#Covert Love Chapter 4

[peachdues]

COMPASS / CHAPTER 3

bad boy! Sanemi x Reader ✦ gang AU

A/N: eat up, loves. Enjoy the filth and domestic bliss of this chapter now, because we’re right back to the seedy violence of the Corps in Chapter 4.

CW: explicit sexual content • MDNI • period sex • grinding • lots of tit play • brief cervix fucking • creampie • Sanemi is a certified yapper in bed • light angst • humor • two idiots helplessly in love • mentions of a gun • mentions of gang violence • bookshop AU • gang AU

MASTERLIST HERE

COMPASS – CHAPTER 3 

It’s hard to notice the way time stops when you aren’t paying attention to it; when you have no reason to bother. 

Life hasn’t always been this way – lonely. In fact, your upbringing had been on the cushier side of comfortable, and you’d thought you’d been surrounded by love, from both family and friends alike. High school hadn’t been any different, You’d had a social circle, you’d been involved in extracurriculars, and you had a good relationship with your parents and siblings. 

Or, so you’d believed. Because then you graduated and everyone moved on while you were left  behind. 

That was when time stopped. 

Not literally, of course. Birthdays came and went, as did Christmas. Your hair changed, and so did your living arrangements. Six weeks after you graduated, you moved out of your parents’ place into your current apartment, and enrolled in the local university. Your siblings continued growing up and apart, each making their way through school and setting out on their own. At the time, it felt natural. They each had their own lives, as you did, so you hadn’t paid it much mind. 

That’s the tricky thing about it; it wasn’t something that happened all at once. It was slow, a trickle of sand in an hourglass you didn’t know had been turned. Only when the last grain fell did you realize the clock had been running at all, and by that point, it was too late. 

It started as an exodus of sorts from the city, right after graduation. Leaving home behind in search of greener pasteurs elsewhere wasn’t uncommon, so it hadn’t seemed all that surprising that communications with those you’d once called your friends, dwindled. But then, those who left never came back, even to visit, and the few who did never lingered for long. 

Had there been signs that the cancer was spreading? It’s hard to remember. Violence and crime has always been a party of life in the City, just as it is in any metropolitan area. The adults in your life always claimed such things were contained, an epidemic confined to the Silo and its poverty. As though the destitution of the neighborhood was somehow justified, a punishment befitting of those who had the misfortune of being born on the wrong side of a junkyard. 

Growing up, you’d eavesdropped on more than your fair share of adult conversations. At least, enough so to know that income lines did not curb misdeeds; it only changed them, gave them modifiers like white collar and organized, as though somehow that softened the brutal reality. As though the covert whispers behind the hands of adults at school functions or neighborhood gatherings whenever a family came into a sudden abundance of wealth or someone sported an injury they couldn’t explain, changed anything at all. 

If the crime in the Silo was the pot, then the crime bubbling under the sruface of neat shrubs and cobbled streets in your area of town had been the kettle. And the Corps had its hand in both. 

In hindsight, you often find yourself wondering whether your former friends had simply been lucky to get out before the empire began to crumble, or whether they’d simply seen writing on a wall you hadn’t known to read. Because once the turf wars between rival gangs began to escalate and spill over from their confinement in the Silo, those visits from friends fizzled out all together, and you never heard another word. Not from any of them. 

Your family, apparently, also had sensed whatever metamorphosis lingered on the City’s horizon, even if they hadn’t bothered to warn you, too. Once your youngest sister set off for university in a distant town – the very one who’d brought Sanemi to your family’s stoop that day, years ago – your parents swiftly packed up the townhouse you’d grown up in and put it on the market. 

They only told you they were moving after the place sold. 

They didn’t offer to take you with them, and you didn’t bother to ask. You didn’t even have their mailing address until that Christmas, when a festive little card arrived in the mail, bearing only Season’s Greetings from Mom and Dad.

Sure, maybe you’d realized a hair too late that you were only a transient presence in the lives of those you’d once considered friends, but the relegation to the background of your own family’s portrait had stung. Not important enough to be remembered, but too significant to forget. 

You tried, for a while, but it hurt even more that they never bothered to check in. After the second birthday without so much as a card or a phonecall, you stopped altogether. 

Alone, with nothing but a semi-failing bookstore to keep you busy, you quickly faded into the skyline of the city you’d once loved. And even it couldn’t keep itself from rotting. You tried not to resent it; decay, at least, still meant change. You just remained stuck. Frozen. 

When monotony is your only companion, it doesn’t take long to lose the senses that risk breaking it up. After a while, your eyes learned to stop seeing. Sounds folded together and became muffled, fading to little more than a single, dull buzz humming in ears that forgot how to pick out the chirping of morning birds or the incessant honking accompanying morning rush hour. 

Some days, you wondered whether you might be a ghost; others, you had to convince yourself you weren’t. 

And then he came along. 

———

“Come again!” 

Your farewell falls well short of the customer already halfway down the street, instead smacking right into the wood of the door as it slams shut behind him.

Sighing, you slouch against the top of your counter, your fist propped underneath your cheek. Great. Of course the first customer finally to grace your store after a whole day’s worth of nothing ended up being as dull as the hours you’ve spent bored behind the cash register. From the moment he’d stepped inside, he’d barely acknowledged your existence. Your helpful inquiries into whether he was looking for anything in particular, or how his day was going as you rang him up when unanswered, save an odd chuff.

And so, out the door goes your first brush with human contact in several days. Pathetic, but even more so when you consider how long it might be until you saw another person again. The hours spent laboring at the store didn’t offer much in the way of free time, and you don’t really have a social life capable of filling in the gaps, anyways.

Well, maybe you did. You had, up until a few days ago, at least. Whether that is still true now, however, isn’t something you’re particularly interested in unpacking. 

Thus, you’re left alone. Again.

Disheartened, your head slumps against your arm. You could always go back to your novel. It’s a crime fantasy; a latest release from an author you’d gotten into a few weeks earlier, the first book snagged off the shelf right before you closed up for the night. Rolling your head to the side, you eye the book, face down on the other end of the counter.

You scrunch your nose before rolling your head back the other direction, ignoring the book. Reading is the last thing you feel like doing right now, considering it’s all you’ve been doing. Once, you would’ve been thrilled at the prospect of having an entire day to spend behind the counter, flipping through a novel or two, completely undisturbed by the ringing of the store’s bell. But that was before you’d grown accustomed to a certain impish, foul-mouthed gang member who enjoyed hanging around the bookstore almost as much as he relished being a pain in your ass.

What you wouldn’t give to hear a snarky comment or scoff from him, now. 

Without Sanemi loitering around, a disquieting stillness has settled around the store. The distant howl of police sirens almost feels welcome, if nothing more than for how it breaks up the nearly suffocating silence of the store. 

Maybe it’s time to harass your boss about store advertising again. If you have to endure another week of silence this loud, you might just shove your head through the wall.

Realistically, you only have to tough out the summer slump for another month or so. Foot-traffic tended to pick up in the last weeks of August, when grouchy parents dragged in their children to buy the listed assigned reading books conveniently forgotten until the dwindling days leading into a new school year. And even once the back to school rush finally subsisted, you only had a few weeks to catch up on all the cataloging and ordering you’d missed fielding pissy parents before the holiday season began. As though the sudden shortage of certain titles was your fault, and not the consequence of their snot-nosed kids’ procrastination. 

But August is still weeks away. June has barely settled, the summer heat only just beginning to ramp up. The days have already become unbearably warm, the only relief coming at night, but even that would soon come to an end. Before long, everything would be intolerable — the weather, the silence, the lack of anything and everything that had made life for the last year enjoyable.

You crane your neck around to squint at the old-fashioned clock hanging beside the front door. It’s only half-past four, and the store doesn’t close until eight. 

Groaning, you thud your head against the counter. Three and a half more hours to go. 

You could scroll endlessly on your phone, but that would require looking at it, and that would be pointless. You know there are no missed calls; no texts, no pictures of a recent read with a scarred hand giving a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. If you look at it, you know you’ll see nothing and you will still be disappointed. Might as well save yourself the trouble, even if you can no longer avoid acknowledging the root cause of your terrible mood.

What a stupid asshole he is. What a stupid, idiotic, moronic asshole. 

When Sanemi Shinazugawa first exploded into your store last summer, you’d known you’d have to contend with a number of possible consequences as a result of getting involved. There’d been the obvious: the potential for arrest as his co-conspirator, for example, despite having not seen him in the three years following high school graduation. You’d devoted plenty of hours at the store reading crime novels, enough to know the police weren’t particularly careful about who got caught in their crosshairs. It would be almost too easy to deem you guilty by mere proximity to the scowling criminal you’d stuffed under your counter, even if the only association you’d ever had with him had been a decade earlier, when he’d been playing hero. 

Of course, that outcome hadn’t been the only slot on your bingo card, and once you’d pulled off your little stunt of hiding him away, you’d been forced to consider other options. Perhaps he would demand free pick of your store’s inventory with the same casual arrogance he’d had striding out that day, book in his hand and not a damn dollar paid for it. Maybe he’d want your shabby bookstore to become a front for whatever nefarious dealings he did on behalf of the Corps. 

As time went on, the fallout options from your budding friendship with Sanemi began to evolve. The closer you grew to him, the more dismal the potential ending: maybe you’d end up seeing something you shouldn’t, and he’d have to cut you out to prevent any further harm. Hell, you’d even grappled with the very real possibility of getting tangled up in something you shouldn’t, only to disappear without a trace, right alongside him. 

Years spent in relative isolation meant you had an imagination that could outpace most others, so really, there was no shortage of possibilities that getting involved with Sanemi Shinazugawa might entail. It was pragmatic, on your end. Know what to expect and that way, you wouldn’t be caught off guard in the event whatever you had with him ended in a blaze of glory. Or gunfire. 

As wild as your imagination could get, not one damn time had it accounted for you falling in love with the stupid asshole. And yet, here you are, just as much an idiot as he is, but with nothing to show for it. 

Not entirely true, you think with a small snort as you start up the store’s computer, clicking through a catalogue of upcoming releases eligible for the next shipment. He’d left you that morning with a dozen knots in your hair and a soreness between your legs that lingered for a few days afterward, even when he didn’t. Now, here you are, six days out from Sanemi taking your virginity, and you haven’t heard a god damn word from him. 

Not that you’re bitter about it. 

As you scroll through the website of the store’s main distributor, one title manages to catch your eye. It’s newer, but it’s only you’d already stocked a few days earlier, having reserved a handful of copies the moment the publisher opened up preorders to smaller retailers. 

You’d created an alert on your phone for that very reason, one set to go off the second the order window opened, so you could be sure the early releases arrived as quickly as possible. All because of a certain, low-life felon and his fat mouth. 

Whaddya mean I gotta wait another four months ‘til the next one? Sanemi had whined, tossing his book onto your counter. It was the third installment in a fantasy series you’d turned him onto, and he’d rapidly devoured it with the same veracity as he’d had the other two. That’s bullshit.

That’s publishing, you’d snipped back, shoving his arms off the freshly wiped-down surface of the store counter. 

Undeterred by your roughness, Sanemi only winked and re-settled himself, a preening smirk tugging at his lips as he plopped his elbow right back where you didn’t want it. Guess you’ll have to think of somethin’ else to occupy me with, Princess. 

Oh? You leveled that insufferable smugness with a sly grin of your own. What do you suggest? 

You got brains that match all that beauty. ‘M sure you’ll come up with something. He’d replied, tapping your nose with your finger, and snorting when you jerked away. 

In retrospect, the blatant flirting made you want to crawl under your counter and never emerge again. He’d been so damn obvious, and you’d eaten every bit of it up. Perhaps that’d been his plan all along, and you’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. 

It’s hard not to let insecurity gnaw at you but you’re only human, and your edges are becoming more jagged. 

You exit out of the web browser, unenthused. Nothing had particularly caught your eye, but then again, not much was capable of holding your attention, lately. Nothing, save the constant replay of that night and the next morning, and you’d picked that particular bone clean. There was nothing left to dissect, not even the marrow, but that didn’t stop you from returning to it, again and again. 

You roll your shoulders. The best thing you can do for yourself is to find a distraction. 

The back stock room sits full of new releases, and it’s been a few weeks since you updated the store’s colorful display of fresh titles. A bonus of having nearly total control over the bookstore is that you get to decide how displays are arranged, and it’s something you’ve grown to take pride in. With a sigh, you grab the circlet of keys from its peg beneath the store counter and head for store room. Might as well speed along the last two hours of the store’s operation, and give yourself something else to do that isn’t this – feeling hopelessly, pathetically sorry for yourself. 

Two trips between the back room and the store’s merry front later, and you set to work. At first, the chaos in your head is smoothed blissfully over as you focus on clearing the shelf of its its previous New Releases, stacking the books up in neat piles to be shelved in their proper sections later. But your concentration is weak, at best, and a task as tedious as this makes your mind go blank, leaves behind a clean slate upon which it can map out all your insecurities. 

Logically, it isn’t hard to imagine why Sanemi’s giving you the cold shoulder.  He made it obvious that night, when he tried putting on the airs of a big, scary monster he imagined himself to be, though you’d long since learned how to see right through the facade. Even if he’d made good on his empty threat to handle you roughly, he would’ve regretted it — so much so, you doubt he would’ve been able to keep the charade up through the end. Sanemi didn’t seem like the type who got off roughing up his partners.

Given how gentle he’d been in the hours that followed, it seemed you’d been proven right. If only he could realize it, too. Maybe then, he’d figure out how to get his head out of his ass. 

Sighing, you toss the last of the previous display’s books aside, and set to work on dusting down the shelves. The venom in your thoughts has less to do with your scar-speckled best friend and more to do with the bruise to your ego you’ve spent the last five days nursing. For all the ways Sanemi’s experience between the sheets greatly outpaces yours, it’s also limited. Affection wasn’t something he’d been known to give. In fact, you’d spent a fair deal of time wracking your brain, trying to remember whether you’d ever heard of him being in a relationship – as teens or otherwise – only to come up empty-handed. 

In this respect, at least, he’s no smarter than you are. Actually, he’s probably more of an idiot for it, given how he seems to lack the tact to send a basic courtesy text. A casual, hey, talk soon. 

Casual, you snort, as you begin restocking the New Arrivals section. Sanemi Shinazugawa might be better known for his casual dalliances, but nothing about what transpired between you had been casual. Not even fucking close. 

An hour passes, and you almost feel at ease, finally left alone by the constant whizz and whir of intrusive thoughts you know better than to indulge. You’re nearly finished with a row of new romance titles, when the title of one in particular snags your attention. 

Only Casual. A resounding fuck you from the universe if you’ve ever known one. You wouldn’t have been more surprised if the letters leapt off the book’s glossy front cover to smack you square in the nose. 

The longer you stare down at the title, the more doubt threatens to creep back in, lapping at the shore of your mind with its seductive hiss. Maybe you haven’t heard from him because you never will again. Maybe it was only casual. Because that’s Sanemi’s nature, and you’d given it up for someone who would never be capable of anything more than that. 

“Stop it,” you chide yourself, taken aback by your own venomous thoughts. That’s not him; at least, you’re almost certain it isn’t. Sanemi’s no-strings attached reputation had been well-known, and that has to mean he was transparent with his past partners about his intentions. If you truly were another notch in his belt, he would’ve said something, and he’d never struck you as the dishonest type. But Sanem’s persistent silence has bred a foreign sort of doubt in you that you haven’t quite figured out how to shake. “Where’s spiraling going to get you, stupid?” 

Casual wouldn’t have been Sanemi trying desperately to scare you away when you’d asked the most of him. It wouldn’t have made him insist – quietly, resignedly – that you deserved someone better than him. And somehow, you don’t think it was very casual for him to fuck you without protection or sleep naked with you in your bed. 

I love you, Sanemi. 

That certainly hadn’t been very casual, either, nor was the torturous look in his eyes that followed. The pain could very well have been born from a place of rejection, sure. Another punch to an already throbbing bruise because you were again crossing a line you’d already asked him to blur. That, despite the sheer possession embedded in every movement of his body and lips, he could not and would not love you back.

Books fully stocked, you turn your attention to the pile of titles that need to be assigned to their proper sections. Your eyes flick to the clock on the backwall, and with joy, you see that it’s already five-past closing. Satisfied, you flip the Open sign in the front window to Closed and turn the top lock on the door. The pile will have to wait until tomorrow morning. It’s time for you to get the hell out of this asylum. 

Closing time at the bookstore is a monotony you never mind, because it always means you’re leaving. You complete your tasks with ease, cashing out the register and taking the funds to the safe in the storeroom, to be picked up by the owner at the end of the week. 

As you gather your water bottle and bag, you chew absently on your thumbnail, mind still working through the mess your isolation has created. 

It’s only been five days. In the grand scheme of your friendship, that was nothing. Sanemi said you’d hear from him, and he’d never given you a reason to doubt him. 

So, you’ll continue doing the only thing you know how to do, where he’s concerned.

You will wait. 

———

Waiting, as it turns out, is far easier said than done. Or, maybe, Sanemi is just more of an idiot than you gave him credit for. 

Either way, your phone is still silent and you are still alone. 

Perhaps your self-assurance that you need only wait for Sanemi to come slinking back had been too optimistic. Because as five days become six, seven, eight, that certainty becomes tainted by doubt. Admittedly, it’s only a little, but it’s still substantial enough to form a pit in your stomach. One that gnaws at your edges just enough to irritate you, an itch you can’t quite scratch.

At first, it’s easy to ignore; after all, gaps in Sanemi’s communication aren’t uncommon. In fact, you’re fairly used to going days or sometimes even more than a week without hearing from him. Usually, he broke his silence with some dumb meme or an abrupt you eat yet? that let you know he wasn’t dead in some ditch. 

But the more days that pass leaving you with nothing but your thoughts for company, that sourness festers. Because, beneath your irritation lingers the faintest trace of insecurity. 

Is it irrational? Maybe. And you’re not so stupid that you can’t draw the very obvious connection between his silence and your anxiety. No, you’re painfully aware that your insecurity has everything to do with how the two of you left things after that night. 

You don’t bother wondering whether you might feel differently had you not blurted out those three words that meant nothing between you would ever be the same. That particular ship sailed the moment you fell back against your sheets, naked, and begged him to make you his. The moment he agreed.

The constant reminders of him aren’t helpful, either. Every ding! of the store bell sends your heart pounding only for the bitter taste of disappointment to fill your mouth when you realize the newest patron is without the mop of silvery white hair or priggish smirk you so desperately long to see.

Does your ridiculous pining inspire you to reach for your phone? Of course not. Sanemi’s the one who owes you that; it’s his rules that have dictated whatever it is that’s blossomed between you in the last year. You can’t make his choice for him, not when he won’t so much as clue you in on the options. The why.

But god, do you wish you knew. 

—

The ninth morning arrives just like the previous eight: hot, humid, and without a goddamn word from Sanemi. 

The day passes like all the others. You rise at six, dress, and try to pretend there isn’t a headache blooming behind your right eye. You make it to the store by seven, and do your opening duties, make shitty coffee in the store’s shittier coffee pot, and settle in behind the counter. Customers trickle in throughout the day and you greet them with the same, plastered smile, carefully perfected over the two years you’ve spent shackled here.

The hours whiz by, and every tick of the clock hand becomes duller. Even the sirens that set off every so often in various directions around the store seem muted, despite their persistent wailing. The faces of shoppers blur together, and by midday, you’ve forgotten how to see them at all.  

You wonder whether you’re falling right back into that frozen stasis in which you’d lived before Sanemi exploded into your store, dragging in with him a string of felonies, his foul mouth, and the sun. It’s a frightening thought, but not frightening enough, it seems, to keep the color from leeching out of the world around you.

You shake your head. No, you won’t do that again. Whatever you’d been doing before Sanemi hadn’t been living; it was barely more than existing. As bright as your world had been since he’d become a part of it, you can’t chalk your happiness up to him. It isn’t a burden he asked for, and it would be unfair for you to dump it on him. After all, he must’ve been just as lonely, if he’d sought a friend in you.

You’ll survive without him; you know you will. After all, you’ve managed just fine, these last few years. 

But you’d be lying if you said you haven’t enjoyed seeing the world in technicolor again. And that is enough to make you hope (desperately) that Sanemi might think of his world as a little brighter with you in it, too. 

—

By the time you close up for the night, your dull headache has blossomed into a raging migraine that threatens to split your skull in two. A perfect shit cherry to top off this wonderfully shit day. 

Of course, your headache could have everything to do with the fact you’ve gone the entire day without a meal, but it’s easier to blame Sanemi and his silence, so you do. Still, the thought of cereal yet again churns your stomach. 

Twilight has settled over the city skyline when you leave the store, dark and locked up tightly.  The neon lights of the city have already switched on, bathing the sidewalks in their artificial glow. The air has thankfully cooled, but it’s still sticky, and sweat beads around your temple before you’ve made it down the block. 

There are few things in this city that make life enjoyable. The closet you loosely call home is egregiously overpriced and in the summer, damn near uninhabitable. The bookstore pays far too little to justify the amount of work you do. And, it’s not like you have ties to anything or anyone here, save a criminal who can’t be bothered to shoot you a goddamn text. 

But the diner on Twelfth Street? That dingy hole in the wall with the best breakfast menu in town is almost enough to make up for all of the City’s shortcomings. 

The promise of buttery pancakes and salty bacon makes your mouth water, and that alone is enough for you to change course. Home can wait; you deserve to treat yourself, for once.  

You make the turn down Market, treading the familiar path toward the diner. Sanemi once told you that the safest times to walk these streets was dawn and dusk — the transitional periods of the day, when regular nine-to-fivers went about their daily commutes. For one, blissful hour at sunrise and sunset, the City returned to the bustling metropolis of your memory. Office workers crowded the streets, stopped in at shops lining the sidewalks for last minute errands or quick dinners, as they pretended to not hear the distant sirens over the honking of impatient cars and beeps from the crosswalks. 

Though, you think as you eye a group of young adults crowded around a table outside one of restaurants, perhaps none of them are pretending. Maybe they’re painfully aware that they’re stranded on a sinking ship. Maybe they’ve decided to just enjoy what few precious moments they have, before it all goes down for good. 

Or, maybe they haven’t noticed there’s any water rising, at all. 

In fairness, it’s not like you’re any better than they are. Here you are, playing at a cozy (albeit, boring) life, working at a bookstore that has no connection to either the Corps or its rivals. No protection. 

Arguably, that means you’re worse; you know all too well of the danger life here poses, but here you are, clinging to the fraying vestiges of normalcy like it might be worth salvaging. 

Oh well. If the merry twenty-somethings gathered outside and toasting to overpriced wine haven’t caught on by now, they never will. Not until their favorite restaurant goes up in flames, or the sharp crack of gunfire shatters their pretty stemmed glasses. 

Just as it happened in the other boroughs of the City, like the Western Wing. The Kizuki, you recalled Sanemi saying, spitting the name like a curse. Don’t fuckin’ go near the Western Wing, you hear me? Off limits. Silo, too.

If he eventually came back, how long before he’d be warning you about your own small corner of the world? Where else could you go, once the bones of the City finally went up in flames?

The place Sanemi would: its ashes.

—-

The diner is teeming with rush hour patrons, and you have to force your way through a gaggle of teens to reach the pickup counter. Despite how cramped the inside is, one of the waitresses manages to spot you, calling out your name in greeting. A few seconds later; and she appears just behind the counter in a whirl of pink and green, and hands off your to-go order with a beaming smile. You pass her your money, and waive her off when she tries to give you change.

She could use it; you’re all too familiar with the strain of meager wages.

You make to depart the diner with a cheerful “thank you!” called back to your waitress, though you can’t tell whether she heard you. Your voice is hoarse, your throat, scratchy from days of non-use, and your farewell barely rises above the hum of the other patrons. The lump of self-pity sitting that’s been sitting in your gut hardens. You’d anticipated the mental toll from your utter lack of human connection, but you hadn’t expected any physical effects from it. If nothing else, let Sanemi’s absence be your very obvious sign from the universe that you need to find yourself a friend. Preferably, one who isn’t habitually involved in illegal activity that may or may not land you in jail as his unwitting accomplice. 

Takeout secured, you work to squeeze through the thick clusters of dine-in patrons, eyes fixed on the exit as you dodge an odd elbow here and there. Right as you reach for the metal bar on the door, your foot stubs into something hard. It’s enough to nearly send you flailing, your hands crinkling the brown paper bag containing your dinner before it can spill all over the sticky tile.   

You barely have time to finish sputtering your curse when a hand grabs your forearm, steadying you. The thing responsible for your collison is a man, one apparently trying to decide whether he wanted to order or chance somewhere else, given how he lingers in the doorway.

Inwardly, you know he’s in the wrong because he’s blocking the exit, but that doesn’t stop you from rushing to apologize, anyway. To his credit, he waves you off. Eager to make your escape, you ready some nicety that will allow you to slip out the front door.

The moment he meets your eyes, any platitudes you might have offered dry right up on your tongue. 

Here, in a city surrounded by skyscrapers and streets lined with buildings jam-packed together like sardines, there’s little room for space, and it’s not something you’ve ever particularly missed. But as you stare into his eyes — black and cold — you finally realize what it means for something to be empty; how it feels, to look into an abyss.

Perhaps it’s because this man has within him, a void, that his eyes reflect the neon signage cluttering the diner’s walls. That’s the only explanation you can ration, given the way they seem to blend and swirl together in those depthless pools, creating an odd blend of colors. Unnatural and unnerving. He grins and it’s sharp, wicked thing. His mouth is too wide for his face, hungry and full of teeth that gleam far too bright. A wolf ready to rip into its prey.

Some deep, primal part of you waits for him to do just that, to sink those too-sharp teeth into your skin and shred you apart. Instead, he only inclines his head toward you, a mocking sketch of civility. 

“Ladies first.” 

You fumble around your words, searching for something — anything — to say, but there is only cotton in your mouth. Worse, the longer your paralysis persists, the more you’re forced to study him, even though everything about him — from his pale hair to his unusual eyes — sets your teeth on edge. 

A too-red tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and the sweat gathering at your temple freezes. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe your nerves have you searching for shadows that may or may not exist, but you swear there’s something on his tongue. A tattoo of sorts, perhaps. 

Whatever it is – light tricks or you own over-imaginative mind – it’s nothing you need to look harder into. If anything, your friendship with Sanemi has taught you there’s no safety measure more important than minding your business. And, it’s getting late. You need to get home, before it gets dark.

Sanemi hates when you walk alone in the dark. 

“Sorry again,” you manage with a squeak. You try and push by him once more, doing everything in your power not to brush up against him, when a hand grabs at your forearm.

If your heart could somehow unstick itself from your throat, you might have been brave enough to demand to know what his problem is; but it won’t, so you aren’t.  

All you can do is stare into those soulless eyes.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t rush,” he chastises with a saccharine smile, and his fingers squeeze your arms. His skin is cold and clammy.  

At last, you find your voice and you imbue it with all the steel you can muster. “My boyfriend is waiting.”  

The lie rolls easily off your tongue and gives you enough courage to wrench your arm free. The man lets you go, easily, that too-sweet smile never once faltering as you hastily push through the diner’s exit.

The air outside opens up, yet still, you find it difficult to breathe. Every one of your senses is on high-alert, trained toward the door at your back and the unshakeable feeling of eyes watching you as you hurriedly cross the street. 

You don’t dare look back.

Iron pumps hot in your legs as you half-walk, half-jog toward home. You still feel him watching you even as you reach your street, and you won’t dare to let him see where you live in the event your paranoia proves correct. 

You walk around the block — twice — and feint down a side alley, not caring for the food steadily growing colder in your bag. Only when you confirm the man is no where in sight, only when you’re certain you can’t feel eyes bearing into your back any longer do you finally loop back around to your building.

The deadbolt on your door is a comfort you’d never thought to appreciate until now, and you hurry to slide it into place the moment you step inside your apartment. Door locked, you slump back against the lacquered wood and sink to the ground, your heart thumping uncomfortably in your chest as you work to steady your ragged breath. 

For once, Sanemi’s paranoia doesn’t feel like a burden.

—

All your life, you’ve known that anxiety is an ailment best cured by food. Twenty minutes later, you sit at your kitchen table and eat your takeout in silence, save the odd squeak of your fork scraping against the plastic bottom of the container, the encounter at the diner, forgotten.

Instead, you’re left to chew on bits of scrambled egg and your own loneliness. You’ve never had a roommate — never wanted one, for that matter. Your apartment has always been your space, a place where you could go and just be, without a thought or care in the world. Your perfect sanctuary where you could fill the emptiness of your life with books, the lovely stories so delicately crafted by those perhaps as lonely as you. 

Overpriced and temperamental as your apartment could be, it’s still home. 

And yet, somehow, home feels emptier than you remember, despite the fact you’ve always lived here alone. 

Normally, you’d turn on the TV or listen to something in order to distract from the utter stillness in your apartment, but tonight, you can’t even bring yourself to do that. Not when the repetitive cycle of commercials and the same four reruns airing seemed only to amplify the monotony of your solitude.

So, you continue to eat in silence.

Later, after you’ve shoved your empty takeout containers to the side, you sit at your kitchen table and fiddle with your phone. 

It’s been a few days since you’ve bothered to look at it. It has remained on Do Not Disturb, shoved to the bottom of your bag, with you too unwilling to look at the hateful little reminder that without Sanemi to talk to, you are utterly and completely alone. 

You have few contacts saved, so finding Sanemi’s name takes little time – but not before you scroll past the entry marked simply, “Mom.”

You don’t even want to know how long it’s been since you last talked to her – or your dad, for that matter. Somehow, you doubt your phone has kept any record of those few and far between calls. They barely ever lasted long enough to make a dent on your phone bill, anyway. 

Oh, Mama, you think bitterly. What would you make of me, now? 

Knowing her daughter had fallen helplessly in love with a season criminal might very well do her in. She’d have a conniption, at the very least, especially if she learned of Sanemi’s reputation among women. There’d be no chance to deny what you’d let him do – what you’d asked him for, and it wouldn’t matter that you loved him any more than it would that he’d rescued her other child, once upon a time. 

Though, you suppose you’re getting ahead of yourself. All of your spite rests on the presumption that she remembered to care.

She doesn’t, so it doesn’t really matter. 

You snort. Maybe you should mention it to your parents somehow, even if through a lie. Perhaps in your next Christmas card; a cheerful, Merry Christmas! I’m dating a known gang-banger – talk next year!

God, their faces when they realized you were nothing more than some felon’s whore. You’d be written off faster than the ink on the card could dry. That alone might be worth it, if only to not have to continue playing this tedious game of pretend.

But, if Sanemi never speaks to you again, you’d rather not have all your bridges burned. At least the annual check-in with them confirmed you were alive – if those ended, you’d truly have no one. 

So, you scroll on, finding the object of all your ire – and heartache – and tap on its entry.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard as the cursor in the blank text box blinks at you, Sanemi’s name just above it. 

Hey. You type before deleting it with a wince. 

That book you’ve been waiting on just arrived. I’ll leave it on the restock shelf for you. 

No, no, that won’t work either. You don’t want him to think you plan on ignoring what happened, and neither do you want to give him the out. You two will have to talk about it eventually, even if it’s to establish it can never happen again. 

The thought of losing him makes your heart crack, the fissure spreading across your chest until you’re not sure whether you can keep yourself together. 

