#.... he is a collector of things and never forgets things that are important to him.... <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? It’s more likely than you think.

This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.

Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ‘s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred and his scars.

CW: 24k • explicit sexual content • MDNI • gang-related violence • mentions of blood and broken bones • mentions of murder/death • loss of virginity • creampie • vaginal fingering • some angst

I have plenty more of this AU written, so if y’all want more, just let me know 🫡

MASTERLIST HERE

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

The first is simple: once you’re in, you’re in.

Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but don’t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.

And don’t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. There’s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one you’d had before. No separation. You’ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, you’re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.

This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that he’d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira — the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.

The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that he’d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.

Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies — mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

Largely monetary debts — collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.

But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money — it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.

Life debts.

In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.

Their executions had been quick and without fuss — or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.

But even though the spray of their brains hadn’t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemi’s hands.

He will never be able to wash them clean.

But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences — for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom he’ll do anything — be anyone — if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.

The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).

And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is don’t get attached. Keep your circle small so there’s less collateral to be used against you — against the organization that owns you.

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.

But then he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in and that’s when everything falls apart.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.

They were late.

The job was simple, and well within Sanemi’s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzui’s joints that he’d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldn’t get elsewhere.

He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldn’t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the chance to smash the pervert’s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d thrown open the steel door of the Maeda’s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as he’d begged for mercy Sanemi hadn’t been hired to give.

The stupid, greasy fuck.

By the time he’d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the vermin’s back as he sobbed). But he’d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.

And that’s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maeda’s small warehouse, Uzui’s payment split into two rolls that he’d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members he’d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then they’d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.

Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But he’d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.

Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.

Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.

Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty — disquietingly so.

Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.

Sanemi’s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. It’s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.

He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.

One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits —

A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.

The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.

The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.

“Pigs!” The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. “Pigs!”

“Shit,” Sanemi growls. No doubt Maeda’s bruised ego sold them out. He should’ve taken the time to smash the asshole’s phone.

He’ll be dealt with later — and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.

Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corps’ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.

So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He can’t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.

He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.

He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.

The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.

Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there —

A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.

No good.

“Fuck.” It isn’t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While he’s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadn’t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options — the side streets to the left and right.

Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasn’t fully fucked himself.

Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street — one that borders the city’s western wing.

It’ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.

He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop — a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.

But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other — the store’s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerk’s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.

He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.

Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.

It’s now or never. And, because he’s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.

His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You know him; you’d known him most of your life, even if you’d never spoken to him. You’d gone to the same school in your youth — all thirteen years of it, in fact. He’d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.

You know he’s from the Silo — a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.

But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.

It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

So you hadn’t been surprised when you’d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before he’d even graduated high school.

You shudder to think what he had to have done — what he’d become — in order to achieve such status and notoriety.

If he’d been anyone else, you wouldn’t have helped; you would’ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.

But you owed him.

Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.

But one afternoon, when you’d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, she’d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.

Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.

But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though he’d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, he’d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parents’ home.

You’d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sister’s white-haired savior. They’d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but he’d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was “no big deal.” As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.

His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.

You’d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.

Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerk’s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.

There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.

A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isn’t stupid enough to try and shift.

One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.“You haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

The cop grimaces. “You haven’t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like they’re running?”

You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. “I’m afraid you’re my first customer of the day, sir.”

The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counter’s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.

But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.

“They’re gone,” you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.

There’s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.

In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But it’s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.

That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well — at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.

However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle he’d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.

You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.

He has scars he’d not had in your youth — jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.

A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.

“Can’t thank ya enough,” he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. “You really saved my ass —“

“Get out of my store.” You order, your voice hard. “Take your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“As you wish, Princess,” and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. “Just need somethin’ for the road.”

He snags a small novel — a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.

“Later,” he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. “You have to pay for —“

But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.

—-

By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. He’d met up with Uzui and forked over Maeda’s payment. Though, the Corp’s head pimp hadn’t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.

As it turned out, Maeda hadn’t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other — the driver — had managed to escape, though he’d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.

There’s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.

He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash he’d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.

He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book he’d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.

Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.

Take your trouble somewhere else.

Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which you’d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.

You know what — who — he is. In Sanemi’s world, that’s a liability.

Though, in fairness, he can’t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and it’s a coveted one. It wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude that you’d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.

What concerns him is he doesn’t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe you’re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

The Corps isn’t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.

The Kizuki.

In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.

Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadn’t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.

Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.

There are whispers that they’ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious — perhaps you’re in league with them, and you’ll hand him over the moment it’s most convenient for you to do so.

Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. You’re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.

But that’s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.

Either way, he doesn’t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he can’t afford to make.

Sanemi doesn’t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, he’ll decide how to proceed.

He eyes the book he’d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if he’s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.

Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and don’t visit home often, if ever.

Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.

Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But it’s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.

Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.

Or so he tells himself.

The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parents’ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.

He’d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, he’d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your mother’s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.

The memory of how you’d looked at him — a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when he’d met your stare head on — remained fixed in his brain for years after.

And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.

He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he can’t remember if he had. He should’ve; especially now when it seems as though he’s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.

Sanemi’s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen — instructions, only by way of an address and an amount — chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.

With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.

He wonders what will kill him first — whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because there’s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corp’s behalf.

Ultimately, he knows it doesn’t really matter. He won’t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life that’s anything but this. He’ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. He’ll die under the mask he’s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasn’t yet bonded with his skin.

But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where he’d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.

And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.

—

Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.

Sanemi doesn’t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguro’s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.

The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. He’d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.

That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.

So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.

His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.

He doesn’t know her by name — only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But it’s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps that’s because she’s looking for an escape just as much as he is.

Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.

Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.

At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. She’s licking and nipping at his lips in a way he’s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.

And, after all, he’s the one desperate for relief.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.

He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girl’s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. “We’ll be done in five.”

—-

Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.

He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.

He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that day’s sins.

The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.

Step.

A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that he’d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasn’t worth shit when they’d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

The crush of bone under the iron pipe he’d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.

Green; the color of the money he’d found stashed in a duffel, the debtor’s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.

Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstore’s front steps.

For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.

The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night you’d helped hide him from the cops.

He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and he’s pushing the door open.

His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.

That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.

“This isn’t a library,” you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. “You have to pay for the books here.”

It’s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Look — didn’t even crack the spine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. “That loss came out of my paycheck — which is scant enough.”

That piques his attention. “Didn’t you say this was your store?”

His question makes you turn pink, and you’re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. “I work here,” you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. “But I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesn’t ever come by.”

You wrinkle your nose. “So yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.”

Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.

You’re beautiful; he’s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if you’re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.

He doesn’t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.

“Fine, here,” he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.

He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

“Nothin,” he shrugs. “Just think it’s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.”

Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. “I live here, idiot.”

He snorts. “Didn’t you want outta here? Do somethin’ different?” He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours — that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.

“This can’t be your dream life.”

You don’t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.

Like he’s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.

Sanemi continues. “It’s strange for people not to want for more — to not dream about somethin’ different.”

“And who are you to say I don’t?” You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. “I have a dream of my own. Just because it’s not one you would pick for yourself doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Woah, woah, I never meant any offense.” He pushes back from the counter. “My bad.”

His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.

You slide his book across the counter. “Have the day you deserve.”

His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. “You too, Princess.”

You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you don’t see him toss another note on the counter.

He’s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. “Sir, you dropped your —“

“Nah, I didn’t,” he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.

Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.

—

His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. It’s unplanned in that he’s annoyed and it’s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.

You’re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerk’s counter startles you.

You frown. It’s him again — all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.

“This book was shit,” he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. “I want a refund.”

You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

“But it was shit,” he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didn’t create. “You let me waste twenty bucks.”

“I did nothing,” you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. “You’re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.”

You glance down at the discarded novel. “Figures,” you scoff. “He’s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.”

“Woulda been nice if you’d told me that before you let me give him my money.”

You hum idly as you cross off the log’s boxes for new releases. “I suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasn’t really paying attention to your shit choices.”

“Oh?” And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. “The Princess has claws, does she?” He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. “So, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?”

“I’m not your Princess,” you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. “Call me by my name or call me nothing at all.”

His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. “Alright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?”

The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish you’d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.

Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.

You’ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.

Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt he’d owed (their words, never yours).

Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most won’t speak about.

But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. It’s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.

Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. “Fine, here.” You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemi’s.

“Read that.”

His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. “This ain’t a book; it’s a brick.”

“It’s a classic,” you counter. “One that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.” Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Love and lust.”

His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps he’ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then he’ll leave you alone.

Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. “If you say so,” he sighs. “But if it’s shit, I’m taking my refund.” And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Regardless of your shitty little policy.”

You refuse to let him see how much he’s knocked you off-kilter. “So I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so I’m prepared.”

His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. “Worse,” he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. “You’ll owe me a date.”

He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. “Though, I might just take you out anyway.”

“You assume I’ll say yes — or are you planning on kidnapping me? I’m sure you’re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.”

Something dark flashes across his face, and it’s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.

Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.

But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemi’s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.

“You’ll say yes, Princess. You won’t be able to resist the temptation.”

“Temptation?” You force out a laugh. “And what makes you think I can’t?”

Sanemi’s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.

It’s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.

You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. “Habits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.”

You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.

——-

Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what you’d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).

Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and he’s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.

And, he’d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that he’d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. You’d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldn’t have given two shits if he’d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money — and the lengths some would go to keep it.

Yet he’d paid you back — paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.

Since that day, you’ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. You’ve managed to glean small things here and there. That he’s a Hashira, and Hashira means he’s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family — the heads of the entire organization.

That he’s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that he’s known for his swift brutality.

That he’s more than just a flirt; he’s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.

You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.

Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And he’s said to be very well-endowed.

It’s more information than you care to know, but you can’t deny that your curiosity lingers.

You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And you’ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.

—

“You look like shit.”

You startle up from where you’d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.

You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.

Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, you’d thought you’d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.

“Is that the only descriptor you know?” You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. “Is everything either shit or not-shit to you?”

Sanemi shrugs. “Pretty much,” and he holds something out to you, waiting. “Here.”

It’s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.

Your stomach grumbles fiercely. You’d foregone eating breakfast when you realized you’d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure you’d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.

The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.

But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. “Is it poisoned?”

He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, I’d pick a far more convenient way to do it — and one that didn’t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.”

Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.

Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. “It’s a thank you. For that book you recommended,” He smirks. “It wasn’t shit. It was good.”

You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.”

“You’re the one who grabbed that last book,” you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. “That had nothing to do with me.” You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “So, no date, then?”

The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. “Sorry, beautiful. I don’t actually date.” And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. “Gotta keep things casual in my world.”

The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. “And you don’t look like a casual girl.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. “You seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.”

“Experience,” he offers easily. “I know casual women.” He turns his head away before quietly adding, “And you ain’t one of ‘em.”

It’s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as you’re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you haven’t yet been able to pick apart.

You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when he’s been such a consistent pain in your ass.

Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you don’t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.

You see only the boy on your stoop; the one who’d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.

And it’s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, “So, friends, then?”

Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile — a real, genuine smile.

And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.

—-

In retrospect, Sanemi knows he’s probably fucked himself.

His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps — number Three, in particular.

But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows it’s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations he’s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesn’t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better — far safer — city.

It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.

Yet, he can’t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldn’t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.

He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though he’s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he won’t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.

It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what he’d thought otherwise, you’re not nearly as prim and haughty as you’d tried to make him believe.

You’re sweet. Genuine, in a way that’s rare for him to encounter in his world.

Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.

He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though he’s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, he’s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests — movies, shows, music — and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.

And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie you’d swiped from the store’s limited collection, he can’t find it in him to tell you no.

The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.

For starters, the neighborhood you live in isn’t the safest. It’s not the Silo, by any means, but it’s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzui’s business — another Hashira.

And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, you’d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.

He supposes he can see its appeal — you’ve certainly turned it into a home.

You’ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.

A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he can’t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once you’re distracted.

Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere — in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.

It’s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.

But it’s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.

Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock — the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though he’s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.

The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because he’s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once he’s finished.

The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.

Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring, and it’s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.

It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isn’t the kind of switch he imagined he’d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.

With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.

He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but you’re picky about your order. If it’s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If it’s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.

He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and it’s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.

In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life — namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, you’re always there to pull him back.

Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.

He can’t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He can’t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He can’t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.

Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit he’s guilty for.

It’s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But you’re the first person he’s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesn’t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.

So, he makes a promise. He won’t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they don’t.

With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.

And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

“You never told me what your dream was, y’know.” Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.

“What dream?” You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.

He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. “Your big dream — the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.”

You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno. Curious.”

“Thought you’re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.” And you shoot him a sly grin. “You ought to be careful.”

Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. There’s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, he’s the only friend you have. “I want my own bookstore.”

“Yeah?” He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. “Aren’t you practically running this one? That ain’t enough?”

“I don’t own it, though.” You frown, setting your clipboard down. “I just work here. You’ve seen my paycheck.”

And he had, having found a paystub when he’d gone snooping under your counter. You would’ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way he’d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.

His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.

“I want something that’s mine — that I own.” You continue. “I’ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to live under anyone’s thumb.”

Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.

Your cheeks heat. “I know it sounds stupid —“

“It doesn’t,” Sanemi says earnestly. “Wanting your freedom can never be stupid.”

You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that — arguably better than anyone you know.

Sanemi clears his throat. “So, a bookstore?” And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. “Consider me your first investor.”

—

Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.

By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.

You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. “Are you walking me home?”

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

You grin and it’s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldn’t do it, as often as he does. He’s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way he’s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But it’s dark and late, and you don’t have a car, and he’ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.

Better he’s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.

Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.

He wouldn’t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But you’d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.

Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.

He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if he’s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.

You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. “Did you finish that series I recommended?”

Sanemi grins. “Last night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.”

You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.

Your door gives way and you turn back to him. “‘Til next time?”

It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.

“‘Til next time,” he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.

You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.

“You never told me yours — what your dream is.”

He should leave. You’re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you — tell you the truth, at that.

That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. He’d settle for anything, really; anything at all.

As long as it was more than this.

But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. “To wake up in the morning, Princess. That’s all I can ask for.”

———

Sanemi’s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

Over the course of the last year, you’ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You’ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you can’t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

More importantly, you’ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that he’s merely involved with the notorious gang — at least, not any more than the two of you are just “friends.”

Town gossip aside, Sanemi’s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.

Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.

It’s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.

But perhaps the most significant detail you’ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while you’re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you won’t see him for the rest of the day.

It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.

Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother — Genya — to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genya’s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadn’t anyone to want those things for him.

Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect it’s because he doesn’t believe he will have one.

That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.

A cop-out, is what it is.

But his reading habits betray his darkest secret — betray the truth — and that’s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.

The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. He’s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.

He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.

But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.

You opened to the first page of of a tale — an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beast’s rose.

You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes — the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.

Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True love’s kiss, or something along those lines.

True love.

And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemi’s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.

And that’s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.

He wants out.

He wants a happily ever after. He doesn’t think he’ll get it.

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after he’d first burst into your bookstore.

It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.

Sanemi’s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.

You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.

You open the door and the flutter of excitement you’d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.

There is a bruise forming along Sanemi’s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.

The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.

Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.

“You got liniment?” He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. “And water?”

