pretty distinct scent i guess.” denji glances back into the apartment. you want to ask more questions, but he’s already talking again. “so what’re you here for?”

shit. “aki didn’t fill you in?” great. more people to upset. “i’m, uh, living here…i guess. just for the time being. swear.” you avoid eye contact, opting to look into the apartment behind him instead.

“NO WAY. REALLY? THIS IS AWESOME!” immediately, your eyes are pulled back to denji. “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M GONNA LIVE WITH SOMEONE SO HOT!” he whips around and bolts inside, turning down a hallway. he’s quickly out of sight, but you can hear shouting. “AKI, WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME SHE WAS MOVING IN?”

“QUIT YELLING,” aki shouts back. as they continue their screaming match, you take this as an opportunity to finally enter your new ‘home’.

the apartment is cleaner than you expected, though you assume that’s not likely due to the help of the younger two. it’s all very…warm. nothing like any place you’ve ever stayed.

there’s not much on the walls, but it still feels lived in. it feels like the people inside are happy. the feeling is a foreign one, but you don’t mind it one bit.

you’ve just stepped past the kitchen when a voice snaps you out of your own world. “you’re gonna be staying in the living room. unless you want to share with denji and power.”

your head snaps back as you clutch your chest in surprise. upon seeing him, you let out a sigh of relief. “sorry, you scared me. that’s alright. really just letting me stay here is more than enough. thank you.”

a look of surprise flickers on his face for just a moment. a beat passes where nobody says anything. “it’s not like i had a choice in the matter.” his cold demeanor is back.

right. he’s being a dick, but now isn’t the time to fight back or you’ll land exactly where you started. alone. you muster up all the kindness and gratitude inside you as you speak. “regardless, i’m grateful.”

he mutters an ‘mhm’ and steps into the kitchen. determined to get on his good side, you follow, now leaning on the counter.

he approaches the stovetop, then looks back at you, gesturing to a pot sitting on the burner. “we already ate dinner. you can have the leftovers. denji’s forcing power to take a bath right now, so it’ll probably be a while until it’s free.” he’s speaking monotonously, as if he’s checking things off of a mental list. “i set out a tatami mat and futon in the living room.”

you haven’t eaten a proper meal in ages, and certainly not one cooked by another person. not since…

it’s best not to think about that. you push down the feelings that try to rise like bile in your throat. “thank you, aki.” this means more than he knows.

“yep.” he passes you, exiting the kitchen. his annoyance is obvious, but you’re blinded by how kind his actions are. they clearly ate dinner a while ago, but he left the burner on so the food was still warm. and he could’ve let you sleep on the floor. but he made sure you didn’t.

before you can say anything, he’s in his room, the door shut behind him.

***

you ate dinner, showered, laid down, and you’re now stuck staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

sleep has always been a problem, more so in the past year than ever before. the night hours are plagued with old memories that you’ve tried so hard to forget. sure, the kindness of the day isn’t lost on you, but it’s hard to focus on that when your mind is imploding with a feeling you can’t describe.

so, you do what you always do. nothing. what else can you do? it’s not like you can flip a switch and magically return to normal. staring at the ceiling until you pass out is your best bet.

the clock on the wall reads 2 a.m. great. the faint ticking is the only sound in the room. or, was the only sound in the room. you now hear the slow creak of the door to your left as it opens.

you feel the sudden need to pretend as though you’re asleep. no need for any more awkward interactions. you’ve already had more than enough for the day.

quiet footsteps tread across the wooden floor. you hear them approaching. soon, they’re behind your head. you hear a click followed by the sound of the sliding glass door being opened and closed as someone passes through. after a few moments of silence, you flip on to your stomach and take a look outside.

aki is standing, slouching really, with his elbows resting on the balcony’s railing. he’s smoking a cigarette. you wouldn’t have pegged him as a smoker, but the evidence is clear.

his hair is down. you can’t see his face, but even from where you lay, it’s obvious he’s exhausted. not in a lack of sleep way, though that may be part of it, but more in an exhausted by life way. you feel a little empathy for him. he’s not the only one exhausted by life.

time ticks away until 30 minutes have passed. in that time, you’ve almost fallen asleep. the sound of the glass door sliding open pulls you back to consciousness. he doesn’t notice your eyes open, being more focused on locking the door as quietly as possible.

you continue your charade from earlier and pretend to be asleep once again.

aki returns to his room, and you return to staring at the ceiling until sleep decides to come.

