*tANK...!!!

❝   hmm,   ❞   she   replies,   childishly   exaggerating   the   drawing   -   out   of   the   consonant   sound.   ❝   maybe   you're   right.   but   it's   not   a   shtick,   you   fanta   -   haired   idiot   !   ❞   pulls   on   his   ear   a   bit   for   that   one.   how   dare   he   ?   ❝   i'm   not   gonna   turn   up   my   nose   at   any   decent   people   with   an   appreciation   for   anything   japanese,   no   matter   how   gross   and   mean   they   can   be   !   at   least   they   have   an   eye   for   all   the   beauty   right   in   front   of   them.   ❞

❝   JESUS,   SAIONJI,   you   sound   like   a   little   kid   when   you   talk   like   that   ...   ❞   he   sighs   under   his   breath,   but   it's   not   truly   indicative   of   much   of   anything   ———   it's   simply   his   normal   way   of   dealing   with   her,   of   blowing   his   frustrations   into   the   wind   to   accommodate   whatever   whim   she's   decided   to   pursue   just   then.   ❝   they   like   it   because   they   think   it's   the   closest   thing   to   american   candy,   or   whatever.   nobody   who   treats   the   elderly   and   the   women   in   urashii   like   they   do   can   really   be   that   big   of   a   fan   of   us   and   our   culture,   mainland   or   otherwise.   ❞   

@tankluv : (chest) / symbol meme starters, accepting !

try   as   she   might   for   her   grand   masquerade   of   salaciousness,   the   demureness   that   befalls   her   upon   any   genuine   sexual   interaction   is   .   .   .   well,   pathetic,   really,   a   label   miu   would   ascribe   herself.   absolutely   pathetic   !   pussy   ass   virgin   shit   !   so   why,   why   in   the   name   of   fuckin'   christ,   did   she   feel   so   meek   for   the   feeling   of   souda's   rough   hand   pressed   against   her   chest   ?

the   whites   of   her   dentition   grind   against   themselves,   threatening   to   wear   down   into   nothingness,   compilation   of   all   stress   and   apprehension   :   she'd   never   back   down   from   an   escapade,   right   ?   that's   what   she   tells   herself.   and   she'd   never   lie   to   herself.   probably.   eyes   were   wide,   wider   than   her   typical   blank   -   eyed   stare,   one   part   attempt   in   seduction   and   another   part   foray   into   intimidation.

his   hand   retreats.   the   mask   goes   back   on,   with   a   one,   and   a   two,   and   a   confident   huff   —   hah   !

❝   ya'   like   what   ya'   felt,   grease   -   monkey   ?   they're   all   naturel.   ❞   she   means   au   naturel   .   .   .   which   is   also   incorrect   !   ❝   don't   go   cummin'   in   your   jumpsuit,   though   !   there's   no   mommy   here   to   wash   it   for   you   !   ❞

what the fuck was he doing? he was breathing, of course. breathe in. breathe out. crash in. crash out. knuckles turn, curl inwards, mechanical. his skin is taut, and so is hers. touch, feel, pull, twist, squeeze. she's not real, really. she's a mouth machine connected to a stomach machine connected to a birthing machine connected to god. what's a girl? he's only touched her, groped her, objectified her for a fleeting moment, but it feels like hours to him. he is taking her apart in his mind's eye   —   he doesn't care about her tits, he wants to feel her heart beat in his hand. he wants to push open her aortic root with a sooted digit, stain the beds of his fingernails while he sees which hole of hers can stretch wider.   ...   his concentration on his   "   fantasy   "   is broken by her rattling voice, and he quickly retracts his hand and stands up stiffly. he is always stiff. he looks around quickly, as if he's forgotten where he was. his lip trembles, and he paws at it dumbly, like he doesn't know how to make it stop   (   as if he's not in control.   )   where there would usually be a stutter, there's now a lucid and syrupy voice, deadened and dead-ended.   "   um   ...   sorry. i haven't been sleeping much lately   ...   "   and in a seemingly insomnia-riddled burst of blunt comedy,   "   are you offering to be my mommy?   "

ideate   something   bigger   than   this,   something   greater   than   this   :   benighted   by   her   despair,   she   dissemble   the   true   mikan   for   something   illusory.   she   glowers,   lissome   hands   coming   to   clasp   one   another   atop   her   sternum.   ❝   how   can   i   help,   souda   -   san   ?   ❞   may   she   act   the   part   of   the   dancer   ;   surrogate   for   all   souda's   burning   fervour   and   agonies   ?

"   ...   shit, tsumiki, i don't know. you're the doc here, right? can't you just   ...   g-give me something?   "   his stutter gives off the impression, the concept of unassuredness, but he is anything but unconfident here. it's not bienséance, of course, to hand out your blues and whites to anybody who asks; but kazuichi is desperate, baleful, inconsolable. what was once a shell protecting his fraught inner core is now gone, and no longer does he have his dancer to express his nerves, and so he lets his worse impulses lay bare   —   enantiodromia.   "   please?   "   and so his emotions have rolled over like a mutt in submission, begging her to take the reins and clear him of his mange.

it   is   not   quite   a   puppeteered   instance   of   weakly   -   washed   sympathy   ———   in   some   ways,   she   loves   his   pathetic   contagion.   putty   in   her   hands.   it   feels   good   to   play   into   her   power   fantasy   :   that   she   is   the   untouchable   one.   it   is   safest   that   way.   ❝   looks   like   i   have   something   in   common   with   the   military   men   !   now   hurry   up   before   i   do   something   worse   to   the   rest   of   your   fingers.   piggyback   ride.   now.   ❞   beckons   for   her   lily - livered   steed,   whispering   a   faint   i   love   you   too   into   his   nape   as   she   mounts.