“You mean icy-hot?” You’re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.

You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where they’re propped up on the back of your chair.

You’ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).

Once, in the early days of your friendship, you’d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.

Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.

He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. You’d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.

But, you’re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.

And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.

Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.

“Need ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you don’t mind,” his voice is muffled against his arm. “I hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it — fuckin’ hurts, now.”

You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, he’d once explained. Not unless you’re bleeding out.

You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful he’s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.

Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.

“Motherfucker,” Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. “Shit stings.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss — an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasn’t been reset properly. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Your medical expertise is astounding,” Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.

“I’m not a doctor,” you shoot back. “And since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.”

You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.

“You’re in luck. It seems like you won’t die,” you say dryly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise.” You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. “And this says you’re supposed to rest — not overexert the joint.” You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don’t suppose you’re actually going to do that, though.”

He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. “You know me too well, Princess.”

You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.

You’re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just can’t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.

You wouldn’t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but there’s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.

A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.

Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” His tone is unreadable. “Like a collar, ‘cept it’s permanent.”

Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.

But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin — the one that stands for Kill — is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemi’s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.

A chill snakes down your spine. You’d had your suspicions, of course, you’re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.

Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you can’t see his face. “Guess it’s fitting, since I’m their dog.”

There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You don’t know why you’d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.

Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.

“It’s barbaric,” you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you aren’t someone he can confide in.

But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. You’re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.

He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.

You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. You’ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways — you’ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.

But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.

Intimate.

Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone — the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.

But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps it’s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.

You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.

Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.

Yet, you don’t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.

You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.

Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I would’ve done without ya.”

You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. “Oh please, I’m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.”

A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.

“No,” he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “No, you’re more than that.” His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. “Much more.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’ll lean in; if he’ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.

And then he turns and leaves.

You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you can’t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: you’d wanted to kiss him.

And for a moment, you swear he’d wanted to, as well.

An old rumor, one you hadn’t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.

The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.

Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You don’t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And what’s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt toward anyone.

You’re in love with Sanemi.

It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; it’s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when you’re desperate and aching.

It’s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks you’re actually worth something.

You’ve never really known love before. But it’s because you’re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is — what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you can’t.

You won’t.

—

Three rules. That’s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.

Don’t speak. No patterns. And don’t get overly attached.

It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corps’ rules. Number three, in particular.

Until you. Until the day he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in.

Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. He’d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And he’d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.

Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.

He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.

But now, he’s too deep; Sanemi knows he’s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.

Until this moment, he imagined he’d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when he’d let himself blur it.

As it turns out, he’d been dead fucking wrong. Because he’s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary he’d set for himself when it came to you.

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

You huff, impatient. “I want you to fuck me.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — as though you haven’t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.

If he didn’t know you were dead serious, he would’ve laughed in your face. And that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

You’re a virgin; he knows that, because you’d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer he’d brought over for your weekly movie night together.

Admittedly, he’d been surprised. You were beautiful — not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didn’t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he would’ve thought you’d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.

As it turned out, you’d never been in a relationship, either.

Between long gulps of your drink, you’d asked him to fix it and he’d turned you down — his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasn’t the type to sleep with someone who couldn’t fully consent.

So he’d let you down — but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure he’d never fully known what home truly felt like.

And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.

He’d boldly kissed you twice more after that night — one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.

The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.

One of Sanemi’s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadn’t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When she’d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.

They’d found her in the kitchen of the small home she’d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.

Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.

Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.

Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadn’t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.

He hadn’t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, she’d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.

The hours passed by in a blur once Kocho’s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didn’t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when he’d begun walking in its direction.

He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldn’t bother you —

His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.

Despite the late hour, you’d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.

Safe; you were safe.

Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.

You’d broken away long enough to ask, “S-Sanemi — what —?”

“Shut up,” he’d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. He’d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet you’d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.

He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though he’d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.

You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense he’d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up — to let him in.

And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.

His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare — completely bare — beneath your hoodie.

That you’d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that he’d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.

But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.

Without a word, he’d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.

He’d sent a text only a few minutes later — a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.

He hadn’t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.

So, yes, he’s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, he’d never allowed himself to go further than that.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And it’s because he knows he can’t cross this last line — can’t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.

“You’re better off asking someone else, Princess. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me.”

Never mind that you’re already tangled up with him — but he’s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he can’t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.

“I don’t want to ask someone else,” you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.

A low growl of your name is his warning. ���You don’t know what you’re asking —“

“It’s you I want. I don’t care what the rumors say, I don’t care what anyone thinks — including you.”

The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. “And I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.”

He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never — but he wants to shake the sense you’re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.

Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months — so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And he’s pent up. He hasn’t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.

Really, it’s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing — no one — has come close.

More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there aren’t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where he’s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.

But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization he’s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.

He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.

He will rot you from the inside, out.

His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that — he’s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.

You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he won’t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.

Sanemi won’t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.

Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or you’re used as a weapon against him.

In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.

He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.

You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and that’s how he knows this is wrong.

Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.

You’re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.

And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once you’ve had your fill.

(A lie, but it’s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)

But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious — far too precious to him to continue to indulging.

He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.

A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.

He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell can’t ever be yours.

Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.

He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.

“You want me?” He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.

His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “You want to say you’ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?“

Your eyebrows knit together. “Sanemi, that’s not —“

But he can’t stop his venom. “Bragging rights, that’s all you’re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories — the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.”

“Stop it,” you bite, and your eyes harden. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

You’re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m not acting like an asshole. I am one.”

Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. “I know you want to believe you are, but you’re not —“

Sanemi’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. “Is that so?” You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. “Then maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.”

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard father’s son, and that he’d be no different, no different at all. He’s a brute, and you don’t want that, you don’t want him —

“You can do whatever it is you want,” you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemi’s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. “Do to me what you like; I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.

It isn’t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, he’s only shown you he’s entirely capable of doing so.

It’s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that you’d do it with a smile not unlike the one you’re wearing right now, soft and earnest.

Fuck, you just did.

And it’s that realization that has Sanemi’s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.

You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front he’s put forth crumbles to dust.

He is a monster, but not for the reasons he’s used to justify this ugly display of his. He’s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable — an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.

Worse, he’s done the one thing he’d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.

He’d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

He recoils from you like a kicked dog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’ll go,” he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t —“

Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. “I want you to stay.”

“You don’t owe me anything —“

“It’s not about owing you,” you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. “I want you. I want this.”

You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.

“You deserve someone else,” Sanemi can’t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. “Better.”

But you’re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. “There is no one better; I only want you.”

Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. You’re an idiot.

You can’t possibly believe he’s as good as it gets. He’s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things he’s done and what he’ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.

He will hurt you; it’s in his nature. It’s unavoidable. He can’t be what you deserve.

But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.

Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.

This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemi’s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash you’d be better off leaving out on the street.

The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemi’s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh he’s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though you’d been burning and he was your balm.

Ironic, considering he’s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.

But there’s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.

Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though he’s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.

You want more, and he needs you, too.

His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.

One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.

He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful you’d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. “Let me — please.”

Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.

Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. He’d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.

But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest — have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?

“Holy shit,” your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.

Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire — rich, hot need for him.

Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. “Come here.”

He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until he’s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.

More. He needs more.

He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.

Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other — including his with the Corps.

Sanemi’s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.

The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this — you.

As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.

He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.

“Beautiful,” he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. He’s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isn’t a picky man; he’ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.

But you? Celebration isn’t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.

He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that won’t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.

He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemi’s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.

He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.

Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.

He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.

With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’m not in any rush.”

“N-now?” You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.

“Not yet,” he groans against your mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I am ready -“

“Not like that,” he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.

“Found you,” he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.

He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.

You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.

A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. “Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Can’t hide from me now, sweetheart’.”

He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where he’s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.

One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.

A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. You’re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.

The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.

He won’t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when he’s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where you’re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how you’ll move under him; how you’ll moan.

His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.

You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.

Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, you’re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.

“Sanemi! I think — oh, I think I’m -“ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.

He smothers a curse into your skin. You’re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.

Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“There. Feel how wet you are?” His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.

“For you,” your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesn’t feel like he could get drunk on it. “It’s all for you.”

His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. “That’s right,” and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. “Because you’re mine.“

It’s not fair. But he wants to pretend like it’s true, if only for a while.

Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.

He’d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, he’d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasn’t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.

The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.

But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. “Here.”

His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers he’d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.

“Go on,” he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. “Taste how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of what’s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight — whether that’s something or nothing — you will never be just friends again.

Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.

He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.

Finally bare, he’s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.

He doesn’t have a condom but he’s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. He’s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who he’d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, he’d always been sure to have protection on hand.

Children are a gift, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.

But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesn’t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.

“It might hurt a moment,” he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. “But I promise I’ll be gentle — as gentle as I can.”

You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, he wants to say. You shouldn’t, and you should run far away from this — from me.

But Sanemi knows you won’t just as much as he knows he doesn’t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.

He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemi’s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.

The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.

Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. “Fuck.”

His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.

The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.

The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.

Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where you’re concerned.

Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, you’re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.

With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.

His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.

Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.

“There you go, that’s it,” his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.

He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.

“Ready?” His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.

There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isn’t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.

Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.

You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single “Please.”

With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.

You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.

But then Sanemi’s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand he’d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.

Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way you’re constricting around him so tightly it’s nearly painful.

It’s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but he’s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. He’d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.

With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.

You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.

He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.

He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.

When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows you’re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.

His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.

And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.

He starts slow. He doesn’t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.

Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.

Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemi’s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.

One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.

His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

“Tighter,” he gasps. “Hold me tighter. Please.”

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.

And then he’s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until you’re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.

His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. “Talk to me, angel,” the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. “Tell me how you feel — tell me what you want.”

You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.

The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You can’t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.

“Closer!” You gasp. “I — I need you closer.”

He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesn’t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants — he needs — to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.

Sanemi’s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. “Deeper,” he confirms between throaty groans. “You want me deeper?”

You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.

He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.

So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.

The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemi’s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.

Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.

It’s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.

Really, he can’t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. You’ve come before with your own hand, but this — this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.

You try and tell him you’re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’ve got you.” And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.

“I’ll take care of you, sweet girl,” he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. “Just keep your legs around me.”

Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.

With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.

You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. “Sanemi —“

“It’s okay,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. “It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.”

Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

“You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you —- that’s it.” He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. “Yeah, yeah. You’re my fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

A single wail of his name is your only response, but it’s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.

“You are,” he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

You’re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.

The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.

Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.

But he needs to see you, first.

“Look at me,” his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly you’re right back at that edge, only this time, you’re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.

“S-Sanemi —!” It’s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.

Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Sanemi’s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. “Fuck!“

He’ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.

But he’s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet — all because of him.

He is selfish and he is weak; it’s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.

Sanemi’s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.

He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.

He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good.” He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.

One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster he’s always known he was —

“I love you,” and then you’re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. “I love you, Sanemi.”

It would’ve hurt less if you’d shot him.

Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.

Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.

He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.

It hits him, then. You aren’t waiting for an answer — you said it only so he would know, and you’d not expected anything in return.

All you’d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesn’t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you — including him.

He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.

He pants as he breaks away. “‘M gonna pull out — might be uncomfortable for a second.”

You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemi’s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.

A low whistle blows past his lips. “Damn, I made a mess outta you.”

For a moment, Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.

His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. “Let me clean you up.”

Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. “Don’t leave — not yet.” You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. “Please, can you just hold me for a bit?”

Sanemi’s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He can’t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know the source of your anxiety — or that you didn’t have reason for it. Sanemi isn’t known for lingering.

But this is different — you’re different. You’re not some temporary distraction. You’re everything. His everything.

“Shhh,” he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. “I’m staying right here, sweet girl. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.

Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemi’s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.

He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way he’s disregarded every rule, every boundary he’s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade he’d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the rubble.

What he does know is that there’s no putting things back to how they were.

His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.

But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.

Perhaps that is what you’ve done to yourself, and you’re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.

He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.

But he can try.

He mouths I love you against your hairline — he does not voice it, not yet, though it’s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[middlingmay]

German!Gale AU

And now for the other one that won't leave me alone.

Gale was born in Germany, but he lived in France for a decent portion of his childhood. His parents moved there for work. His mother was a part-time typist and his father. Well his father was many things; whatever people paid him to be (and as fast as possible), but he was known for transport.

Gale loved growing up in France. It was so busy he could pass by unnoticed and enjoy his people-watching in peace. So many people came from all over to enjoy one of centres of European culture, or so the Americans called it. His parents didn't like that much, but Gale liked the Americans the best. Brash. Up front. Not much guessing about what they really meant. He got enough of that at home.

But then dad came barging in the front door of their modest apartment at 2.23 in the morning with a black eye, and they were packing the essentials and anything of value, and crossing the border the Germany, barely stopping on the way.

Neither his mother or his father ever explained why they'd had to move, but Gale didn't need them to confirm what he already knew. He'd lost enough of his own precious belongings - a collector's edition of his favourite comic series; a perfect, detailed model plane he'd won in a maths competition at school; the watch his grandfather had given him before he died.

And then there were the drunk ramblings when mother had gone to bed about how Gale had cursed this family and his luck, and everything was all his fault.

He was five the first time he felt the back of his father's hand and heard the vitriol he really thought of his son. And he was never allowed to forget.

When Gale was barely a man, in those final stages of gangly teenagehood, things...changed in Germany. It wasn't anything groundbreaking. More like when the floorboards that always creaked finally moved a little under your feet. People were still struggling to recover after the War, and all the voices that had been looking for someone to blame were getting a little closer to home, a little louder, a little more important and harder to shrug off.

One of his only friends Solomon had stopped looking him in the eye. When Gale had demanded an answer in that quiet, firm, unyielding way of his, Solomon had scoffed.

"You look just like them, Gale. The posters."

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Everything Solomon was not.

"Mama says we have to go before... well. Just, before. But you'll be fine, Gale."

He never saw Solomon again.

In his twenties, they were at war and his dad still worked in transport. People came to the house and paid him to take things to places they'd only wrote down once before making his father burn the paper.

But then his father pocketed the money and when those people left, he'd make a call and those officials with the impeccable uniforms would turn up, question his father thoroughly, before handing him a packet of money as well.

"Hitler will turn our fortunes around, boy. You'd best fall in line, before you ruin this for me, too, and kill us all."

Now Gale was quiet, but he wasn't meek. And he didn't think the Nazis had it right at all. But they'd abandoned a lot of their pretenses by now and news of attacks and deaths and beatings were commonplace.

So Gale decided to get into the family business. He didn't tell his father, and people who knew his last name were slow to trust, but anyone who spent any significant time with him couldn't help but respect him.

He didn't understand why, but he was grateful, honoured.

The first time he reunited a dark haired, dark eyed child with their gaunt and terrified parents he crawled into the hayloft in the barn and sobbed into the straw. It wasn't anything grand, he wasn't a human smuggler. He simply found ways to move some small supplies around for others make the bigger, grander gestures of resistance. But when frightened breaths came from the wooden crate, he'd had to bite his lip until it bled to stop from vomiting at transporting someone that small like goods.

For their life, Gale, he'd told himself.