If you’re cutting this off, I at least deserve to know. 

Your thumb hovers over the arrow to send, your cursor blinking expectantly at you. 

You don’t want to be hateful any more than you want to appear insecure. After all, Sanemi said you’d hear from him, and it’s only been a week. He’d promised you would hear from him. 

 He’d promised. 

With a frustrated grunt, you hurl your phone at your couch, anger melting into numbness as you watch it slide between the cushions and out of sight. You do not retrieve it; instead you throw your takeout into the garbage with more force than necessary and strip yourself down to your underwear. 

Summer has arrived fast and hot, and you know that the ancient air conditioning unit groaning and guttering in your window is due to short out on you any day now, as it does every year. Already the air in your apartment had become sticky and warm; it’s only a matter of time before sleeping became downright unbearable. 

Though no one is around to hear, you snort. Figures that Sanemi’s sudden disappearance from your life coincides with your yearly descent into renter’s hell. If the universe has decided to you need to be dragged through shit, it’s doing a thorough job of it.

As if on cue, a familiar pang of pain shoots through your lower stomach. You glance at the date on your phone, and groan. Great. The last row of this month’s birth control card should’ve been your warning. Your  already shitty mood is about to get even worse. 

Your new prescription is already in your drawer, and you half-contemplate skipping the half-row of sugar pills, but you hold off. You’d already suffered a stern lecture from your doctor for doing that in the past, and you know it’s not good for you. No matter how great the temptation to spare yourself from debilitating cramps, you’ll just have to suffer through it. 

Besides, this period probably isn’t the one to try and skip, anyways. Not after the events of that night. You’re better off making sure you’re getting your money’s worth out of birth control that, admittedly, costs more than you reasonably can afford. If nothing else, it’s worth it to avoid having to eat crow and admit you should’ve taken Sanemi up on his offer to get you the morning-after pill.

You tie your hair back as best you can, grateful to get it off your sweat-dampened neck and glance toward your couch. Perhaps you’ll muster up the courage to text him tomorrow, but for tonight, you’ll remain a coward. So, you leave your phone there, straddled somewhere between the cushions, and switch off your kitchen light before burying yourself in bed, the ache blooming in your lower belly matching the one in your heart.

—--

The first ray of morning light streaking through the cracks in the cardboard stuffed in his window is nearly blinding, but Sanemi is already awake. He has been for a few hours now, unable to find much peace in a night filled with distant sirens and plagued by thoughts of you. 

God, he feels like shit. It’d been after midnight by the time he’d cruised back through city limits, and it was nearly two before he returned to his apartment, Sanemi having gone out of the way to drop off Rengoku’s car so he wouldn’t have to deal with it come sunrise. 

Despite the emotional taxation of his visit with Genya, however, Sanemi had been hard-pressed to find sleep. Now that the sun’s up, though, he can’t avoid facing it any longer. His phone has been blissfully quiet all morning, and he has to take advantage of that silence while he can.

Today is the day, he decides between splashes of tepid tap water against his face once he forces himself out of bed and into his bathroom to wash up. 

Today is the day he muscles up the courage to talk to you. 

Not like he’s really got much of an excuse to put this off longer than he already has. Genya had told him as much. 

The bristles of his toothbrush flatten against his teeth under the force of Sanemi’s brushing, toothpaste foaming in the corners of his mouth. Embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing. His teenage shithead of a brother — who couldn’t even talk to girls, let alone date one — had been able to see the obvious answer to the very predicament Sanemi had spent the better part of a week running around like a headless chicken.

Then again, nothing in Sanemi’s life has even been simple, so it figures he’d try and complicate something as straightforward as this. You.

A hearty spit into the sink later and Sanemi wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand. 

He supposes it was inevitable; he can’t avoid you forever, and he owes you some sort of explanation, an in-person one, at that. No matter how new this is to him, he at least knows you deserve more than a measly text or phone call. 

The bones of the Silo give way to the rusted shipyard marking its outer limits, the landscape whizzing by in a blur of rust and decay as Sanemi speeds past. Though the wind tears and whips at his cheeks, it hardly offers much in the way of relief from the heat of the sun bearing down on him from high above. 

Sweat rolls down his back as Sanemi guns through the city’s East Wing, opting to zip down back roads instead of dealing with the traffic on the main streets. It feels strange, to be speeding towards a decision that will fundamentally alter everything in his life, when everything right now feels the same as it did a year ago. Here he is, gunning down the same path to the bookstore he’d taken then — down an alley, out of sight from laying eyes. Summer in the City carries the same, weighted heat from year to year, and this one is no exception: oppressively hot, the air soupy and thick with humidity. 

And Sanemi is still as hopelessly shackled to the Corps as he was then – as he’s always been.

The brand between his shoulders itches.

Still, he supposes he can count his lucky stars that he’s not on the run from the cops as he’d been last summer – at least, not currently. And he takes comfort in knowing that he won’t find himself being pushed and shoved under your store counter, your lip curling in disdain even as you made good on a decade-old favor.

At least, he hopes that’s the case.

In all honesty, Sanemi knows he may very well find himself on the receiving end of that cold, unforgiving stare just as he had last summer. Only this time, the daggers you shoot his way might actually shred his heart to bits.

You have to be pissed at him. You’d be stupid not to be, and while your unfathomable affection for him suggests otherwise, you are smarter than he is – infinitely so. He’s ghosted you for more than a week, and you can’t possibly think you have to accept that kind of idiocy on his part, no matter his excuses. That means this talk has to be about damage control – however much of it you’ll allow. 

He should start with an apology, that much is obvious. And he’ll follow it up with something he never deigned to give anyone who didn’t have the name of the Corps’ boss family attached to them: an explanation.

Though, he notes with a grimace, an explanation supposed you’d give him long enough to make it through his apology without lobbing a well-aimed book at his head. Given your responses to his bullshit in the past, assault and battery are very real possibilities.

The closer he draws to your bookstore, and the gnawing pit in his stomach grows wider. If you’re angry, then he’ll let you be. You can curse him all you want, throw as many book-bound projectiles at his head as you’d like, as long as you’ll hear him out.

There is another possibility, however. One that he can only label as a worst-case scenario, one that he hasn’t dared let himself consider even though he knows it’s a very real — and very understandable — outcome. The one where you have no reaction at all, only utter indifference to him and his absence. After all, you’d only asked one thing from him, and he gave it to you. Even if you’d told him you loved him, you hadn’t asked him to love you back. 

Maybe you’d said it knowing he was a lost cause, and now that you’ve gotten what you wanted — the loss of your virginity and the weight of your confession off your shoulders — you could move on from him, even if that meant taking the misshapen lump of his heart with you as you left him behind.

Deep down, as devastating as that outcome would be for him, indifference is the best option for you. You’re better off without him; he knows this. So, he’ll pick up the pieces of himself and he’ll figure out how to glue them back together on his own.

Mind spiraling, Sanemi turns onto the street leading to you, a nauseous mixture of dread and anxiety churning in his gut. 

About two doors down from the bookstore sits a coin laundromat and a repair shop. It’s here that Sanemi’s bike gutters to a stop, his eyes sweeping the streets for any out-of-place faces, anyone who might seem too interested in his movements.

All is quiet.

He stashes his bike in the gap between the two buildings. Normally, he’d pull into the alley behind the bookstore and come in through the back exit, but he doubts you’ve left the door unlocked for him. Not when he’s dropping by unannounced. He can’t imagine you’d take kindly to him pounding on the emergency exit, and the fewer opportunities he has to piss you off, the better. He’ll have to use the front door.

Kickstand in place and key tucked safely in his pocket, Sanemi shuffles along the sidewalk. Anxiety twists his stomach into knots, and it takes effort to force himself to breathe normally. But when he reaches the shop’s entryway, Sanemi stops cold. 

The store is dark; there are no lights on inside, and even the way the door sits shut seems uncharacteristically cold.

He frowns. Perhaps you’re in the back, dealing with some delivery issue. Sanemi reaches for the door’s knob, ready to call out your name —

It’s locked.

Sanemi’s heart begins thudding uncomfortably in chest. The store is never closed. In the year he has known you, you are at the bookstore seven days a week, except for Christmas. But it’s midsummer; the store should not be closed. The lights shouldn’t be off, it shouldn’t be empty.

You should not be missing from behind the clerk’s counter.

Some semblance of sanity remains and encourages him to hurry around to the back alley, where he knows you accept deliveries. But the alley is as dark and as barren as the inside of your store, and the emergency exit is locked tight.

No store. No you. No sign indicating that you might have stepped away for a moment, or detailing some issue with the store and apologizing for any inconveniences to your customers. No explanation. 

Sanemi’s hands are dialing your number before his mind can fully process the action.

“Answer your fucking phone.” His voice trembles as the phone rings and rings. “Now.”

It goes to voicemail.

He tries again. Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

His body breaks into a run even before his mind can fully piece together the action, his bike forgotten. Riding it would require a coordination Sanemi doesn’t have anyway, not while his thumb is busy jamming repeatedly at the call function on his phone, as Sanemi sprints for your studio. 

The line rings and rings but his desperation goes unanswered. And each time he hears the automated machine instruct him to leave a message, Sanemi grows more frantic. The burn in his legs barely registers; he is consumed only by the need to move faster, to close the distance between him and your apartment as quickly as possible.

Answer your phone. He wills you, pressing the green phone icon yet another time, and then another. Answer your phone. Answer your goddamn phone.

You never do.

He makes it to your place in record time, his fist hammering on your door. His panicked call of your name echoes around the empty halls outside your apartment.

You don’t answer.

Sanemi does not relent; one hand finds your name on his phone while the other continues pounding away at your door. He brings his phone to his ear and listens for the sound of your voice.

It does not come — but your ringtone does. Faint; muffled from its place inside your apartment, but unmistakable.

The sweat on the back of his neck turns to ice.

Sanemi’s breath comes hard out of his mouth in short, panicked gasps. Of all your eccentricities, Sanemi knows there are exactly two things you’re never without: lip balm and your phone.

His chest constricts. Your phone ringing inside means only one of two possibilities. Either you are in your apartment, hurt or captive, or you’ve been taken.

Swearing viciously, he jerks against the locked knob of your apartment door, a frustrated growl tearing deep from his throat. He spins away, a frantic hand raking through his hair, before he turns back.

Eyes wild, he considers your door.

It really is a flimsy piece of wood. Even if your deadbolt was somehow latched, Sanemi wagers he could kick it in fairly easily.

Whatever has happened to you, it’s his fault. Whether someone had figured out who and what you were to him, or whether it was because you simply lived in a shitty part of town and he hadn’t taken enough steps to ensure your safety, your blood is on his hands. That means it’s his responsibility to fix it — even if he has to tear this rotting city apart, brick by crumbling brick.

He backs away with a crazed expression. Fuck what your neighbors might think. Fuck what you might think, he thinks, getting into the stance he needs to rip your doors from its hinges. He’ll fix your door after he finds you and makes sure you’re safe. After he takes care of whoever dared to lay a hand on you, his you —

Just as Sanemi is readying his leg, he hears the distinct rattle of a chain unlatching, and then the door swings open.

Shocked eyes, blissfully familiar, blink at him, standing posed to kick in your door just as he stares back.

Sanemi doesn’t think; his hand seizes tightly around your wrist and he yanks you into the hallway, slamming your door shut with the other hand.

“What the fu —?” You start but you’re cut off with a muted oomph! as Sanemi whirls you behind him. An indignant half screech squeaks out of you as Sanemi kicks your door open, one arm keeping you at his back.

His other hand has his gun drawn and cocked.

Your eyes bulge. “Sanemi, what —?”

“Who else is here?” His voice has a deadly sort of authority you’ve never heard, and it makes a lump of cold fear lodge in your throat. “How many?”

He flashes a quick look at you over his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“What are you talking about?” you snap, following closely behind and pounding at his back as Sanemi systematically makes his way through your apartment, gun pointed and ready. But your flailing fists do little to stop him. “What are you doing, you psychopath?”

He doesn’t answer; not until he clears your kitchen, that deadly hunk of metal still braced before him.

“The store was closed.” He says shortly, eyes scanning the shadows. “You weren’t answering your phone. I called and called and you didn’t answer —“

“I’m on my period!” You burst, hands dragging down your heated cheeks. “I’ve been here dying from cramps, you idiot!”

The hand holding the gun drops limply to his side, as Sanemi turns to blink dumbly at you.

“I told you, you imbecile, that my periods suck!” Your face feels hot and your voice has taken on a distinct squeakiness in the wake of your mortification. “I have pain meds to manage my symptoms, so I’ve been in and out of sleep all fucking day! I wasn’t answering my phone because I didn’t feel well enough to answer it, you — you —“ Your eyes screw up as you wrack your brain for something that can express the depths of his idiocy. “You — stupid!”

Your lackluster insult is enough to break Sanemi’s blank stupefaction. “I didn’t know.” He finally offers after a long moment, a hint of pink rising in his cheeks.

“So, your first instinct was to do what — act like a goddamned maniac?” You demand as Sanemi hastily puts the safety back on his gun and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. “You don’t speak to me for more than a week, but you think it’s a good idea to come beat my door down? Because I don’t answer a few texts?”

“Not a few texts,” Sanemi spits back. “I called and messaged over and over -- I was worried —“

“You were about to kick my door in!”

He squares his shoulders at that. “Yes,” he says hotly. “Yes, I was. Because I was fuckin’ terrified for a moment that something had happened to you. Because of me. Do you know what went through my mind when I heard your phone ringing, after I’ve spent the last half hour trying to get a hold of you? What the fuck else was I supposed to think?”

“That you would decide I was sick or busy or maybe dealing with something and couldn’t respond, like a normal fucking person –”

“You say we’re friends and you still haven’t figured out that there ain’t nothin’ normal about this? About me?”

Something flashes across your face, your eyes tightening at the word friends, but it’s gone before he can blink. Sanemi doesn’t let himself linger on what it means. Nor does he listen to that small voice in his head that coolly whispers that he knows damn well you two are more than friends, no matter how deeply he tries to bury his head in the sand.

You open your mouth, ready to unleash of slew of insults or perhaps give him the good verbal lashing he knows he deserves, when you double over with a wince.

“Oh, fuck me.” You groan, pressing a hand to your abdomen. You wave him off, dismissive. “I’m going back to bed. You know I’m not dead, so do whatever you want. You know where the door is.”

With that, you shuffle miserably back to your bed, hunched over in on yourself, your arms wrapped firmly around you middle. Sanemi watches, bemused, as you crumple into your mattress in a resigned heap, your knees drawn nearly to your chest.

He stares hard at your bed, nostrils flaring as he works to calm his breathing. Safe. You’re safe, nothing is wrong, you’re okay. He repeats this, again and again, a mantra that slowly eases the tension in his shoulders, soothes the violent fury in his veins. 

A groan of frustration sounds from beneath your blankets and pillows, slightly muffled. “Well? What do you want?” 

He considers you for another moment before he rocks back on his heels, clicking his tongue.

Fuck it. Fuck the Corps, fuck the rules, fuck it all.

“Where’re your keys?”

“Huh?” You lift your head just in time to see him start rooting through your bag where you’d left it looped it over the back of your kitchen chair.

Sanemi pulls out the woven keychain you used to attach a cluster of mismatched keys – ones to the store, the register, and most importantly, your front door. He tosses them in the air, triumphant, before snatching them up tight, pocketing them without so much as a look back at you.

“Later.”

Silence, and then, “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me —“

He’s out the door before you finish your indignant sputtering.

—-

If any doubts lingered as to what exactly Sanemi’s decision was when it came to you, he’s fairly sure they’re resolved here, in the pharmacy’s period care aisle. Because, really, what else can he call this – him, standing before shelves lined with an array of boxes and tampons and pads, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to get – if not a commitment to you? 

A clear choice as any, he supposes. It’s you, or it’s nothing – no one – else. Whatever it is the two of you are though, is another matter. 

Rule Three: don’t get attached. 

Admittedly, that rule went right out the fucking window the moment he decided to pursue some sort of friendship with you, all those months ago. Even if it somehow survived the fall, he’d funcationally ran it over, again and again until nothing remained, the second he put his dick in you. 

Whatever the label, he supposes he at least has to pretend to give some semblance of a shit about Corps’ rules, if nothing more than because of his title within it. Plus, that caution probably serves to protect you as much as it does the Corps. And that means he can’t outwardly call you his girlfriend anymore than he can openly date you. 

He grimaces at the thought as he peruses the snack aisle, tossing a random assortment of your favorites into his basket alongside the variety box of tampons he’d settled on. Leave it to him to mull over shit like what to call you, now, when he’s got far bigger fish to fry. Never mind that for all the ways he’s decided he wants you to be his, he doesn’t yet know whether you want him. 

He did ditch you for over a week. Eleven days, to be exact. 

Oh, well. If somehow you don’t throw him out on his ass, then it doesn’t really matter what he calls you. It’s not like he’s particularly attached to labels, anyway. Not when girlfriend is far too casual a way to describe what Sanemi feels for you. 

He tries ignoring the pang of want in his heart as the word boyfriend flits through his mind. While he can’t call you his girlfriend to anyone within city limits, you don’t wear the same shackles that he does. You’re not bound by the same code. And damn, what he wouldn’t do to have you call him your boyfriend; to finally belong to something – someone – other than the Corps. It’s the sort of brand he’s gone his entire life craving even if he didn’t quite know it. One he’d wear proudly on his heart, even if no one else would ever see it. 

Finally, he reaches the front of the checkout line and tosses the contents of his basket onto the counter. Though, if you do decide you want his sorry ass, you’ll have to be careful enough to not link boyfriend to his name. While Sanemi may not give a shit about his own safety, yours is his priority. He won’t let you put his target on your back. 

Whatever labels do or do not await him, nothing changes the fact he cannot be a normal – whatever – to you. The only way you stay safe is if Sanemi lets his paranoia dictate the lines of your relationship, and even then, he can’t guarantee it’ll ever be enough. 

He pays for your stuff, gathering the bags in one hand while he rummages his pockets with the other until he finds your keys. So many uncertainties remain, far more than what makes him comfortable. Yet, in spite of it all, the bubbling, hot panic he’d felt sprinting to your apartment has given way to an unfamiliar lightness. One that makes him feel like he’s floating even as he stops at a small kiosk near the pharmacy’s exit and feeds your apartment key into the machine. 

Yeah, he’s fucking attached to you even though he knows better. But if you accept the metal the kiosk spits back out after a moment of whirring, it’ll be worth it. 

—-

Less than an hour after his dramatic exit, Sanemi slips back into your apartment. The plastic handles of his shopping bags looped unceremoniously around his wrists dig uncomfortably into his skin, and he dumps his bounty on the floor just inside your entryway. 

A soft thump against the wall to his right snaps his head up. 

Years of training to dodge fists, projectiles, bullets, enable Sanemi to duck right before one of your ridiculous little throw pillows smacks into his head.

Across the floor of your small apartment, Sanemi spies you sitting perched at the end of your bed, eyes wild and hair a mess, another pillow cocked in your hand, ready to be launched his way. 

Bewildered, Sanemi demands, “The fuck is your problem?” 

“You!” The fluffy cushion sails through the air, but Sanemi knocks it easily aside. His casual avoidance of your targeted rage only serves to infuriate you more, and he watches, with some amusement, as you whip your head from side to side, searching for something else to chuck at him. 

Finding nothing, you jab a finger toward the door. “Get out!” 

“Nah,” he folds his arms across his chest and levels your fury with a cool stare of his own. “Don’t feel like it, and I know you don’t want me to go, either.”

Your right eye twitches and Sanemi smirks. If you really wanted him gone, you would’ve fought harder when he took your keys. Probably would’ve chased him out the door, hurling all kinds of venom his way. If nothing else, you would’ve blown his phone up, calling him every name in the book, leveling every threat you could concoct.

You’ve forgotten, it seems, that he’s spent the past year learning you; being your friend. He’s far too used to your stubbornness; he knows when you’re full of shit. 

“You’re impossible.” And with a huff, you turn your back to him and throw yourself back down on your mattress, yanking your blankets up to your chin. 

He stomps over to your side of the bed and glowers down at your back, put stubbornly to him. 

Fine. You wanna play this way? Sanemi can deal in pettiness, too.

An edge of your blanket peeks out near your feet, a small sliver you hadn’t managed to tuck into place. A mistake, on your end, given that it only takes Sanemi hooking his fingers under it to rip the blanket clean off you.

He tries not to linger on the whiff of your scent that slaps him in his face. An intoxicating mixture of your perfume and shampoo that socks him in the gut. 

While the loss of the blanket’s security forces you to curl in tighter on yourself, you offer no reaction. Not even a spiteful little glare over your shoulder, or some half-hearted insult, and for some reason, that pisses him off even more.

“You’re not ignorin’ me,” he growls, balling the quilt in his hands.  “I can be a bigger pain in the ass than this.”

Still nothing. 

After a moment, Sanemi’s irritation finally boils over. “Can I just fuckin’ hold you, please?” 

You flip over to gape up at him, returning his pinched glare with outrage of your own. If Sanemi’s silence since that night was a bruise to your ego, the earnestness belying the arrogant annoyance in his eyes is a finger jabbing mercilessly at it. 

Because he actually means it.

Part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity of his request, and another part wants to launch every obscenity you can dream of right at his stupidly handsome face. 

You go for the in-between. “No!” Your voice is shrill. “No, you can’t hold me. You ghost me for almost two weeks, nearly break my door in half, steal my keys and fuck off for over an hour, and you think you get to hold me?” You throw your hands up over your head in exasperation before dragging them down your face, exasperated. “Are you stupid?”

Never mind that’s exactly what you want to happen — it’s all you’ve wanted, actually. But Sanemi’s idiocy has to cost him something, and despite the way your stomach dipped in excitement when you heard him sliding your keys into the door’s lock, he owes you an explanation. And until you get one, he can keep on sitting at the very top of your shit list, all by his lonesome.

Some of the hardness in his eyes softens as your words hit their mark. In its place emerged a shadow of disappointment, one that has you reconsidering your previous stance, your hands itching to reach for him.

Gently, Sanemi tosses your bunched up blanket to the foot of your bed. “Fine.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “But I’m still gonna put all this shit away, and then you and me are gonna talk.” 

That makes you sit up. “What shit?” 

Sanemi doesn’t bother dignifying you with an answer; doesn’t so much as spare you a glance as he stalks back toward your door. He totes the plastic shopping bags to your shabby kitchen table as you trail behind him, your curiosity outweighing your desire to remain rotting in bed. 

“Wait,” you frown, reaching for his arm. You try and still him as he unloads aspirin followed by a fresh box of tampons. “Sanemi —“

“Just shut up and let me take care of you.” He pulls a frozen pizza out of the shopping bag and glances at you. “Did you eat?”

You hesitate but then you slowly shake your head.

He snorts, depositing the box on your counter. Figures.

Bemused, you watch as he lugs the rest of his bounty into your kitchen and sets to work organizing his purchases. It’s a strange sight. Sanemi bustles around as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He navigates your cabinets with a confidence that only comes from familiarity, his movements more akin to something like muscle memory. 

His comfortability makes sense, given how much time he’s spent here over the last year. Still, you never imagined a hardened criminal could look so…domestic.

What doesn’t make sense, however, is why. From the moment he’d thundered into your apartment in a murderous rage to his abrupt exit with your keys and sudden reappearance with groceries, Sanemi’s erratic actions have you in a tailspin you can’t begin to find your way out of. Because none of it makes sense.

Too much; this is all too much. 

“Stop, stop, stop!” Your hand snatches around his forearm, stilling him. Annoyed, Sanemi huffs down at you only to be met with your own frosty glare. 

You cut your eyes to the spread of snacks and period products atop your kitchen counter. “What is all this, Sanemi? I mean,” you gesture helplessly between him and the bags. “What are you doing?” 

Sanemi grabs the frozen pizza box and turns it over, eyes skimming the instructions. “Taking care of you.” He monotones, like it’s supposed to be obvious. Like him sifting through a bag full of snacks — all your favorites, you note — was normal, part of some unspoken ritual.

You know better; because the sidelong look he casts you is one of remorse; guilt. 

He’s stalling. And it’s precisely because of his own hesitancy that you can’t be the first one to give in; to open the very obvious can of worms that sits between you. 

You will not make his decisions for him; you won’t shoulder the burden of any blame should this go tits up.

“Why are you here, Sanemi?” 

He busies himself with your oven’s settings, fiddling with the knobs until it clicks on, preheating. Wordlessly, Sanemi slides the pizza into the oven and sets the timer.

“Sanemi.” You press.

Instantly, the rest of his arrogance deflates. He turns back to you, shoulders heavy, slumped forward with something like shame. 

“‘M sorry, I just…” he trails off with a helpless shrug. He drops his head, staring hard at the cracked linoleum of your floor.

You shift, settling in against the empty doorway to your kitchen, arms folded across your chest. After another moment, he raises his head, and takes a tentative step forward.

“For months, I haven’t been able to think about a damn thing but you.” Sanemi begins, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “Can’t sleep, can’t eat, can barely fuckin’ breathe without thinking about you. Without thinking of how fucking badly I want you.”

A tired hand runs through his hair. “Haven’t even been with anyone else in months. Not when all I can think about  is you.” He snorts, though it’s without humor. “Started picturin’ you when I was with the others and everything. Nearly called out your name with one of ‘em one night, and knew I couldn’t do it anymore.”

That little revelation nearly knocks the wind right out of you. Since your friendship with him began, you’ve kept your ears steadily tuned toward any mention of Sanemi’s name. Part of you rationalized it was out of concern for his wellbeing, but in truth, you’d been nosy.

Not once had there been a whisper of the infamous Sanemi Shinazugawa settling down, of him slowing his antics. 

Then again, the moment you’d begun catching the details of his wild reputation among the women of the Silo, you’d tuned out all the noise, too embarrassed to admit your own interest.

“I was selfish, kissin’ you.” Sanemi’s hoarse voice calls you back. “Swore it was only gonna happen once, and couldn’t even keep that promise. And then, what we did that night — that only made it worse. D’you know why?” 

He chances another step toward you and the air between you thickens. Suddenly, there’s little space left between your bodies, and you’re all too aware of the heat rolling off his body, drawing you in, a moth to a flame. 

A hand reaches for you, his fingers nearly grazing your hair, but his arm drops back limply to his side. “‘Cuz I shouldn’t have been able to have you. Not like that. But I did, and —“ he swallows, hard. “I knew I wanted more before I slept with you. Knew that if I ever crossed that line, I wasn’t coming back from it. Couldn’t.”

Your lips part. “Sanemi —“

“I can’t be your friend, Y/N.” Sanemi says heavily. “I just can’t. I knew that way back when I first started comin’ around, but I wanted to try. But I sure as hell can’t be your friend, now."

A crack splinters across your chest, and by the way Sanemi’s eyes tighten, you wonder if he heard it; the sound of your heart breaking.

It was only ever going to end this way. You should’ve known — a part of you did know. But that hadn’t stopped you from trying, from loving him, anyways. 

You open your mouth, ready to voice your resigned acceptance; to cut him loose, save yourself the devastation of any further explanation, when Sanemi shifts. 

With a gulp, he shoves a hand into his pocket, rummaging. Whatever it is he searches for, he finds and holds out his closed fist before letting it drop.

A glint of light bounces off the object dangling from his fingers and from your periphery, you can tell it’s metal. Frowning, you tilt your head, inspecting.

Your heart gutters to a halt as its shape takes form.

A key. A single silver key, plain and unassuming, yet somehow, the entirety of your future rests somewhere between the neat little grooves you know perfectly match the hardware of the lock on your door.  

“I had it made while I was out.” Sanemi’s confession is breathless, and he swallows hard before adding, “If you don’t want me to have it, then take it. It’s yours.”

For a long moment, you say nothing; you only stare at the key hanging in the air. Half a heartbeat ago, you’d believed this — whatever it was — with Sanemi was over. That whatever brightness he’d brought to your dreary little life had faded, and he’d leave you behind, just like everyone else you’d dared to love. 

“If I tell you to keep it,” you start carefully, gaze trained so pointedly on the key dangling from his fingers that you don’t notice the way his eyes round. “Then what does that mean for us?” 

He needs to say it. After a week of nothing from him, he at least owes you this. A label. 

His throat bobs. A beat passes, and then, “It means I’m all yours. Only yours.” 

Not good enough. “My what?” 

Sanemi’s fingers tense in faint agitation and your eyes cut to his. 

“Yours,” he insists again, more hotly. “Your boyfriend, your partner, your whatever-the-fuck-it-is that you call someone who’s all in and wants to be with you, and only you.”

Air hardens in your throat, forms a lump you don’t know how to swallow around. 

He says it so simply, as though it’s obvious; like he hadn’t avoided you without a damn word for more than a week, leaving you to fight against insecurity you hadn’t known to have, before him. 

I love you, Sanemi.

He hadn’t said it back, then. Initially, you thought it was because he didn’t feel the same. Sure, he cared for you, that much was obvious, but perhaps that consideration didn’t rise to the level of devotion you held for him. You were okay with that; you hadn’t said it out of expectation, anyways. You’d only wanted him to know your heart, to know that as long as it was beating, it would be his. 

Now, this key is his answer to your admission that night. And while it may not be the three words part of you longs to hear, it’s just as much as a confession on his part. 

You could kick him out; tell him no, tell him that he, under no uncertain terms, could fuck right off after leaving you on silent for more than a week. You could. 

You don’t. 

Because, he came back. Maybe in a whirlwind of murderous, seething violence, but Sanemi came back. No ulterior motives, no conditions; he came back for you and you alone. 

He saw you and all your monotony, all your inexperience, and he came back anyway.

He was the only one who ever had. 

Quietly trembling fingers latch around his wrist and for a moment, Sanemi thinks you’re going to take it from him. All at once, the earth crumbles and faces beneath him, plummeting him right into the hell he knew he was venturing into the moment you looked him in the eyes and asked him to do the impossible. 

A buzz settles in his ears and Sanemi braces for the rejection he should’ve known was to come. He’d screamed it at himself that night, his head warning his stupid heart that this was precisely the only way this could go. You’d gotten your fill of him, loved him even, but this — he — is too much. He should’ve known better, he did know —

Your fingers close his fist around the key and squeeze it tight. Wide-eyed and breathless, Sanemi finds that for once, he does not resent the way the metal presses into his skin. 

“Keep it.” Your hands are warm where they embrace his. “I’m yours.”

It takes him a moment to remember how to speak; to realize the static in his head has quieted. His world comes back together just as quickly as it fell apart, its pieces realigning with you at its center.

Relief, he thinks, has never felt so fucking sweet. “Thank fuck.” 

The key clatters to the floor but no one pays it any mind; Sanemi is too busy surging forward, his hands planted firmly on your cheeks as his mouth crashes eagerly — desperately — into yours. 

The kiss is little more than a frantic clash of lips and teeth, but everything about it is so fucking right that neither of you can be bothered to care. 

You fling an arm around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as Sanemi’s enthusiasm threatens to send you stumbling back. Some small, distant voice hisses that you should’ve made him work for it a little longer, should’ve made him grovel for forgiveness. But then his hands are dragging down your front, and he’s pulling you into him by your hips with a possessive grunt and suddenly, you can’t remember why any of it matters.