[6okuto]

AKI BOYFRIEND HCS

GN!reader

this guy is the epitome of stoic detached aura warming up at the sight of his partner. he isn't shooting hearts out if his eyes or especially excited, but people notice the way he relaxes and lets things slide a little easier. especially if you're physically affectionate and everyone stares as he accepts/welcomes it

denji and power will always yell "gross!" and "get a room!" no matter how pg-13 you're being (if aki even lets them around you.)

^ they ask why you're dating him of all people. they also ask you to persuade him to do things because if he'll listen to anyone it's you, and they really want money to try winning that arcade grand prize

^ they loudly complain about his favouritism but he ignores them

even if there is blatant favouritism you aren't Immune. though a few forehead flicks and sarcastic teasing remarks, or saying no to trip detours isn't that bad.

acts of service and quality time !! his job takes him away from you so often that whenever he has chores to do or free time he'll ask if you want to join.

cooking with aki :( he doesn't mind cooking for you and usually goes out of his way to do it any way, especially if he knows he'll be gone for a while. but he can't deny that he loves the domesticity of working together in the kitchen to make breakfast.

naturally does your chores just because ? he wants to help you ? and he's already here ? so why wouldn't he

lets out a deep sigh when he takes his hair out and you run your hands through it. it's one of his favourite ways to relax, and it's become part of your routine to let him rest his head in your lap when he gets home

will sit there as you play with his hair and do little ponytails/braids with little to no resistance.

^ you tilt his head to look at him and he waits for your thoughts. "you look pretty," you say matter-of-factually. he hums and reaches to feel what you've done before thanking you and reaching for his phone camera

aki leaving little notes or texting you when he leaves while you're asleep. "I cooked your favourite and put it in the fridge. Love you. Be back soon :)" (say what you want about him adding a smiley face but I imagine him hesitating before ultimately choosing to do it even if he feels awkard. he's always thinking of how to show you he really does appreciate you and that includes going out of his comfort zone)

^ good morning and goodnight texts when he's not there. texts you when he knows you're going to be eating to make sure you're doing okay (and to tell you he misses you)

^ sometimes you can get a little "Denji and Power say hi" or a photo taken of him by them

one thing he always does his best to do is ask you to talk about your day !! what did you, what did you eat and watch, did anything interesting happen? he'll tell you about his day minus the devil hunting details if you don't have familiarity with the job. doesn't think he should make you have to hear about it

(absentminded) temple, knuckle, and shoulder kisses. it's a kiss to your temple when he spots you in a room, bringing your hand up to his lips to kiss it while it's still intertwined with his, and a kiss to your shoulder goodnight while he hugs you from behind

^ srs about the knuckle kisses whenever you're holding hands. like, you're holding his hand while talking to him at your desk and he's bending down to listen and look at your screen? he brings your hand up and rests his lips against it so you can feel him hum in response and tiny pecks to your knuckles as you speak

^ general small gestures. tucking your feet into the blanket when you're sleeping and it's cold. refilling your water when he sees your glass is empty. standing in front of you when it's sunny so you can see. tidying your desk to help you stay organized. automatically getting your favourite snacks while shopping. remembering your drink order. letting you take the last seat on the bus or holding you so you don't fall. gently pulling your head to rest on his shoulder when he sees you falling asleep etc etc etc

aki knows when you take his clothes. not that he minds Obviously but he just wants you to know there's no point in trying to keep it a secret. he thinks you look really nice by the way. you can tell by the way he pauses when he looks up at you or his gaze lingers

he isn't really a hoodie guy, but if you ever asked for one of his to wear he makes a mental note to buy a couple.