He hated himself and was terrified in equal measure. Filled with a righteous fury that made him want to fight it all. Terrified that he'd wake up to those impeccable uniforms pointing a gun at his head, and his father grinning and pocketing his pay packet, before they pulled the trigger.

Then, one day, the last straw broke the camel's back. Or, more accurately, fell into his cabbage patch.

The dark haired man was drenched in blood. There was barely any skin visible from the top of his head to the collar of his jacket. Dark blue eyes glared out from the red.

He was tall, taller than Gale, broad and strong looking. But Gale was clearly in a better state. If it came down to it, he was sure he could hold his own.

The man held his hand to his lips, gasping on his knees in the dirt. "Bitte," he whispered in an American accent.

"Amerikaner?"

The man nodded and tapped his chest with one hand, the other still raised, palm out. "John."

John. Gale returned the favour in kind, and he liked the way his name sounded in American.

Just as he was about to ask the man if he needed help - the stupidest damned question he would have ever asked in his life because seriously - barking and shouting came from the woods a ways behind the house.

Terror flashed in those blue eyes.

"Please," the man begged, dragged from the depths of him and Gale got the impression it wasn't something he said often. "Please help me."

And the awful limbo Gale had felt stuck in for years started to crumble away. He marched forward and grabbed John roughly and hauled him to his feet. He half carried him to the hay cart and tossed him onto it. John barely had time to give him a single bewildered glance before Gale was shoveling hay over him and dragging the cart around the barn and next to the silo. Then over the hill came a small band of hunters, dogs and guns and all. One of them was a regular visitor to his father and Gale ran forward waving his arms and yelling.

"You are looking for someone?"

They were.

"They are injured?"

They were.

He led them to the cabbage patch and the blood on the pale leaves.

"I've checked everywhere and they're not hiding anywhere I can find."

And because most people saw his father when they looked at him, the hunters gave nothing more than a cursory glance around, before they left.

And Gale is left with an American man hiding in some hay, who by hook or by crook, he was going to get out of here.

[rafyki]

Episode 11 really showed Jack's growth

Okay, I know what you're gonna say: "but he lashed out at Joke! He threw him away again! He got so angry!". And like- yes he lashed out, yes he didn't stop to think, yes he got extremely angry. But that literally happened in the first ten minutes of the episode, alright? There's more than a hour after that, so please let's focus on everything else that happened too, and the fact that Jack acting like that literally only lasts for a short while (as I already said, everything happens extremely fast in this episode, if you really think about it he only stays made for less than a day, which is a perfectly valid period of time to need to sort through complicated feelings - hell, it's an incredibly short time, Jack got over himself extremely quickly).

Anyway, lemme go in order, because I'm not just talking about his relationship with Joke here, but about everything else too.

There are two main things about Jack's character arc (well, more than two, but I wanna focus on these ones now): first, his tendency to hold grudges and be hard on forgiveness and, second, the fact that he never stands up to power and powerful people in an active way (I'll explain better what I mean later).

As for the first, I made a whole other post about it, so I'm not gonna repeat everything again, but let's see how in this episode he got to the end of his growth in this aspect.

He's extremely mad at the start of the episode (rightfully so), so much that he goes on a rampage (we love to see it, tbh), even though he should know that it wouldn't end well.

When he wakes up, he's still mad - of course he is, he didn't have time to think and process everything yet, given that he was beaten unconscious until now. He gets mad at Grandma when she mentions Joke, and then he lashes out at Save and Hope. It's understandable.

But then? Then it only takes Hope saying this for him to calm down and put things into perspective

I think it's important to point out that here it's only been maybe a few hours since the hospital scene. And here, Jack finally has time to think.

This it when he finally stops and thinks and realizes that he was wrong, that he didn't have any right to be mad at Save or Hope (or, well, he does, but how should also be able to understand their positions, because he's been there too), because they're all in the same situation in the end; and he realizes that Joke only did what he did for him. This is the moment when he finally has time to think and realize he was wrong (both about Save and about Joke), realize that he doesn't want to lose Joke, that he misses him.

Let's not forget that the start of Jack's character growth was to learn to forgive. And here, he shows that he's finally able to do this.

He works together with Save and Hope, he trusts them. Why didn't he call Joke to join them then? Well, I think he probably wanted things to calm down first so that after that he would have the time to actually talk to Joke. He didn't have the time to do that in the end, and that's the tragic thing.

But we know that's what he planned to do, because that's exaclty what he says.

Anyway, let's move on or this will become way too long lmao

It's not only in terms of learning to forgive that Jack grew. It's also in the way he finally decides to actively act to oppose Boss.

I mean, Jack was caught in Boss' web of power since he was young, and he's had to deal with the fact that he couldn't escape it, couldn't defeat it, for years. And so, he always submitted to Boss, in a way.

Yes, when he was a debt collector he went against him, in secret (and sacrificing himself and his own money), until Boss found out and Jack had to bow his head againt before him. When Gradma was in the hospital, he let himself in Boss' grasp again and even when Joke and Grandma slapped some sense into him his way to oppose Boss was to simply tell him he didn't want to marry Rose anymore, but was still willing to work for him; now, we know that that only worked because Joke had stolen the ring. What would have happened if Joke hadn't done that? Boss would have refused, of course, and Jack would have had bowed his head again.

Until now, Jack's actions were often passive, a result of him having no choice. Even when he played the ladder game against Lompran, that wasn't a real choice.

Not now, though. In this episode, Jack finally realizes that he can't keep doing it, that he needs to fight back for real. And this is the first time that Jack realizes that he can't always do the morally correct thing if he wants to defeat people like Boss.

Jack has always had really solid morals, and he's always lived by the fact that he needs to be better - better than the corrupted people in power who use them and look down on them. And that means he can't accept theft as a valid way to fix things, even if it would be justifiable and it would make things easier. But he can't do that, because that would mean that he's just as bad as them. Poor people are always expected to do the right thing.

Until now. Because now Jack has finally realized that he can't play it fair against people like them, he understood how that world works, and he realized that he needs to play following their game's rules.

He's learned the power game's rules and he's ready to play.

And that's what he does. He's able to take advantage of Lompran's greed and use it for his own ends, and he's not afraid of risking his own or Save's life - because he knows at this point that they can't play it safe anymore.

He played the game but he also kept his morals, because he still didn't do it for himself; he played their game but he's still better than them

Jack has mostly been a passive force until now, but in this episode he's finally the active force - he's the one with the plan, the one who takes the lead. (Joke, on the other had, has always been the active force of the show, and in this episode he's the passive one, but I'll make another post about this another day)

And I think this will be obvious in next episode too, when he'll (finally!) get a gun and do everything that's needed to save Joke and everyone else from Boss.

And he finally understood that the world isn't black and white and that sometime you need to do something "bad" to fight back, both for youself and for others. And that that doesn't mean you're a bad person.

[wolfsnooze]

Hii! As a toh fan and former Fnaf fan (still like it, but I used to be obsessed) I’m going insane over your halcyon au- just wondering, I think you mentioned Collector has an important role, what’s their deal? Or does it spoil things too much-

also I love your artstyle and little wolf animatronic Hunter design so much :3

AAH OKAY okay sorry it has taken me a minute to get to this ask, collector is my blorbo i go crazy over i had to get my thoughts in order and think about what i do & do not want to say yet LOL. under the cut!

collector was raised by their adult siblings (parents Gone) who are just. not kind to them, if they even give them the time of day. he’s really latched onto his stuffed animals (the freddy’s characters) as his only friends and kinda just hangs out with them most of the time

collector’s death was a little different from the others . but they end up possessing this puppet animatronic — conceptually similar to the one in the games but design-wise looks like collectors shadow form in toh ! the puppets name is “the collector”. collector doesn’t remember his real name anymore, so, he sticks with that

collector is also a different kind of spirit than the others after their death. they have more control and awareness, and at some point they make this “place” for himself and the other kids — itttt could be considered a pocket dimension?😭 idk! ghost stuff. its a bit representative of the archives in toh in a way. its where they go when they’re not actively controlling the animatronics! nothing ever dies or ages or is in pain there. they’re all Happy (<—according to collector, anyway)

the collector has a lot of influence over the other kids — what he says, goes

he’s like, a self-appointed shepherd to kids he sees as his sheep. he can help them!! he can save them and make sure they never get hurt or feel alone!! if any adults try to take that away, he’ll just . deal with them

above all else collector is lonely and hurting. when they find out there are kids already missing, that they can help (and .. more or less turn into “living” versions of his stuffed animals) he doesn’t mind so much that he’s also dead. its a mess

the problem is when his new friends start to forget themselves, become more spirit than person, and collector ends up alone, again

…until hunter!!! their dynamic is really fun. they’re both so messed up ❤️ putting them in a get-along shirt (in the shepherd and sheep metaphor, hunter is collector’s spiked-collar kangal)

NOTE: hunter does not in fact want to take ibuprofen with them

they’re also very obsessed with king when they find out about him. there’s a kid his age? AND he’s not scared of ghosts?!? come hell or high water collector’s gonna make that boy his FRIEND

and here’s an old thing! (dialogue subject to change since..its old lol). collector is the blue text

they have so many problems i love them very much. ❤️

[average-mako-enjoyer]

Oh for the character ask game after reading your Kaidan post I neeeed to hear your Joker opinions 👀👀

Oh, I have some Joker opinions! Thank you for the ask! From the character ask game. And I can do another Kaidan post, tbh. I literally can't shut up about him.

Favorite thing about them He's an amazing character, and I love how consistently he's written.

Yes, he's a brat, yes, he has a massive, MASSIVE ego, yes, most of the jokes are terrible, yes, he doesn't know where to stop and how to shut up, but it fits, it all fits his background, and there's no way you can't warm to him after a while.

And fucking hell, him unshackling EDI was badass. Least favorite thing about them My god, Jeff, you're so immature. I know that piloting warships is your whole life, but my dude, you have to grow up a little. That line about the asari having more dancers than commandos was... bad.

Honestly, the last scene between him and Shepard aboard the Normandy in ME3 (where this gif is from) is so great, because it finally shows us Joker behind all that edgy humor deflection thing he always does.

Favorite line "Great. See, this is how it all starts. When we're all just organic batteries, guess who they'll blame? 'This is all Joker's fault. What a tool he was. I have to spend all day computing pi because he plugged in the Overlord.'" + "You stole the Normandy, got blown up by the Collectors, and took us on a suicide mission into the galactic core and I haven't mutinied once!"

brOTP I've said it before and I'll say it again. He and Kaidan are bros. In my head, Joker finds him very, very funny and they tease each other for sport and Kaidan is one of three people who can give him A Look and he will shut up.

Joker and Ashley also make sense to me. I think he likes her outspokenness and also likes her dry wit, but I don't think he has the same level of connection with Ash as he does with Kaidan.

Him and Shepard, too. I think they have a pretty unique bond, and it's very important to Joker, and that's why he's always trying to show off in front of Shepard.

I really, really don't like it when people turn friendships into pseudo-familial relationships. Normandy is not a family with daddy, mommy, kids, aunts and uncles and estranged relatives. But what Shepard has with Joker, I think, is the closest thing to an older sibling/younger brother relationship. That's not to say that Shepard thinks of Joker as their younger brother. Because, no, that's completely unprofessional and fucking toxic, but their dynamic is kind of like that.

OTP Joker/EDI He wants to fuck that car so fucking bad...

Their romance is perfect, I love it for so many reasons.

nOTP Shoker. Shepard/Joker. This thing.

I have nothing against people who ship it, you guys are great, but to me, to my Shep, and to my understanding of Joker's character, this romantic relationship feels completely unrealistic and it kind of cheapens the unique bond between them. Not every strange and close relationship should be romantic or familial. There's a lot more to this life than that.

Random headcanon He has his own collection of model ships, and he was the one who suggested that Shepard start assembling them. He can sometimes get so deep into calculations that he forgets to eat or drink, and the only people who can pull him out of it are EDI, Shepard, Chackwas, or Kaidan.

Unpopular opinion He has an incredibly fragile ego and should be mocked for it.

Song i associate with them I Will Never Be the Same - Lost Gravity Favorite picture of them @makanidotdot draws him and EDI perfectly.

[bnuuys-writing]

CHAPTER TWO. OVERTURE. Phantom of The Opera x Twisted Wonderland

Here is chapter two for you guys! I hope you enjoy!!

Chapter One, Chapter Two(You are here!), Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Leona's Ending, Malleus' Ending

~Bnuuy Out!

The year is 1919, in France. Within a bustling city in the center of town stands a magnifique Opera House, its dazzling lights outside its carefully intricate carved walls tells a story of Regalty, Royalty, and an awe inspiring show promising to be played within, yet; the inside simply tells another story, begging to be read by the others within the towns history.

The echo of the tapping cane reverberated within the desolate walls of the opera house. Which stood so beautifully with glamour and shine that now holds cobwebs and dust as if it were trying to hide itself away from the world. Leona sat there in a chair, overall confused on how he had even arrived here. He held all of his memories intact but perhaps that was because he was a powerful mage? All he knew was that in his mind was Y/N.

I have to save Y/N.

“Alrighty then! Lot 665, a monkey playing the cymbals, dressed in persuasion robes with the heart of a barrel organ! It has been stated that this item has been found in the very catacombs of the opera house. Ladies and Gentleman, shall we start off the bidding with 15 francs?” An unknown man stated out, standing on top of a podium, looking out amongst the small crowd before him. 

Leona’s hand raised up without him knowing. A grunt of disapproval ripped out from his chest as he saw a familiar faces that he would honestly rather forget. Lilia Vanrougue. Lilia raised up his hand as the bidding continued, only for Leona to raise up his hand once more, raising the bid again. 

“Do I hear 35 francs…?” The auctioneer’s gaze looked over at the old bat who only seemed to smile cockily at Leona, before shaking his head no. That little bastard making the price higher than needed… The sound of a hammer echoed within the desolate theater as the music box was sold to Leona De Kingscholar. Clawed hands reached forward for the barrel organ monkey as he began to look over it slowly, a memory forcing up into his mind that most certainly did NOT belong to him.

A collectors piece, indeed… Every detail, exactly as they said… Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?

Shaking his head out of his stupor, he let out an annoyed grunt as he shifted around. The auctioneer cleared his throat as he motioned to a certain hanging over something quite large within the spacious room. Slowly, the auction would start as he read over the paper within his hands. 

“Lot 666, a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of a Phantom hiding within this opera house, a mystery quite never fully explained. With the newly invented electricity, we are hoping to frighten away any ghosts, with a bit of illumination… Gentleman!” Sparks of electricity began to flood the room as a once nicely candle lit chandelier, now solely powered by the new electricity, began to float up towards the sky as everything began to shift around them. Dust flew off the walls, cobwebs floated off as if they were never there before. Old paint flashed anew as the beautiful statues were shining as if they were just proudly polished. Leona and Lilia looked at each other before they both completely faded away from each other's existence. The Mission has started.

The year was now 1881, the opera house was busier than ever with rehearsals. Chatterings of different conversations being echoed throughout the plywood walls, ballerinas running up and down the stairs trying to collect all their items. Stone masons working hard on their next project. Costume designers sewing and taking measurements. Towels, blankets, things that needed to be air dried being hung up over the railings as three important figures swam through the current of workers. 

