thinking about the way psychics both are and are not a known factor in the world of mp100. the worldbuilding is light, allegorical, and comedic, but even meeting it where it's coming from, it paints a delightful picture of how the rest of the world relates to the supernatural shit.
like, clearly most people don't believe in psychic power, or at least they don't assume it to be real. but when confronted with it, the more common reaction seems to be along the lines of "ah shit, huh, makes sense i guess." inukawa knew mob is a psychic, and brought it up without hesitation, like oh yeah, this is a known thing, but was then surprised among the others to see how much mob can do. the talk show is difficult to interpret, because it was a trap set up for reigen specifically, but how things play out, it feels like being a legitimate psychic isn't quite as outlandish an idea as it would be in our world. actual psychics don't seem to be putting much effort into hiding (if they're even trying to hide), there's unions, the goverment can put together a psychic suicide squad, the news can show a giant broccoli flying, there's books with instructions to meet aliens that actually have some truth to them, and yet people aren't that aware. and yet again, people like mitsuura and amakusa exist.
it feels like the supernatural is... kinda boring? weird stuff just happens occasionally, and it doesn't have much bearing on people's lives. the rest of it works like how essential oils do actually have certain effects and uses (for example, insect repellent), but then there's just a mountain of bullshit and people selling you things, so you don't really bother with any of it. cases like mob feel like ball lightning, as in i remember reading about it right next to absolutely fake shit as a kid and being told it's not real, but it is real, but fucked if anyone knows what exactly it is and some of the reports and theories are suspicious as hell. just. weird shit in the world that's ultimately irrelevant and uninteresting to most people.
the delightful part is that this all reinforces the idea that psychic power is just one quality among many that people can have.
but also.
when reigen founded spirits and such. i do not know how exactly it works where i live, let alone in japan. but registering a business. don't you usually need to put down what type of business you're running? did he have to figure out a close enough option, or is there a standard one to pick for psychic business, something they're considered to fall under, or even a psychic specific one?
delighted by the thought that spirits and such is officially a spa or something instead of what the industry standard is. reigen either didn't know which one people usually pick, or chose against the standard because it was less of a hassle. or tax reasons. imagine.
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“knowing how / if they take their coffee” for max/oscar pretty please 🥺🥺
knowing how/if they take their coffee
When Max wakes up, it takes him a minute to remember where he is. There’s a body wrapped around his, a nose pressed into his neck and an arm slung over his waist, squeezing him close. An adorable little snuffling noise clues him in however, and he turns around slowly, as to not wake the person next to him.
It’s in vain, Oscar blinking at him sleepily when Max faces him. “Hi,” Oscar says, voice sleep rough, the word slurring a little.
“Morning,” Max says. He doesn’t feel nervous, because this is Oscar and nothing with Oscar ever really feels scary. It feels comfortable, familiar. Like slipping on a well worn hoodie.
But still, this is the first time he’s actually slept over, the first time they’ve toed the line from messing around and maybe dating into something more serious, and there’s no way to tell how it’s going to go.
But then Oscar makes a sleepy grumbling noise and buries his face in the crock of Max’s neck, practically flopping himself on top of Max. Max laughs, lets him snuggle close, wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. He’s not surprised Oscar is not a morning person. He usually isn’t either, but it’s hard to feel particularly grumpy when Oscar’s breath is fanning across his collarbones, his fingers dancing over Max’s side.
Eventually Max manages to coax him out of bed and they make their way into Oscar’s small little kitchen. It’s different from the one in Max’s apartment. That one is big, empty, soulless. Oscar’s kitchen might be small, but it’s clearly very lived in. There’s a bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, a crate of onions on a little shelf, some dirty dishes still in the sink. This is a kitchen that gets used, that gets loved. It feels homey, cozy. Max finds himself thinking he wouldn’t mind spending more time here.
Oscar starts messing around with the coffee machine the second he steps into the kitchen and Max pulls a face. “I uh, I don’t really. I don’t like coffee,” he says. “Or tea, actually.”
“Oh, I know,” Oscar says. He’s not looking at Max, still fiddling with the machine. “But I do. There’s Red Bull in the fridge.” And that’s. He says it very casually, like it’s normal for him to have Red Bull in the fridge. But Max can see the tight line of his shoulders, the slightly pink tint to the tips of his ears, and he knows for a fact Oscar absolutely hates the taste of Red Bull.
“Oh,” Max says, because, well. It feels like a confession, amidst this fragile little thing they have. Oscar remembered Max didn’t like coffee. Oscar went out of his way to get him a drink he does like. He feels the urge to kiss him, suddenly. Press him against the counter and show him how much that really means to him.
Figuring there’s literally nothing stopping him he reaches forward, tugging at Oscar’s arm until he turns around, and then crowds him into the counter. Oscar lets out a surprised little noise but lets himself be pressed against the marble of the counter tops, lets Max take his face in his hands, lets him kiss him, soft and sweet and a little desperate all at once.
“Thanks,” Max says, when he pulls away.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Oscar says, eyes soft, crinkling at the edges as he smiles at Max. “I could have gotten you the blue one.”
Max laughs, loud and happy. “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”
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