matching earrings ♡____♡ trusts your taste and will try what you get him,, though he strays away from dangly ones if he's going on a mission

^ seriously the boyfriend who'll do objectively silly things for you like wearing fruit earrings you very evidently got from claire's. not out of the house but he'd put them on

i need you all to imagine aki clasping your necklace for you.

definitely had a drawer for your things before you officially moved in. as it got more and more clothes and you stayed over more often, he finally asked for your thoughts on living together

yes aki walks on the side closer to the road

yes he'll hold your hand in big crowds so he doesn't lose you

yes he holds your bags while shopping or in general. doesn't care if it's pastel pink or a cat or whatever else

no he isn't afraid to get into a physical fight if someone is bothering you. honest to god would knock someone out if you asked

imagine the sharing a cigarette thing but if you don't smoke and it's a lollipop. Ok. Think.

taking baths together!! him offering massages because he knows when you're stressed. doing skincare with him etc etc

i just think in the pining phase before you date think if you mentioned something you wish could happen e.g. a romance trope, gesture, dream date, etc. he'd take mental notes for later

I Just Think when he's had a hard day and he remembers again just how dangerous his job is, how he could lose you at moment,, he's especially clingy and tries to do more for you (if that's possible)

^ the first conversation you have when he opens up about his past and his feelings about his family is definitely important and also a bit heartbreaking.

writes "happy birthday" with icing himself on the cake he gets you :) unless you don't like cake—he'll write it on a card anyways

^ gets you very thoughtful gifts. it's something you've been wanting for ages that he started to save up for, or something he saw that reminded him of you, or something that the two of you could do together. you get it

usually goes for the big spoon when you sleep, but his grip tightens when you try to get up no matter what position you're in

he gets a little flustered if he notices you saved his contact as anything other than "Aki" even if it's just like, a heart next to it

^ Will Not let denji and power see how he copied what you did.

[oceanaesthete]

His hand lingered on your lower waist, unlocking the door and kneeling down to take off your shoes so he could help you in. Both of you had went to the Public Safety's dinner and you ended up pretty drunk. Aki knew you weren't the most energetic drunk person, but he never imagined you to be so...cute either.

You dragged your hand roughly over your face. You didn't even care to open your eyes as Aki carefully guided you to the bedroom, sitting you down onto the mattress before he disappeared. Your eyes were half lidded with sleep, head full with nothing. Drunk but not the stereotypical type, not the type of drunk to do something you would regret, not the type of drunk to throw everything up (even if how much you wanted to.)

The familiar warmth filled your senses despite how out of the moment you felt. He steadied your head gently, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "You have to drink water baby." He muttered into your skin, gently bringing the glass to your lips and helping you drink. When you finished it, aki put the glass onto the nightstand. You pouted your lips. "I want to sleep..." Words slurring. Aki pushed your hair off your face, voice gentle for your ears and heavy mind. "I know, I know. Just a bit more so I can take your make up off."

Your head was spinning like in an amusement park. Vision getting blurred and forgetting to focus when your eyes stayed at somewhere for too long. Dissociating. You were brought to your senses when the refreshing coolness of the make up wipe touched your skin, on the other side his hand on your jaw.

"You're such a bad drinker." Aki whispered between the process, careful under your eyes and lashes. "You should have known you can't win against Himeno in drinking. I can't even do it."

"I'm sorryy..." You interrupted him with the apology. You rested your face to his warm palm, pulling in closer without thinking. Your hands holding on to the hem of his shirt. Aki stopped for a second, then pulled you in closer to his chest, arm wrapping around your shoulder blades. He buried his face into your hair, breathing in before whispering.

"Sweet girl."

this felt SO ooc I won't lie. Not proofread.

[vevelt32]

an excerpt from my aki x reader story except reader has serious bg lore... notwithstanding death threats from himeno @ 14 yrs old (tbf u wore her dead partner's face)