“Y/N, Silver, hurry up! Otherwise we will be late for practice!” Sebek seethed out at the two of you, not wanting to face Lilia’s wrath during their ballet practice. Silver could only groan as he was tugged along by Sebek and you just laughed as the trio of you ran down the stairs. Sebek and Silver had recalled the mission once they had entered the opera house with the help of Lilia’s wise words.

Remember, we are trying to find Y/N. We are in a book. I have already located Malleus but he must remain hidden for now. 

Taking deep breaths as you ran past the trio of eyes, something was already boiling behind them as they watched your figure join your colleagues of ballerinas, ready for practice. Lilia watched as Sebek and Silver returned to your sides, posted like good loyal knights, yet there was no need for that because of course! This is ballet, and to Sebek’s dismay and like as if he would ever admit to it… Ballet was hard.

To the open stage, the orchestra was loudly playing as others marched around what seemed to be a very painted up Vil. Of course, these potatoes could all learn something from him as they all continued to parade upon his outfit and rip it here and there. What they all needed was discipline and to move with grace, not march around as they were! But what can you do when all you work with are lousy drunks who most likely do not care for the mastery of Opera? Including poor Rook who was struggling with his accent.

“It is not Ro-ma. It is ROME.” The conductor had stopped once more to shout at Rook who could only smile and shake his head. “My many apologies monsieur, it is just quite hard to grasp the foundation of what play we are exactly playing… Perhaps we can go over it once more?” Rook asked out which only caused the conductor to sigh. Though, could you blame them? Y/N had spoken about musicals and plays and whoever this Shakespear was from their world but never really got too deep into them. Hannibal was one of them, and although all of them had come to realize that they were in your world, something about it screamed as if they were in the wrong century of when Y/N was originally from. 

“Excuse me, good sir! I have an important announcement to make!” The manager spoke, coming onto the stage as Vil only sighed. Of course he would have an announcement right in the middle of rehearsals, if they only knew who he really was, there would be NO interrupting rehearsals. “I have wanted to say- All the rumors are true, I am retiring!” Vil rolled his eyes, he was certain everyone knew that their manager would be retiring soon but to be replaced by who? His violet colored hues trailed behind his now ex-manager only to freeze.

Of course it would be Azul and the Tweels.

“The opera house will now be under the management of Azul Ashengrotto and his companions Jade and Floyd Leech. After their business of conducting an underground business-”

“A club.” Azul interjected with a serene smile, causing others within the room to sweatdrop slightly.

“-As I was saying; They will be your new managers, so make sure to treat them with plenty of respect!” The man finished as he welcomed the trio to the front of him, perhaps trying to get out of the spotlight like a certain Crow back in NRC? Who knows.

“We are deeply honored to with by your side and we would love to introduce to you our new Patron, Leona De Kingscholar!” Azul stated out, perhaps with some grit between his words. Afterall, he didnt forget about what Leona had done to his precious contracts within their homeworld but in order to save Y/N from the book, they had to push past their differences and move forward. 

The clicking of heels echoed within the open theater as a certain lion reached up beside the mer-people, a growl within his throat as he looked out towards the crowd. Of course they were all here already. Vil, Rook, Azul and the Tweels, and if he looked a bit closer; is that Lilia? 

“It is an honor to meet you Sir Kingscholar.” Vil stated out, tearing Leona’s gaze back to focus on the pompous Pomefire dormleader. A hand was held out towards Leona’s face and a smug smirk was plastered all over Vil’s face. Huffing, Leona’s hand grasped Vil’s own and gently placed upon the decorated gold hand, a soft kiss. 

“The pleasure is all mine.. Now, don't let me interrupt you anymore. Carry on. I shall be here tonight to celebrate in your victorious show.” With that, Leona turned on his tail quickly and began to walk through the corridor, passing you with Silver and Sebek glued to your side. Your eyes were glazed over with memory as you stared at him, hoping he would say hello as he passed you by. Yet, no such luck as he didn't even spare you a glance.

“He wouldn't recognize me…” You stated out softly to Sebek and Silver with a frown upon your face. Through all of Silver and Sebek’s pesterings, it would appear that you had lost all memory as you became such an important character within the book- perhaps it was due to your lack of magic ability? Whatever it may be, Silver and Sebek hoped it wouldn't last back home in their world where they would bring you back.

“He didn't see you.” Silver cooed out softly, comforting you slightly before Sebek scoffed.

“You do not need that mangy lion anyways! There are bigger and better, like Lord-” Before Sebek could finish, Lilia cleared his throat and motioned for the ballerinas to start their dance as the familiar flutes began to play. Both knights sighed as they jumped off away from you to start their dance while you joined in with the other ballerinas. Jumping over chains and dancing gracefully around them; Afterall, Hannibal is very important to the culture of Rome. 

Though the trio of mers stared at you deeply as they chatted away with Lilia. Jade watched your every move while holding onto Floyd’s shoulder so he couldn't break away to squeeze you too tightly now, after all they didn't want to break the code lines of the book and be casted out, or even worse. Get stuck in there permanently. 

“And who is that one? No relation I trust?” Azul pointed out to you, raising up an eyebrow as Lilia let out a small ‘fufu~’ 

“That is Y/N L/N. Orphaned at 7, and came to live and train here within the Opera dormitories since then… I also think of her as a daughter. Now gentleman, if you would be so kind just to stand off to the side.” Lilia pushed the trio off to the side only to watch his ballet dancers. As the singing continued, the orchestra played with such oomph that a certain irritated German voice could be heard amongst it all as a rip was heard.

“Rook! Do not step on me!” Vil shouted out at Rook who looked sheepish as he had taken a step in the wrong direction as Sebek had jumped a little too close to him. After that, all hell broke loose as Rook couldn't jump into his seat where the fake elephant had come in due to his large billowing and not to mention- heavy- outfit was weighing him down. Vil had gotten so frustrated that he broke character as he stormed through the hallway, screaming how he is going to quit and he is finished. Only for Azul and the Tweels (Not Floyd though, he wasn't in the mood for it.) to grovel for Vil to stay and sing.

“Isn't there a song in uhm… Act three of Hannibal that you can sing for us?” Azul asked out hesitantly, trying to remember the play for Y/N’s sake. 

“Yes! There is! But SOMEBODY did NOT finish my costume!” Vil pointed out and looked towards the costume designers who looked away sheepishly only for Jade to cut in smoothly.

“If its alright with you, Vil, we would love a performance just for us.” Jade hummed out smoothly only for Vil to stop and thing about it. Rook cleared his throat and nodded towards Vil, as if saying quietly ‘do it for the story’ in which Vil nodded.

“If my managers command… Maestro?” Vil looked over at the conductor who only stiffened up under his gaze.

“If my diva commands!”

“I do.” With that, Rook went around shushing everyone as Vil went to the front of the stage, preparing his voice for quite a song. Once the whole auditorium was quiet to Vil’s shushing and Rook’s deathglare of ‘silence’, the piano began to softly play like stars within the night sky. Slowly, Vil’s voice came out strong with plenty of vibrato that left Floyd wincing and looking ever so displeased. Vil knew that this was the doing of the book for he would never sing an aria so… Absurd. Though nothing could prepare him for what came next.

Shackles and chains clattered as a wheel began to squeak very loudly as a whole stage set background fell right on top of Vil, Rook’s eyes turning the size of dinner plates as he rushed forward to collect Vil off of the ground and out from underneath the heavy tapestry of a background. Lilia could only sigh as his ballerinas were panicking while Silver and Sebek stood close to you in hopes of protecting you from whatever might come next towards you. Another screamfest from Vil and the new managers before the auditorium went silent as Vil, Rook and their entourage stormed off into the back.

“Here is a letter, the Opera ghost welcomes you into his opera house and hopes that you can still pay him his money. Monsieur Le Fevre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month.” Lilia spoke, nonchalant as he handed over a note to Azul who seemed absolutely mortified at the idea of having to pay a GHOST. Most certainly they are real, for they all have been to the Ramshackle. “He also states that you need to leave Box Five empty for his use.”

“HIS Opera house? And TWENTY THOUSAND FRANCS? Well that's just great! Who is going to sing for us now! There is no understudy for Vil Schoenheit!” Azul shouted out, furious that he is going to have to refund a whole house which is 1. A waste of a bunch of money, and 2. This shouldn't be how the story should be going! 3. NOW HE HAS TO DEAL WITH SOME OPERA GHOST?

“Y/N can sing it for you.” Silver’s nonchalant voice spoke up through the chaos only for Sebek and you to look at him in shock. Azul slowly turned to you and quirked up an eyebrow but Floyd was first to speak.

“A simple ballet chorus girl? Nehh~...” With a shake of his head at not calling you Shrimpy, why couldn't he just call you Shrimpy? Sebek took it as denial and was next to speak up for you.

“They’re very well trained!” Sebek barked out, standing up straight as you just look between the two of them as if they were going a second head on their shoulders. Wishing that they didn't say ANYTHING. Granted, yes. You were being trained by a wonderful master but… Was it worthy of singing in front of a whole audience?!

“Who taught you.” Jade was next to speak, smiling at you with one of his very placid smiles that could put anyone on edge. You were no different than the rest of course…

“I don't know his name, monsieur…” You whispered out, suddenly bashful as now all the eyes were locked onto your form, Lilia cleared his throat in hopes of you gaining your courage to speak more. Yet for when nothing came out from your mouth, he only sighed.

“Let them sing for you monsieur, they are very well taught.” Lilia spoke up and pushed you forward with his hand on the lower of your back as Floyd began to wave you forward to the center of the stage.

“Cmon now Shrim–... Y/N” Floyd seemed to be annoyed with the fact that he was still unable to call you by your nickname, huffing silently as you were tentative on reaching the front of the stage. You feel everyone's eyes upon you and an all too familiar gaze upon the back of your head. You know he is here.

Slowly, the piano began to play once more as you began to sing a few beats in. Floyd and Jade seemed serene while Azul seemed so shocked by the sound of your voice. Who knew that their precious little Prefect had a voice of a siren! An Angel?! His face must’ve turned a shade of pink as he watched you very closely. You could only turn to face Lilia, Sebek and Silver who all looked very proud of you as Lilia motioned you forward to the center of the stage.

With a flash of the light in front of everyone's eyes, the once empty house was now filled with a full audience listening to you sing so gracefully. Leona sat in his seat as he seemed pleased at hearing you sing, his tail flicking around happily as his eyes narrowed down upon your shining form, as if you were a star itself. Who knew their clumsy Prefect had so much grace, and with a voice of the tweeting birds of the savannah. Unbeknownst to them, a form lurked within the shadows, listening to your voice as he seemed pleased with himself at how far you've come under his wing. You looked as radiant as ever, perfect for the prize of his game that is about to be played.

Leona stood up, humming to himself how it's wonderful to finally see your face, not like he would ever mention how he had missed you but for once in his life, he was rushing to see you. At the end of the song, you received a standing ovation from the crowd, roses were being tossed up onto the stage for you as a certain spy was watching you from below before rushing outside to see their master of Vil and Rook. Upon hearing the standing ovation for your spectacular performance, Vil could only smirk and chuckle. 

“Who knew our potato had it in them all this time.”

All the while, a certain eel was more than happy to shout out to you about how wonderful your performance was, and Azul was more than happy with the outcome and with the fact that they now had a new rising star who wasn't Vil for once. 

Sebek and Silver were the ones who first went out to go searching for you after your performance and everyone had left the auditorium. Afterall, this was a party and You were the star! You should be celebrating! Walking through corridors and slinking through hallways with couples that were more than happy to mash their lips together in what seemed to be the most secluded hallway they could find, they stumbled upon you in a room lighting up candles.

“Y/N! There you are! We have been looking for you. We thought we told you that you should always stick by us!” Sebek shouted out loudly, making you jump and Silver sighed. “Can't you see they’re lighting up a memorial, be quiet Sebek.” Silver whispered out to his friend before looking back down at you who turned to smile at the two of them.

“It's alright you two… I was just letting my father know that tonight went well. After all, father once spoke of an angel who would teach me all these musical things. Now I see him in everything I do, and he comes and visits me at night, sings me songs to keep me company as I sleep.” You whispered out to the both of them as they took their places on either side of you, again like how a knight would be for their King of Briar Valley. 

“Y/N… You must have been dreaming, stories like this can't come true.” Sebek states out softly as he takes your hand and helps you up. Granted, he would NEVER touch you back in Twisted Wonderland but with the guidance of the book's written story, he guided you up to your feet as Silver helped steady your balance within your heels.

“Y/N you’re talking in riddles, and it's not like you.” Silver whispered out as they both began to lead you out from the room filled with painted angels and more towards your room, though both Silver and Sebek could feel a presence around them that was all too familiar. A drunkard man that is about to lose this game of cat and mouse if he keeps pestering their precious Prefect. Once back inside your room, with you all settled down in front of your mirror, the two had left you alone with Lilia and stood guard outside of your room.

“He is pleased with you.” Lilia would speak out softly to you, eyes lingering on your form as your eyes glance down to the rose, still filled with thorns with a green ribbon tied around it that was just placed down to your hand. “Make sure to go to bed at a reasonable time tonight. You know how he is with your sleeping schedule, and you have a big day tomorrow. Goodnight Y/N.” Lilia would softly squeeze your shoulders as he began to depart from the room only for a certain sneaky lion to squeeze past and intrude in.

“Little Y/N let their mind wander, not knowing of the hunter behind them.” Leona’s gruff voice would hum out, arms crossed with that smug smirk upon his face as he looked you up and down. Your eyes flickered up to his face within the mirror and a smile began to form upon your face at seeing your childhood best friend.

“No, they knew of the hunter stalking them, but what they couldnt comprehend is what it wanted.” You started out, swirling around to face him on your chair as you stood up.

“Am I fonder of dolls or of frocks, or possibly picnics in the attic?” Leona stated, walking closer to you to where he could smell you but couldn't just touch you yet. 

“No, they said. Whatever is best, is when I'm asleep in my bed.” You finished out before giggling, pulling Leona in for a tight hug. Leona’s eyes closed shut as he squeezed you just as tight before pulling away with a roll of his eyes, dumb book making him do things he didn't want to do. 

“You sang beautifully tonight. Why don't we go catch dinner together? Just you and me.” Leona stated out rashly and sighed, ears pinning down as his cheeks turned a bit red as he peeked one eye down to look at you. Your face said it all, you couldn't. Yet, he didn't care. “Get dressed, I will be back in five minutes. Don't deny that you want to go out and eat with me and I'm not asking. This is a demand, and you know I don't make many of those.” With that, Leona squeezed you slightly within his arms again before leaving.

“No wait, Leona!” You sighed as you heard the door shut with a loud click. As you turned around to face your bouquets of flowers lined against the wall, you shuffled out from your big poofy dress and into a more simple white linen one with a laced robe being tied around in hopes that you dear Angel of Music wouldn't notice your absence. Reaching towards the door handle, a loud voice boomed within the room that you knew all too well already.