Neither of you are aware that you’re moving, not until your back bumps up against the entryway of your kitchen. Even then, your small gasp of surprise serves as nothing more than the chance for Sanemi’s tongue to sweep into your mouth, branding you with his claim. 

It was always going to end this way — him, pressing you into your kitchen doorframe, his hands shoved under your t-shirt to rest on your bare waist while you pull him closer, your fingers twisting in his hair. Sanemi is a weak man; no matter how his better judgment snipped and snapped at him, all roads led right back here. It was inevitable.

Even if he hadn’t chosen your bookstore to hide in that day, somehow, the universe would’ve found another way to throw him into your life.

Sanemi breaks away with a pant. “Fuck, Y/N,” he moans against your lips. “You don’t know what the fuck you do to me.” 

“Took you long enough,” you chastise between quick pecks. “I was beginning to think your head was perma-lodged up your ass.”

A sound of exasperation accompanies the nip of his teeth at your lip. “God forbid the Princess has to wait on anything.”

You hum into his mouth. “Not anything,” you correct, breaking away from his lips in favor of brushing your nose against his. “You, asshole.”

This time, it’s Sanemi who moans. “Bullyin’ only turns me on, sweetheart. Thought you knew that already.”

“And deflecting doesn’t help your cause. You still have some making up to do.” You scoff, lowering yourself back down to your normal height. Sanemi’s hands linger, cradling your face, and you can’t help but nuzzle into his palm.

“Yeah, well,” Sanemi murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek. “‘M here now, and I want you. And I’m a fuckin’ idiot for thinking this is a good idea, and so are you for wantin’ me, but that’s where we are. Can’t go back.”

The corner of your mouth twitches up. “You mean, you can’t unfuck me.”

“Nah,” he agrees, though his eyes darken. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head toward his. “Wouldn’t wanna take that back, anyways. Not in a million years.”

Not when you’re his. 

This time, when Sanemi recaptures your lips with his, it is slower; more sensual. His tongue slides seamlessly into your mouth, languidly stroking yours.

Raw desire, sharp and electric, shoots between your thighs when Sanemi moans again. Despite the neediness of his lips, his touch, Sanemi quickly recovers some of his self-confidence, the excitement of his kiss giving way into something more measured, more fervent that already has you panting for more. 

Oh, he’s far too good at making you melt. 

Large, warm hands skirt down the back of your thighs, gripping you under your legs. You gasp when the floor disappears from beneath you as Sanemi easily carries you deeper into the kitchen.

The pizza baking in the oven goes forgotten as Sanemi sets you on the ledge of your counter, his hands sliding up your sides, bunching the fabric of your shirt between his fingers.

The warmth of his hands makes you gasp and arch into him, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Yeah? You want me to touch you?” He teases, pausing only to trace the tip of your nose with his, before he leans back in. “Tell me where.”

You’d love to, except the greedy asshole’s greedier lips are right back on yours, and you don’t have the willpower to argue. You sigh into him, and Sanemi’s tongue sweeps easily into your mouth, flicking against yours. 

Those damn hands of his manage to sneak beneath your t-shirt again. “Mmm. Here?” He teases when you arch, his thumbs brushing along a sensitive part of your waist that makes you squirm.

He kneads against your ribs. “How ‘bout here?”

Your nails scratch the nape of his neck in warning. “Sanemi —“

Those devilish fingers of his inch higher beneath your shirt until he’s cupping your bare breasts. 

“My bad. Here, right?” He smirks, catching your lower lip between his teeth. 

He palms at your chest until you’re whimpering into his mouth. The tender, swollen ache of your breasts is soothed by Sanemi’s clever touch as he teases you with alternating flicks and pinches. He breaks your kiss to whisper your name, each syllable dripping with a reverence that makes you feel damn near sacred. He murmurs it again and again as his lips trail down your cheek, your jaw, his hands pushing your t-shirt higher and higher —

The oven timer buzzes. 

Your head snaps toward the sound, hands fluttering against his chest in a reluctant effort to push him away, but he pays you no mind. Sanemi’s lips are still teasing under your jaw as he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and turns your head back toward him. 

He silences your building protest with another kiss. “Let it burn,” his teeth nip at your bottom lip. “We’re busy.”

You give into the persuasion of his lips for a moment, too greedy for his kiss. But the beep of the timer seems to grow louder by the second, and you find yourself too distracted by its noise to continue ignoring. 

“‘Nemi,” you murmur between heated kisses. There’s a low vibration in the back of Sanemi’s throat in response, something akin to a growl of approval at the way you shorten his name. His hold on your waist tightens as he pulls you harder into him. “The oven —“

His tongue licks at the roof of your mouth before his lips break away from yours. “Fuck the oven,” he moans before he claims your lips again, his kiss every bit as needy and possessive as touch. 

He can’t fathom stopping now — not when you feel so damn good in his hands, not when he’s so giddy that he gets to keep you all to himself, selfishly.

He feels like a teenager again, feels that same excited flutter in his stomach he used to get from sneaking off with girls between classes to make out, to let hands explore under shirts in the dark corners of abandoned classrooms or under the bleachers, more thrilled by the prospect of being caught than of actually succeeding in getting into one another’s pants. Only now, Sanemi’s got the girl of his dreams moaning with a few clever movements of his fingers as he explores your mouth with his tongue, your hands just as greedy as they roam the planes of his chest and tug at his hair.

He’s about to suggest moving to your bed, eager to continue because he can, you’re actually his --

A loud rumble from deep within your stomach slices between you like a knife. Sanemi’s hands freeze, right atop your bare breasts. 

A beat passes, and then he murmurs against your lips, “when did you last eat?”

Before you can feed him your bullshit, he adds, “a real meal.”

You fiddle with the ends of his hair, wincing. “…Last night?” 

Even if you could protest, could claim that you weren’t all that hungry, your traitorous stomach roars again. You snatch your hands away from him, pressing them to your middle as though you can silence the way your belly gurgles with hunger.

Busted.

“Sorry,” you mutter, too mortified to meet his eyes. “Ignore that, we can keep going –”

“I’m not competing with your stomach. If I’m gonna have you moaning, I want to hear you.” Sanemi kisses the tip of your nose and untangles himself from you, dragging his fingers teasingly along the bare skin of your thighs before he steps back entirely. “’Sides, you need to eat.” 

You rub a hand over your grumbling belly. “It’s not that bad –” 

“You’re an ass when you’re hungry.”

You can’t fight him on that, no matter how your cheeks warm. Sanemi has experienced your hungered wrath far too many times. Still part of you itches to wipe that triumphant smugness right off his face as he dons one of your frilly, thrifted oven mitts and fishes the pizza out of the oven.

—

Once he’s ensured you’ve eaten enough and washed your dishes, Sanemi sets to work on your bed, righting the mess he’d made of your covers. The moment everything is back in its place, even the obnoxious throw pillows you’d hurled at his head, he turns to you, expectant. 

“Well?” He pats your newly remade bed. “Come on. You said you don’t feel well, so get over here and rest.” 

For once, you don’t fight him, nor do you so much as attempt to snark back at him for trying to boss you around. You simply slink back to your bed and flop down without a shred of grace or care. 

Sighing, Sanemi kicks off his shoes and slides in behind you. Admittedly, when he’d played out the number of ways tonight could go in his head, he hadn’t envisioned nursing you against the debilitating side effects of your period as one of those possibilities. 

Still, Sanemi can’t imagine any place he’d rather be. 

His body fits against yours with ease, and the way his arm winds around your waist feels natural; automatic. For so long, he’d been navigating the world, unaware that something was missing; that he was incomplete. Sure, maybe he’d felt off to some extent — like there was a gap somewhere among his parts, one that he never knew quite how to fill. 

But here, in your bed, his body half-draped over yours, his face, tucked into the crook of your neck, Sanemi finally knows what it means to feel whole. It fills him with such giddiness, such joy, he almost can’t quite figure out what to do with it. There’s a lightness in his chest he’s never felt before, a weightlessness to his limbs. He is floating, and there is nothing to bring him back down to earth; no chain, no binds, no obligations. There is only his desire to be here, with you, however you want him. 

Your hands reach back and latch around his wrist, tugging his arm over you. You then slide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing it flat to your lower belly.

Sanemi smiles against the nape of your neck as you sigh in relief. “What’s that about?”

“You’re warm,” you groan, snuggling back against him. “Heat helps cramps.”

He squeezes you close and presses a kiss against your ear. “Use me as much as you need, then.”

Your soft laugh is intoxicating. Finally, some of the tension in your limbs eases and you relax into him, seemingly having found the right position to quell the throbbing ache in your stomach.  Happiness. This must be happiness. Because here, he finally gets to just be Sanemi. Your Sanemi.

——

For a long while, you lay together in comfortable silence. The fading light streaming through the great, arched windows over your heads is his only measure of time, and soon, the lighting of your apartment dims. Now, there is only the soft, yellow glow of your various lamps and strings of fairy lights that coat your studio, creating a cozy cave he never wants to leave. 

Curled behind you as he is, Sanemi can’t quite tell whether you’ve finally succumbed to sleep. Your breathing is slow, and while you haven’t spoken in a while, you could just as easily be basking in the relaxed comfort of his arms, lingering somewhere in between sleep and consciousness.

It’s how he wishes he could be; at ease, half-heartedly fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. But no; Sanemi is wide the fuck awake, his body stiffer than a board.

Despite your tentative relaxedness, you still squirm every so often, 

struggling to find a position that will allow you the most relief from the throbbing ache in your lower stomach.

He doesn’t think you’re doing it intentionally — in fact, he’s almost certain you aren’t. But if you don’t stop grinding your ass against him, Sanemi might just snap.

He’d already had to quietly fight off the pain in his groin after getting hot and heavy with you in the kitchen, before he’d realized he needed to take care of your grumbling stomach at the expense of his blue balls. But here you are now, rotating your perfect ass right into his crotch as he grows harder than a fucking diamond, with no relief from the onslaught of your wiggling in sight.

It just feels cruel.

“Knock it off,” Sanemi finally grumbles into your ear, arms squeezing once around your waist in warning. “You tryin’ to make me cream my pants?”

“It’s not my fault,” you groan miserably. “I can’t get comfortable.”

“Don’t you take meds?”

Another groan. “Already did.”

Sanemi fights the swear building on his tongue. He’s acutely aware that you’re not at fault for the way his traitorous body reacts to your movements, but he finds himself wavering dangerously close to losing mind. Each twisting movement of your ass is barely more than a whisper of the contact he craves and yet somehow, it’s just enough to make his cock throb for more.

It takes a great deal of self-restraint for Sanemi not to grab your hips and grind you back against him properly. But he manages to cling to that fraying thread, almost proud of his astounding commitment to his self-control, when you swivel your ass right against the crotch of his pants, groaning in frustration.

That’s when Sanemi snaps. 

With a disapproving click of his tongue, he flips you to your back and under him. You’re his woman now, after all; that means it’s on him to take care of business. 

“You still got cramps?” He hovers close over you, nose nearly bumping yours.

Wide-eyed and blushing at his proximity, you nod.

“You took your meds already?”

Another nod.

“And they ain’t helping?”

This time, you slowly shake your head.

A smile, a wickedly devious smile, spreads across his lips. “I know what will.”

Sanemi sits back on his knees and grabs a fistful of his shirt. In a single, smooth movement, he yanks it clean over his head. 

“What are you --?” You sit up on your elbows, cheeks heating as your eyes roam the rocky planes of his chest and abdomen. Your mouth waters. “What are you doing?”

Sanemi crawls back over you, shutting you up with another kiss. Before you can break away to repeat yourself, he presses his hips to yours and grinds. 

He’s harder than stone.

Silky lips dance down your chin before sliding to explore your jaw. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I told you, I’m — oh — on my period!”

“So?”

“So, it’s — it’s — messy!” You stammer, your cheeks turning crimson as Sanemi’s lips continue their heated path down your neck.

He snorts against your collar bone. “You got towels, don’t you?”

The cockiness of his tone stuns you silent. Sanemi huffs in triumph and busies himself with sucking a bruise into your skin, right over your throat.

“Sanemi,” you squirm under his mouth, hands tugging at his hair, though even you don’t know whether you’re trying to command his attention or push him back.

With an annoyed grunt, Sanemi tears his mouth away from your skin to glare at you. “If you want to say no because you’re uncomfortable with it, then we can stop.” And, despite the faint, irritated twist of his mouth, his eyes are sincere. “But if you’re only complaining because you think I’ll mind —“

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you murmur, shyly looking away. “But, Sanemi —“

Your protest is smothered by a warm, firm hand closing over your mouth. Sanemi leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours. “Do you want me to stop?”

You blink up at him. After a moment of hesitation, you slowly shake your head, eyes wide.

“Then shut up.”

His hand slides away from your mouth and skirts down the length of your arm. His fingers close around your wrist and he wraps your arm around his shoulders. 

He leans in to resume attacking your neck with his mouth, descending down your body with heavy, open mouthed kisses. When he reaches your navel, he shifts his hold to your waist and in a single, swift movement, he flips you atop him. 

You gasp into his mouth as you settle against him, his hardening bulge pressing into the apex of your thighs. A deep, gravelly moan vibrates in Sanemi’s throat when you begin pushing your hips down to meet the hardness protruding into you, your movements out of your control. 

For a moment, you remain like that, your body pressed flush to his as you gasp and grind against each other, your kisses little more than a desperate clash of lips and teeth and tongue. Sanemi is the first to break away, his mouth trailing hotly down the column of your throat. 

One arm stretches up the length of your back, his broad hand curling around your shoulder as the arm locked around your waist tightens. His hold on you sufficiently sturdy, Sanemi forces you to grind harder against him, his teeth nipping across your collarbone as you whimper above him. 

The ache between your legs is sharper, more intense than usual; closer to a burning throb than a mere flicker of desire. 

The hand he’d kept on your shoulder slides down your back, his fingers dragging teasingly along your spine until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. He snaps it once, twice, savoring your little jolts each time the elastic bites at your skin, before he pushes below it to grip your bare ass.

Your fingers fly to his hair as he fondles the plush curve of you in his hand, alternating between gentle massages and rough squeezes. Each pleading little mewl that slips past your lips only drives him wilder with need, his cock throbbing where it strains against the seat of his pants. 

He sucks a bruise into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. He will not give in; not yet, not before you beg him for what he’s been itching to give you for the last week. 

With a fierce whine, you circle your own hips, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver his hand away. Your own hand drops from his hair to cup his jaw as you pant against his ear.

He hides his smirk against your collar bone. “You got somewhere you want me to be, Y/N?” He croons, bucking harshly into your clothed center. His fingers dip to the crease between your ass and the top of your thigh, playing dangerously close to where he knows you need him most.

He can feel the heat radiating from you, beckoning him to closer, a beacon meant only for him. “You just gotta ask, Princess. I’m right here, waitin’.” 

“S-Sanemi —“

Without warning, Sanemi sits up, forcing you to scramble to lock your legs around him for support. He scoots to the edge of your bed, his grip on you firm, until his legs drape over its side. With you in his lap, he throws a steadying arm behind him as you sit perched atop his thigh.

“There. Wanted to see you properly.”

He traces the tip of his finger around the tightened bud of your right breast, just over your shirt, eyes bright and crinkled in amusement as you squirm.

It’s not enough; not nearly so.

With a wicked grin, he leans in, resuming his torturously slow exploration of your neck. Your reaction to him is instant, as you grind and squirm atop him, your fingers fisting at his hair. 

But, even he grows tired of this constant teasing. Impatient, he plants one hand at the base of your spine, pressing your body flush against his, while the other slides down your front, his fingers playing with the hem of your top. 

Right now, there’s only one thing – well, two things – he wants, and your damn shirt is getting in his way. 

The moment you shudder against him as his fingers brush the skin below your nazel is the moment he yanks your t-shirt up, revealing your peaked, aching breasts right to his hungry gaze.

He presses its hem to your lips. “Hold this.” 

Your pupils blow wide at the cockiness of his demand. Slowly, you part your lips and allow Sanemi to latch the bottom of your shirt between your teeth.

He gives you only a warning look, a stern narrowing of his eyes that says, don’t even think about dropping it, before he turns his attention back to your chest, pausing to whistle appreciatively at the sight of you, bare before him. 

In addition to being stuck with murderous cramps, one of the other terrible side effects of your period is how damn sore your breasts get. Often, you can hardly stand to wear a bra, the burning ache in your chest damn near unbearable. 

And there his mouth is, so close yet so far. The memory of just how expertly he’d navigated you the last time with his mouth makes your nipples stiffen, adds gasoline to the fire burning hotly in your lower belly. 

With a whimper, you thrust your chest toward him. 

“Oh?” Sanemi raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. Idly, his index finger traces a circle around your right nipple, followed by another. “Sensitive are we?” He smirks. “Looks like you’re achin’ for some attention, sweetheart.” 

His breath fans hotly across one of your stiff nipples, and you swear it throbs as Sanemi exhales against your skin again, teasing.

You could cry. Aching, indeed.

He smirks against your breast. “I can help with that.”

His lips part and Sanemi sucks your breast right into his mouth, groaning between sloppy, wet smacks of his mouth. The ache between your legs intensifies with every suck, every graze of his teeth and flick of his tongue.

“Pretty,” he hums against your nipple, and the vibrations from his mouth make your thighs clench together. He takes the breast not occupied by his mouth into his hand, lavishing it with the same worship as he gives the other, squeezing and rolling it until you’re whimpering over the mouthful of your shirt.

He pulls back, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips with your nipple that breaks when he speaks. “Prettiest I’ve ever fuckin’ seen, just like the rest of you.”

Sanemi’s mouth is wet and hot as it trails across your sternum, taking your other soft mound into mouth while his hand migrates to the other, his fingers swirling the saliva he’d left behind into your flesh. He pinches your nipple in time with the graze of his teeth over the one sucked between his lips.

It’s too much; the pulsing ache between your legs has grown too riotous, too incessant, and you’re desperate for relief. The muscles of his thigh notched between your legs flex like he knows; baiting you.

You fall for it, hook, line and sinker, just as he wanted, your hips beginning a tentative grind against his leg.

Drool leaks from the corner of your mouth as you find a steady pace, rocking and grinding against him. It soaks the fabric of your shirt as you fight to keep from loosening your jaw. Everything Sanemi is doing feels so fucking good, and you’ll be damned to mess that up for yourself.

There it is again — that familiar knot in your stomach, one that rapidly pulls tighter and tighter the more you circle and grind against his thigh. Through your lashes, you can see Sanemi’s gaze locked heatedly on your face, a ravenous hunger in his eyes.

“You gonna cum just from this, sweetheart?” Despite his attempt at derision, his voice is rougher than gravel. His hands latch around your hips, shifting you until you’re perched right over the rock-hard bulge that has formed beneath the seat of his pants. 

In answer, you grind even harder against him, riding him with abandon as your nails dig into his shoulders. Moaning, Sanemi wraps his lips back around your tender nipple, and soon, he’s bucking up into you with equal fervor, the two of you gasping into one another. 

The hand pressed to your ass squeezes, Sanemi pushing you harder into him. You might just come like this, grinding against his bulge, Sanemi, mouthing hotly at your swollen breasts, tugging and nipping at your skin with his teeth. Everything feels heightened, your senses overwhelmed by him and his mouth until you buzz with the need for more. The knot in your stomach tightens, tightens — 

The stiffened seam of his pants catches your clit at precisely the right angle, and you fall apart. The whine that vibrates in your throat is nothing short of pathetic; a keening little plea as you fist at his hair, pressing his face into your chest while you grind desperately into him.  Your orgasm sweeps over you, both a relief and a taunt; a hollow echo of the release you crave, the high he’d given you that night that you’d pathetically chased since without success.

Sanemi only sucks at you harder. He finally releases you when the last feeble wave washes through, when he feels the tension in your limbs, settle.

“God damn,” he says roughly, imparting a final few flicks of his tongue across your nipple. “That was fuckin’ beautiful.”

With a last, harsh suck, Sanemi’s mouth leaves your sore chest with a soft pop. You barely have time to push the dampened hemp of your shirt from your mouth before the muscles of his arms ripple and flex around you. In an instant, you’re back under him, caged against your mattress by his hulking mass.

It’s thrilling, how easily he manhandles you, his touch firm and assured. Yet, no matter how capable he is of throwing you around — no matter how easily he can overpower those ever bigger and meaner than you  — his gentleness with you never wavers.

Sanemi wastes no time guiding your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere over his shoulder. His mouth trails after his hands, and faster than you can blink, he rips your shorts down your legs, tossing them carelessly off the side of the bed. 

His fingers slide over the front of your underwear, circling. “There,” he marvels with a satisfied click of his tongue. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.” 

You don’t bother to tell him the wetness he feels might very well be from your period – after all, you’re wearing your speciality underwear, the kind that doesnt’ require you to wear tampons or pads. But you also don’t think Sanemi would care much either way, given how he continues circling your clit, savoring the way your legs spasm and jerk beneath him. 

Moaning, your thighs widen for him and Sanemi continues the languid turn of his fingers. You think he means to make you come again, and it’s embarrassing how quickly your body commits to that effort, but he pulls his hand away. 

Your whine needles some remorse out of him. He ducks to press a sweet kiss against your knee. “Be right back.” 

His weight on your bed lifts, and Sanemi quickly vanishes around the corner of the wall that blocks your bed from the view of the small hallway containing your bathroom, one cabined by your laughably tiny linen closet.

He reappears a few seconds later, one of your towels in hand.

“Hips up,” he orders, motioning for you to lift yourself from the mattress. Wide-eyed, you obey, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“For the record, I don’t care if we use a towel,” Sanemi tells you as he spreads it beneath you, creating a barrier between your body and your blankets. “I’d wash the sheets for ya once we finished. But if you prefer to use it, that’s fine by me.”

His hands guides you back down against the bed and linger once you settle, his fingers teasing along the jut of your hip. “But a period ain’t gonna stop me from helping my girl feel good.” He bends down to seal his promise with his lips against your thigh.

Off the side of your bed, Sanemi straightens, his movements easy and self-assured in every way you aren’t. Keeping his eyes locked with yours, he unbuckles his belt, the click of metal sending an electric current right between your legs. Wordlessly, he shucks his pants and briefs down his legs.

Your mouth runs dry; his cock looks somehow bigger, more imposing than it had that first night. Ramrod straight and leaking, the thick head of him smacking up against his abdomen. 

He pauses in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off his body, and yet he maintains the smallest distance between you, holding back just enough to drive you mad.

You want to snap at him; to demand he ease the fire he’d ignited in your blood, to touch you in that way only he knew. But your desire for him makes your mind blank, and though you know your vocabulary is better than most, you can’t remember the words necessary to form your demand.

For Sanemi’s part, his eyes are locked heatedly on your face, alight with the hint of a challenge; baiting you to see how long it will take before you crack. 

His voice is as coarse as gravel. “Come here.”

Normally, you’d balk at his attempts to order you around, and instead offer him some snappy retort or a petulant roll of your eyes. Here, however, Sanemi has the upper hand, and your need is too great to try and wrestle it back from him. 

Careful not to disturb the towel spread so carefully atop your mattress, you rise. Sanemi watches your every movement with a hunger he doubts can ever be fully sated. His fingers find yours, and slowly, he pulls you into him, your chest squishing lightly against his abdomen. 

You gaze up at him through heavy-lidded eyes as his hands slide over your hips, marveling at the silkiness of your skin. With a teasing languidness, he loops his fingers under the band of your underwear, one at a time. Slowly, he drags them down the length of your legs, lowering himself to his knees  as he slides it over your feet. All the while, his gaze remains locked with yours, pressing his lips reverently to the fleshy part above your knee while his hands run up and down your calves. 

Your scent makes his mouth water: a sweet musk, tinged with the faintest trace of iron, and utterly intoxicating. The temptation to lean in and taste the paradise between your thighs is strong, but Sanemi resists. Instead, he rises back to his full height with the same slowness as before, his nose nearly touching yours.  

His eyes drop to your mouth right as your tongue flicks out to wet your lips, and Sanemi descends upon you like a tidal wave.

“Fuck.” He growls, hand closing around the back of your neck as he jerks you forward and crashes his mouth down against yours.

Whatever remained of your self-doubt and uncertainty fizzles under the weight of his intensity.  All at once, you feel like the most alluring creature ever to grace the planet, a temptress worthy of the great epics gathering dust at the store. Sanemi’s kiss is feverish and urgent and all-consuming; he kisses you like a man parched, your lips his only salvation.

Eager hands wrap under your thighs and haul you up, up, up. Your gasp of surprise at your sudden weightlessness is swallowed up by Sanemi’s tongue sweeping into your mouth.  

Down the two of you fall, a breathless heap of tangled limbs and shared moans landing on your bed. This time, your legs part for him without his guidance, and Sanemi settles easily into the cradle of your thighs. 

Only your second time and already, your bodies are moving together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re drawing him in like a magnet, your body his North Star. 

What a fucking idiot he was, to not have realized it sooner.

Your kisses turn sloppy and he feels you draw your legs up, your knees braced against his sides. He hisses as his bare length grazes your wet center, the head radiating from you making him throb.  

He rubs his cock against your damp heat again and again, his nails biting into your sheets as he resists the urge to thrust forward before he’s properly lubricated for you. 

Beneath him, you tense. “N-now?” You squeak, your nails digging into his shoulders as he rubs himself against the slick heat of you.

He almost groans. “Yeah, now.” If he has to wait any longer, he might go insane.

“But — but — don’t you want a condom —?”

Sanemi scowls as he drags his tip up and down your slit before pressing against your entrance. Fuck no, he doesn’t.

“Shhh. What’d I say?” He quells your worrying with a mighty thrust of his hips. The coppery slickness of you mixed with your arousal means there’s no resistance, and so, Sanemi sheathes himself to the hilt inside you in a single, fluid movement. “Shut up and let me take care of you, yeah?”

You answer him with a high-pitched cry, one that almost borders a small scream, and he’s hard-pressed to restrain himself from joining you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sanemi grinds out. “Holy shit, sweetheart.”

He thought he’d been close to losing his mind that first time, but the feeling of you now, tighter and hotter than before, and so fucking wet, threatens to untether him from reality all together.

In fact, he realizes as his hips begin moving on their own, he’s likely already lost control. He begins with slow, shallow thrusts, but his movements quickly melt into hard, deep rolls of his hips that are little more than base instinct. He is driven only by the need for more, to push himself as deep as he can possibly go until the two of you fuse together as one.

You’re writhing beneath him, toes curling against your mattress, too overwhelmed by the feeling of him being buried inside you. Not that Sanemi is faring much better. It’s taking him a surprising amount of self-restraint to keep himself from coming right then, too lost in the heaven of your body. 

Amazed that he’s still able to form a coherent thought, he manages to ask, “You still on that pill?”

He has no intentions of using condoms ever again, not after experiencing the euphoria that is your bare pussy. But your answer will determine where he comes.

He feels you nod as your teeth catch his bottom lip, beseeching him for a kiss he’s only happy to oblige. He grunts into you, a needy, guttural sound as he works to set his pace. “You want me to pull out?”

You pause for a moment and then with wide eyes, you slowly shake your head.

Sanemi smiles against your mouth. “Good. Me neither.”

Sure, his rule against having children while still entrenched within the Corps’ operations threatens to go up in smoke, but you’re on birth control. And, as he’s learned, he can’t follow rules for shit when it comes to you.

He nudges your head to the side, burying his face against the exposed length of your neck.

“Jesus Christ,” he inhales deeply, mouth pressed to your skin. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

For the past week, his body has been rebelling against him, too restless to sleep, to think, to do anything but roar its discontent with him. But here, buried to the hilt inside you as he is, a calmness trickles through his veins, steadying him, bringing him back into himself.

He should’ve known, he thinks as he rolls his hips with yours, working to set his pace. It’s you. It has always been you.

Beneath him, you fare no better, just as overwhelmed by your reunion with his body as he is with yours. That burning stretch is still there, just as it had been that first night, but it’s nowhere near as sharp as it had been then. Still, it takes a moment to adjust to his intrusion, despite how ready you’d been to receive him. After all, Sanemi is on the larger end of the scale; not that you have anything in particular to compare him to. But his cock is a little longer than the length of your hand, and thick. 

And god, does he know how to use it. No wonder he’s so insufferably smug all the time. He’d earned his bragging rights a hundred times over.

You’re both panting, his forehead pressed to yours as your noses bump together. Your fingers twist in his hair, desperate to find an anchor the more Sanemi threatens to to send you over the edge of your sanity.

You try, bless you, to meet his movements, your hips tentatively jerking to meet his thrusts, to help him plunge deeper.

Your effort makes him melt. “Just let me do all the work, sweetheart.” He coos, pressing you firmly into your bed, limiting your movements with his weight. “You ain’t gotta do a thing but take it.”

Truth be told, Sanemi is dreaming of the day you’ll ride him. In addition to reminiscing how fucking good your pussy tastes, Sanemi also hasn’t been able to stop thinking about how you will look perched atop him, your hips rolling and dropping frantically against his, tits bouncing. But right now, you’re the one who needs to be taken care of, and he’s more than happy (if not downright insistent) that he’s the man for the job.

You give into him easily, sinking into the mattress and letting your legs spread wider, relaxed. Sanemi smothers his throaty hum of approval into your neck, sucking and biting his claim into your skin.

The air between you grows thick with the scent of iron and sex, clouding his head and further loosening whatever hold he pretends to have over the monstrous, feral thing inside him. The one that only wants to pin you down and take you harder, rougher, until you can’t fathom being anything else but his.

He’s only able to cling onto that last bit of self-control because he’s so focused on you, all too aware of your limits. Those big, watery eyes of yours are pools he can drown in, and the wobble in your lower lip as he hits deeper nearly drives him insane. God, he can’t believe he denied himself of this for so long – of you, of the privilege of taking care of you, of making you cry out his name and beg for more.  

“God, you’re perfect.” He moans out in praise. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.” 

Though it’s only your second time, your bodies slide together like it’s the most natural thing in the world; easier than breathing. You are an extension of him as much as he is of you, and he can’t even chalk it up to his eye for detail. The observations he’d made of you last time had nothing to do with survival. It was instinctual. Sanemi hadn’t needed to work to memorize you; he’d known you the second your skin met his. 

It’s this familiarity that guides him now, Sanemi’s lips and teeth and hands finding every spot that makes you moan, gasp, bite your lip until it nearly bleeds while you scratch at him and urge him closer. 

Though he’s admittedly half-fucked out of his mind with euphoria as you clench and pulse around him, Sanemi does note that some of your uncertainty toward your own body has returned. Your hands drift from his hair to his face before dropping to clutch at his shoulders. As Sanemi’s movements gain momentum, making you bounce against the mattress, your nails lightly – hesitantly – crest into his skin.

He chuckles against the shell of your ear. “You can cling to me as much as you want, darlin’. I don’t mind.” He rolls his hips more purposefully this time, the arm around your waist tightening, forcing you to arch harder into him. “I’ll take good care of my girl.”

His knees shift forward and Sanemi pulls back to study you. It’s hard to know where to rest his eyes; you look fucking incredible under him like this, hair fanned out, framing your head like a halo; your breasts, peaked and mouthwateringly full, bouncing perfectly in time with his movements.

But it’s your face that catches his attention; the way you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, coupled with how your inner walls flex around him, as though in answer, your pupils blown wide with desire.

His free arm pushes under your knee and your pretty mouth falls open at deepening the reach of his cock. “You like it when I call you that, huh? My girl.”