and that's all he needs to keep going. he is her lucky bamboo   ;   require not does he of sunlight, so long as the reflection off her eyes remains.   "   nooo, you don't wanna be like the soldiers there! they're all gross and mean. i think you'd know that, considering the whole japanese shtick o'yours,   "   spoken with a sneer that's mostly joking. if he was any more serious, he'd probably get kicked in the head   ...   he wouldn't like that. maybe.   "   regardless, yeah, 't was suuuper popular. guess it was the sweetest thing the americans could find, after they got tired of eating sushi to shōyu, hehehe.   "

= One track mind , One track heart =

- If I fail I'll fall apart -

dark,   sinister   eyes   :   this   is   no   bawcock   crosswise   from   her.   hellfire   and   the   sun   are   both   radiant   and   aglow.   ❝   you   were   .   .   .   ?   ❞   ivories   revealed   in   a   grin   that   is   half   -   parts   sinister,   half   -   parts   sympathetic.   ❝   souda   -   san   .   .   .   i   know   that   saionji   -   san   w-   wasn't   the   kindest   to   you   .   .   .   how   are   you   handling   this   ?   ❞

how do you handle something like this? souda stares at his sympath for a moment   :   "   didn't get along   ...   ?   "   what they went through never mattered   ;   what she said never mattered   ;   saionji was his catholicon, a church of his own to repent unto and give tithings. she was love   —   wasn't love supposed to hurt, to sting, to singe?   "   tsumiki   ...   i d-don't know what to do,   "   breath hitching, posture failing, tears returning,   "   please help me   ...   i-i don't want to ask, but i don't have anyone else to   ...   t-to turn to.   "

she's   merciful.   at   least,   she   thinks   so.   such   is   why   she   gently   takes   one   of   his   parted   hands,   bending   one   of   his   fingers   back   —   not   to   cause   too   much   pain,   just   a   biting   reminder   that   she   was   not   playing   around   —   before   wrapping   her   petite   fingers   around   it   afterwards   and   giving   it   a   soft   squeeze.   ❝   you're   such   a   disgusting   idiot.   buuuuut,   i   won't   be   mad   at   you   if   you   buy   me   some   konpeitō.   ❞

he yelps, like a kicked mutt, and yet there is no corner for him to scamper into. so he stands there, pride far more than swallowed as she plays with him. he's still nowhere near recovered from her onslaught of insults and   ...   sensations, but the reassuring measure she gave his digit is enough to make him sober out of his pity, if only for a moment.   "   konpeitō? i-i haven't had any since i was back in urashii   ...   the military men there were apparently a big fan of it.   "   a short pause. a quick breath. a stuttering exhale.   "   saionji, i   ...   "   quietly, under his breath,   "   i love you.   "   after all of that   ...   ?

she doesn't even really care about that. but what does matter was the way that he looked at her now, or rather, tried not to, as if he couldn't figure out what to do when someone was standing before him in FULL 3-D rather than something he'd dreamt up in some schematic or hentai fucking fantasy. he's already all nerves, all unsure of what to do - and he's going to be perfect, isn't he? "don't you recognise your classmate? ryota's going to want some company. sis, why don't ya get our new friend a seat. don't you wanna watch some something he's been working like, extra hard on?" emphasis on extra hard for this filthy fucking degenerate. it's fine. he looks so adorably controllable, she just can't help herself!

his heartbeat quickens, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth like a sick dog. he bites down on it until he bleeds   —   he bites down on it until she's satisfied. he can't regulate his emotions, nor his arousal   ;   that's what really hurts, you do it to yourself. rubbing at his face with his sleeve, catching both tears and drool, he stammers   :   "   i-i-i need to go, i'm sorry, i'm sorry about the   —   "   and he feels a presence behind him, a cold one, a dark one, a calculated one. it singes his senses like acid, and he stands rigidly still, staring   (   nowhere near her face, of course   )   at his temptress. kazuichi doesn't look over his shoulder. he doesn't think it's smart to leave anymore. 

"   my classmate?   "   and he takes another look at ryouta, and observes him more closely this time. there is a skeleton in front of him. his skin remains, but it is pallid and his face is gaunt   ;   what lies behind the boy's eyes is nothing that souda wants to know of. does enoshima know? did she make it thus? he shivers. it's too warm in this room to shiver.   "   i don't understand   —   "   but his body moves before his mind can, and he hesitantly sits down next to junko just as she wanted. her voice is a gentle caress, a snake in the grass. it feels good when she speaks to him, and if only for a moment, consumed again by his maladaptation, he wonders what kind of noise her nails would make when they peeled his magazines apart, how the light would hit her hèrmes rouge piment polish when she pried his legs open, how he would whimper, beg and whine as she dug them into his skin, deeper, deeper, deeper until   —   "   ...   okay. h-he's been working extra hard, after all.   "

he   is   her   bleary   -   eyed   proxy   :   in   varying   hues   of   blue   and   pink,   they   are   surrogates   of   one   another.   ❝   souda   -   san   .   .   .   ❞   a   look   washed   with   concern,   seraphic   and   pale   with   heavenly   light.   ❝   i'm   j-   just   worried   about   you.   ❞

" mikan ... " his cheeks are stained red, and as she'd correctly philosophized, his eyes are wet and seem to shimmer under the harsh fluorescent lights of his cabin. he hiccups softly, and rubs at his eyes until he sees static when he looks up at the nurse. " saionji — she ... i know you two didn't get along. " a strange way of putting it. " but we ... we were ... " he lets out a beleaguered moan, and shakily scratches at his temple until it draws blood.