“Insolent boy, this slave of Fashion! Basking in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!” The angel hissed out, and you knew he was not happy with the outcome, and had already known your intentions of leaving for the evening. 

“Angel, I hear you. Speak, I’ll listen… Stay by my side, guide me! Angel, my soul was weak… Forgive me- Enter at last, Master!’ You replied back out, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes at the thought of betraying you dear beloved Master. As for him? He had heard that term many times but he never wanted to hear it come from your mouth, though he was indeed flattered… As the candles died down with his presence, a few flickering lights of green began to spark in the room as if you had your own personal fireflies.

“Flattering child, you shall know me. See why in the shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror! I am there inside!” The voice continues as you slowly turn on your heels to look at your body length mirror. Inside showed your reflection until a very large apparition began to appear slowly within the lighting of the mirror. A man with jet black that turned into a soft blue that rested upon his shoulders, two black long horns upon his head and part of his face was covered in a mask. Was this truly an angel, more importantly… Your angel?

Slowly, your feet began to move towards the mirror, entranced with this man's form within your mirror as your hand stuck out slowly. Unbeknownst to you, Leona was in the middle of a scuffle between Silver and Sebek who were trying their best to protect you, as well as their master who was now making his move upon the impressionable you. 

“Let me through! Let me see Y/N!” Leona roared out as he punched Silver, who grunted as Sebek took over and kicked Leona down. “Who is that voice in there! Y/N!!!” Leona roared out, throwing Sebek off of him at Silver, rushing up to the door as he jangled with the locked door. “Y/N!!!” He shouted out, continuing to fight the door as both Knights tore him away and continued to wrestle with him upon the ground.

“I am your angel of music… Come to me, Angel of Music…” He spoke out softly, leaving you entranced with his form as your hand reached through the mirror and with a hesitant skip of your heartbeat, your hand met with his gloved one as if a deal had just been struck right then and there.

You have met your Angel of Music.

[itcamefromthetoybox]

Past His Prime

Hey there, hi there, ho there! I’m back. Ended up taking a break from the blog to finish moving and just never got around to it for a while. One of those, “oh yeah, I’ll work on that tomorrow” things where I kept meaning to but kept forgetting. But yes! I am back! And on my update schedule of “when I get to it.” But what exactly dragged me back? New toys from the upcoming “Transformers: One” movie! Today, we’re going to be looking at “Transformers: One Prime Changers Optimus Prime.” How does the latest version of the Autobot leader hold up? Is he a hit or miss? And is he worth the big price tag? Let’s dive in and answer those questions!

Now, as of this article, the movie isn’t out yet, so I can’t spoil anything or say too much about the plot or characters, other than that the movie is about Orion Pax and D-16, the best friends who will become the heroic Optimus Prime and the evil Megatron. If you don’t know who those characters are, then I am very confused as to why you’re reading a review of Transformers toys. Are you that bored at work?

Now, what is a Prime Changer? Prime Changers, basically, are the main figures of the “Transformers: One” toyline. They’re simpler than the collector-aimed “Studio Series” line, and are the off the shelf figures for kids you’d think of when you think of Transformers. No fancy gimmicks, no overly complicated transformations, just a robot that turns into something and back again.

At first look, Prime Changer Optimus Prime looks great. He’s very colorful, blocky-looking, and seems to be exactly what you think of when you think of a young, pre-war Optimus. He has all the expected Optimus details, like the smoke stacks on his shoulders, the chest window, and the wheels on his legs. He’s supposed to capture the essence of Optimus Prime, and he does. Of course, these days, that means he also takes a massive amount of inspiration from the original, G1 Optimus Prime that’s been around since the 80’s and who gets a new figure every single year with no exception, so do keep that in mind. Now, when you get a closer look, flaws become apparent. The wheels in Prime’s shoulders are a different grey than the pant on him, so they stand out like a sore thumb, which takes away from the look. Hollow areas become more noticeable, and there’s nothing particularly new or interesting to compensate for those cosmetic letdowns.

Articulation-wise, Optimus is pretty decent. Very posable, lots of joints, just as you would expect. There’s nothing really shocking or dynamic here. Saying that a mainline Transformer is very posable is like saying ice is cold. Like, yeah, I would certainly hope so. If it wasn’t, I’d have some concerns. It’s important to note, though, that there are some limits on his poses. Optimus comes with a removable Matrix of Leadership that he can theoretically hold in his hands to recreate the classic “lighting our darkest hour” pose everyone does with the Matrix. The thing is, his big chest gets in the way of that, so he needs to hold the Matrix at about gut level. It looks a lot less impressive than you’d hope and a lot more like Optimus is rubbing it on his stomach for luck.

Speaking of his waist area, while he does have a waist joint, his crotch design actually limits how much the waist can rotate. And by “limits,” I mean he can barely rotate. It’s kinda a letdown, because the parts are there, but the toy itself stops you from using them.

So, this is a Transformer, so let’s talk about transforming. I hated this part. It wasn’t complicated, true. It was very straightforward, with a few extra steps like rotating the arms and opening the legs, and the process integrates Prime’s ax accessory into it, so that has a place to store, which is nice. The problem is that you gotta line up some tabs just so to make sure the whole thing pegs together right, and that was a living hell. I spent more time trying to get those tabs on his legs and the holes on his back lined up than I did on any other step of the transformation. It was frustrating as hell, and I really don’t wanna do that again. Also, part of the transformation is unfolding the truck grill from behind Prime’s chest. It’s a simple process with no extra steps, but if you have short nails, it’s gonna be more of a pain than it should be. Getting the axe into position for vehicle mode takes way too much fiddling and adjusting to be worthwhile. Transforming this guy was really annoying and not all that fun. As for getting him back to robot mode, that’s a damn chore. Prime’s back piece doesn’t like doing a lot of what it’s supposed to, and parts pop off constantly. Unless you’re very careful, expect Prime’s arms, chest, and back to pop off at least once during transforming, which especially sucks because reattaching the back is a pain. It took a while before I was able to transform him even once without any issues, and I remain convinced I just got lucky.

Of course, Optimus Prime turns into a truck. It’s basically an alien version of the truck he always turns into. If you’ve seen one G1 Optimus Prime truck mode, you have a solid idea of what this dude looks like. The truck mode doesn’t roll well at all. The back wheels just barely clear the legs to roll unencumbered, to the point that if you get a figure with the molding off by even a smidge, you’re outta luck.

Let’s talk accessories. Optimus comes with his axe, two smokestacks, and the Matrix of Leadership. The axe looks pretty good. Between the sculpting and color, it looks like a mechanical weapon charged with energy, and the sculpting and paint at the base make it look like the axe emerged from Prime’s palm.

It fits over Prime’s hand, with a peg inside the base that Prime holds onto, The problem here is that once Prime has it, he doesn’t wanna drop it. It’s a snug fit. Too snug. The way Prime’s hands are attached to his wrists means that you need to be careful taking the axe out of his hand, or else the hand will pop off. I find that pressing against where his hand connects to his wrist helps hold the hand in place while I pull the axe off.

Prime’s smokestacks are meh. They can be removed from his shoulders to be held as a pair of pistols that are blatantly just smokestacks in his hands. When you transform Prime, they will want to come right out of there, so keep an eye on them.

The Matrix, though, is awful. Just, really awful. It looks and feels cheap, which is a shame considering it’s the damn Matrix of Leadership. It’s also inconsistent about staying in Prime’s chest. Sometimes, it fits pretty well. Sometimes, it feels a bit loose. But the thing I really hate about it is that its plastic and design are definitely cheap. This became clear to me the first time I transformed Prime. When transforming Prime, the instructions say you can leave the Matrix in his chest, because its storage spot is a peg on the back of his truck grill.

The instructions are a sheet of lies. The Matrix takes up just enough space where it will get knocked out when transforming Prime, or , worse, it’ll break. The first time I transformed this figure, before I even took pictures, one of the handles on the Matrix snapped off.

This actually revealed how cheap it was to me. See, the break was a clean break. TOO clean. It seems like the handles of the Matrix are actually separate parts that were glued onto the Matrix, and that glue’s not exactly the stuff of legends. When I looked at the break, I also noticed that it looks like the Matrix itself is actually painted over blue plastic, the same kind Prime’s axe is made of. The Matrix is very small, and the plastic is very thin, so any amount of force on it’s going to break it. Hell, the plastic is so weak and cheap that when the handle broke off, I didn’t even notice. I didn’t feel any resistance or indicator it was in the way of the transformation. It was there, and then it broke. As easy as I breathe with as little notice. If you wanna keep it safe, just take it out and set it aside, only to be used for poses.

And now, of course, the main issues I have with this figure. I know plastic’s gotten more expensive, so toy companies are cutting costs. I get that. But by God, this figure feels cheap. The plastic feels so cheap to the touch that it’s the first thing my wife commented on when she touched Prime. When you start looking him over in your hands, you notice how hollow the toy is. He LOOKS very solid and bulky, like Optimus should. This makes how light he is feel surprising, and how hollow he is feel like a letdown. Some parts, like his chest plate are thin enough that I can see the shadow of my hand on the other side. Also, he’s just so damn small, He’s frustratingly short. I’m gonna sound like an old man here, but I remember when a $20 Transformer had some size and heft to him. This Prime’s smaller than the $10 ones I had as a kid and still do have. Between the cheap plastic, the parts popping off, how hollow and short Prime is, and how easily the Matrix broke, the whole toy just feels super cheap. 

“Transformers: One Prime Changer Optimus Prime” is available at mass retail for a starting price of $20 and is aimed at ages 6 and up. Would I recommend him? Absolutely not. This is really not a good toy. The plastic feels cheap to the touch, the transformation’s a pain, parts pop off way too easily, his guns are literally just his smokestacks held at a different angle, the Matrix is small, thin, and breaks easily, his waist is impeded by his own body, and he’s just so damn short. I can’t in good consciousness tell people to spend $20 on something so damn small that doesn’t even bring anything new to the table and, if anything, is a significant downgrade from what’s come before. Like, I compared this to older figures I have. It’s literally more money for less toy. This figure was such a letdown that it made me not want to get the other Prime Changer figures. I was actually turned off from an entire series of figures because of how annoying and disappointing this one toy was. He looks good from a distance, but then you get him in your hands and all the flaws, big and small, come shining through. Definitely pass on this one. I know, I sound like an old man. “Things were so much better when I was a kid.” Well, I handed this figure and some of my older ones to my wife, someone with very little interest in Transformers, who didn’t grow up with the figures or shows and has no problem telling me when she thinks I’m completely wrong or being that old guy. She actually agreed with me completely. Compared to the older toys, this one’s really not good. It’s more money for a toy that is significantly smaller and of lower quality. I know this is what’s out there, and this is all kids and collectors have on the market, but that doesn’t mean you should throw money at something that’s clearly not good. You want a great Optimus toy? Go on eBay. There’s plenty of fantastic old Primes from past movies and shows there for decent prices that WON’T break in two seconds and actually have some size to them. Next time, who knows what we’ll be looking at! Hopefully something I don’t feel an immense case of Buyer’s Remorse over. This is JS signing off and wishing you Happy Toy Hunting!

[jazzy-dreamer]

Yo hold on. The Archivists were never defeated. They left because they thought their job was done, but King is still alive. The titan trappers were never truly defeated either and we never see what happened to them. And we didn't exactly get to see what happened to Collector (I hope he gets an actual name eventually because he deserves more!!!!)

There's still so much of this world we can explore but we didn't get the opportunity because of the shortening. But what if there's a new opportunity? An opportunity to explore the new glyphs, and to possibly explore the rest of the demon realm (since we clearly saw there were other places) Speaking of, did Belos forget about all the other witches and demons all over the world or is the Boiling Isles the only populated place in the Demon Realm?

Maybe in this new opportunity we could finally see what the whole thing with "Seek the key fear the lock" is, because there was clearly meant to be something important there.

The Owl House is known for its lil riddles and Easter eggs and as far as I’m aware everything has led up to something and has had some sort of purpose, such as the first code in season 1 “Two Witches Torn Apart Now Alone Two Hearts Of Stone A Curse Of Feathers And Mud A Betrayal Of Blood”

And don’t even get me started on the lore of The Collectors. I mean look at that book!!!!! Yes it’s got thick pages but look at how the shot specifically wants to point out to us how big it is.

There’s still so little we know about them, but because of them everything in The Owl House is kicked off. Collie (Short for our Collector) is trapped because of the other Collectors tricking them and leading them to the Boiling Isles. Because of them, the Owl Beast is turned into a curse and Eda is cursed. Because of them, the titans were completely wiped out (apart from King) and because of them abandoning Collie on Earth, Belos finds them and well, ya know where that went. How long do ya think Collie was trapped for? We know it’s been hundreds of years. And the other Collectors haven’t seemed the slightest bit interested in finding him. It seems the moment they thought all the titans had been eradicated they figured their job was done and left. But where the what are they now? Off to other planets to eradicate or “collect” others? What if they were to come to the Human Realm? If they’re still in the stars, would Collie reunite with them after hundreds of years or would he still be alone up there? (Don’t get me started on Collie leaving that is literally the one thing I don’t like about the finale) Even if they did reunite, how would Collie react? How would the others react? What the actual what would happen?

ANYWAY THANKYOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK ABOUT WHY THE OWL HOUSE DESERVES A MOVIE WITH ALL THE ORIGINAL CHARACTERS FROM THE SHOW INCLUDING THE ARCHIVISTS AND OF COURSE COLLIE KAY BYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

[rantceratops]

Hey so like, I'm looking at your post about still believing in Luz and Hunter as siblings. I'm on board for that too obviously, and am thinking of the part where he's in The Collector's palace and feeling like no one is waiting for him. I guess I'm trying to rationalize somehow...why he wasn't thinking of her words "You're family now" right after he sent Willow off to her parents. I get why the writers wanted to include Luz's narration of "And if someone thought they had no one waiting for them, well, they were in for a nice surprise", yet I'm sort of telling myself that perhaps Hunter didn't want to burden Luz and Camila at that time or something. If he's Luz's sibling he could just walk to Eda's house and join them there after making sure Gus and Willow are reunited with their family. Maybe that's what he, Darius and Eberwolf did offscreen after they reunited. Hm..

Honestly, I almost don't get the point of them including the "You're family now" line in TTT if they weren't going to follow it up with something a little more solid. Then again, one of my major gripes with the last three episodes in general are them constantly bringing up plot points that don't ever get any real follow-up("You're family now"; Hunter's flashstep powers(why did he even get them if they weren't going to be used in the finale in a major way? Seems like an odd writing choice so late in the game. And I am a FAN of him still having the flashstep, but I'm still pointing this out as a weird choice); Hunter not getting time to grieve at ALL; no Wittebro/Evelyn lore(I think TTT should have done a proper delve into their past. I don't necessarily think it's a good choice to leave it unexplored, but I'm kinda torn); Hunter's fear over the others finding out he was a Grimwalker getting glossed over with two lines when it was SUCH a Big Deal to him and he needed a proper conversation about it - that one's a BIG beef; probably several more I'm forgetting).