Tears cling to your eyelashes. You manage only a hurried, jerky nod of your head, incapable of making any sound more intelligent than a few whimpers.

“Yeah?” And he pins you down harder into the mattress with a snarl, his arm pressing your leg nearly to your shoulders. “Good, ‘cause you are.” 

The lewd squelching of Sanemi’s cock bullying relentlessly against your swollen, aching walls grows louder. He untangles his arm from under your leg to move above your head, bracing his weight on his fist where it’s balled into the mattress. He uses his new position to increase the force of his thrusts, his legs straightening out behind him, his feet digging into the bed as he draws his cock nearly all the way out of your heat, before plunging right back in.

“And this is all mine, too, isn’t it?” A free hand wedges between your bodies, Sanemi slapping lightly at your clit. You cry out as he repeats the action again, but when he presses down at the next contact of his fingers and circles them, a howl of his name rips free.

He tucks his dark chuckle into your throat, his teeth nipping just above where your pulse flutters. “Yeah, it is. ‘Cuz you’re my girl. My good fuckin’ girl.”

Your cunt clenches around him in steady pulses, every fleck of your slick warmth fogging his brain. It’s unreal, the way you respond to the filth pouring from his mouth. It nearly drives him insane; here he is, someone who has only ever known hell, yet he’s managed to steal away his own piece of heaven. 

Rough fingers tighten around your hip, pulling you harder to meet him. Sheer desire may have clouded his head in those first moments, his delight in getting to have you making him over-eager to get you naked, but the fog is rapidly dissipating. Instead, as he moves, Sanemi’s dizzying pleasure becomes edged by solemnity. 

Sure, sex has always been an easier way to work through emotions he wasn’t allowed to feel, but that sort of self-distraction can’t fly anymore. Not with you; not when you mean everything.

He was your first and he wants to be your last. Your only.

None of this is temporary; he hadn’t told you he was all in until he got bored, or until one of the thousand reasons couples break up came along to give him the first pass to skip town. He didn’t attach any strings to that key. You need to know. You need to know how fucking serious he is about this. You. 

But in case any ambiguities remain, let him clear them up now.

“Can’t believe I wasted all that fuckin time on the others when I could’ve had you. You used to smile at me, you remember that?” Sanemi draws his hips back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside before slamming back into you. “When we were in school. Used to make me go dumb in the head when ya did.”

The wet, sticky squelching where your bodies connect only grows louder as Sanemi increases his pace. “And then I’d see you smile at others and it drove me nuts. But then I realized you were smilin’ special for me — and not just because you were bein’ polite. You meant it.”

He tucks his head into the crook of your neck, his mouth sucking a harsh bruise into your skin that he soothes with his tongue. “Should’ve made you mine back then.” He growls, and below him, you tense. “Should’ve made you my girl and taken you far away from here. Might’ve even become a better man, if I had. I would’ve, if I’d known. That you were fuckin’ made for me — fuck!” Sanemi throws his head back as you squeeze tighter around him.

He drops his gaze back down to your face. Though your eyes are glassy with pleasure, there’s recognition there, an understanding that parts your lips as the weight of his words settles.

I would’ve wanted you, then. 

Judging by the dent that appears between your eyebrows, he knows his silent confession isn’t lost on you, even as a sharp cry tears from your throat. 

Sanemi leans down and kisses you, roughly, in confirmation. “And I don’t just mean your body,” he breaks away from your lips with a pant. “You were fuckin’ made for me. Wish I’d known it back then.”

He gives a sharp twist of his hips on his next plunge in, making you bow away from the bed and into him with a cracked moan. But Sanemi lets his weight press you right back down, your bodies rolling together as one.

There’s a limberness to your body that hadn’t been there that first time; a relaxedness in your limbs now that you know what to expect, one that has you opening your thighs a little wider, an invitation for him to hit deeper that he’s only too happy to accept. 

“Oh fuck — that’s it, baby. Yes.” He can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed by the way his voice strains as he shouts, “Fuck!”

As tight as you’d been when he’d first entered you, nothing compares to the way you’re squeezing his cock, now. You’ve sharpened the arch in your spine, smushing your breasts into his chest as you offer him to take more and more. So firm is the hold of your body over his, that Sanemi finds it increasingly difficult to thrust, and he resigns himself instead to holding hard by the hips and grinding. 

A too familiar tingle at the base of his spine prickles. He going to come and soon, and that’s unacceptable. His entire sexual history has been predicated on two rules: no unprotected encounters and no cumming before his partner.

He’d thrown the first rule to the wind with enthusiastic ease; but he’ll be damned if he starts reneging on the second. Not when he’s promised to take care of you.

Sanemi’s hand unlatches from its place above your hip to push between your bodies. Your eyes roll back into your head and your jaw goes slack when his thumb finds your aching clit and swirls, coaxing you to relax into the bed and ease some of your iron-tight grip.

“S — San —“ you try, but whatever thought you’re trying to string together dies in your throat under a keening wine as Sanemi shallowly thrusts into you.

He grits his teeth. Not enough; he’s still too damn close. His balls have become painfully tight, and the electric prickle he feels has bled into his stomach, forming a know that’s becoming tauter by the second.

He won’t be able to hold off for much longer.

“C’mere, baby.” He manages with a croak. “Need ya to cum for me.” And with some remorse, he withdraws his hand. It joins the other in smoothing down the sides of your thighs, bending each leg at your knee. “Keep ‘em up. I’m gonna get real deep, okay?” 

He anchors himself against your sheets and settles. The adjustment pushes him deeper inside your warmth and a small moan escapes your mouth. Sanemi begins rocking into you, gentle at first, but gradually faster. “Might feel a bit strange, but I need ya to trust me. I’ll take care of you.” 

Knees nearly to your chest, you nod. Tentative whimpers soon melt into steady cries that pace with his movements. Before long, your hips are rolling up and away from the bed with his, your toes curling in the air.

The hand he has braced next to your head fists at your sheets. This new position means you’re even tighter than before, and the extra slickness from your period has him bumping up against all the right places in record time. 

Below, you squirm and claw at him, but your moans only grow louder as Sanemi continues to reach deeper within your swollen, tender walls, searching for the spot he knows will have you unraveling.

“S-Sanemi,” you whine, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his back

“I know you’re feelin’ sensitive, baby, but you’ll feel better if you cum. Can you do that for me?”

Eager to ease you into agreement, he rewards you with a trail of slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. The knot in his stomach tightens, but Sanemi resists; his self-control used to be a source of pride, and he’s determined to cling onto whatever thread of it remains.

Thankfully, you flutter and clench around him, a broken moan lilting out of you in answer.

Relief courses through him. “Yes, baby — that’s it. Shit.” His eyes squeeze shut and he focuses on the sharp sting of your nails raking down his back, willing the pain to ground him as he fights off his own orgasm. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

He hasn’t dared forget how it feels when you’re at your breaking point; sweet, slick walls pulsing and clenching wildly around him, every muscle in your body strung tight as you wait for that coil in your gut to spring.

It’s all he’s thought about for the last eleven days.

And when you confirm with a jerky, frantic nod, Sanemi leans in and presses his lips to your forehead. “Let’s make it a big one, yeah?”

Without waiting for a response, Sanemi drops his head to the pillow below. Slowly, he allows his weight to sink into you, pushing him further into your warmth. You cry out when his tip kisses a spot deep within you, a slight tinge of pain sparking through your lower abdomen that intensifies when he hits it again and again. Your nails rake down his back and tears well hot and fast in your eyes as Sanemi begins rutting hard and fast into you, no sound leaving your mouth but a series of strangled, choked gasps.

It hurts, the way he hammers away at that spot. You can’t deny it. But it also feels so fucking incredible that you can’t fathom him stopping now. Ever.

He churns harshly with every brutal snap of his hips, the coarse, rough hairs of his base scraping right against your clit, until that coil behind your navel cinches impossibly tight.

“Sanemi —“ you squeak, but nothing else follows, save a single, choked gasp.

It’s over and he knows it.

“Go on, sweetheart.” His voice husky and warm, murmuring in your ear. “Show me who you belong to.”

That’s all it takes; with a guttural gasp, you seize around him like a vice. Your limbs tense even as a warmth bursts deep from within your stomach. 

Your first orgasm with him had been powerful; this one is a cataclysm.

Climax rips through you like a hurricane; an explosion of pleasure that fractures you apart, shatters you into hundreds of fractals that all sing one name until your throat burns. 

Sanemi only fucks you harder.

Everything falls away; the industrial iron piping on your ceiling, the faint golden glow of the fairy lights woven around your headboard, even the rough fabric of the towel spread beneath you. All of it fades to white as you freefall into an endless ocean that’s precisely the color of the eyes you love most. 

Thick fingers close around your jaw, urging your face towards his. Far away, in the deep throes of your own ecstasy, you hear his soft whisper of your name, a string tugging you through the waves. You follow it all the way back to where you lie, sandwiched between your bed and his body. Through pleasure-bleary eyes, you find him watching you with a hunger that only intensifies the harder you come around him.

Somehow, despite the fact he has now seen every inch of your undressed body, the way his eyes hold yours has you feeling stripped to the bone. Beneath his ravenous, dark gaze, you are flayed open, no part of you left hidden. Truly naked. 

He has to see it, you think even as you continue to wail his praise. He has to, spread beneath him as you are. He has to know every corner of you bears his name. 

A brutal snap of his hips sends Sanemi’s cock right into that wonderfully painful place, your back arching hard off the bed as another great wave picks you up and slams you against the shore that is him. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as you continue to sob from the force of your orgasm until finally, the tide recedes, sending you plummeting back to the mess of blankets below.

Sanemi’s arms catch you before you land. 

He lets your legs drop from his shoulders and replaces them with your arms. Though limp, you manage to summon your residual strength to tighten your hold around his neck, clinging to him.

Satisfied, no longer does Sanemi try and hold back his ragged moans and grunts as he chases his release. Not that he’d given much of a shit about it before, but Sanemi finds that he really can’t muster one now.

His hands curl around the edge of your mattress above your head, Sanemi using his grip for leverage, deepening the reach of his cock until he can’t tell where you end and he begins.

“Oh fuck — oh fuck —“ Sanemi can’t stop the filth pouring from his mouth as the familiar prickle at the base of his spine grows hotter, more electric. 

He’s going hard; the entire bed creaks and rocks with the force of his movements, the bedposts rhythmically knocking up against your wall with pronounced thumps.  “Fuck, I’m gonna come — baby, I’m gonna come —“

Beneath him, your moans have resumed though they now carry the faint cadence of a whimper. Somewhere, in the back of his pleasure-addled mind, Sanemi knows you’re probably overstimulated, but his pace only increases. He can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop, not when he’s so fucking close, not when it’s been so fucking long —

Unintentionally, you graze the raised skin of his brand, and Sanemi tosses his head back, hissing in approval. More, he wills, fucking into you harder. Do it more, carve your own claim into him. The Corp’s mark doesn’t mean shit to him, now.

Whether you understand the bruising demands of his hips or whether you’re simply reacting to their quick, hard snaps, you comply, your hands raking down his spine, Another powerful thrust throws your arm up his back, and you fumbles for purchase right in the dip between his shoulders.  

Gasping, you sink your nails right into his mark, and Sanemi loses control. 

With one last mighty push of his hips, Sanemi comes undone with a roar, his balls flush against your ass as his climax slams into him.

A strangled cry of your name is all he can manage before stars explode behind his eyelids. His jaw slackens, and his lower body moves on its own, his hips canting as his release barrels through him and into you, hot and thick. He’d sworn the first time he finished in you had been the hardest he’d ever came in his life. But then, your legs jerk around his waist, your shins locking together at the base of his spine as your thighs squeeze his hips, and his vision goes white.  

For someone who has spent most of his sexually active years doggedly refusing to consider the idea of barebacking any of his former partners, Sanemi has a bitch of a time trying to remember why that is. Because nothing, not a goddamn thing at all, will ever compare to this. 

Below him, you begin to mewl and whine, your hands clawing lightly at his chest in an effort to push him away. A voice blooms in the back of his head, a faint reminder that you’re likely overstimulated to the point of discomfort.

But it just feels too fucking good.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m still —“ Sanemi struggles against the deep groan vibrating in his throat as he continues to fuck you through his release. “Not — ngh — not done yet —“

He shifts, allowing his full weight to sink into you and still your squirming. He pushes your arms away from him, his hands wrapping around your biceps, pinning you down in place.

If you truly wanted him off, Sanemi would have obeyed, regardless of how badly he wanted to finish coming inside you. But though he has you held down, you still manage to rock your hips with his, your walls pulsing around him as his cum continues to fill you.

His cock twitches one last time, leaving Sanemi lightheaded and trembling as he finally finishes spending himself in you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he drops his forehad against yours, panting. “You got me fuckin’ shaking.” 

He unlatches his grip from your biceps in favor of bracing his forearms against your mattress, mindful to ease his full weight off you. Your fingers sweep through his hair, your other hand resting against the side of his neck, scratching at him until his eyes flutter open to reveal you craning your head up, a silent request for his kiss.

Sanemi obliges, and once he starts, he can’t stop. He doesn’t break the connection of your lips even as he pulls out, soothing your responding wince with a flick of his tongue. He stretches out on his side next to you, no room between your bodies as his arm nestles in the valley between your breasts, his hand cupping your cheek, kissing you all the while.

He lays with you like that for several moments until wetness graces his cheeks. Sanemi pulls back to see tears sliding down your face, more clinging to your eyelashes like tiny, glittering jewels. 

Worry, hot and frantic, surges in his gut. “Hey, hey,” he kisses away the tracks staining your cheeks. “Was that okay? Was I too rough?”

You shake your head, turning it away from him to face your ceiling, your hand wiping tiredly at your eyes. “Not at all. I feel better – so much better. Less achy.” You roll your head back toward him, your eyes still watery but bright. “It’s just that – that was so fucking good. I didn’t expect it.”

That does little to assuage some of his concern. “What, it wasn’t good last time?”

You roll your eyes. “Not what I’m saying. I mean, I know I’m more sensitive than usual on my period. I’ve used toys before to help, but nothing has ever reduced me to tears from how good it felt.”

Instantly, his anxiety is washed away with a surge of pride that wells in his chest; a smugness that comes from the knowledge he’d fucked you so well you cried, but he keeps his boasts to himself.

Instead, Sanemi snorts. “Told ya I’d take care of you.”

You click your tongue, fidgeting as another gush of his cum leaks out of you. “Feels like you needed to be taken care of, too.”

“Haven’t jacked off in almost a week. Too much shit goin’ on.” He frowns before adding, “Plus, you’re all I wanted. My hand couldn’t compare to you.”

You roll your head back to face your ceiling, your eyes sliding closed and a blissful smile spreading across your lips. A smile that makes Sanemi’s own mouth part, his eyes growing wide, his cheeks, warm.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to your beauty.

Sanemi settles back down next to you, his body slightly lower on the bed than yours. He remains on his side, eyes tracing every detail of your serene expression as he presses kisses along your bare shoulder.

Moments pass, or maybe hours, and still, Sanemi does not tear his eyes away from you. Eventually, your breathing slows under his adoring gaze, and Sanemi knows you’re moments away from sleep.

He whispers your name and you crack an eye open. “You feel up for a shower?”

Sleepily, you nod, but you make no effort to rise from the plush comfort of your bed.

Sanemi sighs through his nose. “Need some help?”

“My legs don’t work anymore.” You can’t hold back your giggle as you roll to watch Sanemi shake his head at you before rising, his hand rumpling his hair. The blankets fall away from his lower hips, giving you a premium view of the world-class ass of Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you can’t help but smirk at the faint, red crescent marks dotting his skin, left behind by your nails. But the remnants of your post-sex haze dissipate the moment Sanemi and turns back to you, revealing the extent of the mess you’d left behind.

You blanch; his groin and cock are both covered in a sticky redness, a residue of your period blood mixed with both your cum and his.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Your hands flail as you try and wipe away all traces of blood from his groin and his softening cock, desperate to erase the evidence before he can see, before he can be disgusted by it, by you —

“Hey, hey — watch it —“ he growls as you brush your hand against his overly-sensitive cock. Sanemi’s hand snatches your wrist away from him, halting you mid-air. “Cut it out.”

Your cheeks burn with shame. “But —“

“Will ya stop worrying about it?” His fingers loosen around your wrist, and you retract your arm. “Look — see —“

Sanemi swipes his own hand through the mess you’d left behind and holds it up, your blood smeared on his fingers. “I don’t give a fuck. Kinda hot, actually.”

There is a mess of pink between your thighs, a combination of crimson mixed with his white that leaks out of you, staining your skin and the towel beneath you. He knows he’s wanton because he can’t stop thinking about how fucking pretty your pussy is. 

Especially when it’s covered with him.

His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Definitely hot. And you’re gonna let me have a taste next time.”

Your thighs press together at the very obvious hunger in his stare. “Sorry my period interfered with your oral fixation.”

“Didn’t interfere with shit. When I say ‘next time’ I mean, next time you’re on it.”

You gape at him. “You’re not serious –”

“Very.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Sanemi, it’ll be bloody –”

“I told you, I don’t give a shit. Only reason I didn’t do it tonight was ‘cuz I was worried you might stroke out.” He shoots you a naughty wink. “I’m still breakin’ you in, after all.”  

The smugness in his tone ignites a fire in your cheeks, but before you can respond, the bed and blankets disappear from beneath you.

“C‘mon,” Sanemi grunts as he gathers you up in his arms. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

—

There is a stark contrast between sleeping with Sanemi Shinazugawa and showering with him. 

Moments before, he’d been committed to fucking you senseless, seemingly not satisfied until you were reduced to a soggy, pleasure-drunk mess, only capable of gasping his name in stilted syllables. 

None of that ferocity is present here, under the warm spray of the shower. Instead, Sanemi’s touch is soft, almost hesitant, as his arms encircle you, locking you in against his chest. His hand finds your face, and then his lips, and you melt into him. His kiss is not the passionate, possessive clash of tongue and teeth that it had been only moments before; this time, it is gentle. Chaste.

Any doubts which might have lingered in you as to the status of your relationship with him are quickly washed away, sliding down your legs with the water before mixing with the bubbles that slip down the drain. This is not a speck of softness marooned among an oasis of lust; this is not a temporary moment of affection between two people desperate to know it. 

This is intimacy.

It is tenderness which warms Sanemi’s eyes as his mouth breaks from yours, that turns them into twin pools of amethyst as he brushes a wet strand of your hair away from your face. It’s adoration; a vulnerability he’d never dare show to just a hookup. This — he — is meant for you and you alone. And it is that silent understanding which passes between you that your hand moves to lay against his cheek, parrroting his gentle touch. And it is what makes you surge up boldly on your toes, your mouth slanting over his once more.

—-

By the time Sanemi wrenches your bathroom door open sometime later, allowing the steam from the shower to billow out into the open area of your studio, both of your fingers have turned wrinkly. He wagers you would’ve stayed in there longer, had your hot water supply not run out, your shower head dousing you both with water he reckons was dangerously close to freezing. 

He’s the first to step out, though only because your bathroom is laughably small. He’s lucky the two of you managed to stand comfortably in your tub, but he doesn’t think that good fortune extends to you both drying off in the narrow space between your toilet, counter, and tub. Better he peel away now, and avoid starting a fight because you can’t mind your elbows.

Sanemi pads back to the bathroom, towel looped around his waist. “Took care of the towel on the bed. Threw it in the wash.” On cue, you hear the familiar click of your washing machine as it settles into its cycle. “Nothin’ got on your sheets, but I know some people can be picky. You okay sleeping on ‘em?”

“It’s fine,” you call from the bathroom. “Can you do me a favor? Top drawer of my dresser — there’s a row of black underwear. Throw me a pair?”

He returns a moment later, smirking as you hover in your bathtub, wrapped in an overlarge towel, waiting for him to bring you your panties. Like some internal code of decency prevents you from traipsing around your apartment in your towel like he does, even though he’s seen every inch of your body.

You emerge from the bathroom a moment later, still wrapped in your towel, right as Sanemi fishes something dark from its place on your floor.

He tosses his shirt to you. “You can wear that to bed, if you want. Not that you’ll hear me complain if you decide to sleep naked.” He shoots you a wink as he towels his hair. Pride wells in his chest at the sight of you slipping his tee over your head, and it soothes that hot, possessive streak within him. “Hope you don’t mind if I do, though. I’m not big on puttin’ dirty clothes back on after I’ve showered.” 

“You’re —?” The surprise in your tone stills his hands, and he lifts his head. “Are you staying?” 

Sanemi quirks an eyebrow at you. He’d thought it obvious he was, given the shower and how you’re now wearing his shirt. He studies you for a moment, notes how your hands twist together and the anxious shift of your weight from foot to foot.

A sudden sobriety settles over him. Of course; you’ve said you’d never been in a relationship before, which means all of this — having him over, showering with you, and sleeping in your bed — is brand new. As ready and committed as he is to you, perhaps this is all too much, too fast. It’s only natural for you to want to hit the brakes; to feel out this unfamiliar road. 

“I don’t have to.” Embarrassment creeps up his neck. “We can slow this down, if that’s what you want. I’m not in any rush.”

Dumbass, he chides at himself. Granted, this is new territory for him as well. He at least thought his years of rotating partners in and out of his bed would’ve meant he had some tact, but here he is, jumping the gun. 

Your eyes widen in alarm. “N-no! That’s not what I meant. I want you to stay -- I do. I just didn’t want you to think you had to.” 

He can see how your cheeks darken as he draws near, can see the bob of your throat as you keep your eyes firmly glued to his, a concerted effort to keep from looking down, as though you haven’t seen, touched, felt every inch of his nudity. 

A small smirk settles at the corner of his mouth. 

Silently, Sanemi takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, keeping your face tilted up towards his. He leans in and feels your eyelashes flutter against his nose in anticipation of his kiss. 

Only millimeters separate your lips when he pauses. “Who else is gonna slobber all over me ‘til I fall asleep?”

Your eyes fly open. “Y-you—! I —!” 

He silences your indignant sputtering with a quick peck to your lips. “Yeah, I’m stayin’. That key wasn’t just some empty gesture, idiot.”

You smack his chest half-heartedly, but laugh as you kiss him again. “Just get back in bed. I’ll make tea.” 

Sanemi steps back with a cheeky smirk and lets his towel drop to the floor. “Yes ma’am.”

He must know your eyes are glued to his ass as he walks away, for he offers you a little wiggle as he retreats back to your bed.

“Don’t forget to pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart.” He calls smoothly over his shoulder, focused on meticulously peeling back the covers of your bed, layer by layer. “Can’t make tea if you’re drooling everywhere.”

Rolling your eyes, you disappear behind the half wall of your kitchenette. Maybe you should kick him out, naked ass and all. 

Out in the main area, Sanemi has settled back into bed, his arms folded behind his head.

“There’s another reason it took me so long to see you, you know,” Sanemi stares up at the black pipes striped across the high ceilings of your apartment as you busy yourself with the kettle in the kitchen. “I went to see my brother.”

“Genya?” You poke your head out from the doorway. You disappear only when the kettle beeps, mugs clinking together as you pull them from one of your cabinets.

“Yeah.”

You reemerge a moment later, two steaming cups of tea clutched delicately in each hand. “He doesn’t live with you, right? He’s someplace far from here?”

Carefully, you set the mugs on your small bedside table. You crawl back into bed beside him, Sanemi’s arms opening to allow you to settle in against him, your head coming to rest against his pectoral.

“He’s enrolled in a boys’ boarding school.” He puffs his chest out in pride. “A damn good one, too.”

Boarding school. You’d known that Genya attended school in another city, and spent most of his time there at Sanemi’s insistence, but you’d assumed he’d had his brother stay with a friend or a local family.

Now, you think of Sanemi, with his patched-up leather jacket and worn boots; of the apartment you know he keeps in the Silo that he never lets you visit, and try and square that with the Sanemi who pays for his brother’s private education. “Do I want to know how you manage to afford boarding school tuition?”

“He’s on scholarship — wasn’t hard to get, considering our family’s finances. Found the proof easily enough.” Sanemi stares off into the empty space of your apartment with a shrug. “But I also started saving as soon I started makin’ money. The minute I had enough put aside, I sent Genya away. Paid for his uniforms and school stuff. I send him cash every month now so he can do extracurriculars and shit. I want ‘im socializing. The more friends he makes, the more connections he’s got.”

Sanemi’s voice then softens. “The more chance that he’ll stay far away from here, y’know?”

You trace your index finger along one of the jagged, silvery scars that cuts across his chest. “Was this before or after your father died?”

“Tch. After.” Sanemi snorts. “The old man’s death was never reported to the cops, so there ain’t a death certificate for him. I forged his signature on the transfer paperwork.” He thinks before adding, “had someone I know get me the paperwork to become Genya’s legal guardian, once I hit eighteen. Not like it changed all that much. It’s always been me ‘n him, even before our old man bit it.”

A year ago, you hadn’t imagined Sanemi Shinazugawa was capable of anything other than brash self-service. He’d been so good at pretending to care about nothing, acting as if the only thing keeping him tethered to this world was a heart that refused to quit beating.

Time and again, Sanemi has proven that his actions are far louder than even his most obnoxious words. While he shrouds himself in arrogance, it’s a cloak that’s flimsy, at best. Once again, all it takes is a little effort, a little more initiative, to see what lies beneath it. 

Under the beast’s mask lies the endless beauty that makes up Sanemi Shinazugawa: all his selflessness, all his fierce love and devotion. So gentle, so pure, and so worthy of the love he won’t let himself believe he deserves.

Emotion prickles behind your eyes. As if anyone on earth could be more worthy than him. 

“‘Sides, I like havin’ someone to fuss after. Reminds me that some part of me is still human.” He continues, oblivious to the way your throat works to swallow around the lump lodged in your airways. “Now, I’ve got two people I get to care about.”

His hand holds up yours and he turns it over in his palm, admiring the shape of your fingers; the softness of your skin. He smiles and it’s the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. “I’m pretty fuckin’ lucky, if you ask me. All things considered.”

Your silence shakes him out of his indulgent appreciation of your hand. But when his eyes find yours again, it’s his turn to be stunned silent. 

You’re doing it again — looking at him as though he is the sun; such adoration feels nearly impossible to accept, especially by someone like him.

And yet, he wants to try; for you, he’d try anything.

For a long moment, the two of you hold each other’s gaze, neither daring to break the bubble that’s formed over your heads. What passes between you has a name, and both of you know it. It’s what slipped off your tongue that first night together, the confession whose weight you could no longer bear. 

It remains unspoken, for now, but it’s there. Both of you know it; both of you feel it.

“I think the tea has cooled.” You murmur shyly. But you make no effort to reach for it, so neither does he. Instead, Sanemi leans forward and presses his lips softly against yours.

He can’t get enough of kissing you. This small act of intimacy was one he’d always left confined to the bedroom. Something he only ever did in the heat of the moment, when clothes were being shed, or when his hand was wound in someone’s hair, wrenching their head back to tease their lips with his as he pounded into them from behind.

Not since he was a teenager has he kissed anyone for kissing’s sake.

And he’d certainly never had anyone of his own to kiss whenever he wanted; with whom he could give into his desire for physical affection. But now that he’s tasted your lips, Sanemi finds he cannot get enough.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time doesn’t seem to matter here, wrapped up in each other, kissing and talking and being together. As tired as you are, you can’t fathom falling asleep now. 

Chin propped on his upper abdomen, you reach for him. Your fingers brush through his bangs, and Sanemi’s head bows into your touch. His hand smooths up and down your spine, charting your skin. 

Your head suddenly lifts up, a playful smile on your pretty lips. “What do I call you now, anyways? You never answered.”

Sanemi’s fingers pause their lazy exploration of your back. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean this. Us.”

A dent appears between his brows. “I’m your fuckin’ boyfriend. What else?”

That smirk widens into a full, teasing grin. The mirth in your eyes is beautiful, but Sanemi can’t help but feel like you’re making a joke he’s not in on. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just — you don’t seem like the type to care about labels, that’s all. In fact, I thought you’d be against them.” 

Sanemi’s tone turns indignant. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I want a label?” 

“I don’t know.” You reply drily. “Maybe I assumed you didn’t want your bad boy image to take a hit.”

“What fuckin’ bad boy image —?”

You settle your head back down against him, your lashes tickling above his abdomen. That faint smile lingers for a second longer, but it disappears when you twist to press a kiss against his skin.  

Instantly, Sanemi’s griping quiets and his knuckle ghosts over the curve of your cheek. For a moment, he studies you. He traces over every detail of your face, as though you’re nothing more than a fleeting indulgence. Like he needs to savor you, before someone comes and plucks you away. 

“It’s weird, y’know?” His fingers play absently with the damp ends of your hair. “‘M not used to going to sleep with anyone. My bed’s always cold.”

You snort against his chest. “That’s not what the rumors said.”

“I didn’t let them spend the night,” you can hear the faint defensiveness in his tone. “Didn’t even cuddle with ‘em, either.”

“Yes, I heard you were quite the gentleman,” you reply airily. “Gave them just enough time to get dressed before you pushed them out the door.”

He chuffs. “You’re makin’ me sound like some sorta player.” 

“Name one person you’ve slept with besides me.” 

He taps his finger to the tip of your nose. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” He tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “And besides, there’s only one who matters.” 

This time, it’s you who flushes, heat pooling in your cheeks. “You don’t have to seduce me. You’ve already talked your way into bed with me.”

“You’re the one who cornered me, Princess.” Sanemi counters. “In fact, you were pretty damn insistent about it. You haven’t seen all the ways I know how to seduce a woman — not yet, anyway.”

“Oh?” Your hand teases down the length of his torso, your fingers pausing just at the edge of the blanket, where it’s pulled over his lower half. Lightly, you drag your nail over his skin, and Sanemi bites his tongue to keep his hips from twitching under your touch. “Care to share with the class?”

“I might.” And he snatches your hand by the wrist, stilling you before you can sneak below the blanket and start something he knows you can’t finish. “But I think you’d prefer it if I showed you.”

Your giggles are intoxicating as he flips you back under him, his lips peppering your skin with kisses everywhere he can reach. 

It’s incredible; he’s never felt so at ease with another. But the weight of his choice soon settles over him once more, and his face turns serious.

“I can’t be here every night,” and there’s something like regret in his eyes as they search yours, and the thumb stroking your cheek feels repentant. “My…job won’t let me be, as much as I might want to.”

His expression darkens. “And I don’t want to risk anyone following me. No —“

“No patterns,” you finish with a small, understanding smile. “I didn’t think that part would change, even if you decided to come back.”

“It’s not fair to you,” Sanemi admits, his mouth thinning into a hard line. “Nothin’ about this is fair to you. I can’t take you out on dates. We can’t move in  together. I can’t even see you everyday. I—.”

He cuts himself off with a sign, and the hand that was playing with your hair falls to your back and stills. “I don’t blame you if you decide it’s too much. I told you, you deserve better —“

A press of your finger against his lips stifles his self-loathing. “And I told you, I don’t want anyone else.”

Sanemi’s hand closes around your wrist and he presses your hand more fully to his mouth, but he does not speak.

“I told you how I felt about you, and I meant it.” And then, you add more quietly, “I know what I signed up for.”

He winces at that. “No,” he reaches to stroke your cheek with his knuckle. 

