dating csm characters
â includes - denji, aki, angel, kishibe
denji doesn't know what it means to feel real, genuine love. he thinks you're crazy hot, obviously, but he's initially confused or at the least suspicious of the affection you show him - it's like he's waiting for you to drop the ball and try to snag the chainsaw's heart.
when the sting never comes, when you never betray him, never make a grab for anything other than his hand, he relaxes. having denji's heart means having a constant shadow. he's clingy.
has zero experience and no idea what he's doing. everything he knows about relationships comes from the manga he reads - it leaves much to be desired. he wraps an arm around your shoulder too tight, suffocates you in his warmth when you hug, sleeps stuck to your side with no hope for escape.
denji is clumsy but sincere. his hands are sweaty when he holds yours, he'll bump your forehead instead of kissing you, mumble awkward comments like "you smell good." or "you're cute."
his kisses are sloppy. teeth bumping, hands wandering, he gets caught up in grinning and laughing and then laughs harder when you pull away and act annoyed.
loudly jealous. you can see it, hear it, from a mile away. talk to some other guy and he's all huffing and puffing and "why don't you just date him if he's such hot shit!" give him some time, he's working on it.
movie and video game nights are a must. except, he falls asleep during every movie and breaks the controller when he loses. you can't really complain, though, not when it means having him doze against your shoulder.
he thinks he's the shit, the best boyfriend ever. he'll drape his jacket over your shoulders when it rains, walking with his hands behind his head and saying, "yeah, i know, i'm a gentleman," with a nonchalant shrug (he's eyeing your reaction too carefully for someone so 'confident').
tries to play it cool when he gets flustered. heâll tinge pink to his nose if you mess with his hair or lean into him and try to save face by saying things like, âcome on .. youâre makinâ me feel all weird inside.â
he's broke, so dates are far from fancy. you two find a hole-in-the-wall ramen joint, take a walk down the neon streets of tokyo, or lay on the dewy grass in a park. he tries to pay for your meals, but you're faster (he didn't have the money, anyway).
makes you have sleepovers with him in aki's apartment (much to aki's dismay). drags you onto the futon with him and passes out the second he's got you in his arms, "you're the best thing i got," he mumbles in his sleep, curling around you.
trusts you to fight for yourself, but won't think twice if it looks like you need help. he'd swing in, snag you out of the way of a blow with carefully human arms despite his chainsaw head, "i gotcha." he mumbles, "still with me?"
sometimes he just stares at you with this big, dopey grin, all pointed teeth and shining eyes, like wow, i can't believe somebody likes me.
aki is not one to beat around the bush. he's long since been aware of his .. condition, his fate, it's only fair that you know, too.
he takes you to a rooftop, sits next to you with his loose hair blowing in the wind, "to tell you the truth," he says, "i don't have a lot of time left." he turns to face you then, eyes half lidded, expression simply, but so deeply, sad, "but, whatever i do have, i'd like to spend it with you."
it hangs over you two every day. every touch, every kiss, every shared night, there's the weight of what's unavoidable following you. it's heavy, but it's worth it.
if you ever argue, ever yell at him, he goes quiet, forcefully calming himself down before saying something like, "i don't want to fight with you," so gently it almost hurts.
protective in a 'i have to stop you before you can even start' way. he's always nagging with things like, "don't leave your socks on the floor," or, "don't touch that," or "drink some water." it's his way of saying he cares about you.
you start to adopt his morning routine. you two wake up together, do skincare, make coffee - he's memorized how you like it, then sit on the patio while he smokes a cigarette and you watch the sunrise. your little bubble of peace is precious to him (until it is inevitably broken by power and denji).
lowkey judges your skincare routine. "is that hand soap?" he asks the first time you slide in next to him to wash your face, "that's abysmal. you need to correct that." he buys you new products that same day.
malewife patient zero. he cooks the best meals, folds your laundry perfectly, and keeps the plants alive (plus denji and power!). he likes when you hug him from behind while he cooks, even if he acts like it's bothersome. think 1950's housewife but a man and also hot.
big routine guy over here. he lives for that sense of normalcy. every night, he reads in bed while you scroll on your phone. he'll casually adjust himself if you flop onto his chest, and shut off the lamp he was using to read the second you fall asleep.
gets twitchy if he hears you've been hurt. he insists on being the one to see you first, to patch up your wounds. "be more careful," he whispers, hand clutching yours tightly, "please. i can't lose anyone else."
aki will never stop worrying. but you're the one person who can make his shoulders relax, his voice soften. some nights, when you're half asleep, you catch him just looking at you. like you hung the moon. "i can't believe this is real." he murmurs lowly, brushing hair back from your face before laying beside you.
angel doesn't have a lot to live for. he wanted the quiet life. the country mouse. he said it himself, he'd rather die than keep working.