And like, back on Hunter and Luz Siblings, as I've said, it doesn't have to be straight up adoption papers or anything, it's found family, it doesn't have to be traditional anything. I just think it's so weird to have this really significant moment where Luz calls him that and he literally bursts into tears over it because he has no one at that point, but then there's not like, any other pay off or mention of it? (Camila also called him 'baby'.)

Imagine if Hunter had been looking sad after Willow ran to her dads, then Camila(and Luz maybe, even though she was still with Eda at the time), came up and smiled at him and hugged him? Really cementing that found family thing that was brought up with them. (And just to be clear, none of this means I would have wanted Hunter to live in the Human Realm, I was never a fan of that idea. I just want him to be Luz's sibling and visit the Human Realm often because he has a PLACE there that will always be there for him when he needs it.)

I pretty much figured they'd go for Dadrius, and I'm not like... livid about it or anything. I just think if they really wanted to go that route then they should have built it up more, and I personally would have also needed an apology from Darius to Hunter about how he treated him in ASIAS was wrong and how he's going to be better from there on out, etc, before I feel like that scenario would have any actual meaning or pay-off. (I am not bashing Darius, I like Darius, but he treated Hunter like shit in ASIAS.)

All this being said, I don't think the ending negates Hunter being Luz's sibling, even if Darius straight adopted him(I don't think he did), it doesn't mean he's lost his place with other important guardian/parental/mentor figures in his life. I think that's the most beautiful thing about found family. I think most of my salt just comes from them not really following a thread that was seemingly started in TTT and seemed like an awfully Big Damn Deal to the boy, considering how hard he cried.

I'm being salty and I have my critiques, but don't mistake this for me hating on the show or anything. I still really enjoyed the finale, but as a fan I have issues and things I didn't like.

[ozfi]

newbie chainsaw man thoughts (started writing at ch31) - from discord. character analysis via transgenderism, as ever...

lets assume denji has had pochita.. what. 10 yrs? i forget if he was given an age when his father died. but this is about puberty.

pochita is denji. does this make sense? pochita is the part of denji that wants to stay alive. survival instinct, brain, hope. call it anything. because denji should have died the day after his father did, at the hands of the debt collector, but pochita came out, shivering and injured, and denji said ill stay alive for you, so you stay alive for me. and in that way he was denjis will to live, and denji managed just to hold on, just by sacrificing a little tiny bit of himself

not that pochita is inherently malicious, which. i dont think he is. but i think a will to live and a survival instinct will naturally have you doing things you dont want to. before pochita literally became a part of denjis body denji was eating cigarettes for a pittance of yen, and now he turns into chainsaw man, and by sacrificing more of himself (blood, the chainsaws literally digging into his flesh, he died and became this) so pochita is trying to keep denji alive At All Costs, but... the cost is high. now denji is functionally immortal, but he is constantly hurting himself to stay alive.

now. why am i saying this?

i am saying this because Chainsaw Man (denji) is transgender as fuck

what sense does this make? well. all of it. here is my reasoning:

chainsaw man becomes a part of denji as he grows up, having to embrace masculinity via puberty and social pressures as one gets older

"but thats hurting him! thats keeping him alive, but its hurting him!" and: well... yeah? hes never been in a situation where he can analyze such things. he doesnt have a mother. hes been surrounded by scummy men his whole life. all he knows is scummy men and pain, and the world around him made him be hyperviolent just to stay alive even before chainsaw man became a part of him, so its only natural he thinks this is the only way. and consistently he is shown that it is. in this way the armor that hurts him keeps him alive. it is his only path forward. in that way even if he could transition, so that he wasnt killed, stealthing is the shield that keeps people safe in situations where they would not otherwise be

pochita-as-denjis-will-to-live keeps him safe by giving him that armor, a way to hack and claw, but this safety wont make him happy in the way he necessarily wants, even if he is already living a better life because of it (and isnt being a cis man a ticket to comfort in a way being anything else isnt?). pochita is like.... adrenaline, in certain ways. where otherwise you would be flat on the ground, but somehow you keep finding something that lets you keep standing up. literally, in fact, in the case of devil blood regeneration.

having a will to live isnt inherently bad, but clinging to a survival instinct definitely means something is wrong. and i know being chainsaw man just makes things worse for denji! there is a chainsaw IN HIS SKULL! IT IS SAWING HIS BRAIN! pochita himself as the only thing thats ever truly loved denji (and thus, denji himself) [TO THIS POINT] isnt a bad thing to have, but the way that will to survive is manifesting and is percieved to need to manifest as is self harm

naturally, when you look at the evidence, a lot of people who need change most are the most scared of it, and tend to isolate or act out when faced with life-shifting calamities, including gender dysphoria. it makes me think about when denji wondered if accepting pochita as a part of him meant that not only the physical organ but his emotional human heart died as well...

and, its not necessarily a good thing, but denji learning women can be just as awful as men and no longer idolizing them is an important wakeup call for him to be able to move forward into a more realistic and happy life, where he doesnt follow women around like a dog and isnt entirely averse to being around men in every capacity as if theyre inherently subhuman and not just a type of person with the ability to make their own choices

the first devil he faces after becoming chainsaw man, the muscle devil, is there to use his bias against him, saying the little girl was being abused by her father and that the devil saved her. having total black-and-white thinking leaves you to disadvantage and unable to see the world clearly

+ the race for chainsaw man's heart and the usage of emotional manipulation for that futhers denjis ideas that people only like him if he has something to offer them. "im only worth something if i have something of worth", in denjis case it is being chainsaw man/having chainsaw's heart. / "because i am the way i am, only bad things happen to me and the people i love"

[ch 40:

[5:34 PM] ok i was off comp for 2 seconds and i thought abt

[5:34 PM] how kamen rider this setup is

[5:35 PM] youre turned into the same kind of monsters as you fight, and though it gives you that power to fight, what is the cost? what will you do with that power? how will it change you ]

+ but it is essential to remember the survival instinct, the will to live- all of it relies on hope. the idea that tomorrow will be better than today, and that it's worth staying alive for. while the current result of denji+pochitas united strength is dangerous and painful, pochitas true purpose is to keep denji alive to see a future worth living in. pochita loves him. pochita is hope.

[curried-mermaid]

Manga Review: Fruits Basket

We often forget that love is more than just romantic. Natsuki Takaya does an excellent job delving into the human heart and analyzing the different ways people fall in love. Tohru, your average bakadere, accomplishes this just by being herself and soothing the other character’s hearts. She listens to them and says exactly what they need to hear most, even if it comes out weird. Takaya doesn’t portray romance like we normally see in anime or in western media. She focuses on how unconditional love can heal all wounds.

            A perfect example of this theme is when Tohru helps Yuki (the dandere) defend his ‘secret base’ (a small vegetable garden) from a typhoon. Yuki expresses that he only acts nice for himself, it’s not because he’s a nice person. He’s jealous that Kyo (the tsundere) can easily make friends and that’s why he’s nice. He wants to be liked. Tohru tells him that everyone has their own kindness that develops through their experiences. Yuki’s “is like a candle. It suddenly lights up” (Takaya, Vol. 1, 131-137).

            Another theme pops up as she is talking to Kyo as she makes rice balls with him. She mentions that he’s really good at making them and someone who’s been trying to learn would be jealous. He responds with that’s dumb. She comes up with the analogy that everyone has great qualities they cannot see in themselves because they’re like pickled plums that stick to rice. They’re stuck on someone’s back. Everyone else can see them except the person they’re stuck to. Kyo is a wonderful person (Takaya, Vol. 1, 262-267). This theme is important because it helps Tohru develop relationships with the other characters that pop up in the series. She can see everyone’s good qualities regardless of what trauma they’ve been through and how they lash out at those around them. She heals by accepting them for who they are, zodiac spirits and all.

            Takaya’s writing style helps keep the audience at ease as she tackles the hard topics of trauma. This easy-to-read format makes Tohru an effective protagonist. We find out that one of the other zodiac members, Hatori, fell in love only to have to erase his love’s memories after they tried to get permission from the family head, Akito, to marry. Akito lashed out and caused Hatori to go mostly blind in one eye, and his love, Kana, was mentally broken because she thought it was all her fault (Takaya, Vol. 1,  374-395).

            This introduces Akito as Tohru’s “rival” in this series. This is evidenced by Yuki telling Tohru’s friends “She (Tohru) deserves the moon but would never ask for it” (Takaya, Vol. 1, 224) versus Akito saying that he wants the moon (242). This is an excellent way to introduce and show the differences between Tohru and Akito. The narrative style follows a third person omnipotent view. The story is told mostly through dialogue and various character inner monologues. This is effective because the audience can get a clearer picture of what’s going on. The flashbacks are relevant to the story and help us understand what each character has gone through up to the point of the story.

            The largest problems I have with Takaya’s narrative is the story moves slowly and Tohru is a passive protagonist. If you’re not paying attention to the small details, you’ll miss how the relationships develop. The other important thing is the ending for this first volume is sad and nostalgic at the same time. It’s just the daily life of an average girl who stumbled into a supernatural family.

            Overall, I’d say this series is worth checking out and is one of my favorites because it brings a refreshing take on love through deep connections. Love is more than just romance. Be [1]prepared to fall for this series over and over through bittersweet heartache and blissful triumph.

Takaya, Natsuki. “Fruits Basket Collector’s Edition”. Volume 1, 2016, Yen Press.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 4- Oakenshield: Prince or Thief?

Today's fic was for 'New Plot Bunny' and I'm actually super excited about this one!

Oakenshield: Prince or Thief?

Rating: T

Warning(s): N/A

Ship: Bagginshield

Words: 2229

Summary: Robin Hood AU; Everyone knows the story: After King Thrain took his best warriors, including Crown Prince Thorin, only to be slain by the orc forces in Khazad-dum, his advisor, Lord Smaug, was placed in charge and all the lands of Erebor suffered. Fortunately, rising past the oppressive tyranny was the one and only Oakenshield, to rob from the rich and give to the poor. In reality though…that’s not quite accurate. For one thing, there are actually two beings claiming to be ‘Oakenshield’ with vastly different objectives, and then there’s the small problem of them not being aware of the other until Bilbo comes across a rather interesting Company of dwarves in Mirkwood.

Bilbo plopped himself on a fallen log somewhere on the outskirts of Mirkwood Forest. His hands crossed over his knees, and his eyes glued to the rolling hills of the Shire just to the west while his mind wandered far away. How could everything go so wrong in such a short amount of time? He was almost too exhausted to cry. No, that fled with his anger as the Sheriffs were physically pulling Bilbo away from his home, and his rotten, evil cousin-in-law. 

Gandalf plopped down beside him, for once having nothing to say as he pulled out both their pipes. He began to bang them against each other, trying to share the last scrap of pipeweed between the two before lighting the ends and handing Bilbo his own. Bilbo didn’t smoke right away. He was too wrung out for even that pleasure.

“Why did this happen, Gandalf?” He asked, his voice rough and thick.

The old wizard took a deep inhale of smoke before blowing it out into a simple ring. The fact that he didn’t transform it into fantastic shapes said more than enough about the state of things. Bilbo finally allowed himself a smoke of his own, matching the ring with one of his own.

“The King and his son never returned from war.” Gandalf stated simply enough.

Bilbo snorted. “The former dying at the latter’s hand is how I heard it the two days I was invited to stay in their prison.”

Gandalf gave him a soft, apologetic look. “I would have gotten there sooner had I known…”

Bilbo waved him off. It certainly wasn’t Gandalf’s fault that he had fled the Shire the moment after his mother’s funeral to wander the world. It also wasn’t his fault he returned to find his properties claimed by Otho and his snake of a wife, Lobelia. No, Gandalf wasn’t to blame for the state of affairs Bilbo returned home to. Bilbo did blame King Thrain though, for leaving for a war Erebor and its surrounding provinces didn’t want. He blamed Prince Thorin, whether he killed his father or not, for not being able to come home and take care of his people. Mostly, he found himself blaming Lord Smaug. Who took over Erebor in the absence of its monarchy. Who seemed to believe taxes and rewarding the rich was more important than seeing to the basic needs of every citizen. Who stripped a land of justice and moral obligations, turning Bilbo into a criminal overnight just because he had the gall to speak the truth.

“Where do we go from here?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Rivendell is and always has been a sanctuary to those in need, and Lord Elrond would welcome you once more into his halls. Regardless of your…current status.”

Bilbo gave him a fond, but exasperated look. “You seem to forget, my friend, that any status of mine you now share. You can’t break someone out of jail and expect not to be labeled an outlaw as well.”

“Oh, I doubt the Shire Sheriffs were all that interested in keeping you there for the long term. Hobbits I find are remarkably resilient beings, and I think the western reaches of our dear kingdom won’t see the aftereffects of Smaug’s rule until later down the road. The capital, however…they spoke of Smaug employing orcs to be his tax collectors and law enforcement. Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor will all suffer much greater and much quicker.”

Bilbo felt shivers racing down his spine at the thought of those bloodthirsty beasts being anywhere near civilized society. Gandalf was right. Rivendell was outside the reaches of Erebor, and the elves’ magic kept it protected. He should get out while he still could. He tampered out the last bit of ashes collected at the bottom of his pipe as he stood and gave a large stretch. The sun was just beginning to set, drawing his eyes back to the rolling green hills of his home. It’s not like he had anybody to worry after him, not really anyways. He had neighbors, tenants, cousins he would speak to every once in a while. Nobody would really miss him if he disappeared for good. Did that mean that they deserved such a fate as Otho and Lobelia, carrying out the orders for Lord Smaug?

“We can’t go to Rivendell.” He declared. “I don’t know what I can do besides probably get myself killed, but we can’t leave things like this, Gandalf. It’s wrong.”

The old wizard chuckled before slowly pulling himself up as well. He placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulders, his eyes twinkling brightly.

“I hope that you never stop ceasing to amaze me. Your courage may be exactly what the kingdom needs reminded of right now.”

Bilbo snorted. “They need a hero. But sure. A couple of outlaws like ourselves, I’m sure we can work up the muscle for a little poetic justice. After all, a hobbit and a wizard? We’ll just have Smaug quaking in his boots.”

“Let the powers to be hear the name Bilbo Baggins and feel true fear!” Gandalf teased him.

Bilbo laughed as he turned and started to trudge his way into the forest. After all, he was granted the title of Elf-Friend. Surely Thranduil would have no objections to him staying for just a little while. Until he could restock on supplies and have a solid idea of where he was going.

“You know I was thinking about that.” Bilbo mentioned. “What if I used an alias? Something the people could chant and might not give away my…hobbitness quite so much.”

“What did you have in mind?” Gandalf asked.

“Well, the symbol of my house is an acorn. I was thinking maybe ‘Oak Something’. Oak Branch? Oak Protector?”

“Oak Shield?” Gandalf offered.

Bilbo curled his lip and scrunched his nose. “Maybe.”

Gandalf laughed. “Bilbo, my boy, I have found when it comes to epithets, you don’t choose them as much as they choose you.”

***

(Eight months later)

Thorin hacked at the undergrowth of the forest aimlessly listening as Nori continued to rattle on about what he heard at the local tavern. It was all the same in his mind. Smaug bleeding Dale and Esgaroth dry. Azog letting his orcs slay any who try to oppose them. Thieves and outlaws becoming more commonplace every day. It was a sting to Thorin’s pride, but given the circumstances, there wasn’t much he could do about it. At least at the moment.