“No, you don’t. I know you think you do — and I’m gonna do my damnedest to keep you far away from my shit — but there are risks to bein’ with me, Y/N.”

Risks he never should’ve brought to your door to begin with.

“Like what, to my safety?” The bluntness of your words is softened by the inquisitive tilt of your head. “I don’t know if that’s as bad as you might think.”

“But —“

“Do you think I was somehow safer when I was all alone? Do you think anyone would have noticed if I’d just disappeared one day?”

Your fingers trace circles in the dip between his pecs, toying with the faint smattering of pale hair that lies there. “My siblings don’t call. I haven’t seen my parents in over two years.” You give him a wan smile. “At least now if something happens to me, there’s someone in this damn city who would give a shit.“

The thought makes his gut turn, and yet, the nausea he feels at the prospect of anything happening to you pales against the sorrow he feels that you’ve been left alone for so long.

It made sense, he thought, for someone like him to have no one. Until you, he’d been a staunch observer of the Corp’s creed; he’d sent his little brother as far away as he could, and resigned himself to an existence of self-imposed isolation. He’d known his future – how little of it likely existed – would be too hostile to forge any bonds, the soil of his life too acidic, too toxic for anything real to take root. The idea that he could have anyone to love and to keep had never been his to claim and so, he’d not known to mourn its loss.

But you hadn’t been raised the same way he had. By his own observations, you’d grown up safe and warm and loved in a nice house that sat situated on a row of other nice homes. Ones built with brick and mortar; where you never had to worry about the lights shutting off or whether you would be warm come winter.

And your parents seemed like they’d given a damn. He’d never forgotten the relief on their faces that day, when he’d returned your little sister to them; how they’d clung to her, tears of relief and gratitude shining in their eyes. That was something else Sanemi hadn’t known: the love of a parent. Not apart from his mother, but she’d died not long after Genya was born, leaving her two boys saddled with a man who couldn’t spell the word father, let alone understand the duties of one.

You’d been given everything he hadn’t, and yet, you’d ended up exactly like him: alone. 

Worse, Sanemi realizes, he’d secured more than you had in his adulthood. He’d grown a network. His position in the Corps meant he had comrades who would at least know if he turned up dead. Who might even secure justice down the business end of a steel bat or the barrel of a stolen gun.

You didn’t even have that.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I think you knowing and caring I exist makes me a little safer.”

How could he not? You’re the axis upon which his world now turns, the only stabilizing force in his life.

A lump builds thickly in his throat. His arms form a protective cage around you, tightening until you lay your head back down against his chest.

His hand cups the back of your skull. “Alright,” he says hoarsely after a moment. “As long as you’re fine with someone like me, I won’t push it.” His fingers comb gently through your hair.

“Mmm. I’m pretty content with my choices.” You hum sleepily against his skin. Sanemi glances down to see your eyes fighting a losing battle against sleep. “’Specially when you do that.”

A ghost of a smile forms on Sanemi’s lips. “You can go to sleep, y’know.”

You nestle into his chest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I promise. The felonies can wait.”  He settles in deeper against your pillows, his fingers still stroking along your scalp. “‘Sides, I wouldn’t leave my girl before kissin’ her goodbye.”

You snuggle happily into his skin, and before long, your breathing slows and you grow still, your fingers curled limply on his chest. He didn’t think it would take you all that long to fall asleep, and here you are, safe and sound and his. 

“Sleep, baby,” he murmurs quietly against your hairline, though he knows you can’t hear him. “I ain’t lettin’ you go, now.”

For a long while, he holds you, his fingers continuing to drag up and down your spine. It’s strange to be touched with such affection; such reverence. He hadn’t the words to quite sum up how he’d felt that night, but now, Sanemi realizes just how starved for intimacy he’d been. 

He hadn’t let himself do this with the others – quietly lay in bed, letting hands roam for something other than lust as he breathed them in. Relax. This is a side of him for your eyes only; a byproduct of him now being yours. 

Besides, why shouldn’t he relax? He’s home. Because home, as he’s come to realize, is not some dingy box in the SIlo or even some place far, far away from the Corps and everyone in it. 

Home is a woman he’d known for most of his life, yet not at all, not until the universe forced him back into your orbit. Home is your fingers twitching against his chest, still guided by the compulsion to touch him with the same gentleness he shares with you; the warmth of your body curled around his. 

Home is wherever you are. 

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, AND LIKES APPRECIATED!

[calderacitylovers]

Zutara SlowBurn FanFiction: Personal Favs, part II

·        DESTINY IS A FUNNY THING by Megara Pike | Published: 2020-08-21 | 198K Words | 45 Chapters

ATLA Season 3 rewrite, fills in a lot of blanks between canon scenes. From the Southern Raiders to Sozin's Comet through coronation and aftermath. Growing friendships, bonding, being there for each other, a carnival & a cave, epic spirits' appearance on the Ember island, sparring, nightmares, assassination attempts, political ruses, and covert operations. Lovely, sweet. Exciting plot.

 ·        ATLA Book 4: Ashes by elayne_cypher | Published: 2018-10-27 | 306K words | 34 Chapters

This action-packed story picks up right after Ember Island Players and continues well after the war. Zuko is facing many challenges as a new Fire Lord. Romance, tough decisions, rebels, traitors, out-of-body experiences, secret headquarters, angst, teamwork, fire jets. The story has a bunch of OCs.

 ·        Refraction by caroes3725  | Published: 2020-09-09 | 215K Words | 37 Chapters

After breaking up with Aang, Katara needs to figure out her place and role in the patriarchal world. As determined Katara stubbornly bulldozes her way through Fire Nation political scene, her feelings for Zuko grow. Diplomatic visits, Gaang reunion, bonding with Kanna, insights into the life of Caldera city, stuffy politicians, cute correspondence, tropical storm, women supporting women, assassination attempts, personal boundaries. A sweet well-written coming-of-age story with a healthy measure of slow-burn and mutual pining. Katara and Zuko are both POVs, but the story mostly follows Katara. Bonus: Mai is NOT a clingy resentful idiot, but a smart person and a good friend. Some explicit language here and there, a bit of mild smut.

 ·        I Asked You First by halfhoursonearth | Published: 2020-10-03 | 142K words | 22/? Chapters

Ongoing, incomplete. Post Southern Raiders ATLAS3 rewrite. Mostly canon-compliant with blanks filled in between familiar scenes. Zuko and Katara develop a close friendship built on trust and sharing each other’s fears and hopes. Includes mentions of implied child abuse, Lu Ten’s diaries, exploring Avatar Roku’s legacy, sharing a balcony, heart-to-hearts, a hot spring under the stars, an actual date, and artbending. It’s incomplete, but what we have is bliss. Slowburn, mutual pining. Zutara-centric, but also explores the personalities of Team Avatar and their relationships.

 ·        Katara Alone by cablesscutie | Published: 2020-05-31 | 21K words

Katara is not an “unnecessary accessory to a more powerful man”. After the war, she is willing to forge her own path as she turns to people who need her the most on her journey of self-discovery. Features character exploration, correspondence, exploring outback villages of Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom, sweet reunions, and new firebending skills.

 ·        THE PHOENIX AND THE DRAGON - THE COMPLETE SERIES by JasmineTeaLatte | Published: 2021-06-11 | 100K words | 31 Chapters

This story picks up after The Ember Island Players. Zuko and Katara get to know each other during a late-night conversation by the campfire. In this story, you will find healthy boundaries, protective Sokka, a dash of Taang, sparring, funny banter & lots of flirting.

·        HESITATE by tiffaniesblews | Published: 2020-07-11 | 22K Words | 12 Chapters

This story picks up right after Zuko's coronation and spans two years afterwards. Zuko & Katara talk, share a few beautiful moments, write to each other, and reunite for the 2nd anniversary of the war ending. Very sweet, fluffy story about two sweethearts figuring out their feelings for each other.

·        LIKE WE'RE MADE OF STARLIGHT by Naladot | Published: 2021-11-28 | 5K Words

Katara leaves her post as the ambassador to the Fire Nation to take up a new one as the ambassador to the Northern Water Tribe. Her absence makes Zuko realize that he's got an unfortunate crush, which he is determined to keep secret. Unfortunately for him, subtly has never been one of his strengths—especially when he arrives in the Northern Water Tribe and she keeps taking him on what seem to be dates.

·        FIGURE IT OUT by clearascountryair | Published: 2021-12-20 | 35K words | 13 Chapters

After choosing not to kill Yon Rha, Katara rethinks her sense of self and others' perceptions of her. Or,    In which Katara learns that there’s a really big difference between being kissed when you don’t want to be and being kissed when you do. Aged-up 3B/Ember Island AU.

-  I FOUND YOU by that_turtleduck | Published: 2020-11-01 Completed: 2024-02-24 Words: 157,541 Chapters: 28/28

After divorcing Aang, Katara uproots her family and travels to Caldera. There she finds comfort, kindness and support from an old friend. Katara tries to find her footing as an independent political figure. Great story & relationship dynamic of Momtara & Dadko in their early 30s (Ember island, diplomatic meeting, dancing, turtleduck pond, letters). Delicious slow burn with rewarding spicy resolution in the end (explicit open door). Titters on the side of Anti-Aang.

Here’s a link to Part I of my personal favorites.

Here’s a link to Wholesome Zutara Short Stories.

[ohforficsake]

The Margay (COMPLETE)

Series Summary: Santiago recruits Frankie to contract for a covert government agency that pairs them with danger in more ways than one. Two frayed things toe the line between the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. And maybe, just maybe, they make it out alive. A series of one-shot snippets taking place during and around missions. * - Denotes smut.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Sniper!OFC Audrey 'Moose' Goddard. POC OFC. No age gap.

Rating: Explicit 18+ / Minors DNI

Chapter 1 : There was Bogotá That One Time * Chapter 2 : Not So Much 'Squeezing' as 'Crushing' Chapter 3 : The Laughter of Damned Things * Chapter 4: His Other Nickname * Chapter 5: 'That Your Husband?' * Chapter 6: If You're Both Lying to Me, I Swear * Chapter 7: Apologize to Housekeeping * Chapter 8: Benadryl * Chapter 9: Memorize it. Destroy it. Chapter 10: Read the Last Page Chapter 11: What Happens in the After * *NEW 7/7*

Extras

Art Commissions from the lovely @kenobiwanx : An Embrace and Frankie and Aud in Jamaica Chapter 8 Moodboard Chapter 9 Moodboard Chapter 11 Moodboard

Margay Universe One-Shots

Down, Boy * - Frankie Morales x OFC Audrey Goddard The boys end up at a dive bar on Frankie’s birthday. Snipers are good at pool. Frankie’s not gonna be able to wait until they make it home. Can be read as a standalone.

Margay-Adjacent One Shots - Written about Frankie x Audrey but flipped to reader perspective. Can be read as stand-alones.

Dominica * He’s like this sometimes. When his demons curl their talon-tipped fingers into the back of his skull. That’s when he replaces them with yours. Barbados * You've been carrying on with whatever this is for months, pushing and pulling, until one night Frankie wants control.

Author Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading.

[the-darkestminds]

Autumn’s Shadow: Chapter List

Azriel x Eris (Azriel POV)

Summary: A covert meeting between Azriel and Eris to exchange valuable intel leaves Azriel reeling—and questioning everything he has ever felt for the Heir of Autumn. Azriel finds himself inexorably drawn to Eris, unable to resist his captivating allure. With the threat of Koschei and Beron looming ever closer, can their forbidden love endure in the face of such danger?

a/n: This is not canon compliant. It takes place sometime during acosf before Eris is taken by Briallyn. Please assume the following: Cassian never played courtier, Azriel never had any feelings for Elain, he never helped Cassian train the priestesses, and they have not told Eris about the trove. (18+, nsfw)

Read on AO3!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

[angryschnauzer]

As Sweet As Honey - Chapter 8

Summary: Finding a new life in a new town, you stumble upon a Honey farmer at the town market. You both have pasts that have shaped the way you now live your lives, but can you find a way of putting them behind you to find happiness?

Pairing: ‘Lucas’ Syverson x Female Reader

Fandom: Henry Cavill, Sandcastle (Movie).

Ongoing Genre: Fluff, Angst, and Smut

Story Warnings: Slight Angst, Talk of a car accident in the past, Anxious Sy, Mild Embarrassment, First Date Nerves, Kissing,   NSFW, 18+, Smut, Fingering, Grinding, Hot Tub Frolics, Handjob, Titty Sucking, Nudity, Blowjob, Oral Sex.  

Chapter 8 Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink.

Wordcount: 2767

Here is my masterlist and AO3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2,  Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7,

As Sweet As Honey - Chapter 8

Sy poured three mugs of coffee, setting one gently down in front of you as you glared at him, he did a piss poor job of hiding his smirk which infuriated you even more;

“SY!”

“I’m sorry honey, but as this is the first time i’ve seen you angry and i know i shouldn’t laugh, but that is the cutest angry face i’ve ever seen”

“It really is” Mike added from the far end of the kitchen table, his feet resting on the chair next to him as he pushed another slice of toast into his mouth.

“No. You; quiet”

Sy pulled your chair out, rested a hand on each armrest and leant forwards;

“I’m genuinely sorry about the surprise of finding a stranger in my kitchen, but you really do have the cutest face when you are angry”

Before you could get another word out he pressed his lips to yours, and your rage dissipated to the point you deepened the kiss, the world slipping away around you until you heard a quiet cough;

“I’m still here ya’ know guys”

You and Sy pulled your lips apart as he rested his forehead on yours;

“I just got a premonition of what it's going to be like in our household in twenty years time when our own smart ass kid can’t take a hint to get lost”

Mike laughed as Sy pulled away and sat next to you, tossing a grape into his mouth from the fruit bowl in the centre of the table;

“Uncle Sy, I just spent far too many hours on a bus to get here, walked cross country so Dad didn’t see me, had to break into your house as you seemingly forgot I was coming. I’m staying here, at least in this chair. If you two wanna go fuck i’m not stopping you”

Sy took a deep breath;

“Jesus Christ, you are just as infuriating as your Dad was growing up”

Mike grinned and you could see the likeness between him and Walter. The dark hair and sparkling eyes, but also the slightly lopsided grin. You could only imagine the hearts Walter broke when he was Mike’s age.

“So Mike…”

“Yeah Sweetcheeks?”

“Why are you in town but hiding from your Dad?”

Mike looked at Sy and back to you;

“He didn’t invite you?”

Sy turned beet red and suddenly got flustered;

“I been kinda busy Mikey, i completely forgot about it if i’m being honest, plus we had other more important stuff going on which is why she’s staying here” Sy looked to you; “It’s Walter’s 40th Birthday this week. Trying to get as many of the old family back together as a surprise”

You nodded;

“Ahh I see. Thus the covert operation of Mike staying with you”

"Precisely" Sy nodded; "So errr… whatcha doing Thursday evening?"

"Nothing as far as i know"

Sy smouldered; "Wanna come to Walter's surprise party?"

You smiled, genuinely feeling relieved for the first time in 24 hours;

"I'd love to" you leant forwards and pressed a kiss to Sy, only for Mike to cough.

"Still here"

Letting out a deep sigh, Sy turned;

"Get used to it kid. I'm crazy about this woman."

-

After a shower you settled some essentials into the drawer Sy had emptied for you for when you stayed the night again in the future, before packing the rest. As you climbed into Sy's truck he gave Mike instructions to chop a pile of logs ahead of taking a nap, climbing into the driver's seat he smiled at you;

"I can guarantee he'll only do one of the two instructions i just gave"

Laughing quietly you smiled at Sy;

"The nap?"

"Honestly? With Mikey you never know. Even though he has probably been awake 48 hours he is just like a freaking ball of pure energy so he'll probably end up chopping the entire wood pile"

"So, you're the mean Uncle? Putting him to work" You said with jest

Sy laughed;

"It'll be easy for him, he works part time at my brothers sawmill in Portland, he's told me that Mike will literally go out on his lunch break from his IT department and chop through a couple of tonnes of logs just for fun… and posing on tiktok"

You nodded and unlocked your phone, scrolling through instagram until you found the thirst trap reel of Sy doing exactly the same, peeling off his shirt halfway through;

"Oh, you mean like this?" Turning the screen to him and you watched the blush rise through his face to the top of his ears.

“That’s completely different. And is not a thirst trap, it was a hot day”

“There’s snow on the ground”

“I was getting hot”

You smiled;

“It made me hot too” you said quietly, your comment almost immediately followed by a rumble of tyres of gravel where Sy wasn’t paying attention to the road and had pulled onto the verge.

“Whoops”

For the rest of the short drive to your cottage Sy paid attention to the road, pulling onto the driveway as the gravel crunched under the tyres of the truck.

“Never gonna be able to do a surprise visit with this gravel” he commented

“That’s the whole point”

Sy paused as he rounded the truck, considering your answer;

"I had never thought of it in that way. Now it makes sense"

"The fence too, and the roses and briars. Hostile architecture. Anyone tries to climb over the fence its so old and rickety that it's clear it'll fall over, likely tipping you into a patch of thorns"

You unlocked the door and deactivated the alarm, waiting for the three beeps before stepping inside and dropping your bags on the floor. The house was quiet, flecks of dust floating in the beams of sunlight that fell in puddles on the wooden floors. Sy stood in front of you, pulling you into his arms;

"So, what are your plans for today?"

"Lunch with Tam later, and I guess trying to find a gift for Walter?"

"So… no plans for the next few hours?"

You could sense the hopefulness to Sy's voice, and you could feel your body respond to the idea he was silently suggesting. Slipping your hand into his you turned and led him up the stairs, an appreciative hum as he realised you had agreed to his unspoken suggestion.

Stepping into your bedroom you felt like a Jane Austen character about to be ravaged by the handsome suitor, a bang of nerves nudging the arousal from top spot, Sy picking up immediately on your change;

"Are you ok? We don't have to…"

"No, I still want to. I'm just not super experienced in bed. You'll be the second guy i ever slept with"

Resting his hands on your upper arms Sy pressed a kiss to your forehead;

"Numbers don't matter. I wouldn't care if you had been with one or fifty before me"

Hooking his finger beneath your chin he tilted your head to meet his kiss, starting tentatively at first before it rapidly got heated. His hands cradled your face as you pulled his t-shirt out of his shorts, pushing it up his muscled torso. Digging your fingers gently to the wide chest, he pulled his shirt over his head before practically ripping your dress off, his hands moving to cup your breasts, feeling the soft flesh beneath the lace. Reaching around he deftly unhooked your bra with a practised skill, tossing it aside. You dragged your fingernails down his stomach before flattening your palm and slipping it into the waistband of his cargo shorts, feeling the rough bush of hair which his happy trail climbed from.

"I need you so bad" he admitted, taking hold of your other hand to rest against the obscene bulge tenting the front of his shorts.

With a sly smirk you moved your efforts to unbuckling his belt and unzipping him, letting the garment fall to the floor with a heavy thunk where his pockets were weighed down with keys and change. Just as you were going to get your hands back on him he surprised you by lifting you up and tossing you onto your bed, his big hands pulling your panties down your legs before he lay between your thighs, his mouth immediately on your pussy.

“Sy, I need you… I need you inside me”

He looked up and smiled;

“I know Honey, I need to be inside you too, but i gotta loosen you up first, don’t wanna hurt you”

“Ohh” you relaxed and let Sy go to town, enjoying the feel of his wide tongue and soft lips skillfully bringing you to the edge before you came. It was a soft and gentle orgasm, a starter to the meaty and filling main course that would follow.

Sy climbed up your body, peppering your skin with kisses before he settled between your legs. The weight of him was a comfort, thick corded muscle surrounding you at your most vulnerable, safe in the cage of his arms. He kissed you and you could taste yourself on his tongue. You found yourself instinctively squirming beneath him, the feel of his hardened shaft nestling between your soaked petals.

"Eager, aren't we?" Sy teased

"Please Sy, i'm ready"

Pushing himself up you watched as his positioned the fat tip at your entrance then paused and cursed;

"Fuck… protection…"

Your eyes went wide. In the past you had been on the pill but had stopped that as soon as you'd left James. Without any desire to even consider dating up until Sy you certainly weren't prepared;

"I don't have any…"

"When is your period due?"

"Umm…" now was not the time for your head to be considering your calendar; "By the end of the week"

"Okay… I can pull out, you should be past ovulating, right?"

"'Bout a week ago i had my ‘hungry horse’ three days, so yeah" referring to the short period of time when your appetite suddenly ramped up after you had ovulated.

Sy looked deep into your eyes as if trying to see any doubt;

“Are you sure about this?”

You were so turned on you probably weren’t thinking straight, your pussy making the decisions for you as  you hooked your legs around Sy’s butt and pulled him closer;

“I need you inside me now”

“Okay okay, baby, relax for me”

Sy reached down and positioned himself at your entrance, his attention darting between where your bodies were about to be joined and your face, gauging your reaction as he slowly pushed into your welcoming body. 

“Holy motherfucking…” Sy cursed as he stretched you out, yet his muttered words floated away as you were overwhelmed by the feel of him inside you.

You hadn’t realised you were holding your breath until Sy pressed a single kiss to your cheek and spoke softly;

“Honey, you’re gonna have to relax otherwise i’m gonna cum sooner than either of us want”

“I am… I'm trying to. I’m just waiting for the pain”

Sy paused;

“The pain?”

“Yeah… when you hit my cervix”

He held himself up on one arm as he softly cradled your cheek with his big hand;

“Oh Honey, I'm not gonna do that. I’m fitting just fine and don’t need to go any deeper, Hell, I ain't got no more inches to go deeper anyway. I’m guessing your ex was longer? And didn’t care that he hurt you?”

You nodded;

“But Sy, you’re not small, James was really long but really narrow…” you smiled up at him; “I like the feel of how thick your cock is, it feels really good”

Sy pressed a single kiss to your lips;

“Oh I'm not worried about my size Honey, I know I got a good deal. Now, how about I make you feel even better? How ‘bout I show you why girth is better than length?”

You smiled at him and nodded, to which he reached his head down and pressed a kiss to your lips before he slowly rolled his hips. You could feel the smooth slide as his cock rubbed against your inner walls, each ridge and vein caressing you whilst the bulbous crown curved up and cushioned against your g-spot. Resting your hands on his muscled back you let pleasure take over, suddenly realising just how skilled Sy was as a lover. 

As the senses of summer filled the room you felt a bliss like you had never before. Muted light coming in the windows, the scent of the garden blooms in the air. Birds and crickets in the distance were the only sounds beyond those the pair of you were making. The air was thick and heavy, another summer storm brewing rapidly but the heat only made your lovemaking more intense. Almost every sense was fulfilled except taste, your subconscious deciding to go for the whole set as when Sy rolled his hips and filled you again, you craned your neck and instinctively licked the side of his neck, tasting the sheen of sweat that had appeared on his skin.

“Oh Honey, you wantin’ a taste?” Sy muttered menacingly; “You ain’t the only one”

Gripping your hips he pushed up on his knees, never pulling out of you as he rocked his pelvis, but your ass was resting on his thighs as he widened his stance on the bed. He slid one hand into the small of your back, supporting it as you arched your spine, his other hand resting on the bed beside your head. The angle gave him enough room to continue to fuck you as he kissed and sucked at your breasts, taking a mouthful of titty before switching to the other.

As the room grew darker you could sense petrichor in the air, that impending humidity before a storm broke. Sy growled as he felt your body tightening, and as his sound faded away a rumble of thunder followed as if an answer.

Shifting, Sy straightened his body, kneeling on the bed as he gripped your waist with both hands, rolling his hips with each thrust;

“C’mon baby, cum for me, i’m getting so fucking close, let me see you cum for me”

You were already so close you didn’t need Sy’s words, but as your hands instinctively reached for something to grip onto you felt your fingers straining against the cotton fibres of the sheets as your final barriers dissolved and your orgasm finally crested. Lost on a wave of utter bliss you were in a haze of euphoria, the world around you no longer existing apart from the groans of Sy as he came too.

You missed how Sy watched you in all your beauty, chewing on his lip as he placed his hand over your abdomen and could feel as his cock pumped ropes of cum into you. Thoughts he would never share surged through his mind as he knew gravity would be flooding your widened cervix with his seed, and it was if he could feel the searing heat he’d filled you with warming his hand through your body. Mesmerised by the notion he would see your belly swell over time he was lost in the moment, before you reached for his hand, your palm sweaty;

“Sy… lay with me. I need you to hold me”

As if coming out of a trance he shook his head before tenderly pulling out of you and moving back, setting you softly down before he curled around your body at your side, cupping your cheek and turning you until the tips of your noses met;

“Fuck me, that was amazing” he muttered.

-

Later you were both showered and redressed, Sy holding an umbrella for you as he escorted you back to his truck to drive you into town for your lunch with Tam. Pulling up to the kerb outside Antonios’ he killed the engine before jogging around to the passenger side, opening the door and holding his hand out for you, smiling kindly when he glanced at your shorts;

“No dress incidents this time”

“I’ve learnt my lesson” 

Taking your hand he walked you up to the outside patio where Tamara was already waiting for you, giving her a smile and nod before placing a kiss on your cheek;

“Have fun, i’ll call you later”

The pair of you watched as Sy returned to his truck, smiling and waving as he drove off before Tam rested her elbows on the table and leant forwards;

“So… tell me everything…”

[writerlyhabits]

Aliit ori’shya tal'din

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 3 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 2 | Ch. 4

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it. 

AN: A word from the author – “I’m in grad school, I take forever to write things.Soon I will start grad school again, which means I’ll write this instead of my dissertation. I’m quite fond of the Mando Legends Lore, if you haven’t noticed. I literally got Kad Ha’rangir & Arasuum tattooed on me.”

This is the third part of a sister fic for my one-shot (Courting) a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! She is also sharing it on AO3, so be sure to send her your love and kudos there as well! We hope you enjoy 💛

Translations, in order of appearance:

Aliit ori’shya tal'din: Family is more than blood

Rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?:  Are you gonna tell her to kiss your ouchies?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.: Be careful, sister.

Aliit: family

Ad(e): child/children

Kar’ta beskar: the central "diamond" of Mandalorian armor; lit. heart armor

Mirjahaal: peace of mind, "healing", general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Beroya: bounty hunter

Kurshi: tree

Sen’tra: jackpack

Buir(e): Parent/Parents

Akaanati'kar'oya: The War of Life and Death (Mandalorian myth), creation story

Verd'goten: a special trial for one to become warrior; lit. birth of warrior

So'haale: births

Urman'gedete: prayers

Eparave: feasts

Cyarir evaar'la: Courting

Alii'aliit: meeting of the clans, the closest thing mandalorians have to government or parliament; lit. "clan of clans"

Tsad: group (of people), alliance

Bes'ede: Mythosaur

Kandush : inevitable doom

Time moves differently underground.

With Odona, the hours passed quickly. As a team, you could disassemble and reconstruct nearly any ship in their small fleet, save for a few parts— which no one had yet found and delivered. The days were faster when the guardsman opted to join you in his free time, his first visit and subsequent dialogue with Odona still memorable.

To what do I owe the displeasure; Oh Mighty Protector of the Covert and Savior of Foundlings?

The pleasure of my company is for your friend, ‘Dona.

Why? Going to terrorize her again, Ik’? Ven’rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.

You had sensed there was a joke hidden within their jibes, one you were unable to decipher in their foreign tongue, but neither took the time to explain. Whilst Ikarus lacked use for the labor that required fine motor control, his presence disrupted the monotony of the many tedious and repetitive tasks you and Odona spent much of your time doing— their frequent banter kept you entertained throughout the day. 

The time you had spent in the medbay was shorter— the most common injuries coming from the older adolescents early on in their training, whose resilience and constitution had yet to strengthen— as well as wrist and ankle sprains from poor fighting forms, the occasional laceration from knife safety training; and at worst, injuries from the teens and young adults earned from a vigorous sparring session.

But with Din, the mornings and evenings together never felt long enough. The hours were reminiscent of your time with him and the Child in the Crest, the warmth of your aliit protected by familiar cold walls; the stone of the cavern both analogous yet antithetic to the durasteel of your former home. 

One forged of hands, and the other of time— one of the fires of a furnace, the other the fires of a planet’s mantle. Your time together before was that of contrivance, engineered— with agendas to follow and assignments to complete— your interactions affable yet somewhat artificial, a present barrier precluding your companionship from evolving into something more… More natural, more innate, more intimate. Here, your time together had been more candid, endearing— Din no longer shied away from any probing questions or physical closeness, which allowed that previous barrier to melt and slowly flow away like that of bedrock to magma, reshaping and remolding your times of leisure together to hours of unified repose.

The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turn to this moment, where seemingly no time passes at all— blanketed in the familiar darkness of your room. The unlit and chilled space, at first an unacquainted oddity, now a comfortable companion to spend the sleeping and waking hours in. The ritual remains the same— awaken with the Child, have the morning trade-off with Din, make the caf, and begin the tasks for the day— like clock work, a well-oiled droid.

This morning is almost no different, and yet, you hesitate to leave your bed, your conversation with Din the previous morning still fresh in your mind— 

Din had sat aside the table, his body resting against the wall— unarmored, arms crossed, head tilted to the side, the same position as every morning. Once you handed him the Child and sat, caf in hand, he finally spoke.

“I’d like you to join me tomorrow,” he stated. 

The lack of pleasantries from him was unsurprising, though a teasing ‘Good morning to you, Din’ was a tempting response. Instead, you greeted him with a grin and an unobjectionable reply— 

“Alright, what are we doing?” 

He hummed, pleased with your immediate acceptance.

“The adults alternate supervising the ade. Tomorrow, it’ll be our turn.”

You gestured toward the Child in his arms, in a playful retort. “Don’t we supervise this ad every day?”

The Child cooed in his arms, his ears perked tentatively at his mention. Din sighed, with a smile in voice.

“We do. It’s tradition for all of the adults to care for the ade… All have wisdom to share.”

Skeptical, you thought: ‘What would I possibly teach them?’

You observed the Child resting so comfortably on Din’s chest— his tiny hand gripped tightly into Din’s clothes, right where his armor’s kar’ta beskar normally sat. It was a stark contrast compared to the Child’s behavior upon your first meeting. With any loud noises and sudden movements, he would shrink inwards in his cradle— as if he could make himself any smaller. Medical scanners made him grimace, unfamiliar places and people made his ears droop— seeing others upset made him wary. And yet, he was endlessly curious. Despite his initial unease with the two new adults in his life, the Child was quick to trust you both— and with his trust, his personality came through… his affection, his laughter, his love. 

From there, Din learned how to tend to someone outside of himself— what it meant to have someone that relied on him, and more colossally, someone that wanted Din, as he was. The Armorer branded him as the Child’s father, and the delighted squeal from the little one sealed the bond that Din had been trying to hide for so long. Just as the Child learned to trust Din with his welfare, so too did Din learn to trust the Child with his own mirjahaal.  

Perhaps it wasn’t the lessons they taught, but rather the connection they made, and the wisdom they sought.

With this, the true question then inverted from the skeptic ‘what would I teach them’, to the sanguine ‘what will I learn?’...

“...When do we meet them?”

—

To the ade, the former beroya is nothing more than a tall kurshi fit to climb. 

Somehow, Din appears endlessly patient and playful with all six of the young children. They utilize their limitless spurts of energy to continuously attack Din as a squad, bringing him to the ground— he’ll exclaim a faux wail, and collapse to his knees— and the collective giggles of the ade begin the cycle again. 