that was, until you came along. until you kept sitting beside him despite the danger, until you become someone he thinks about when he's looking for a reason to get up in the morning, until you became the one he looks for first when he enters a room.
he acts detached at first, "don't touch me," he'd warn, "you'll drain your lifespan." but then he becomes the one that lingers, the one that leans closer when he knows now more than ever that he shouldn't.
doesn't help with chores, or work, or anything, really, he just sits nearby, "you know, human," he says, head casually tilted to the side as he watches you with lazy curiosity, "you make living a lot less awful."
chronic napper. anywhere and everywhere. slumped against a wall, standing up, your lap, he'll take whatever perch he can find. you've become his preferred pillow.
if you fall asleep beside him, he stares at you, tracing your face with his eyes because he can't touch you. sometimes he hums, old hymns, soft lullabies, something to fill the silence and bring you sweet dreams.
touch is complicated. he wears gloves so he can hold your hand, but even then, he's cautious. you'd be lying if you said you weren't cautious, too. even though you want, more than anything, to caress his face, to feel his lips without a barrier between, each time, one of you pulls away. he can't do that to you. and you can't brave the consequences.
if you try, if you reach for him, he recoils, stepping back, "stop. it's not worth it." he says every time, though his eyes harbor such intense longing; it looks like tears will spill over any second.
never says 'i love you'. it's too much, too serious. if he admits it, he worries he'll lose you the next second, he'll get to close. you, instead, get a feather trapped in the pocket of your coat, a gloved hand closing over yours, his quiet voice when he says "you keep me tethered." but not 'i love you', never 'i love you'.
angel's wings get in the way of literally everything. it's like he doesn't have control over them. "oops." he mumbles when they flap against your side. "my bad," is all you get when they knock your work from the table.
talks about death like he's talking about the weather - calm, detached - it's never been anything but inevitable to him, a simple countdown. but, he turns to you mid-sentence, catches your expression, and falters, "ah, well," he shrugs, eyes moving skyward, "now that i have you, i'll at least die happy."
if you get hurt, it shakes him. he hovers nearby, never too close but not far, either. "don't touch me," he says, "but stay alive."
you kissed once. only for a second, maybe two. a fleeting, too short press of his lips to yours. he pulled away like he'd been burned, wings fluttering and twitching as he averts his head, "that can't ever happen again."
kishibe didn't mean to fall for you. he was never supposed to fall for anyone. but he kept showing up where you were anyway, cigarette in his mouth, smirk on his lips, pretending it's nothing but coincidence.
never officially calls himself you're boyfriend or says you're 'dating'. "we're just .. spending time together." he says, but his hand brushes the small of your back and his lips press against your temple that same day.
dates are far from normal. he takes you devil hunting with him, teaches you to throw a knife or shoot a gun. you ask if it counts as a date and he shrugs, "why not? you're here, i'm here. what else do ya want, huh?"
used to only refer to you by your name, but one night, while drunk, he calls you 'sweetheart' and you never hear your name from his lips ever again.
old fashioned in the way that he offers you an arm while you walk down the streets, compliments you - "wow, look at you, sweetheart" - when he sees you, holds the door for you. he'll wave you off dismissively if you try to thank him for anything.
he says 'i love you' in the most unceremonious way possible. like, a slip of the tongue after he says goodnight followed by a "don't make me repeat myself," before he promptly walks off with a heart that's beating just a little bit too fast.
sometimes he's a little too reckless. he'll come home bloody, still half-grinning, "you should see the other guy," he winces as he speaks, collapsing against the couch. if you patch him up, he watches you, something unreadable in his eyes, "you've got good bedside manner, doc," he chuckles roughly and takes a long swig from his canister.
kishibe is used to violence. you bring a warmth he thought was long off the table for him. he grumbles when you kiss his scars or clean his wounds, but he secretly loves it.
won't let you drink from his flask or smoke one of his cigarettes, he nudges you aside with ease, holding the canister above your head where you're hopeless to reach for it, "nope," he smirks, playfully stern, "don't need you gettin' hooked on this shit, too."
the kids - being power and denji - treat you like you're their parents. they tease kishibe about you til he's angry enough to hit them across the head and send them both running, "damn kids," he'll grunt, adjusting his coat, "thought i taught 'em when to quit."
dreams about settling down with you. marrying you, starting a family. he'd never thought himself a father before meeting you, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't considering it now.
he doesn't really get your apparent infatuation with him. on late nights, he'll lean against the balcony railing, turning to you with a thoughtful expression, "you really want to waste your time with an old man like me?" he asks. assure him that you do, and he's laughing - a gruff, breathy sound - "well," he says, "you better not kick the bucket before i do. deal?"