“So then they got off on the subject of ‘Oakenshield’s Company’ and get this! The lot of them have it in their heads that we rob from the rich to give to the poor now. As if we’re not struggling ourselves.”

The rest of the Company burst into laughter.

“Don’t you know lads, it doesn’t take much coin to lead a resistance.” Gloin guffawed. 

“Aye! Our swords never chip, and our hammers never splinter.” Dwalin roared.

Thorin couldn’t help smirking at how much enjoyment the Company was getting out of this particular rumor. It never fails that after performing a job, their name gains traction amongst the villages. Using the epithet that Thorin had earned during the War in Khazad-dum, ‘Oakenshield’s Company’ were the only ones left to stand against Smaug’s tyranny. Except on days like today. As far as Thorin was concerned, false accounts kept them safe. 

“So we find another orc pack to stop, and everyone’s singing our praises again.” Fili stated.

“Aye! None of this ‘not killing stuff’ either.” Kili tacked on referring to another one of the odd rumors circling about their group.

Thorin smiled at the beaming duo more than grateful he was able to get them out of the castle in time. Dis had known Smaug would see them dead before letting them be a potential threat to his claim to the throne. Dis staying behind to feed him information was still a decision that haunted his every waking moment. Luckily, she seems to be handling herself well, so far. 

They were almost back to their makeshift camp for the night when something out of the ordinary began to register with Thorin. Something he hadn’t realized earlier thanks to the Company’s racket. The forest was quiet. Thorin held up his fist, his other hand clinging to Orcist tightly. Everyone stopped, immediately becoming defensive. The oppressive silence weighing heavier now.

“What do you think it is, Thorin?” Balin whispered.

“I don’t know.” He responded. “Feels like an ambush though.”

An arrow whizzed by his ear, landing a solid ‘thunk’ into the tree behind him. Thorin’s eyes darted the direction it came from, catching a shape gliding along the branches. His lip pulled back in a sneer. Elves. Another came from a different direction, and Thorin rolled out of the way of the perceived attack. Only it wasn’t that at all. He spun around at the cries from his Company as a large rope net triggered by the two arrows hoisted them three feet into the air. The tangle of limbs made it nearly impossible for anyone to grab a weapon to spring themselves free. Seeing the tie that held them aloft, Thorin moved to cut them down only to stop at a knife against his throat.

“Decent reflexes, but not enough, Love. Now be a good dwarf and drop your weapon.”

Every muscle in his body tensed at the idea of a surrender, but knowing there was at least one more out there, Thorin let Orcist fall to the ground. The Company watched the exchange in bafflement, and Thorin didn’t quite understand why until the figure moved in front of him. He blinked in surprise, but his attacker remained the same. It wasn’t an elf at all, but a hobbit!

The hobbit smirked as he produced a length of rope already tied into a set of cuffs. He raised an eyebrow, indicating for Thorin to put it on himself. He felt his jaw grind down at the sting to his pride, but could see little else he could do at the moment. He allowed the hobbit to bind his wrists, and due to the knife still at his throat, let the burglar back him all the way up to the nearest tree. The hobbit threw the end of the line up over the branch. Thorin felt it tighten, pulling his wrists over his head, and when he looked up, he saw a blonde elf securing it. Well, at least his instincts proved true about his accomplice. Once the hobbit was certain of Thorin’s helplessness, did he lower his blade.

“Well you are proving to be a very accommodating captive. Do you do this often?”

“You’d be the first who dare attempt it.” Thorin responded.

“Ah.” The hobbit grinned before leaning in to whisper in Thorin’s ear. “I’ll be sure to take it nice and slow then.”

An uncomfortable heat settled on Thorin’s cheeks before traveling south to pool in his stomach. He wasn’t quite sure of the hobbit’s intentions, until he pulled back holding Thorin’s coin purse. The dwarf glared at him as he shook it next to his ear before placing it in a loop on his belt. The hobbit tipped his green hat towards him.

“A pleasure doing business.”

There was a cry from one of the dwarves, and Thorin craned his neck over the hobbit to see there were now two elves, quickly and efficiently relieving his Company of their valuables. The red headed elf had reached towards Ori’s beads though, and before Thorin could make his threats, the hobbit spoke up.

“Not the beads, my friends! After all, we have no need to dishonor these fine dwarves after all their help today.”

“As you say, Oakenshield.” She replied, bowing her head.

Thorin’s jaw dropped, not sure what surprised him the most. The fact that they were actually going to leave them their beads. The fact that this hobbit was their leader. Or the fact that this was the one who's been using his name! The off-the-wall rumors. It was because of this thief. 

They finished robbing them, and once the hobbit was satisfied, he turned back to Thorin with a bow.

“If it’s any consolation to you, this will be going to five families with young ones in Dale. Once again, thank you for your cooperation. Please enjoy the rest of your stroll through Mirkwood.”

The hobbit latched onto the blonde elf who joined the red haired one in the trees, and just like that they were gone. Thorin struggled against the bonds holding his wrists when a knife, the very one used to threaten him, went slicing through the air, cutting the rope holding him against the tree. He brought his hands down so he could rub his wrists and ponder the most unorthodox bandits he’s ever met.

“Well that could have been worse.” Bofur exclaimed cheerfully, breaching the silence.

A last arrow sliced through the air to hit the rope holding them up as they collapsed in a pile of groans and complaints. Despite everything that happened, Thorin found a smirk pulling at his lips. No matter how angry he wanted to be, he was actually rather impressed by it all. Rob from the rich to give to the poor. Thorin found himself wanting another meeting with this impersonator, and this time…he’d be ready for him.

[roboraindrop]

What? Rain writing for the first time in over a year??

Here's the first part of my fix-it fic for Virgil! I have more planned, but right now this felt like a good place to end. So, here's me getting too emotional over an obscure horror anthology character :'D

--

"Frank and Jesse James never planned an ice cream warehouse robbery…" Virgil muttered to himself as he waited outside for the next truck to load. He always hated waiting, especially when he knew he had something important to do that day. His brother Billy had plotted his revenge against the man who had reported him for robbery and sent him to prison two years ago, but Virgil just wasn't sure why he had to be a part of it… At least until he'd messed up a part of the plan in his recount the day before.

"We're brothers," Billy had been so quick to remind him after a swift, sharp smack to the face, "You and me are all each other got! Forget about your damn Jesse James comics, forget about the nothin' runnin' through your head all day, and think about me. Who's always lookin' out for you?"

"You are, Billy." Virgil had responded, looking down at his hands, "You're the best."

He always caved when Billy brought up their bond. Ever since they were kids, it had been the two of them. Billy was the one who got him his job at the warehouse, Billy was the one who went to jail trying to steal for the two of them to have a better life. His whole life was thanks to Billy. If his brother wanted him to do something, who was he to argue? If he got smacked around a little, called an ableist slur or two, that was just what he deserved for not being able to contribute like his brother could.

"Let's go over the plan one more time."

They had recounted again and again, and as Virgil stood outside, he mouthed his plan silently. First, he would tell Tom to go pick up a delivery from the distric supervisor. After he left he woudl wait for Cooter to take his break, then… Then…

"Excuse me…?"

Virgil looked up quickly at the sudden voice, his bright blue eyes meeting briefly with another pair. He hadn't been expecting anybody- Well, that wasn't true. He was expecting the next truck, but he had been so long in his own thoughts of the robbery that he had entirely forgotten that fact. The eye contact didn't last long as both he and the other party looked away swiftly. "U-um, hi. Can I help you?"

The person before him wore a bright yellow dress, something that greatly contrasted the overcast day. It was almost too bright to look at, like they were the sun. When they spoke, it was with a woman's voice, but the facial hair they sported was saying otherwise.

"Actually I uh, have an order. I'm here to pick up for Rain Badd."

"Oh! Oh, yeah, Miss Badd! Or u-uh… Mister…. Um…"

"Mx, actually. I use they/them pronouns."

"R-right! Mx. Badd. We've got your order, just go ahead and sign-" As Virgil pulled out the clipboard, he couldn't help but notice the comic book that Rain carried under their arm. "Ain't that a Jesse James comic?"

"Hm? Oh! Yeah. I actually just picked it up, I'm a collector! Kinda silly, someone my age reading comics, but…"

"I don't think that's silly at all, Mx. I'm a big Jesse James comics fan!" The smile Virgil felt on his face was the first genuine one he'd had in what felt like ages, and he didn't even realize it. "Would you mind if I looked at it?"

"Not at all, go ahead!" They untucked it from its safety and handed it over. Still brand-new in a sleeve to keep the dust off was a copy of Jesse James Great Train Robbery. "This is the last comic I needed to complete my collection! I mean, of Jesse James at least. I'm still starting out, but someday I'd love to have a full collection of all my favorites."

"That's incredible!" Virgil handled the comic with care as he turned it over in his hands, then looked up with wide eyes. "I guess if you collect 'em they just sorta sit there, huh? You don't read 'em or nothin'?"

"Y'know, you'd think so, wouldn't you? See, I've got this thing… I just can't keep things up! I love to read and reread them. That's what they were made for, after all."

"Wow," He breathed as he handed the comic back, "I never knew you could collect stuff and still use it! I wish I could read all the Jesse James comics- He's my hero!"

Before he had the chance to apologize fully, the heavy footsteps of Ms. Grafungar, his boss, approached. "Virgil!" She screeched, "You quit talkin' that lady's ear off and you get her truck loaded right now, or there'll be big trouble!" She hesitated just a moment, "And wipe that stupid smile off your face, this ain't a damn funfair."

"Your hero robs trains," Rain teased lightly, but smiled so genuinely at him that it was contagious, and he couldn't keep the smile off his face as well. "You mind if I go ahead and sign the slip now?"

"O-oh, yeah, right! Here you go." Virgil scratched the back of his head nervously, "I'm real sorry about that, I just get carried away--"

The smile disappeared right quick off of Virgil's face, and he nodded quickly. "Yes ma'am, but uh, Mx. Badd ain't no lady, Ms. Grafungar."

"You keep that smart shit to yourself, dammit! That's a woman if I ever saw one! Tryin' to tell me that's a man…"

Virgil frowned, his brow furrowing. He didn't understand her reaction. "I didn't say that…"

"You gonna stand there like a brainless idiot or are you gonna load the truck?" She snapped, but when she turned back to Rain, her tone was as polite as ever. "I'm sorry ma'am. He's a little slow- He's usually workin' in the back freezer and not allowed to talk to the customers." At this, Virgil shrunk in posture and shuffled his feet. It seemed as if this were a common occurance by the way he took it in stride, quickly getting to work loading the truck to avoid getting reprimanded futher.

Rain looked up to the manager and tilted their head with eyes narrow. They didn't even bother to correct her on their title; They had something more worrying on their mind. "Why not? There's nothing wrong with him- He's been a delight to talk to!"

"What- Did he talk your ear off about those damn comic books?" She spotted the one in Rain's hand and quickly crossed the gap between them, snatching it in one swift motion. Rain, taken by surprise at the audacity of the woman, allowed it to happen… For the time being. It wasn't until Ms. Grafungar stomper her way over to Virgil with it and raised it as if to strike him that they snapped out of their shocked state.

"Now what the hell did I tell you about bringing these goddamn picture books to work with you?"

The cornered stock boy flinched at the raised hand, and it was obvious to any bystander that this wasn't the first time he'd been threatened with violence- And even worse, it wasn't an empty threat.

"Now you wait one minute!" Rain hurried over, placing themself between the two. If there was going to be an impact, they were dead set that it would fall on them and not the innocent Virgil. "For starters, that comic book belongs to me, thank you very much!" They plucked the book from the raised hand of the woman, "Second, who do you think you are, talking to him like that? Don't you realize you're talking to a human being?"

"We're the only vendor in town- You'll need to drive three towns over before you find another ice cream vendor of our size! You're just starting out in this business, you need us!"

The fire in the gaze of the supervisor wet out as quickly as it was lit, and Rain's chest ached to think of the hell her employees must go through on a day-to-day basis. "Oh my, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize that literature was yours!" She quickly straightened herself up, ignoring the comment about her cruelty to her employee. "I didn't damage anything, I hope. To make up for it, how about I add an extra box of ice cream for your truck? No charge!"

Rain shook their head, "That won't be necessary, thank you. After witnessing how you treat your own employess just because they're a little different from you, I won't be placing an order with you again."

"At the prices you're offering, I think you need my business more than I need you. What I do need, ma'am, is for you to take a good, hard look at how you treat your employees. You turn it around and maybe I'll reconsider."

Fuming, Ms. Grafungar turned on her heel. "Have a good day, Miss Badd."

Virgil nodded, but still had that kicked puppy look in his eyes. "I hate her. She's always mean to me, and insultin' me and my brother…" He remembered his brother, and their plan. He started going over it once again, but another thought crossed his mind, as if he had just put it together. "You stood up for me… Nobody ever did that before…"

As soon as she turned her back, Virgil made a face at her, and Rain raised their middle finger in what was an accurate description of just where she could put her bad attitude and shitty business practices. After a moment, Rain approached Virgil.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course I did! You don't deserve to be talked to like that. You especially don't deserve to be hit." They knew it was stepping over some boundaries, but they felt a strange desire to protect Virgil, and they leaned in slightly, placing a hand on his arm, "She's done it before, hasn't she?"

Starting to get nervous, Virgil shook his head.

"N-No, she hasn't…."

"…But someone else has." Rain finished for him, and he looked at the ground.

"Just my brother Billy, but he don't mean nothin' by it. He just gets angry sometimes, that's all. See, its true, like what Ms. Grafungar said. I'm a little slow. Sometimes I deserve it. "

Rain's heart nearly shattered on the spot at this, and they frowned deeply. "I don't know you, Virgil, but I know that you don't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. I'm sorry that you've had to live with that."

"You don't gotta be sorry or nothin'," Virgil said softly, the kindness in Rain's eyes making his stomach feel all fluttery. Nobody had ever looked at him like that before. He was experiencing a lot of firsts today! "I'm used to it. Besides, it don't do no good to stand up to Billy like you did Ms. Grafunger. She backs down, but Billy don't. It'd be big trouble if you ever talked to Billy like that."

"Big trouble, huh? For me, or for you?" When his expression fell and he began to shrink into himself again, Rain spoke softly. "Hey, I know that I don't live your life, and I'm just some stranger you met at work, but… I want you to know that there is more out there for you. You don't have to take the abuse. You're worth more. Don't forget it, okay?"

Falling silent, Virgil felt a few tears prick at his eyes, which he didn't dare let fall. Billy said tears were for wussies, and the DeLuca brothers weren't wussies. "… You're really nice, Rain. You said things to me that nobody else ever has… I sure won't forget you, or what you said."

"Good." They smiled, and the warmth that spread through the quiet stockboy was more than he ever imagined from something as simple as a grin. He was so distracted by this warmth that he harly even noticed Rain taking out a small notepad and scribbling something down. "If you ever need anything, and I mean anything…" They tore out and handed him the page, their phone number scrawled across it, "Give me a call. I may not be able to do much, but, well… Everyone needs a friend now and then. Maybe we can read comics together sometime."