Whenever a child grows tired of their battle, they come to you— wanting to be tossed into the air, or onto the nearest surface. Supposedly being gently thrown around aids in their brain development, and ‘it’s good practice for their first sen’tra flight’, Din tells you. The logic is questionable at best, but hearing their joyous squeals makes the ever-growing muscle fatigue worthwhile. Even the child of the Djarin clan is as equally amused, his own little spirit mightily lifted by the experience of being with other kids again. 

During your time on Sorgan, the Child was happy to interact with the other children— but mostly, he watched them, rather than play. Perhaps he was still too shy or too wary to fully engage with so many people, but surrounded by these Foundlings now, he looks at home; like he belongs. Amidst this cohort, he’s made a new friend, Mara, the youngest of the lot. Her long and dark hair reminds you— and perhaps the Child— of Winta, Omera’s daughter. The two spent the most time together on Sorgan, and despite the little one’s inability to say, he misses her. 

Mara and the Child sit away from the squad play-fighting Din, in front of the single wall of volcanic tuff— embellished with crimps and pockets, graven by many hands. You watch them, as they examine the wall, looking up and down, side to side. Your eyes travel upward to the small cavate, almost eight feet from the floor. You watch as Mara looks to the Child and nods, and begins her ascent up— using her fingers and toes to grip tightly onto the various crevices in the wall— and the Child begins to follow.

You step forward, almost instinctively, wanting to call out to them to stop, wanting to reach out to the children to prevent a fall—

Then, from nowhere, Din appears at your side, extending his hand to stop you. “Don’t,” he says softly, “Let them try.”

You look at him puzzled, and he continues. “If you distract them now, they might fall…” he pauses, and turns his head to watch them, “...but if you allow them to focus, they can succeed. Watch…” 

The pair silently step closer, closing the distance between themselves and the wall, watching the two ade slowly make their way up to the cavate. Mara climbs inside first, and lays on her belly, reaching out to the Child to help him trek the final span of the wall. Once inside, the Child turns around, to face the entire room below him. He squeals a little clamor of excitement, proud of his triumph, before looking down to his buire.

“Good job, kid,” Din says. “Come on down, it’s time to go.”

The Child looks at you both doe-eyed, his ears drooping, as he peers over the ledge. He looks back to Mara, and back down over the ledge, contemplating his next move. 

You lean slightly towards Din, speaking in a hushed tone. “I don’t think he knows how to get back down.”

“He can do it,” Din says confidently. 

You challenge him, “He looks scared.” 

Din insists, “Then he’ll do it scared.” 

He steps forward once more, his body almost pressed against the wall, reaching one hand up. “Come on kid, climb down.”

The child’s ears droop even lower, letting out a quiet whimper, a little anxious look on his face. He looks back up to Mara, who gives him an encouraging “You can do it,” before he finally begins his descent towards you and Din. 

Carefully, his little clawed feet grip into the same pockets he used to climb up, and his hands hold onto the ledge. He looks down at his buire with a slightly quivering lip, then back up to his hands. Slowly, he presses on, his movements deliberate and cautious, gravity tugging at his little limbs with relentless persuasion, clammy clawed-hands threatening to slip free from the cold stone. His disgruntled babbling fading with each tentative step, footfalls growing more steady with every downward stride. 

His little foot finally reached something soft— the hand of his buir, waiting for his arrival. With an excited squeal, he looks to Din, holding out his clawed fingers for Din to grasp. Din takes the Child into his arms.

“Good job… I knew you could do it.” Din whispers to him.

With his ad in hand, Din looks back to the cavate, where Mara sits silently. “You too, Mara, come down,” he says. 

Mara, unlike the little one, is less graceful, only climbing down two feet of wall before leaping off. You instinctively reach your arms out to catch her, but are a few seconds too late, as she lands confidently on her feet, smiling up at you. She giggles, asking the Child “Wasn’t that fun!” and the little one cooing affectionately with a bright smile.

“They need to rest.” Din says, before leading Mara and the Child back with the other ade. You follow him in toe, and aid him while he attempts to settle the children in preparation for them to sleep. 

The chamber is bathed in the soft, warm light of the cressets along the walls. The ade sit and lay in a circle on the floor, looking up at the two adults expectedly, waiting for you both to join them. Din gently places the Child in Mara’s lap, seating himself amongst them. 

The ade demanded a story before they would agree to their midday nap, and with only one long sigh, Din relented. As you sit beside him, the tale of Akaanati'kar'oya begins.

—

In ages past, when cosmic realms were naught,

Two gods emerged, each with a purpose sought.

Kad Ha'rangir, embodiment of change,

A dance of growth, His essence did arrange.

Arasuum, the god of slow decay,

In stillness thrived, where life would fade away.

Eternal foes, in battle they engaged,

Ideals clashed, the cosmic script was paged.

Kad Ha'rangir, with eyes of vibrant light,

Envisioned galaxies in endless flight.

His very step, a ripple through the void,

Transforming all, where life and change enjoyed.

Arasuum, with eyes as deep as night,

Desired a realm where stasis held its might.

Decay His touch, a silent, withering breath,

A universe in stillness, touched by death.

In ceaseless clash, their cosmic struggle roared,

A dance of gods, where destinies were stored.

Stoic truths emerged from this grand design,

A tale of action, life's breath so divine.

"For action is the breath that life bestows,

A vital force, as mighty river flows.

Inaction, slow demise, a creeping shade,

A silent death in stillness' dark cascade."

Through galaxies and time, the story spread,

Of Kad Ha'rangir, where change was bred.

Arasuum's touch, a cautionary tale,

A realm in stillness, where all things frail.

So heed the moral, in verses spun,

That action is life, beneath the sun.

For inaction's grasp, a silent breath,

A slow demise, an encroaching death.

—

The ade rest together in a haphazard heap of limbs on various bedcovers and furs draped across the floor. Exhausted from their Beroya Battles and abseil adventures, they finally sleep, leaving the two adults to quietly watch over them together. In the chamber’s silent embrace, the air hangs heavy and chilled— a symphony of stillness envelops the room, broken by the muted shuffle of shifting bodies, and the hushed breaths of the ade. The only audible rhythm is that of the pulsating cadence of your own heartbeat and the rush of blood moving inside your head. 

Your eyes scan over the ade, finding a sense of calmness watching their steady breaths, in… out. 

In… out.

In… out.

Your gaze once again falls onto the Child, cuddled against Mara, also breathing steadily. In the gentle cradle of his friend’s arms, he looks peaceful. Had he ever slept this soundly on the Crest?... Who held him every night before us? Who will take care of him after us?

In the softest whisper, to not disturb the ade, you lean closer to Din, telling him the obvious— “He’s happy here.”

“...Yes,” Din replies, just as quietly. 

“Was this your experience, too? After the Mandalorians saved you?”

“No.”

His visor is trained on the little one’s sleeping face—the same face of a child who was once trapped in the suffocating darkness of a sealed cradle—a cage, a cage whose opening only revealed another prison, in the form of two bounty hunters hovering over him like… a B2 Battle Droid, with a blaster pointed in a child’s face. A child rescued from death at the last possible moment by a shiny warden, offering an adiaphorous detainment. 

“It was… a time of war. I was trained to fight in it. I hope… that they never have to.” Din says, his gaze scanning over the ade once more. 

“I thought all Mandalorians were warriors.”

He, too, believed the same notion for many years. Training from the day he was rescued to the day he became an adult, after his verd'goten, life became a perpetual streak of jobs. Commission, retrieval, payment. Commission, retrieval, payment… Until a strange, golden, aureate armorsmith joined his tribe, bringing tales of the “Great Forge of Mandalore,” and the songs of the artificers that echoed through the speos as they worked. He remembers the first time he kneeled in front of her small, austere forge, in a dark room beneath a busy market above, listening as she spoke of the ethos, the rites, the latria, the true way of the Mandalore. 

“No. Everyone is trained to survive. But… we used to live, too.” 

“...Until Mandalore was taken.”

“Yes.”

So'haale, urman'gedete, eparave, cyarir evaar'la, alii'aliit… A cultus he could only dream of, but never truly have. Spoken knowledge fades into whispers, slipping through his fingers like sand as the voices of the ancestors grow ever fainter. Each decampment a dissolution of tsad res publica, each step forward a battle against oblivion. 

“I’m sorry.” You lean over, resting your head on his pauldron. “...Maybe there’ll come a time when we’ll live in the light, on a planet that welcomes us.” 

Din knows that within every Mandalorian is a patchwork of unfamiliar faces and ever-changing landscapes, their solace and safety as elusive as a bes'ede itself—and yet they endlessly repugn the kandush they have faced time and time again, guided by the conviction that within the uncertainty of the cosmos lay the promise of a sanctuary forged from the resilience of their spirit. 

He tilts his head, resting it atop yours. “There will.”

Ali'nare vencuyanir yaim. This is the Way.   

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

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[splendsay]

COD Fic // Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 11: How to Catch a Zombie

hi hello yes it's me again sorry for the delay ya girl had a RUFF friday the 13th it's ok tho I lived and here is another chapter YAY HUZZAH WOOHOO

lil blurb of semi-importance: it came to my attention (my husband told me) that Sunshine's original rank (First Lieutenant) would not be possible if she was an enlisted soldier, so you will note that her rank has been corrected to Sergeant in the earlier chapters (which affects how she is addressed in said chapters but little else and nothing plot-wise).

ok das it, bye ..................................................................

Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 11 // How to Catch a Zombie

.................................................................. CWs: Explicit language, descriptions of guns

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Reader (You), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Captain John Price, Kate Laswell

Chapter Excerpt:

A week and a half later, you find yourself standing in a wide, grassy meadow, about an hour's hike from the estate. Soap, Gaz, and even Price, are here too -- across the field, maybe fifty meters away, still up-range. Another hundred meters beyond them, is a line of targets, each comprised of varying combinations of wood and hay, haphazardly spray painted with red and black. Ghost is standing next to you with a pair of binoculars held up to his face. 

"Any day now," he drawls.

There aren't many clouds in the sky today, the warm sun a nice change of pace. There's a slight, balmy breeze and the field is abuzz with insects. Little blue flowers grow in patches about waist high, and you find yourself distracted by their loveliness on more than one occasion. 

You're holding a rifle -- a regular one -- Ghost's, actually. The one you'd admired that first night, traversing through the desert. They still haven't let you touch the upgraded weapons, to your constant and pervasive annoyance. Price insists it's because they worry you aren't strong enough yet to handle the recoil, but you know it's actually because they still don't quite trust you. 

And why do you know that? Because this is the first time they've allowed you to hold a gun at all that isn't your own pistol. You'd complained to Ghost a hundred times about not getting any shooting practice as part of your training, but he'd mumbled and grumbled things about "not being ready" and "too dangerous" and "waste of bullets" each time. 

Finally, a couple days ago, thanks to endless groveling -- and the new secret weapon in your arsenal to getting your way: Soap -- you were able to convince the group to take you to a range. 

You'd started the morning around the kitchen island sipping coffee and frowning into a bowl of oatmeal -- just the five of you. When Price and Laswell had returned from wherever it was they'd gone, Laswell had stayed long enough to hear about your father's descent into madness and its implications on the future of humanity, and had then immediately turned around and jetted off to some other mission base. She hadn't offered you any information about her and Price's prior whereabouts, but she had brought you another large box of hand-me-downs. She'd even included a few new pairs of shoes -- these actually in your size. A couple more pairs of sneakers, and a surprisingly lovely pair of worn-in leather lace-up boots. She'd handed the box to you with a stern expression and a covert wink. 

..................................................................... Links to: Spotify Playlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11

[differentnerddiplomatopera]

Shorter Prompts

Summary:

Ya’ll, we are a small fandom😭😭. My girlfriend is bragging about her fics getting updated every day into the thousands. Please I beg, write more. I am busy, but I will keep pumping out ideas. “Inhale” PLEASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSE WRITE MORE ODYDIO!!!!! I LOVE MY COMPLEX TOXIC, LOVE-HATE, ENEMIES AND LOVERS SHITTT. I LOVE THESE PATHETIC TRAUMATIZED MEN😭😭😭😭😭

Chapter Text

1#. Scar kissing: Diomedes used to think his scars were ugly. Penelope and Odysseus prove him wrong.

2#. Love-hate: insert “ ohh I hate that man, I hate that man. But oh Cara Mia, how I love him.”

3#. Spy AU: They get up to gay shit, confuse everyone, and blow up a highly secure facility. It was supposed to be a covert mission.

4#. They match each other’s freak. They are so weird. (You don’t who is this is, guess 😏)

5#. Athena catches them kissing. “Yay, my favorite minions are getting along.”

6#. UDAD AU: just Ulysses and Diomedes in that universe. (Both black and beautiful)

7#. Hades Game au: I don’t see any Diomedes in Hades. So take this as “Diomedes sees Melinoe, they become accustomed to each other, Diomedes tells her about Odysseus, Meli does the ship-sailing thing, and he is reunited with Odysseus AND PENELOPE, THEY ARE TOGETHER, WE DON’T FUCK WITH THAT ODYSSEUS CHEATED ON PENELOPE SHIT. ODYSSEUS LOVES HER TO DEATH, AND SHE IN TURN. ODYSSEUS DID NOT CHEATTT. Anyway. You get that. Yay

8#. Odysseus is annoying Diomedes. So Diomedes pinches him. First to get him to stop, later to watch him squirm.

9#. Odysseus and Diomedes have desperate, longing, sex. They stop the hate and just love, so much. So so much.

[romanarose]

Santiago Garcia x sexworker!informant!reader/OC x Javier Peña

Co-written with my beloved @my-secret-shame

Beautiful moodboard by @whatthefishh

“Baby, if you wanna be wild you’ve got a lot to learn.”

~Bruce Springsteen, Candy’s Room

Read on AO3

Summary: Javier Peña is not looking forward to meeting his new partner, having scared of all of them since Steve, but the idealistic, capable (and attractive?) Santiago Garcia quickly wins him over. The pair get assigned to take down Gabriel Lorea, and Javi seeks information from his favorite “informant”, a prostitute known as Candy. She also happens to be who a young and inexperienced (and sexually repressed) Santi goes to in order to learn about sex.

Will he fall in love in the process? Is Javier jealous or is he really just concerned Santi is being reckless like Javi claims? How often is Javi’s inner dialogue gonna talk about how hot he thinks Santi while still calling himself straight?

Warnings (not comprehensive. Given the nature of a fic about sex work and the drug trade in 70’s Colombia use your discretion on the type of content that comes up. Consider this series rated R; Smut heavy, switch reader, sub Santi, rough sex (specifics per chapter), corruption kink. (Reader introducing an innocent Santi to the beautiful world of good sex) and age gaps (reader is early to mid 30’s, Javi is mid to late 30’s, santi is 25) all is v consensual and nothing about taking advantage of Santi’s naivety. Drug trade, some drug use. Some SA, inappropriate touching and threat of rape, physical violence etc on a sex worker but not by our boys. Candy has sex with drug lords and there’s some dubious consent as far as her using sex to pacify these men in dangerous situations. Covert/emotional incest in the past. Emotional incest is NOT sexual incest (necessarily) please read this link if you are unfamiliar. Santi was very parentified as a child. M/M dynamics. Internalized homo/biphobia.

Reader description: Latina given the context of where they are, so there’s descriptions of her tan/dark skin. Reader has long brown curly hair.No name but reader goes by the nn Candy for her own protection and privacy. Scenes from Santi or Javi’s pov are in third person, referring to candy as candy and she/her. Candys POV uses second person but she’s more oc

Chapter 1: Javi meets his new partner, tells him he needs to let off some steam. Santi calls Candy to help him out with that.

Chapter 2: Santi and Javi plan to take on Lorea while Santi thinks back on his night with Candy.

Bonus Chapter: Santi is sick.

Chapter 3: Javi goes to get some 'information' on Lorea and runs into the last person he expected.

Chapter 4: Javi confronts Santi, but Candy has Santi's back.

Chapter 5: Javi and Candy kiss and make up. Javi and Santi make up, no kissing. Santi and Candy kiss.

Bonus chapter: Candy at work

Chapter 6: Santi takes Candy out, and Javi is not pleased. Santi finds a new kink.

Chapter 7: Everything falls apart.

Thank you all for your support on this!!! It means so much!

As always, if this fic inspires art, moodboards, fics, anything of that sort, I welcome all of it!

My ask box is always open for thoughts (or thots 👀)

Candy’s description is Latina, brown curly hair, shorter than Javi, able to be picked up and carried. I picture her like Helena.

This is how I picture her!

[xihe1874]

So so sorry for the long wait, but the new chapter for Where Past and Future are Gathered is now ready!

I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to @ltfirecracker who was so kind to go through and edit my messy writing, and @stellarskyes who offered very helpful suggestion on Navy ranking and planes.

I am extremely grateful for everyone who bears with me and is still following this fic, everyone who is reading it right now, and anyone who will read it some points in the future. ❤️❤️

===================================================

Pairing: Iceman/Maverick, Rooster/Hangman, Carole/Goose

Rating: T

Word Count: 1723

Completed: No

Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel Fix-It, Pining, Ice's funeral mentioned, Goose's death mentioned, but everyone will live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cigarettes, Father-Son Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, POV Bradley, Basically Bradley goes back to 1986 and fixes many things, Eventual Romance, Butterfly Effect what Butterfly Effect, Hurt/ComfortIdiots in Love, Getting Together

===================================================

Maverick.

Pete Mitchell.

…Maverick.

The string of names chants in Iceman’s brain over and over, like a broken record. Like the smell of smoke that lingers on his skin and refuses to be wiped away.

Pete Mitchell.

The said pilot is now making obvious eyes at the blonde bombshell, who also happens to be their instructor, while bragging about the unbelievable interaction with the MiG and preening himself, almost.

Unbelievable as the interaction may be, Ice finds himself buying it the moment the other mentiones the encounter.

It has to be him. The mysterious protagonist in that widespread gossip in the Navy, the daredevil adventurer. 

It has to be Maverick.

The man is like wildfire. A wild card, with his blazing emerald eyes and crooked grin.

Ice hasn’t got the chance to see him fly, but it’s beyond all doubt that he will be like a lunatic. 

Impulsive. Brainless. Unreasonable. Stupid.

Dangerous.

…Attractive as hell.

Dangerous.

Last night at the O’Club, Ice spotted him the second the duo walked inside the bar. The pretty girl beside him was speaking, but his attention was entirely concentrated on the other pilot. The sunglasses did a good job of hiding his line of vision, but all the cells in Ice were pulled towards the same object anyway.

So he walked up and leaned forward, literally invading the other’s personal space. He said something foolish about the better pilot, maybe, and deliberately ignored Ron’s eloquent look pointed his way. 

The only thing he noticed was how bright Maverick’s eyes were.

Dangerous.

Iceman tears his eyes away and starts to watch the so-called intern, who is now sitting on a small wooden bench beside Goose.

There is something about this man that Ice finds bizarre - something out of place, although he can’t put his finger on what has gone wrong. Rooster, he called himself. A distant relative of Goose, he said. But those covert, sorrowful, and perturbed glances? Not quite how you would look at someone who you only met yesterday, even if you somehow share a great-great-grandfather or something.

Speaking of, now the same glances are being directed at Maverick. 

The intern is sitting perfectly straight with a neutral face, but Iceman is too familiar with stealthy peeks to ignore those signs.That guy probably needs a pair of sunglasses. And something is definitely off.

Is Iceman curious about the reason?

Yes. And no.

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 4: Arrival (Part 1)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: mention of slavery, mention of character deaths, reference to life-threatening danger, sleep deprivation, sorrow, angst, stern Mace, fluff, banter, some reader/Anakin bonding :) and worried Obi :(

Summary: The days leading up to your arrival have been cumbersome for both you and Anakin— the two of you struggle together with these life-altering changes thrust in front of you by the Galaxy. As the group reaches Coruscant, new revelations are made that further urge Obi-Wan to meet with The Council as soon as possible: to discuss your discovery, and its consequences.

Song Inspo: Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up) — Florence + The Machine

Words: 6.1K

A/n: Ahhhh!! You all are so lovely. Hope you like this chapter. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments (and message if you'd like to be on the taglist!)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Series Masterlist

Hibernation is a covert preparation for a more overt action — Ralph Ellison

“A war…”

Anakin’s hand loosely tilted a throttle lever to the right as the shuttle approached Coruscant only a few thousand kilometers away. Its spherical body crept into the viewport like a loth-cat poised for attack while your voice filled the cabin.

The peaceful lull of space gave the young Jedi a moment to glance back at the conversation taking place. He looked beyond Ahsoka, who was cozied up in the shuttle seat directly behind him, legs thrown over an armrest and a Datapad resting comfortably against her knees. As she typed away, you sat beside her quizzically, eyes fixed in an aimless direction with a cheek resting gently on your fingertips in thought.

You’d inquired twelve hours into the trip about galactic events that occurred during your last ten years of total isolation, and it took the remaining two days for Obi-Wan to provide you with a very abbreviated version. The wise Jedi spent much time on The Order’s growth throughout the years and various blips in the peace, like the Invasion of Naboo. Only in the last few hours did he arrive at the topic of the Separatist war. Your shock at being for so long completely unaware of the galactic battles taking place was palpable.

Anakin delved deeper into his memories of the last few days in this cramped, rickety shuttle as it traversed from the Outer Ring across the galaxy. Specifically, those late nights in which he chose to keep the ship off autopilot and fly it manually, long after Master Kenobi and Ahsoka had fallen asleep in the back.

In the dimmed lighting, his mind still rushed with questions about your discovery. He had anxiety about what your sudden appearance in his life meant, and frustrations from not being informed of your existence. So Anakin decided it would be easier to manipulate the bird’s mechanisms himself. To keep his mind from wandering too far into further misgivings.

On both such quiet evenings, he recalled your restlessness. You shuffled aimlessly in the rear cabin, from your back to your side, and after a few seconds, to your stomach with a defeated plonk. Eventually, after many noisy readjustments, he’d hear an exasperated sigh before you’d roll over and rise to your feet. He’d sense you quietly sneak up behind the co-pilot’s seat and, each night, you’d unceremoniously plop down beside him, leaning back with arms crossed and staring out the viewport as if it was just the lullaby you’d needed.

He’d peer at you, noticing your subtly sunk in eyes, before once again making the same comment.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

And after a few drawn-out moments filled with only the silent hum of the shuttle’s engines, he’d ask a question. Nothing grandeur or serious. Just anything to lead to a conversation. To pass the time.

“Have you ever thought about where you’d want to visit? After leaving Hoth?” He spoke lowly.

And your head cocked with an imaginative gaze stuck ahead before answering with a small smile.

“I’ve always wanted to play grav-ball, and I’ve heard Nubia has some of the best teams. So probably there.”

Anakin nodded approvingly. “Coruscant has them too.”

And your smile widened as you twisted toward him. “Really?”

Then your interest was piqued. And you’d continue the conversation or make some completely unrelated, lighthearted query. Either way, the two of you would talk for hours during those calm nights in the old, decrepit shuttle.

It was during these late-night talks, that Anakin had the chance to uncover more of who you were. He brushed away at your sentiments, uncovering your interests like hidden gems while simultaneously sharing his own. The both of you seemed to have a great deal in common.

And that helped ease his mind.

Anakin turned back to the controls to prepare the shuttle for approach as it neared the planet’s gravitational pull, shutting off the main ion drives.

“And the Jedi as Generals? Controlling an army of clones?”

He watched as you shook your head and sighed, pressing your lips together as if mourning a memory.

“I always thought The Order was built to preserve peace in the Galaxy. Qui-Gon always made that clear. The Jedi were protectors, not stokers of conflict.”

“The Jedi have always been and will prevail as keepers of the peace.” Obi-Wan clarified.

His stance held firm behind the co-pilots seats, leaning against it with arms crossed as he analyzed your reactions carefully.

“We act in this war to do just that. The cohesiveness and strength of The Republic would be destroyed if The Separatist Alliance remained. You know as well as most from your studies that an existence like The Old Republic would act as an open cut to agents of the Dark Side.”

Anakin noticed as your eyes misted over in a dazed fashion.

“Forces like Maul…” You murmured.

Exhaling soberly, Anakin digested your solemn expression. Watching your mind struggle to process this newfound mountain of information was bringing back his own troubling memories from his youth. He never was the strongest enthusiast for change, and some of the most extreme adjustments he’d made involved similar exposure to newly dire circumstances. Whether that be learning he’d be hungry for another day, or of some plan to sell him off to another slave owner like cheap merchandise.

As a boy, he found himself best distracted from these circumstances by a new tinkering project, or by those rare moments of frivolity in such tumultuous times.

Yet here he was, already focusing his mind on fiddling with the outdated shuttle in front of him as he had done for the past few days. An expression of levity seemed to be the next logical step, he thought.

“Well, remember?” He grinned at you lightheartedly. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore. Master Kenobi put him in his place.”

Anakin observed as the corner of your mouth twitched upwards, stirring his own to take a wider stance. The momentary lift in your spirits was short-lived, although, as your lost eyes lifted from the floor, disoriented by your mind.

“It’s almost poetic.” You mused, a rueful chuckle falling from your lips. “The very beings my Master protected me from destroyed him in the end.”

Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan who stroked his beard inquisitively as he mulled over your words in profound concentration. His narrowed gaze briefly met Anakin’s as if searching his irises for an answer to some distant, dubious puzzle.

The former Padawan raised a brow at his Master’s countenance, silently asking what he did to warrant such an expression. Then, Obi-Wan’s lips abruptly parted in realization as he spun back toward you. Anakin took that as his cue to refocus his energy on the rapidly approaching planet whose gravitational field pulled them forward, marking the bird at only a hundred kilometers away.

“Qui-Gon did protect you…” Obi-Wan suspired earnestly as if hearing his own words for the very first time.

He gesticulated with a hand. “His final moments, his face, is forever etched into my mind.”

Kenobi’s sentence broke off. The pensive Jedi opened and closed his mouth a few times while he formulated his thoughts, as if questioning the significance of each word.

“In the thousands of times I’ve gone over his death, I was always taken by the complete peace, the confidence, with which he entered The Force.”

He paused once more, lips tugged upward and eyes glossed in wonder.

“It was because of you.”

Anakin spun fully around, facing the two of you as Obi-Wan dotted that final claim. He noticed your head shoot up at them from its lulled position.

“What do you mean?” You inquired, your eyes adrift in a sea of perceptible perturbation.

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Anakin piped up bewildered.

He prayed to the Maker that his former Master wasn’t in any way implying that you had anything to do with his Qui-Gon’s death.

Yet Obi-Wan was undeterred by the assortment of sentiments swirling around him.

“When he first discovered that Maul was a Sith.” He began excitedly. “He must have realized the threat to you. Yes, he was protecting you from the Sith for most of your life, but The Order hadn’t encountered them for a thousand years. And yet, he appeared before Qui-Gon on Tatooine, and then…Naboo.”

Obi-Wan exhaled, letting his arms fall to each side as you leaned forward, watching him intently with hands now clasped firmly beneath your jaw.

Anakin could tell that your silver stare intimated even his former Master. He watched as the Master Negotiator not so subtly eyed the hull’s roof to escape your gaze.

“It is possible, that tracking you down was part of Maul’s mission. He may have discovered your connection to Qui-Gon.”

Kenobi sighed, stroking his chin. “Our former Master likely came to the same conclusion.”

Anakin saw as Obi-Wan’s eyes fell to connect intensely with yours, a smile lingered on the bearded Jedi’s features as his eyes creased in tranquility.

“You should find solace in the fact that you made his final moments most comforting. His death ensured that the Sith would never discover your whereabouts. I’m sure that gave him peace.”

For the first time today, Anakin registered a twinkle in your radiantly silver eyes as you silently thanked the older Jedi with a lift in your cheeks, leaning back into your seat comfortably.

The Chosen One glanced between the two of you as the gaze held. He knew Qui-Gon’s death weighed heavily on Kenobi’s soul. It strongly influenced his choices on the battlefield, and stuck to him like Chewstim during meditation sessions. Yet Anakin rarely heard Obi-Wan discuss the experience. Let alone with serenity blooming from his features like a Tarisian rose that had just escaped a long, winter hibernation.

Your mutual connection to Qui-Gon seemed to help heal these old wounds, and Anakin was grateful for that.

“Enough with the sappiness, Master,” Anakin exclaimed with a lively lilt, breaking the tension as he spun back toward the shuttle’s controls.

Obi-Wan shot Anakin an annoyed look. The teasing Jedi pushed a throttle lever down before programming the shuttle for atmospheric reentry on the left control set.

“I think Silvey would much rather take in our arrival.”

Anakin didn’t need to reach into the force to sense your amused brow’s rapid surge upwards. Obi-Wan stepped around the co-pilot’s seat, shaking his head in surrender as he settled into the chair, smoothing out his robe on either side.

“You sure know how to ruin a moment, Sky-Guy.” Ahsoka pipped up.

Her gaze remained fixed on the Datapad. Yet her comment only amplified his mischievousness.

“Silvey?” Anakin heard you question with feigned indignation as he entered the final commands into the shuttle interface, engaging the secondary thrusters.

The spirited Jedi snatched the navigational lever, pushing it down to lead the craft into Coruscant’s exosphere before glancing over his shoulder at your postured displeasure. He smirked as your eyes met, forcing a dampened smile to surface on your own countenance.

“Hey, don’t blame me! I could spot your silver eyes from a million parsecs away. It’s only fitting.” He defended.

Then, a particularly tantalizing observation entered his thoughts.

“Would you prefer Shorty?”

You chucked darkly, squinting at The Chosen One with a challenging glare as he brought the shuttle’s nose into a deeper dive.

Your lips pursed upwards. “If looks could kill, Anakin. If looks could kill…”

The pilot beamed at your playful remark. “Well, at least take a break from stabbing me with those freakishly sparkly things.” He quipped, waving you away. “You’re missing the view.”

Out of the corner of his focused stare, Anakin observed your head rise. You were immediately taken by Coruscant’s giant mass, a faded blue and gray planet with billions of lights forming golden circles that were interconnected like a geometric map. Your mouth loosened in astonishment with each glossy orb stuck to the viewport. He noticed you lean forward, as if pulled by some unknown force, resting your elbows on each knee with your chin fitted on clasped hands.

Satiated by your raised spirits, Anakin refocused on the throttle, pushing it down further to bring the shuttle into Coruscant’s baby blue troposphere. The ship began to quiver as the hull took the brunt of the friction.

For a few turbulent seconds, his vision was blocked by the vast array of rounded, white clouds. The cabin’s heat intensified as the edges of the viewport started to burn a fiery red.

But soon, the shuttle broke through the white veil’s final wisps, displaying the towering cityscape, which rolled like jagged hills and consumed the viewport. The sun was beginning its final crawl to dusk, filling the sky with a deep orange fire whose smoke billowed into dark blues and purples. The streams of light illuminated the busy skylanes, resembling the endless march of Endorian ant colonies. They brought life to Coruscant’s still landmarks.

“It’s beautiful.”

Anakin covertly peaked at you, registering the astonishment plastered on your face. He assumed for a being that’s only known endless snow banks and harsh winters all their life, that this experience would be terribly intimidating, terrifying even.

He thought back briefly to ten years prior. When he first came to Coruscant, he was petrified. Scared of this new environment. Of this added drastic change to his life.

But he was mostly afraid for his mother. For her fate back on Tatooine. Under Watto’s thumb, only to be bought by Lars, and then…

It permeated his being. Haunted him for years. Pulled at his heart with the constant mass of a planet, swinging like a pendulum with each reminder, each ache. And, still, he carries it with him today. But now, with a deeper anger. A stronger guilt.

But you seemed to take it all in with grace.

And Anakin admired that.

The Temple swiftly grew into view as the shuttle descended. The heat surrounding the hull began to recede. Anakin rolled the lever, bringing the shuttle in for a curved landing. He aligned the ship with one of the protruding hangars, the whole of which he believed resembled an upside-down lollipop. At least when he was a youngling.

After thumbing a few buttons on the control panel to release the landing gear, Anakin pressed the lever down, encouraging the craft to speed to the circular platform nose first. He turned the throttle once more to the right, slowing the ship by aligning its door with the hangar entrance, allowing for a slow, final descent.

The ship jostled slightly as it met the landing pad, signaling Anakin to begin a systems-wide power down, staring at the main control panel.

Another happy landing.

As he flicked off the last switch to power down the engines, Anakin felt an audible rumble from within, compelling him to focus on the sudden ache in his stomach.

It had been a while since he had a good meal with the back-to-back missions and low stock of ration bars. Not that he ever considered that bantha fodder food.

Usually after a long away mission, he would grab a speeder from The Temple and take a quick trip to the Senate Building. He’d roam the halls nonchalantly, chest puffed to signal an air of importance, like he had a very official reason to be there. Then, he would ‘aimlessly’ stroll to Padmé’s office.

Once he arrived with a covert knock at the door, Padmé would welcome him inside with a warmhearted smile. He would then spend some time resting on one of her guest seats meant for senatorial colleagues, attempting to entertain himself with the mechanisms of his saber’s hilt. But it wasn’t long until he began to distract Padmé from her work, eventually convincing her to call it an early night. The two of them would grab a meal in her spacious Coruscanti apartment that overlooked The Temple from a few miles away. But he was never intrigued by that view. His eyes remained fixed on her.

Yet despite all this daydreaming, Skywalker knew his wife was still on Naboo, managing the consequences of donating a vast array of medical supplies to another planet. Her responsibilities on her home world exponentially swelled in the last few months, so he wasn’t entirely sure when he’d next see her.

No one knew when they’d see each other next during wartime. Or if they would ever meet again.

If these musings indicated anything, it was that Anakin eagerly hoped to spend some downtime with the people he was closest to. No war planning. No cargo transports. No battle charges. Just a nice meal and entertaining conversation. And he knew just who he wanted to spend that time with.

Anakin stood, stretching his arms into a spin just in time to witness the very person he hoped to talk to swing her legs back over the seat they were sprawled out on before jumping up and charging for the door.

“What’s got you in such a rush?” He called after Ahsoka as she jostled the shuttle door open.

The orange light of the setting sun invaded the ship with a jolt, casting large shadows on the scattered groups of hangar workers, the closest of which approached the ship to take it off Anakin’s hands once the final three passengers exited.

She leaped out, landing delicately on the tips of her toes before turning into a backward jog.

“If I don’t finish this physics paper by midnight, Master Plo Koon is gonna kill me!” She yelled, shaking her datapad in the air. “Catch you later!”

Anakin’s gaze followed her sprinting form down the hangar’s walkway until she disappeared into the inner bay behind a small cruiser.

“Ok.” Anakin huffed before facing the two remaining Jedi with a grin. “At least the three of us can grab dinner.”

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“I’m afraid the two of you will have to enjoy without me,” Obi-Wan admitted as he glanced at Anakin. “The Council likely planned an emergency meeting concerning the recall of the Jedi from the front lines. I need to check in immediately.”

Anakin’s smile faltered. He inwardly groaned at Kenobi’s resolute dedication to rules and regulations. He was sure The Council could have waited half an hour, but Anakin knew Obi-Wan’s mind was set.

Obi-Wan twisted on his heels to face you. “I will also inform them about you.”

“Shouldn’t I be there then?” You questioned.

All hope of eating with one of his traveling companions drained from Anakin’s spirit. Maybe he could meet with one of them later instead, he thought. He supposed he could put off food for a bit, perhaps continue on that pilot droid project he hadn’t had a chance to work on for a while. But then he’d probably need to take a quick trip to Level 1782. Last time Anakin checked, he was low on spare parts.

“No,” Obi-Wan claimed.

Skywalker’s ears perked at that.

“That will not be necessary. They will likely need to confer without your presence for now.”

You silently agreed as Anakin internally sighed in relief.

Obi-Wan nodded to the both of you before turning to the hangar walkway, hurriedly traipsing toward his exit.

Anakin took a more leisurely pace in the same direction as you followed behind. An uncomfortable silence took hold as he guided the both of you into the inner hangar. The bustling noise of your surroundings amplified the awkwardness as the two of you closed in on the larger groups of hangar workers, barking out loud commands and using various tools, like sonorously whirring drills, to update or fix the conglomerate of crafts that idly scattered the zone.

Anakin felt his nose begin to tickle, perhaps from distant smoke. But he was too worried that it may prolong the uncomfortably fresh turf between the two of you if he tried to scratch it.

“So…” You spoke somewhat unsure of yourself. “What is there to do that’s fun around here?”

Anakin’s whole body froze, stopping dead in his tracks from eager surprise as if he were caught in a carbon-freezing chamber. He spun toward you, immediately seizing your shoulders with a steady clasp.

“What did you say?” He asked intently, excitement radiating up his spine and diffusing to his fingertips.

He observed your figure stiffen slightly at his agile animation. You raised a questioning brow as you opened your mouth with a hesitant pause, seemingly unsure if you should ask again.

“Do Jedi raised in The Order…not do anything….leisurely?”

The confident Jedi chuckled coolly while throwing an arm around your shoulder as you both exited the hanger into The Temple, pivoting to stroll down the hall opposite from Obi-Wan’s trail.

“I think we are going to get along very well, Silvey.” He hummed self-assuredly.

You rolled your eyes. “Not if you keep calling me that.”

“I promise you, you’re not gonna mind that nickname after I show you one of the most leisurely activities on all of Coruscant.” He assured.

You glanced at Anakin with lifted features. “But I thought you were hungry.” You teased

Anakin scoffed. “Food can wait. Now, tell me, Silvey.” Anakin dreamed as he patted your shoulder. “Did Qui-Gonn ever tell you about the Wicko District?”

—

General Kenobi maintained his nimble gait down the primary walkway to the High Council Chamber. His robes billowed as he passed an abundance of lounging Jedi, some conversing to the sides or keeping a moderate pace as they made their way to an unknown destination on either side of him.

Soon into his journey, Obi-Wan crossed paths with his old mentor Master Cin Drallig, followed by a group of twelve rowdy younglings whose voices bounced off the temple walls. Maybe they were asking questions, or telling a story, but the bearded Jedi couldn’t tell. Each utterance overlapped like a cacophony of crashing speeders.

Yet almost immediately, they noticed his presence, twirling away from each other to respectfully greet one of their long-held role models.

“Hello, Master!”

“Hello, younglings.” General Kenobi smiled.

He looked back to Master Dralli, catching his tired, yet fulfilled stare. They each exchanged a dutiful, yet brisk nod before continuing on their respective paths.

Obi-Wan always felt dwarfed by the massive olive-gray pillars that buttressed The Temple’s lofty ceilings. As a youngling, the golden archways seemed to stretch out endlessly in each direction, giving the effect of an infinite mirror when he passed under them. When he aged, however, Obi-Wan learned to better understand the structure’s finite nature, yet he was still taken by its capacious essence. Each hall resembled a palace built thousands of years ago by Mandallian Giants, specifically constructed for their wide gates and broad shoulders. And it would coax his imagination into its unyielding grasp.

He remembers spending too much time simply sitting crossed in these halls during his youth. The youngling would rest his eyelids to visualize the giants’ roaring tramps shake the coral- and lilac-marble floors in succeeding thundering booms.

As Obi-Wan turned a corner, tread crossing onto the ocean blue carpet of the inner Temple, he reminisced about the time Qui-Gon caught him red-handed in the middle of one of these fantasies. It was many years before the late Jedi took him on as a Padawan.

Qui-Gon would always engage with the younglings when possible. He had a habit of outwardly encouraging all initiates in their studies, especially those who struggled with their training and emotional discipline. But he would also silently approve those rare moments in which a young Jedi took a moment to themselves. Whether that be exploring the Coruscanti entertainment district, playing Sabacc, or Obi-Wan’s respite of choice, daydreaming.

With eyes shrouded in darkness, he could almost smell the sweaty towering creature. Its footsteps sounded like cracks of lighting, and he could feel the room’s imperceptible rise in temperature from the creature’s sudden presence. If he really focused, its colossal, green-muscled foot would nearly breach the void in his sight, creeping from the corner of his left eyelid. The hair on his arms prickled at the beast’s sudden proximity.

“Meditating are you?”

The young Kenobi’s eyes sprung open, cheeks reddening as his eyes locked with the wise Jedi before him.

“Uhh, yes…Master.”

And Qui-Gon simply smiled.

Obi-Wan’s worries momentarily lifted at the memory, delight gracing his features. But that instant disappeared from his mind as quickly as it arrived. The Jedi refocused on the task ahead, passing one of the large Sage Master statues that shined like freshly polished copper to his right as The Council meeting room entered his vision.

Just outside the Chamber door stood Master Windu, leaning with his arm against the wall beside him as he continued his deep discussion with Master Yoda, who rested in his flying chair. The two of them spoke softly, and from Windu’s creased brows, General Kenobi could tell that it was serious. A few groups of Jedi Masters similarly congregated around the door, talking lowly. Kenobi could sense heightened anxiety trailing the air.

As he approached, Obi-Wan caught the corner of Mace’s eye. He turned to General Kenobi, offering a curt nod at his arrival as Yoda reoriented his seat toward the newly arrived.

“Late you are, Master Kenobi.”

“I apologize for the delay.” Obi-Wan relayed sincerely. “Our shuttle experienced some unexpected complications.”

Yoda hummed deeply at Obi-Wan’s words, indicating his acceptance of this explanation to Mace before taking his chair on a measured stroll down the walkway, back in the direction from whence Obi-Wan came. Windu and Kenobi shortly followed in step.

“The Council has already met to discuss the issue of recalling the Jedi.” Master Windu began as the trio ambled down the hallway. “We have suffered a communications incursion by the Separatists.”

Obi-Wan was astounded, brows furrowing in confusion as he absentmindedly rubbed his jaw.

“A breach in our secure transmissions…How is that possible?” He exclaimed.

“Unsure, we are,” Yoda answered. “Investigate, our specialists will.”

Mace addressed the troubled Jedi. “A number of troops stationed in obscure outer regions of multi-planetary battle sites were ambushed in the last few weeks. The only way they could have been discovered would be if their COMMs were tapped into. It is possible that the Separatists have somehow obtained some of our transmitter codes or found some other flaw in the communications system. Because we cannot use our wrist comms or holopads to send sensitive information to communicate this development, we’ve recalled the Jedi.”

“Continue the battles, the clones will. Send out Jedi temporarily with verbal directions for troops, we must.

“Until communications are secured.” Windu clarified. “The 212th and 501st have already received new instructions for a less critical mission on Aleen.”

Obi-Wan hummed in contemplation. “And how long do you believe this situation will last?”

Mace exhaled. “We won’t know until technicians look further into the issue. But it may be weeks, months.”

Obi-Wan stroked his beard as he ruminated about this concerning development. He trusted Commander Cody with his life, but still knew it would be difficult for the 212th to address more delicate missions in the near future without timely information from The Temple or even inter-troop comms.

“Concerned, we all are,” Yoda reassured, likely sensing General Kenobi’s unease.

“The Council will be informing all active Jedi in the Great Hall tomorrow morning. Make sure Anakin and his Padawan are present. And here.”

Windu reached into the right pocket of his robe, pulling out what Obi-Wan thought was a wrist comm, yet it seemed bulkier. An extra layer of wiring was hidden in an additional panel stuck underneath the control layer. Most notable was the thin, silver line of steel that encircled the device, something the General hadn’t seen on a comm before. He took it, feeling the mass in his palm. It felt cold, heavy, with a rusted button and weak indicator light.

He thought it ancient.

“It’s a comm from the old Temple emergency system. It’s completely separate from our current communications system so messages from these devices to regular comms will be secure. There are only enough for one per council member.”

Obi-Wan thanked the Master as he switched his current wrist link with the replacement, placing the former in his robe’s pocket.

“Still careful, we must be.”

Mace added. “Only use it to ask for meetings, not to share sensitive data.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “On the topic of sensitivity, I must inform you of a development.”

He breathed deeply, exhaling in a short burst as he gathered his complicated memories about you to present to The Council leaders.

“In our delay, Anakin, his Padawan, and I were on Hoth for a short time, where we met a being living alone on the planet’s surface.”

The two Jedi Masters listened intently as he continued.

“I discovered them to be a Gray Jedi, trained by Master Qui-Gonn himself. They claim to be The Guardian, a figure that is a part of The Chosen One prophecy, but was expected to be trained outside The Order. They are tasked with Anakin’s protection and guidance so that he may achieve his destiny. Their journey begins when dark forces threaten this fate.”

Mace’s eyes narrowed. “This is a bold claim, Master Kenobi. If anything, it sounds like a Separatist trick.”

Then, as soft as their nimble footfalls, Yoda uttered your name under his breath.

Obi-Wan’s head swiveled toward the Grand Master. “You know them?”

The shorter Jedi sighed, leaning back in his chair as his eyes glazed over in deep reflection.

“Gone, I thought they were, a long time ago.”

Mace’s brows raised as he turned to Yoda. “You know of this individual, Master?”

He nodded gravely, a light grunt resonated from his esophagus.

“Discovered them as an infant twenty-five years ago, I did. Kept a close eye on them, I had.” He sighed. “Killed by a dark power a year later, their parents were. Believed they died as well, I did.”

The Grand Master eyed General Kenobi carefully, as if the bearded Jedi made a mistake in his recollection.

“Interested to learn they are alive, I am.”

“A dark power…” Obi-Wan mused. “Master, do you believe a Sith may have been responsible? I have been theorizing that Maul’s presence on Tatooine could have had more than one motive.”

“Discovered their presence, you believe he did?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan confirmed. “And their connection to Qui-Gon.”

He paused, counting the years in his head.

“But Maul would have been too young when their parents passed.”

“The rule of two…” Mace hummed.

“A Master, then.” Yoda declared.

“Then The Guardian’s presence suggests that Maul may not be the last Sith,” Windu revealed. “If it’s true that their appearance suggests a new threat from the Dark Side.”

“During the Battle of Geonosis, discovered that Dooku may be a Sith, I did.” Yoga established. “Great darkness, I sensed in him.”

“Then he is the Sith Lord?” Mace speculated.

Obi-Wan agreed. “He would have been quite capable of taking their parents’ lives over two decades ago.”

“It would also explain The Guardian’s survival, if Dooku’s late Padawan discovered his plans and partially thwarted them before they were carried out,” Mace suggested.

“Informed The Council, Qui-Gon would have, if believed Dooku was a Sith, he had. Much we still do not know, there is.”

Windu exhaled, placing his middle and index finger against his right temple and thinking deeply about his next words.

“I would like to meet this Guardian myself.” He gestured to Kenobi. “Tomorrow in the Sparring Arena after the Great Hall announcement. It is important for The Council to determine whether they have the necessary physical and mental abilities, and the appropriate connection to the Force, to be a Jedi Knight. To join The Order. Otherwise, leaving them outside the purview of The Order could have dire consequences. That is if they are even prepared to fulfill such a destiny after nearly a decade of isolation.”

“Of course, Master.” Obi-Wan acknowledged. “But from what little I’ve seen, they seem quite capable of holding their own.”

Windu’s stare held firm. “Respectfully, Master Kenobi, I will be the one to determine that.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze fell. “Understood.”

He didn’t take the Master’s tone personally. Windu’s conformist nature and deep dislike for any Jedi activity conducted beyond the domain of The Council likely made his discovery of The Guardian prophecy an unwelcome one. Obi-Wan only hoped that Master Windu would still treat you as any other Jedi when testing your abilities. He remembers the wise Master’s negative reaction to Anakin’s discovery, due to his age at the time Qui-Gon requested that he be trained. You were much older than 10-year-old Ani, so he was convinced that would pose a problem for the talented swordsman.

And this was not the best time for you to be meeting resistance from The Order that you trained your whole life to serve so to continue its millennia-long mission of preserving the peace through light. The Master Negotiator didn’t need to employ his strong conversation skills to discern how the past few days’ overwhelming changes had been affecting you. That, in addition to learning of your Master’s passing, had made you restless on the journey here. It was hard to ignore, even while he settled in repose each night, your twisted form which struggled to sleep.

He empathized with you deeply.

The General was also, in some measure, apprehensive about the inevitable clash of personalities. He found you kind, considerate, but also unafraid to speak your mind, or express your inner sentiments. He admired Master Windu since he was a boy, but his no-nonsense approach? His uncompromising mental discipline and austere lessons? It would surely cause a collision of temperaments.

“A different name, they must go by,” Yoda announced.

Obi-Wan’s gaze rose curiously at this. “Master?”

“Know they are alive, Dooku cannot.”

“Nor any other actor of the Dark Side. Nor the Separatists.” Windu interjected. “Their existence could pose a significant weakness to the Republic’s image of enduring peace and light. If Separatist forces discover The Guardian’s identity and purpose from their birth name, they may believe that the destruction of a specific Jedi could leave us vulnerable.”

He paused, turning to Yoda to verify his conclusions, who languidly blinked in concurrence.

Mace’s peer twisted back toward Kenobi. “If dark forces found them once through their birth name, they can again.”

The Grand Master nodded in agreement. “Destroy The Guardian, they may otherwise try.”

Obi-Wan’s heart dropped at the notion. It was clear that your identity needed to be protected from these powerfully dark forces, lest you meet the same fate as your parents.

If your mission was to guard and guide Anakin, his former Padawan, and dear friend, then the determined Jedi believed it to be his personal assignment to aid you in that destiny. Now he knew that hiding your identity to the best of his ability would be part of that task. The side of the light needed you, and Obi-Wan’s deep connection to it and his cavernous desire to continue Qui-Gon’s decades-long efforts meant only one thing— he needed to protect you too.

“Anakin gave them a nickname.” The General recalled, head tilted and eyes scanning up an idle column as he thought back. “Silvey, if memory serves.”

Windu's brows raised, unsurprised.

“Then Silvey they’ll remain,” he concluded.

Yoda hummed, his disconcertion bubbling to the surface with lips creased in a downward turn. “Their true name, only the three of us, Anakin, and little Ahsoka will know. Kept secret, their identity must be. Inform The Council of the prophecy, we shall, once communications are refortified. But within the council, it must stay.”

Master Windu mumbled in unanimity. “We must not entertain any notion of emerging Sith. Not among the Jedi, nor publicly.”

“I understand the delicacy of the situation and will act accordingly,” Obi-Wan assured.

The bearded Jedi halted, turning to the elders before leaning into a slight obeisance. The other Masters slowed to a halt.

“If you will excuse me, Masters, I hope to find my travel companions before they divulge any information about The Guardian’s identity.”

“May the Force be with you, Master Kenobi,” Windu stated as he bowed adieu, Yoda following suit from his floating chair.

And with that, Obi-Wan turned away to begin his search for you, Anakin, and Ahsoka.

As the General quickened his stride down that long, colossally immortal walkway, he wondered where he might find the three of you. Ahsoka was probably in the Jedi Archives around the corner, assuming she was continuing her work on that paper for Master Plo Koon. So he decided to start there. He assumed you and Anakin were stationed in the refectory closest to the hangar, remembering the previously mentioned dinner plans,

Or maybe it would be better to try the refractory first, Obi-Wan thought. If experience served true, Anakin would not stay silent about your discovery for long. He hastened his pace while mumbling these plans under his breath.

“Yes, the refractory first.”

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Covert Eyes (22)

Prologue| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6| Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x OC (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Stalking behaviour, anxiety, language, sexual references, angst, smut, heartbreak, gunshot wounds and recovery, abduction, hostage situation.

Summary: Lucas takes notice of a young woman, Amy, but his obsession and want to get to know her begin to spiral out of control. Amy is now working for MI-5, after being recruited by Ros. But will her involvement with Lucas cause even more problems and heartbreak?

Amy has now gone missing; will Lucas get her back home safely?

Official soundtrack list:  here

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be tagged in any of my tag lists for fics or characters, please let me know, and stipulate what you want to be tagged in.

Key words/terms which people may not understand:

DVLA - "Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency' which is a government department in the UK and handles all driving licences, registrations and car tax.

ANPR - "Automatic numberplate recognition"

Amy was bound at her wrists and ankles and perched on a chair, with the rope around her wrists, binding her to the chair. She grimaced and squinted as the bag was pulled from her head and an intense light was shone in her face. Had she been knocked out? She couldn’t quite remember what had happened once she’d passed The King’s Head and felt someone drag her down the adjoining backstreet. Everything turned black and then she woke in this place. There was a dull thump in the back of her head and she had a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Amy Holland,” a voice came. 

She could see the outline of someone from behind the light and they began to move closer towards her. By now and the light was hurting her eyes; every time she blinked and it felt like a stab of raw pain behind her eyelids. 

“If you co-operate then you’ll be fine,” the voice came again. It was an American man’s voice. “I want Lucas North. He’s the reason my sister is dead. She tried to warn you against him but, of course, you wouldn’t listen. So maybe this will wake you up.”

“Wake me up to what?” Amy replied. “How horrible of a man he is? It’ll take a lot more than that to make me think anything but that Lucas is an amazing man and I love him. You can’t take that away from me.” 

“He’ll definitely come and look for you though, won’t he? Play the doting fiancée and the hero so he can impress you.” 

“He’s already impressed me,” Amy hissed. “What exactly is your plan here?”

“See how far Lucas will go for you, and then I can kill him with my bare hands.” 

“I think you underestimate…”

“I don’t think you’re in the prime position to tell me I’m underestimating MI5. I have far more experience with the British security services than you. You started in November, and you seem to think you know everything about them. I’ve worked in intel for most of my life, and I know how your team work, darling.” 

The adrenaline was pumping in Amy’s body as she looked up into the grey eyes of Sarah Caulfield’s vengeful brother. Her fight or flight system had come online, ready to push her into further danger or pull her from it. She could feel tears stinging her eyes, threatening to fall down her cheeks. Her heart was racing, but she inhaled deeply, trying hard to somehow relax herself. Pulling against the bindings was of no use. 

‘Caulfield’ as Amy referred to him in her mind, soon left her alone in the darkness again. All she had was her thoughts of Lucas, whom she knew would have realised she was missing. Their living arrangement and schedules was something both of them had become so used to now, that Amy knew Lucas couldn’t have overlooked any changes or slight deviations. 

In the darkness and she replayed the times when they laughed together in bed, and he would tickle her under the duvet. But it would soon turn into a more serious moment and they would eventually make love. Caulfield surely could only go by what his sister had disclosed to him, and had no idea just how loving and gentle of a man Lucas North really was behind closed doors. She knew with her whole heart that he would get to her. Nothing would stop him fighting to save her. She had no place for doubts at this point. She kept her mind focused on Lucas and the words dum spiro spero: while I live, I hope. 

***

Back at the grid, Lucas had been working constantly for nearly two days. He was running on pure adrenaline now, unable to let any kind of fatigue take over. All that mattered was Amy. He hadn’t showered, shaved, changed his clothes and barely eaten. All he had managed to eat was a chocolate bar out of Amy’s desk drawer. 

“Lucas, go home tonight,” Harry said, coming to his desk. “And that is an order. We’re all on this.” 

“Harry, how can I?” Lucas said, looking up at his boss with dark circles growing around his ice blue eyes. “I know Sarah’s behind this, or at least someone connected to her.” 

“At least go and have a shower, change your clothes, get something to eat.” 

Lucas travelled back to his and Amy’s flat upon Harry’s final demand. He entered the quiet flat, sighing as he did so. Everything made him think of her: the Disney figurines, the Tinkerbell mug which was still on the coffee table, the pair of pink, fluffy slippers which had been left in the hallway. The hallway – the place he’d made love to Amy for the first time. He could feel her gripping onto him, hear her gentle moans against his ear, feel her soft skin and smell her honey shampoo. 

If she dies, what else do I have? 

Lucas sat down on the edge of their bed and picked up a jumper of Amy’s, and as he lifted it to his nose, he could smell her perfume on it: Olympia by Paco Robbane. It was the very thing that made him aware of her presence in the coffee shop over a year ago. The sweet scent had hit him suddenly, and he turned to see her, sitting alone in the back corner of the café, doodling in her notebook. Then it was her green eyes that attracted him first; large and bright. For a few days and Lucas had battled in his mind with why he had become interested in her. She was not the kind of woman he would have normally become interested in or involved with. Sophisticated, independent and sharp women were the ones he normally found himself in relationships with. Amy was independent, yes, but she didn’t possess an obvious air of sophistication and was not sharp tongued, unless angry. She was softer, non-assuming, and unique. 

Lucas bowed his head and wept. His one chance at a normal life, and it was being ripped away from him again, threatened by someone who could not let go of the past. 

***

Amy had no idea how much time passed. She was left in a dark room, with her captors only coming to her to allow her to relieve herself in a bucket, or to offer food and drink. Lucas’ face was the main thing that Amy saw in her mind; he was smiling at her, his voice wrapping around her, telling her how strong she was. She held on to that, knowing that he would come for her. One way or the other, Lucas would come. 

Caulfield came back to Amy, and once again, she had no idea how long it had been since he last spoke with her. As soon as he spoke, she felt her ears prickle as her hearing had become heightened due to the lack of light. The only noise she had had as company was the odd tap of someone from another room, or the sound of her breath. 

“MI5 should be aware of your disappearance by now, Miss Holland. And no doubt your boyfriend will sweep in to save the day, giving me the opportunity to take him down. This is personal, and it’s just a shame you got caught in the crossfire.” 

Amy remained quiet. Nothing she said would be of any use; this man seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, spilling his revenge talk bullshit. 

***

Everyone on the Grid worked long hours to get Amy home. It had been two days now since she was last seen. Lucas was quiet, with his jaw clenched constantly. No one dared approach him, unless it was something helpful to the case. 

On the afternoon of day two, Lucas’ phone rang. ‘Unknown number’ flashed on the screen. 

“Yes?” Lucas asked, inhaling sharply. This could only be in connection with Amy. Why else would an unknown number call his work mobile? 

“Lucas North.” Not a question. A fact. Whoever was calling was only stating that they knew they had the right number. “Will send coordinates. Come alone. If anyone else comes with you, we’ll shoot her. Leave your phone behind; we’ll know if you have it.” The accent was American, and the voice male. This was someone connected to Sarah Caulfield. He knew it. 

Before Lucas could muster words, the line went dead. 

Lucas rushed into Harry’s office, relaying the details of the call. “I need to go on my own, Harry.” 

“We need to make sure you can be tracked,” Harry demanded. 

“This is the CIA. I know they’re connected to Sarah Caulfield. Whoever was calling, is American. They’ll have metal detectors and know if I’m being tracked. This is between me and them.” 

***

Amy was sat in darkness. The bindings had started cutting into her wrists and her arms ached, being pulled behind her back. The pain had been getting worse in the last hour or two and it was beginning to spread up her back and into her neck. The only time she was free of the bindings was when she needed to relieve herself or was eating, and even then, a man sat directly in front of her wearing a balaclava, making sure that she couldn’t run. 

She let out a groan and tilted her head back. Her eyes focused on the darkness, her gaze falling further into it. In her imagination, she could feel Lucas stood just behind her, his lips trailing down her cheek and his arms wrapped around her middle. “I love you, angel.”

Time continued to pass. People came and went; that much she knew from the sound of doors opening and closing. There were muffled voices from the other side of what she felt was a metal shutter door. Whenever there had been any light shone toward her, she’d made out what seemed to be a factory-type environment. Voices in the room echoed, signalling that she was in a large space. More than likely she was still in London somewhere, stuck inside a factory unit. 

More waiting. Food was served to Amy; porridge, later followed by a cheese sandwich. She’d had at least two lots of breakfast now, so she’d been in this place for two days. 

Suddenly, a door opened from behind Amy. Voices drifted through into the open space and one of them she immediately recognised. “Lucas?!” she called. 

“Amy?” he called back. 

“Shut up, Superman!” Caulfield snarled. “Just get the fuck in there.” 

Lucas cried out in pain, his calls echoing. 

Amy whimpered for him. 

A light was shone again, blinding Amy. She gasped and lowered her gaze away from the light. Slowly she opened her eyes again, wincing against the ache. She could hear scuffling, grunts and could see the very vague outline of figures, all haloed by the light. 

Lucas was dragged to a seat and bound to it, just like Amy was. He could see Amy sitting a short distance away from him, and as the men walked away, he pulled himself up, the chair hanging against his bindings and he scooted over to her. 

Amy heard him whisper her name and just before the light disappeared, she saw the outline of his features, immediately recognising that profile. She pulled toward him and drew her cheek against his, immediately beginning to weep. Just the sound, touch and smell of him made an innermost peace wash over her. His cologne wafted up her nose and she felt the tickle of his growing stubble against her cheek. Unable to embrace, Lucas and Amy kissed in the darkness. 

As Lucas kissed down her face, he could feel her tears against his lips. “I promise to get us out of here, angel.” 

“He said he wants you,” Amy said. “But don’t you dare play some heroic so we get split up. We’re getting out together, or not at all.” 

Pride and love swelled inside Lucas’ chest. “I love you so much,” he replied. 

*** 

Back on the Grid, Malcolm and Tariq had been going over every piece of CCTV footage they could find, piecing together a partial vehicle registration number from a white van that was seen one street away from Amy’s abduction point. That was all they had to go on. Lists of vehicles with that same description and last three letters on the plate were run through all DVLA databases. This line of enquiry came to a dead end. Until Ros noticed a small van, only just visible at a junction in a southerly direction from the street where Amy disappeared. 

“There! I can just see the very edge of a light from the back of a vehicle. Malcolm, try and get footage from the angle looking down the junction and straight at the back of the vehicle.” 

“On it,” Malcolm said. 

A short while later and Malcolm had found that it was a small van which was registered to a window cleaning business. Also, it was noted that five minutes after Amy disappeared from view, the van moved. Two men, wearing all black clothing were seen getting into the van. 

Malcolm continued digging into the details of the vehicle and the paper trail that it was leaving behind. “The van is registered to Ace Window Cleaning, operated and owned by Robert Anderson. I’ve mapped out through ANPR data where the van has been and which properties it’s been seen doing business with. One of them was the ground floor flat of Martin Page. And with a little more magic, I can confirm that Martin Page is an alias that is used by CIA agent Randall Blanchard, known colleague and field partner of Simon Caulfield, older brother of Sarah Caulfield.” 

“Lucas was right,” Ros said simply. “Track the ANPR data of that van. Get everything you can on where it’s been the last two days since Amy was last seen. One of the agents obviously paid off Robert Anderson for use of the vehicle, hoping it wouldn’t be traced back to either one of them. Little do they know, we’ve got a lot of fancy tricks up our sleeves.” 