"I'd like that…" Virgil smiled again, feeling the paper crinkle under his clumsy fingers. "I'll give you a call, promise, I will!"

With that, the vision of the sun climbed into their ice cream truck and drove off. Now, Virgil could focus on what he was supposed to- His brother's plan.

[mdhwrites]

Have you ever talked about king? Like how the story gave him this big twist that he was a titan all this time. It was smth that I didn't know how to handle nor how to feel about it, I was like ok so he's a god, hmm... tragic?

Do you think they did it to solve the issue with the titan blood for the portal? If we forget that the collector exists (I wish) than that'd be all the purpose. Guess the whole younger sibling thing wasn't enough, everyone needs a tragic story in this show to be important? Poor gus never stood a chance. But then again, Boscha didn't either somehow.

I actually haven't talked much about King! And I'm going to ask that someone put in an ask about Titan's Blood because this blog got very long without touching on it and there's a LOT to talk about with Titan's Blood.

But to talk about King, I actually have to split his character in half between who he was in S1 and S2 because he's effectively a different character post Echoes of the Past and that's… Not a negative thing. King actually goes through a revelation in that episode that shifts his personal identity and how he sees the world enough that a change in character is actually warranted here. He's also young enough to be incredibly malleable as a person. It's not a bad way to do such a big revelation of this sort.

And that's about as positive as I'm going to get on this blog because King is a one note character and changing that note doesn't make him deeper. It just means he's not as stale.

Now I will admit that I am kind of biased here because I just was DONE with King by the end of S1. He has like two jokes to him, both centered around mocking the fact that he thinks himself a powerful tyrant (either him yelling about being powerful or people treating him like a child/pet while mocking him) and that's really it besides his focused episodes. At least, that's overwhelmingly how it felt to me and it got… Very boring.

And in S1, the times they try to go against this don't help? They're all theoretically meant to focus around his desire for power and attention and either how to do it right or that he shouldn't do it but he doesn't ever change after them. Instead, his two focused episodes both follow a formula of "Fuck over Luz, decide he feels bad about, admit his fault, and resolution." Which is fine but Small Problems is considered on of the worst episodes of the series for a reason because King in it, the one where he's actually more sympathetic, is actually so small and indecisive it feels out of character. The other one, Sense and Insensitivity, is better but you never see any real growth from it and it will eventually conflict with him having stage fright since he literally only realizes what he did to Luz was wrong because he's about to get killed because of it.

It's another moment where TOH's morality writing is… questionable. Much like Hunter's turn to good, King in Sense and Insensitivity needs an actual threat and punishment, beyond his friend being hurt and sad, to actually give a fuck. And that's not great.

What's worse is that Eda is mostly absent from being a part of King's character. Which… A different blog can talk about how weak the found family elements are, in part because there's no love between these characters minus very specific moments that come kind of too late. And, you know, S1 Eda just straight up is out of character with King for… The entirety of it? Period?

Which makes me assume King wasn't meant to be the Titan's son. To have the backstory that he did. That I don't know how much of a plan there was for King period. Remember when Eda threatened that he'd need to pay rent? When he was a infant that she decided on a whim to adopt and feed into his fantasies, despite S1 Eda being all about "Fantasies are dumb, you have to face reality kid," to Luz.

But King is ostensibly a main character and you can't keep making the same jokes forever so they figured SOMETHING out. This is where we get S2 King who has the uphill battle of never having felt like a main character, never felt important, felt mostly like comic relief… And now he's not funny.

He gets jokes of course but he's now all daddy issues. His one note is now wanting to know about his past. That's not unreasonable for him to desire but he stops even showing up for the most part because of it. You don't get nearly as many random gags with him so he starts just kind of fading away in the show for the cast that the writers very clearly care about more.

Even worse is that now they have a plotline with him are also still doing very little with him. He doesn't get a dedicated episode after Echoes of the Past, S2 Ep 3, until Edge of the World (which I usually call Titan Hunters) which is S2 EPISODE SEVENTEEN. Yes, he shows up between those two points but what does he actually do?

In Knock Knock Knockin', he's the comic relief episode as we're supposed to just laugh at his misery and failures until "Here's a power up kid." Which is actually what that episode ends up amounting to in the greater series for Eda too. Except Eda gets angst before getting a way to participate in fights. Eclipse Lake, he's just a joke too. These aren't about expanding his character but just that he's around so you have to acknowledge him at least.

And Eda's Requiem is great on Eda's side but they straight up admit that they used King legally changing his name… Just to fuck with Eda and allow more Eda angst. For a cheap twist and an emotional moment that should actually mean something for both parties, but they only allow to be truly something for Eda.

And for as much as I got so, SOOOOO very tired of the same jokes from King… I mean, at least they could sometimes make me laugh. S2 King was meant to be taken seriously but they do so little with it that it doesn't end up feeling true nor is interesting and so… Why should an audience care?

It's a general risk honestly with an ensemble cast. You have so many moving parts that you can just let one rot on the vine while dealing with other members of the ensemble. It's why TOH's glut of characters is such a detriment to it. Let alone, a character the writers didn't just not care about but had no idea what actually to do with.

Because then we do get almost four episodes in a row (skipping Labyrinth Runners) where King is the main character… And he's just lore acting the right way to get to the place he needs to. I'm not going to say everything done here is that bad. None of it worked for me but objectively, Edge of the World is at least a fine episode and the tropes they use with King in it function with his age.

What happens AFTER Edge of the World DOESN'T. Because with "O' Titan, Where Art Though", you have King's transformation into the wisest character in the show. Bare minimum, the wisest 8 year old I've ever seen. Any trace of his petulance, of his age, of his personal desires are erased to just be… A generically good person. But with a 30 in Wisdom for his character sheet versus most people's 15.

This culminates in one of the dumbest climaxes to a character arc where King, the eight year old child, is willing to bleed himself for the Collector with no hesitation. None. You need my help to get out? I'm not even going to ask how or ask if there's a way where I don't have to get hurt which would be reasonable for literally anyone to ask. No. He just knows that people can use his blood for things and so that's what he offers. And that… That is a level of maturity that I don't think King ever earned.

To make that moment, that sort of sacrifice, feel earned from where he began as a character, S2 would have had to treat him as a main character. Instead, he's still comic relief until the LORE of the world and the plans the author has force him to grow up out of nowhere and remember that he was one of the first four characters we were properly introduced to.

There's also stuff to be said about him breaking the "No Chosen One" rule by having somehow only been born literal thousands of years after it was possible for him to be laid, at least by the implications of the show, and his role as the 'Last Titan' but… I want to make something clear in ending this.

Lore does not make me care about a character. They could be claimed as the most important person in a plot, to have had ramifications throughout all of it and I don't give a fuck. If they're bland, if they're boring, if they are obviously more of a tool for the writer they don't care about than an actual character, no amount of back fill or worldly importance will change my mind on that.

I focus as much on the actions the characters make because actions speak louder than words. Because what a character does matters more than any amount of exposition. Matters more than their powers. When a character is great, the exposition, powers and words reinforce the character in some way.

When a character is bad, they don't match the tone, importance, etc. the show places on them. And well… S1 King was at least better than in S2 because the show understood what he was and never tried to pretend he was anything more if they weren't willing to put in the work for it.

[arleneworld22]

Today, yesterday and other days

Today I decide to wear my favorite coat to be more comfy at work, it’s light and a little long and color gray, it reminds me of Harry Potter’s cap. I worked for first time in months at the pharmacy and at the beginning I made many mistakes but after the first hour I started to get it so it wasn’t too bad, I like my co-workers of there because they are very nice to me, there are 3 women, I like to think about them like the superpowerful girls, Betty is Blossom, red hair, kind of bossy, very communicative with the patients and focus on her work, Perla is Buttercup, kind of serious, carefree personality, calm and a little abrupt, but she is very patient with me, I think of her like a “senpai” she is very attentive with me, most of the time she trained me when I started there; and then America, she is the sweetest person I meet in the whole hospital, she has personality of preschool teacher, very kind, sweet voice, veeey kind x2, patient and loving, you really feel safe with her. Btw two patients gifted us snack bars to all the workers there… well thinking about it better, I think those were to America and she shared with us, well it was delicious anyway.

Today I listened your playlist when I finished my exercise, when I was cooking and that felt very relaxing, I like discovering this kind of new feelings in moments like this.

Yesterday my bro sneaks into my space at night and I know that when he does that it’s always because he wants to tell me something important; he told me about a classmate that it’s currently flirting with him and he doesn’t want to express how really feels because he is afraid to be hurt, but actually he likes him (oh btw he is gay) he told me he is deaf too so communication it’s not a problem, he told me about him and sounds like a nice guy actually, I hope they can be fine.

I forget to congrats you for finish all your homeworks the other night, now you have to keep that consistence, I wish you good luck with that.

Also, do you buy me something? I feel suprised, moved and speechless... oh God, what I'm going to do with you and your kindness? you really caugh me off guard.

Listening your playlist, and see that actually we enjoyed each other's, would you like me to expain you some of them to you?, would you like to explain me some of yours?, choose the ones you want and I'll do it, music is something that help us to connect more with our feelings, and the point of this is to get out what we feel, what we felt, heal and move forward. So if you want, can you explain me how Heaven's on fire make you feel? I feel that maybe I get it but I think I'm missing something, also with the bug collector, just if you want.

I have to confess that I never looked for Natalia’s albums before, as I listen her music most of the because my mom played it, so I never have the neeeded to look for them because my mom puts it, maybe I already listened all her songs and I didn’t know lol.

Talk to me about everything you want, I’m going to be happy for know more about you. I don’t have plans to watch OP for the next couple months, maybe neither this year but I want to watch it some day, tell me whatever you want, I’m going to feel happy to know about how do you feel with references and everything.

I noticed that yesterday you added “Sigo aquí” from treasure’s planet and my mind almost exploded for that coincidence because yesterday I watched that movie! Life is weird but I like things like this, I already watched but maaaaaany years ago, so this little coincidence… wow.

Hey, the second highest score and it was a 18/50?! WOW that’s hard, but amazing! congrats for that achievement, it’s not perfect but it doesn’t mean that you lose, enjoy this victory, you deserve it. I hope you really enjoyed that nap.

[maguro13-2]

Miku.EXE Origin : The Revenge Pt.4

"Later that night..."

Zatsune.EXE : (yawning) Boy, all that studying got me a little sleepy. I'm sure glad that I finished it on time before sister finished it. While my sister is sleeping, I could really use a glass of water in the kitchen. Maybe dad will never notice how does being a "God" is one step closer to his "true" form. I'm not sure what are the odds of this pressure coming over to me, but it's cool that he had something to do with this "God" thing.

(Zatsune enters the kitchen and walks over to the fridge)

Zatsune.EXE : Heh, who knows. Maybe he's not just a bad father after all. (Opens the fridge to get a bottle of water) Heh, I might be getting this instead of getting a glass. Smart thinking, Zatsune. You just had to think it clearly. (Starts drinking water and sighs) Welp. I better get back to bed. (Closes fridge as the other Sonic.EXE is shown with his arms)

??? : Getting a drink of water during bedtime at night?

[Organization XIII - Yoko Shimomura]

Zatsune.EXE : (notices him in shock) Yikes! Dad! What are you doing here? I was only just getting a drink of water! Don't tell sis that we are awake! Hey, shouldn't you be resting in bed? I don't know much if you're not really a heavy sleeper.

Exeller : You are forgetting something very important. The name's not "Dad", I am your father's enemy and "God" himself, Exeller.

Zatsune.EXE : "Exeller"? As in..."Exeller the Hedgehog"?

Exeller : Yes, you are correct. And you must be his daughters created from his data and Miku's Data.

Zatsune.EXE : Yeah, we're his daughters. We are destined to live with our lives and to achieve our dreams of becoming the "God" that is now. but how on earth did you know that you are God? You're just like dad that he used to be.

Exeller : We are seekers to the power of "God". We've been searching "God" in the cosmos for generations and finding that he resides in this inhabitable planet of his. He is a God and collector of Souls, then so am I.

Zatsune.EXE : Hold up? Who are you referring to? Me or Dad? He is God and we must live up to the title of him if we wanted to achieve that title. Our father has been with us in the cyberspace for many microcycles. He loved us both and have great care for us and we told him that we loved him both since sister and I were children. He's always never been isolated when he has his friends that are around him. And we his "daughters" are always there for him.

Exeller : Is that really necessary? If this Sonic.EXE is "God" himself giving you the powers that you and sister desired to achieve, then let me tell you something a little secret. Your father is neither Sonic.EXE nor "God" Himself. He true name...is Xenophanes.

Zatsune.EXE : "Xenophanes"? Why would our father be "Xenophanes" to think that he is "God" himself?

Exeller : Because Xenophanes is the universe's most powerful demon that has been gone for centuries.

*SFX : Shock*

Zatsune :?! (Breathes heavily) No...No it can't be true! (drops bottle and holds her head in fear) My dad's...a demon that "God" isn't his name? His name is Xenophanes? Do you believe that is his real name? So if me and my sister looking human, does that make us demons? What am I? Who am I? My dad is no demon and that's not true!

Exeller : (chuckles) I bet it seems that you are so frustrated to struggle with the truth. But it hardly to matters to you now that in time, both you and your sister will become a demon just like when he was his original self as "Xenophanes". But their's a way that we might put a stop to this nightmare of Xeno's even though he is your father, his true form will be revealed and is going to unleash chaos into this world. So, what will it be? Join with us or let your father carry both you and the world's fates that will be sealed for eternity!

Zatsune.EXE : Tch! you're crazy. You think that I will ever join you? Not gonna happen, but I don't even care if father is a demon or a threat to us. He was the only being in the world that could stay with us forever. So I'm not gonna join your side! I'm staying with father and sister, because...

Exeller : Because of what?

Zatsune.EXE : Because they are family. And you're not! So why don't just leave and get out? I won't join your little club.

Exeller : So persistent that you couldn't accept your fate. Hmph, it doesn't matter, I'll let you go this time, but It's not easy as it sounds that you would want to protect your sister's smile. Next time, if you're really clever to join our side, then we'll exterminate Xenophanes and destroy this entire planet. Farewell!

[TV BUZZING, EXE LAUGH]

Zatsune.EXE : Woah! Where did he go like that? What if this Exeller person was right, is father really a demon that wants to destroy all life and he, a "God", can bring nothing but destruction? But I won't let that happen to me or my family.

(cuts to Zatsune entering her room, walking to the bunk bed where Miku is sleeping)

"Exeller, that other person that looks alike dad, telling me the reason that my father is a demon named Xenophanes, who would put the world in chaos. He believing the true nature of his presence would shatter the world in pieces? I think not. As of that matter, wether my Dad's God or Xenophanes, I won't let anything happen to me or my sister.

"I will protect my family from the dangers that lies within us."

Zatsune.EXE : Just you wait, Exeller. You won't be lucky when I come face to face of meeting you, next time.

~ THE TRUE NAME OF GOD IS XENOPHANES ~