***

Amy rested her head against Lucas. Every now and again, she would feel him kiss her head. 

A night vision camera was hovering above them, and in another part of the building, in a sterile-looking white room, Simon Caulfield watched on. He stared at the monitor and then turned to his partner, Randall Blanchard. “Have you sent the package yet?” Simon asked. “First class?” 

“All done,” Randall replied, taking a mouthful of bitter coffee from the paper Costa cup in his hand. 

“We all know how doting Mommy and Daddy are with their little girls.” 

“What exactly do you want to do with them?” Randall asked. 

“Play with them a little, I guess. And then kill him. We’ll both get our revenge for what he did to Sarah.” 

***

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If you would like to be added to my tag list please let me know. Likewise, if you wish to be removed, please let me know!

[fieldofdaisiies]

Thank you so so much for tagging me @zenkindoflove @matrixsss 💛

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 49 (but I keep deleting old things I hate, so it might get less lol)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 499,263

3. What fandoms do you write for? ACOTAR (but I also wrote for CC, TLK and Marauders/Theo Nott)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?  

A Court of Covert Desire - Azris

Trapped - Azris

I Have Been Expecting You, Shadowsinger - Azris

Feyre's Day Out - Batboys and Nyx

Oh So Sensitive Wings - Feysand

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes! Sometimes many weeks later, but I always try to respond because each little comment makes me so happy, you have no idea

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I was going to say, I really don't know, but I do. The Tamlin x Rhysand's sister story... it's a bit sad...

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Actually most of them except for the Tamlin story?

8. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Not that much anymore. In my long fics I mostly only have 2-3 chapters with smut. If I do one shots they are sometimes only smut and every kind of smut, I don't know? It's mostly very descriptive, I guess.

9. Do you write crossovers? Yes, I wrote a Nessian x The Last of Us AU and an Elucien x Medici AU

10. Have you ever had a fic translated? No. But I think someone offered to translate one of my very old Marauders fics on wattpad...

11. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes!! For the ACOTAR writing circle and a story with my friend @moonlightazriel for Azriel

12. What is your all-time favorite ship? Elucien will always own the biggest part of my heart, but then there is also Azris who I love almost the same. And Gwyn x Balthazar (the ship which I am the captain and one of the few crew members of lol)

13. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? The Elucien night circus/Elain as a fortune teller fic...

14. What are your writing strengths? I don't know, do I have writing strengths? Maybe dialogues? Or describing nature lol

15. What are your writing weaknesses?  everything. But I guess writing interestingly? I sometimes feel like my stories have such a boring touch to them... and word order!!!!

16. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? It is fun. I did a little bit of it for @iftheshoef1tz's secret santa present and I am planning another historical Azris fic set in Germany/Austria so there will be more German I guess.

17. First fandom you wrote for? Marauders.

18. Favorite fic you’ve written? This is so hard, but right now it is A Court of Covert Desire (Azris) and A Court of Fate and Healing (Gwyn and Balthazar).

tagging (no pressure) @born-to-riot @chunkypossum @teddyhoneybear @lovely-vanserra-sunshine @queercontrarian @jules-writes-stories @the-darkestminds @thelovelymadone @acourtofladydeath @shadowqueenjude @sad-scarred-sassy

[the-darkestminds]

Autumn's Shadow: Chapter 4

Azriel x Eris (Azriel POV)

Summary: A covert meeting between Azriel and Eris to exchange valuable intel leaves Azriel reeling—and questioning everything he has ever felt for the Heir of Autumn. Azriel finds himself inexorably drawn to Eris, unable to resist his captivating allure. With the threat of Koschei and Beron looming ever closer, can their forbidden love endure in the face of such danger?

a/n: The plot is not canon compliant. Took some dialogue directly from acosf for this chapter.

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Read on AO3!

Full Chapter List

Chapter 4:

Azriel winnowed directly into Rhys’s office, not bothering to waste time knocking. He found it empty, and it took less than a minute for his shadows to determine that only Elain was home. Where the hell had they all gone? 

Rhys. RHYS. He felt like a fool, trying to yell inside his own mind, but sometimes it worked at getting the attention of his High Lord.

Come to Windhaven, immediately. Emerie’s house. Rhys responded in his mind, voice grave. Seconds later, Azriel stepped into the small guest bedroom of Emerie’s home and took in the varying looks of dismay and fear on his friends’ faces. 

“What is it?” Azriel asked, afraid to hear the answer. Cassian sat on the bed with his head in his hands and didn’t look up. 

Rhys answered him instead, “It’s Nesta. And Emerie and Gwyn. Last night they were snatched from their beds and entered into the Blood Rite.” Rhys glanced at Cassian, regret and pain shining in his eyes. He knew it must be killing Cassian not to go after Nesta. Azriel felt sick at the thought of the three females surrounded by so many Illyrian warriors, intent on killing their way to victory, or for sport. He shoved the feelings down. Didn’t let himself think of Nesta and the danger she was in. 

He knew there was nothing he could say to comfort Cassian, so he addressed Rhys instead. “Eris has been captured by Briallyn. He was dragged into her castle last night.” He paused. “We have to get him out.” Only Rhys seemed mildly concerned by the news. No one moved or said anything. “Are you all hearing me? We have to get him out.” When, still, no one answered, Azriel said a tad too forcefully, “We can’t just let him die.” He took a deep breath to steady himself.

Cassian looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “We?”

Rhys mastered himself and stepped up to Azriel’s side. “He’s right. And I can’t go.” That had Azriel and Cassian both turning to him in disbelief. 

Cassian glared at Rhys. “You can be in and out in an hour.”

“I can’t go,” he insisted. Azriel furrowed his brows, not understanding the refusal. He was inclined to agree with Cassian. Rhys was powerful enough to retrieve Eris without much difficulty. 

“Yes, you fucking can,” Cassian snarled at the same time Azriel said coldly, “You'd leave him to die? He's our ally.” They needed to go now, before Briallyn decided Eris was more trouble than he was worth.

Feyre interrupted and spoke for them both. “We made a bargain. After the war. To…only leave this world together.”

The words floored him. “You made a bargain to die together?” And with Feyre’s pregnancy, the birth only months away—one they were not sure she’d survive…

“Fools,” Amren hissed. Rhys’s eyes were bleak. Azriel stood frozen to the spot. 

“If Rhys dies, I die.” Feyre’s voice trembled as she spoke.

“And if you die, Feyre,” Azriel said quietly, “then Rhys dies.” They were all silent at the realization that they might lose all three of them in a few months' time.

Azriel tried to wrap his mind around how the two of them could be so foolish. So selfish. They had both known they’d want children some day. And yet they’d still agreed to this bargain, one that could potentially leave any child of theirs an orphan if one of them passed. It would also leave the Night Court in the hands of someone unknown. He resented them both in that moment, but he pushed the feelings down.

“There’s nothing we can do for Nesta right now. We need to get Eris out. Cassian, I can’t go alone. Please.” He tried to make the words sound aloof, but knew he had failed when he beheld the icy look on Cassian’s face. Azriel added, “It’s dangerous to leave him with Briallyn, considering all he knows about us.”

“Since when do you give a fuck about Eris? Let him die.” He knew Cassian’s temper was riding a dangerous edge. Azriel said nothing as panic swirled through him. He looked at Rhys, let him see some of the urgency in his eyes. He was the only one who could truly make Cassian obey, and they were wasting precious time. 

“You will help Azriel retrieve Eris, Cassian. He’s right, there’s nothing we can do for Nesta right now.” The words were laced with dominant command. Cassian growled but didn’t argue further. 

***

They sat on their asses for two days waiting for Eris to emerge from the castle. Azriel tortured himself with thoughts of what might be happening to Eris inside the fortress, though he suspected deep down that Eris was likely not Briallyn’s intended target.

A loud sound drew his attention and he elbowed Cassian and nodded towards the opening gate of the castle. And surely enough, a hunched figure rode out on a black horse, surrounded by several guards, with Eris following closely behind them. There were six guards at his back as well. 

Azriel and Cassian shot into the sky to avoid detection. They followed overhead for a time until the caravan was blocked from sight by the thick canopy of trees. Azriel jerked his head and Cassian swept left as he went right. They landed silently several dozen yards behind the group, hidden behind the thick trunks of the towering trees.

Azriel’s eyes locked onto the back of Eris’s head and he silently willed the male to turn around so he could see his face. He didn’t. Azriel cloaked himself in shadows and kept close on their trail. He could spy Cassian creeping from tree to tree across from him on silent feet. Azriel paused behind a particularly large oak and tried to figure out his next move. He could appear beside Eris and grab him, but he wasn’t sure what manner of weapons Briallyn bore. When he peered out from behind the tree, the entire group was gone. Azriel blinked in confusion. What—?

“Over here, shadowsinger,” Eris crooned.

Azriel stiffened as he felt a dagger press against his ribs from behind.

“Eris…” Azriel’s words were laced with violence. Had this all been a trap?

“I knew you were a lying bastard,” Cassian said through his clenched teeth as he stepped out from behind the tree a half dozen yards away. Cassian approached slowly, but he could do nothing more, not with the knife pointed into Azriel’s ribs. Azriel’s heart had iced over, and he let the cold flow through his veins, steadying him.

“I’m disappointed in Rhysand,” Eris said haughtily. “He’s become so bland these days. He didn’t even try to look into my mind.” The sneering derision had returned to his voice and it gave Azriel pause. Had it truly all been a ruse? The words, the secret touches? To what end?

“You can’t win this,” Cassian warned. “You’re a dead man walking. Have been for a long time.”

“Yes, yes, all that old business with the Morrigan. How boring of you to cling to it so.”

Azriel blinked. The Morrigan. Eris never referred to her like that. Cassian realized it at the same time.

“Let him go, Briallyn,” Cassian growled, scanning the dense woods. “Come play with us instead.”

A withered voice said closeby, “I’m already playing with you, Lord of Bastards.”

Azriel felt the Made dagger drop and didn’t wait a second before throwing his head back against Eris’s face. He heard the crack as his skull connected with bone, though Eris didn’t so much as wince at the pain.

Azriel whirled and lunged for Eris, grabbing him tightly and rocketing himself off the ground as fast as he could, leaving Cassian alone to fend for himself. Fuck. How had they screwed this up so badly? He couldn’t risk Koschei or Briallyn seeing the Made dagger at Eris’s side. That was why he had grabbed the male without a second thought. At least that’s what Azriel was telling himself. And he’d left Cassian there, alone. Fuck. His heart was pounding as he flew west as fast as his wings would carry them. 

“Eris, what the fuck happened?” he shouted over the wind in his ears and scanned Eris’s face. The male didn’t respond. He had a dazed look on his face, like he’d been knocked over the head with something heavy. Blood poured from his nose where Azriel had clocked him. “Eris!” He shouted his name, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Azriel cursed and kept flying. When he could finally see the coast, he wrapped them both in shadows and winnowed them to the Moonstone Palace above Hewn City. 

***

Azriel set Eris down and scanned him for injuries. He couldn’t see any obvious hurt aside from some minor bruising along his sharp jawline, and the nosebleed, which had already begun to slow.

Eris blinked rapidly and looked around the opulent guest room. His eyes landed on Azriel and widened in surprise. 

“What…?” He glanced around, seemingly bewildered, “How…?” he trailed off. Eris brought his hand to his face and stared at the blood that came away on his fingers.

Azriel studied him, trying to determine if it was an act, or if the influence of the Crown had finally worn off. He appeared genuinely confused to find himself in the Night Court, but if this was all a ruse…if Eris had truly betrayed him, had lied to him, and Cassian wound up dead… Azriel unsheathed Truth Teller from his back and held it at his side as oily betrayal coursed through his veins. Eris paled at the sight of it and stepped back, hands raising slowly. “Whatever you think I did, I’m sure it’s merely a misunderstanding,” he said weakly. But Azriel was beyond words. 

He had left Cassian, had left his brother, and had chosen to save Eris and flee. For all he knew Cassian was now dead. Truth Teller burned in his grip as he let himself sink into the icy pit of hate deep within him. Mostly hatred for himself, for being such a fool, for letting his emotions cloud his judgment. Eris blanched at the look he beheld on Azriel’s face.

Before Azriel could act, Rhys winnowed in beside him with a loud crack. Eris jolted at the sound and the High Lord now standing before him. Rhysand’s face was brutal, the true ruler of the Court of Nightmares, and darkness swirled around him like smoke.

“What. Happened?” Rhys snarled viciously, echoing Azriel’s question. His voice was laced with cold fury. He turned to Azriel, “Where’s Cassian?”

Azriel opened his mind to Rhys instead of speaking, afraid of what might spill out of his mouth. Rhys stiffened as he watched it play out, and then he turned his wrath on Eris. Azriel could tell he was shredding through his mental shields when Eris flinched and recoiled at the intrusion. Azriel took an accidental half step towards Eris and Rhys shifted his eyes towards him in question. 

It was over in seconds. Rhys relaxed slightly and blew out a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. 

“He doesn’t know anything. The dagger didn’t protect against influence from the Crown the way we expected. The soldiers she had in her thrall grabbed him from Autumn,” Rhys said to Azriel, warily. Azriel resheathed his blade, already feeling guilty for having drawn it in the first place. His head was dizzy with relief. 

Rhys looked back at Eris, the fury now gone, and said, “I had to be sure you hadn’t betrayed us. I apologize for the mental assault.” Rhys sounded tired and miserable. “You are to remain here until we come back,” he added firmly. Eris seemed too stunned to speak. Perhaps Azriel had hit him too hard?

“But Cassian—” Azriel started but Rhys interrupted. 

“Azriel. It’s Feyre. I need you.” His voice broke on the last words. The despair and fear in his voice had icy dread pooling in Azriel’s stomach. He nodded once and Rhys winnowed away. Azriel turned to Eris, who looked so dreadfully confused that Azriel’s heart squeezed painfully. 

“Just wait here, I’ll be back soon to explain everything.” His shadows swept him away before Eris could so much as nod his head in answer.

***

Azriel shuffled out of the room along with Cassian, Nesta, Elain, Mor and Amren and stepped out into the main hall of the river manor. They all collectively released sighs of relief. Feyre and Nyx were resting, with Rhys watching over them protectively. That they had almost lost all three of them…Azriel blew out another deep breath. Cassian clapped him on the back. 

“They’re okay, Az.” Azriel was sure Cassian said it to reassure himself as well. Cassian followed after Nesta who had already begun walking down the hall. Azriel knew she was eager to see Gwyn and Emerie. She hadn’t discussed what had happened in the Rite, but from the distressed look on her face when Mor had asked, he knew it had been bad. She had saved Cassian, and yet she seemed more determined than ever to keep him at arm’s length. 

He heard the front door slam a few seconds later. Amren nodded to Azriel and saw herself out as well. Elain smiled and muttered something about sitting in the garden and excused herself, leaving Azriel and Mor alone in the hall.

He and Mor walked quietly towards the front entryway of the manor. She sighed and playfully bumped his shoulder with her own. “You okay? I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I’m alright. Better now that Briallyn’s not our problem anymore.” He knew she wasn’t asking about his duties as spymaster, but he’d always had a hard time opening up to her. “And you? How’s Vallahan been treating you?” he asked. His mind was elsewhere, and he struggled to pay attention to her response.

“I’ll be glad to finally be back home for good soon. Politicking gets old quickly,” she smiled grimly. He grinned in return. “Want to get a drink at Rita’s?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

“I have to go deal with Eris. He’s locked in a room at the palace. Has been for two days now.” He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Mor for more than a few minutes since she’d returned from Vallahan to help Feyre. But now he found he didn’t know what to say to her.

Her face shadowed at the mention of Eris, but she snickered and said, “Well, what’s a few more days locked in a tower? I say let him suffer a bit.” She smiled conspiratorially at Azriel and he tried to mirror it, though he was sure it looked more like a grimace. 

Rhys had told him to deal with Eris however he saw fit, and then quickly reminded Azriel not to damage their fragile alliance. Not that Azriel needed the reminder. His feelings towards Eris had changed. When he’d asked Rhys what, exactly, he wanted him to do, he’d just waved his hand dismissively, eyes focused on Feyre who held a sleeping Nyx in her arms. 

“Another time?” he suggested, eager to leave. She was clearly disappointed but did her best to hide it as she nodded and smiled sadly. Azriel kissed her cheek and left, his mind already on the male waiting for him at the Moonstone Palace.

***

Azriel knocked twice on the door to the guest chambers Eris was residing in and entered without waiting for a response. As he closed the door behind him, Eris stood up quickly, the book he’d been reading discarded on the small table beside his chair. Azriel could see the anger simmering in Eris’s eyes. The blood was gone, though the bridge of his elegant nose was shadowed with a purple bruise.

“I was beginning to think you were going to let me rot here,” he sneered. Azriel rolled his eyes.

“It’s been less than two full days,” he sighed. He knew Eris had the right to be angry. He would feel the same if he’d had his memory tampered with and found himself a prisoner in a foreign court. “I’m sorry,” he amended, “the issue with Rhys couldn’t wait.”

Eris surprised him by asking, “Is Feyre well?” 

“She’s fine. It’s a boy,” he smiled as he shared the news, “His name is Nyx. Mother and babe are both healthy.” 

He briefly wondered if he should’ve kept the news to himself until checking with Rhys, but then Eris almost-smiled and replied, “Please extend my congratulations. I wish them all well.” The words sounded genuine. “Now will you tell me what the hell happened and why you’re holding me captive?” Sentimental moment over. 

Azriel began with the meeting Eris hadn’t shown up to and continued from there. He explained each item of the Trove, and how Briallyn had used the Crown’s power to ensnare Eris’s soldiers, and then had used it on him to draw Cassian in. He told him of what they’d learned of Koschei’s power. He finished with a very brief explanation of how Nesta had killed Briallyn, but left out some details of the magnitude of her power.

When he finished, Eris sat back down in the chair. His face was pale and his eyes were distant. “Gods,” he rasped. He cleared his throat and sat in silence for several minutes. Azriel waited for him to gather his thoughts. “This Trove…you have all three items in your possession now?”

“Yes,” he said, “and they will be kept somewhere Koschei, or anyone else, can never access them.” He gave Eris a pointed look to indicate the anyone else he referred to was Beron.

“Good. That’s good,” he nodded to himself, looking relieved. “I truly don’t remember most of it. I can recall seeing some of my men who had gone missing. I tried to help them, but there was something wrong, like they didn’t know me…You could’ve informed me of the Crown,” he said, sounding frustrated.

“And risk you sharing that information with Beron? Not likely,” Azriel replied. It was the wrong thing to say. Eris went rigid, eyes burning with rage. 

“Have I not done enough to prove myself to you and your ilk? Do I not risk my own life every time we meet? What more do you want from me?” he hissed at Azriel and the temperature in the room spiked with his temper. “You have no idea,” he snarled, “what I risk by allying with you. But I do it anyway, for the good of my people and your own.” Azriel already regretted the words. He hadn’t truly believed Eris would betray them to Beron, he’d just been echoing Rhys’s own thoughts on the matter. “Have you stopped to consider what I might face returning home now?”

He hadn’t. He cursed himself for not realizing the danger of Beron discovering Eris had been rescued by Rhys’s inner circle. “You’re right—” Azriel started.

“I’m leaving,” he growled as he shoved past Azriel and tried to exit the room. Azriel grabbed his arm before he could winnow out. 

“Would you stop doing that? Eris, I didn’t mean it, okay? I had orders not to tell you about the Trove,” Azriel tried to make him understand that it wasn’t due to his own mistrust that he’d been left out of the loop. “Will Beron...will you be alright?” he asked lamely.

Eris glared at him and ignored the question, but beneath the anger, Azriel could see the fear in his eyes. Eris shrugged him off and slid past him. Azriel was quick on his heels, but when he stepped into the hall Eris was already gone. 

***

Azriel cursed again as he slumped into the armchair in the corner of his apartment. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. He always managed to say the wrong thing. All he’d been trying to do was make sure Eris was alright, that there hadn’t been any lingering injuries from Briallyn that he had not seen…he stewed silently, hating himself. He’d see Eris again soon, and then he would make it right. He’d force the male to listen. All of this winnowing away in the middle of a conversation was beginning to drive him mad.

Azriel tried to think of something else but as usual his thoughts were filled with nothing but Eris. He said a prayer to the Mother for his safety. He feared what Beron would do when he realized that Briallyn was dead—and that Eris had been involved in some way. That fear hounded him through the night and as the sun rose he finally gave up on sleep and flew to the river manor to speak with Rhys.

***

Azriel walked through the grand entryway of the estate and swept his shadows out around him. He sensed the three of them in the nursery. His steps were quiet down the hall, and Rhys came out to meet him, his shields alerting him to Azriel’s arrival. Rhys tilted his head to indicate they could speak in his office and Azriel followed silently behind him.

“I take it you set Eris free, so to speak?” Rhys asked as he sat down. Azriel nodded. Rhys sighed deeply. “I suppose we should check in with him soon. Beron is surely pissed that Briallyn is dead. We need to find out what his next move is,” Rhys said, tiredly. Indeed, there were dark circles under his eyes, likely from getting up with Nyx at all hours of the night. “Give it a week, and then contact him again.” Azriel hesitated before voicing his thoughts.

“He seemed…concerned that Beron would learn of our alliance, that we were the ones to rescue him,” Azriel said. He’d been far more than concerned, but he didn’t want Rhys to think he cared either way. Rhys nodded solemnly.

“He’s right to worry. There’s very little chance Beron won’t find out. The question now is whether or not Eris will spin this to his advantage and throw us to the wolves in the process.” Azriel tried and failed not to scowl at the implication. He’d suggested the same to Eris’s face, but he knew they should have more faith in him. “Don’t worry, if he did betray us I give you full permission to finally tear him apart,” Rhys said mildly, misreading the expression on Azriel’s face as anger at Eris. “Perhaps Beron already has.” He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned at the thought of Eris being brutally murdered by his own father. Azriel’s stomach plummeted and he stared at Rhys in horror. His brother was too exhausted to notice as he blinked blearily against the morning light shining through the large window. 

“I’ll find out what he shared,” Azriel rasped. Rhys yawned, but then perked up and smiled widely.

“You’ll never guess what adorable thing Nyx did just last night,” Rhys began happily. Azriel sat in the chair before the desk and settled in to listen to Rhys gush over his newborn son. He tried to focus, to partake in Rhys’s joy, but his thoughts were consumed with worry for the red haired male he’d somehow grown to care for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter

Tag List: @unanswered-stars

[cannedbananabread]

Hello! I love future games! It's one of my favorite fics! If it's not too much to ask, I was wondering if you could share a list of all the books referenced/ will be referenced in your fic? Thank you so much❤️

Oh my gosh, this is such as amazing question and not too much to trouble at all, thank you for asking! 

So, I’ve broken this down into a few categories for convenience:

Explicit References - these are books that are mentioned either by title or otherwise overtly.

Implicit References -  these are books that either have been used as inspiration or else more covert allusions are made.

Future References - while I don’t have a comprehensive list of this because I am currently writing chapter 46 and there is still quite a bit or story to go, I definitely have some idea of things that will be used in the future stored in my notes. These are given without context to not spoil where this story is going.

Explicit References:

Hamlet, Shakespeare (Chapter 2) - Dio directly quotes the What a Piece of Work is Man soliloquy.

Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte (Chapter 3)  - What Dio is reading that spurs on their first discussion about kindness and cruelty and the cycles of abuse.

 Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien (Chapter 3, 5, etc.)  - The quote that Reader says to Dio about people deserving death comes from Lord of the Rings. Later, she reads it to him and it is the catalyst for how he figures out that she’s from the future. 

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Tawin (Chapter 4)  -Mostly played for laughs because Dio says Reader is “dreadfully American.” 

A Picture of Dorian Grey, Oscar Wilde (Chapter 9) - Reader waxes lyrically about it being released in the near future; I think there are a ton of parallels to Dorian and Dio, that’s why I couldn't resist.

Not to a specific book, but reader says Dio would like Hemingway, that one was really just a shout out the place that I was born, but the disillusion of the 20th century (especially in The Sun Also Rises) is both poignant and relevant. 

The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne  (Chapter 11)  - Reader is likened to Hester Prynne when discussing Victorian propriety regarding sex / virginity.

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott (Chapter 12, 18, 20, 30) - Reader tells Dio that it was one of her favorite books as a child so he buys it for her for Christmas.

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens (Chapter 12, 20) - Again, mostly played for laughs, when Reader tell’s Dio she’ll haunt him like the ghosts in the book.

Walden, Henry David Thoreau (Chapter 18)- Reader compares her reserved lifestyle to Thoreau because she hasn't been able to keep many close relationships since her arrival in the 19th century.

Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy (Chapter 20) - Reader gifts this book to Dio, no one will EVER tell me that he does not like lengthy Russian novels.

Daisy Miller, Henry James (Chapter 20) - Reader makes an attempt to seduce Dio with her wit, referencing this book to incite the discussion of Victorian morality.

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte (Chapter 23) - Dio talks about Mr. Rochester as an example of a complex male lead.

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen (Chapter 23) - Conversely, Reader likes Mr. Darcy and they debate it because they are dorks. Also, reader’s character is heavily inspired by Elizabeth. 

Implicit References:

The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky - I really wanted this to be the book that was gifted to Dio, but it hadn’t been translated into English in 1888, it still didn’t stop me from paying subtle homage. 

Notes From the Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky - The turn of phrase about overthinking being a disease is taken from this book because, again, no one will shift my head canon that Dio loves Russian novels.  Honestly, I've taken so much inspiration from Dostoevsky in general.

The House of the Seven Gables, Nathaniel Hawthorne - I’ve used some of this story to lean into the theme of ‘what it means to be haunted’ (can fanfics have overt themes and motifs???) because we see Dio actively haunted by his past, especially by Dario in metaphysical sense that his trauma is often likened to things that are preternatural.

The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner - The content of this book isn’t ever mentioned, but I was inspired by the use of disjointed time when I wrote about the way Dio’s recalls his trauma in Chapter 19.

The Nether World, George Gissing - I’ve used this as sort of an account of what poverty in the London slums looked like.

Faraday, Maxwell, and the Electromagnetic Field, Nancy Forbes & Basil Mahon - I was forced to read this as part of my coursework for my engineering degree, but I’ve depended on it a lot for Reader’s research. Lord knows why I decided to make her a chemist when I was terrible at chemistry.

Future References:

- A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare 

- ‘Salem’s Lot, Stephen King

- The Princess and the Goblin, George MacDonald 

- Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy

- The Prince, Machiavelli 

- A Study in Scarlet, Arthur Conan Doyle 

- The Hound of the Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle

- The Bell Jar (and just Sylvia Plath in general) 

- Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens 

- Dead Souls, Nikolai Gogol 

- Middlemarch, George Eliot 

I’ve also taken meager inspiration from various other Sherlock Holmes stories and some Agatha Christie novels, I’ve said it before, but sometimes Zeppeli comes out a little like Hercule Poirot. I have also pulled from some of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

I think that's pretty much everything! Seeing the length of this list has made me worry for my own sanity.

Thank you so much for your question, it was actually so fun to see everything together like this. Once I've finished writing the entire thing, I will have to make a comprehensive list.

[mandalorianchronicles]

Din and Grogu’s Story Arc

So one of the things that a lot of people seem to be struggling with this season is the direction of the storytelling. Where is the plot? Why is Din being made a side character in his own show? Why is Bo-Katan getting such a prominent role, when she’s barely been in the series thus far? When is the bad guy going to come into play? 

One of the things that the Mandalorian has always done is blend its storytelling techniques - balancing the episodes that have a specific crisis, solution, execution, and conclusion within that one 30-50 min block with episodes that are more focused on advancing the ongoing narrative. Allow me to offer a brief recap of the story as it pertains to Din and Grogu:

Season 1: 1-3 - Din is hired to deliver Grogu to the Empire and saves him instead 4-6 - Din makes a living doing what he does, but now as a single parent 7-8 - Din protects his child from Moff Gideon who is trying to steal him  Season 2: 1-3 - Din is looking for Mandalorians who can point him to a Jedi so Grogu can be with his own kind 4 - Din goes on a side quest that reveals why the Empire wanted Grogu 5 - Din meets an ex-Jedi who won’t train his son, but who shows him how to reach other Jedi 6-8 - Grogu is taken by the Empire; Din works with Mandos + friends to get him back; Din accidentally acquires an important heirloom; Grogu leaves with Luke The Book of Boba Fett Grogu decides to leave Luke and return to Din Season 3:  1-3 - Din redeems himself so he and Grogu can be accepted back into the Covert - they bring a now homeless Bo-Katan with them 4 - Din begins training Grogu as a Mandalorian; he and Bo work to save another Mandalorian’s child 5 - Din (with Grogu) and Bo lead a mission that gives the Covert a new home on Nevarro where their children can be free to “play in the sun” 6 - Din, Bo, and Grogo begin a quest to find other Mandalorians so they can reclaim their home planet and have a permanent place to call home; Din returns the Darksaber to the person he believes will best lead their people

There are two chapters left of season 3, but when we recap the story just focusing on Din and Grogu, is there any real confusion about what the focus of the plot is? It’s the same as it always was: Din is trying to do what is best for his little clan of two (perhaps soon to be three). First, he was just trying to protect Grogu from those who would harm him. Then, he was trying to what was best for the child by returning him to the people he thought were better suited to raise him. Then, in Book of Boba Fett (which is mostly about finding your tribe, a central theme to Mandalorian culture), Grogu returns to where he truly belongs - with Din. 

Now that Grogu is with Din, Din’s focus changes. He is no longer content to just be a bounty hunter or a mercenary for hire. He is a father now, so he is looking to lay down roots. He wants what all parents want most - a better life for their children than the one they had. His many adventures along the way have broadened his understanding of his own culture. He wants to restore Mandalore, but he doesn’t want to do it with the motivation of leading the clans. He wants to do it so his son can have a stable and fulfilling life. He never wanted the Darksaber. He never wanted to be Mand’alor. He just wants to be a dad...but if I’m reading the room right, I believe he’s starting to consider the possibility of raising his son alongside someone who he trusts and might be beginning to love. And in typical Din “reluctant main character” Djarin fashion - the person he is beginning to care for is the once and future Mand’alor, Bo-Katan Kryze. And I believe she is beginning to care for him. 

That’s the story they’re telling - it’s a story about a growing Mandalorian family. We’re still in the early days of “will they, won’t they” with Din and Bo-Katan, but the writers couldn’t be more obvious that they’re hinting it as a possibility. That may please you or disappoint you - but if you’re stuck on the idea of Din Djarin needing to be a powerful leader in order to be relevant to the show, you probably ought to be rooting for him and Bo-Katan to get together. If you want it to go back to being the adventures of Din and Grogu, Clan of Two...you won’t be rooting for the “Dinbo” ship to put to sea.

One last thought: if this isn’t the story that you envisioned them telling, I can empathize. After all, I did not enjoy the story they told in the Sequels, for all that it damaged the stories already written. But just because something did not go the way we wanted it to, does not necessarily mean that it is a bad story. We, as fans, must remember that we are not the storytellers. Sit back and listen to story being told. If, when you reach the end of it, you decide you didn’t like it - that’s your prerogative. But there are a great many fans who do enjoy the story that The Mandalorian is telling. And trust me, the plot isn’t lost. The story isn’t disjointed. It’s all right there.