#I wonder if either of us can survive separation

[gothicwill]

You’ll just be casually watching nbc Hannibal and Will graham will suddenly drop the most romantic line you’ve ever heard, and you just have to pause the episode and stare at a wall to digest that shit.

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

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

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

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

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

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

MASTERLIST HERE

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

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

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

Life debts.

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

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

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

He will never be able to wash them clean.

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

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

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

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

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

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

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

They were late.

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

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

The stupid, greasy fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

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

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

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

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

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

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

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

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

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

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

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

But you owed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

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

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

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

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

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

Take your trouble somewhere else.

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

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

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

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

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

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

The Kizuki.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

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

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

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

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

Or so he tells himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

Step.

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

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“This can’t be your dream life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Read that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“You look like shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

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

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

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

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

“Dunno. Curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As long as it was more than this.

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

———

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

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

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

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

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

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

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

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

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

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

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

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

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

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

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

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

A cop-out, is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True love.

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

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

He wants out.

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

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he turns and leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in love with Sanemi.

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

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

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

You won’t.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe; you were safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter how much he wanted to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will rot you from the inside, out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, you just did.

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

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

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

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

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

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

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

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

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

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

“You don’t owe me anything —“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want more, and he needs you, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More. He needs more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am ready -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he needs to see you, first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

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

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

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

But he can try.

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

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[leonw4nter]

can you make a fluff/angst leon oneshot when he came back from a long mission and saw his gf decorate the house with the "welcome (home) leon" lettering and cook his favorite meal? where he was speechless at first, because he got the dejavu, and when he asked why, they said "because your survival and mission acomplished is worth to celebrate for" 🥹

Every Breath You Take

RE4!Leon x GN!Reader

He should’ve been home 48 hours ago, indulging in the simple joys that his home provided him with, but his mission got in the way of that happiness; he just had to get infected with some insect-like parasite while on the job, along with prolonged exposure to extreme weather conditions, and gut issues from eating raw snakes, eggs, and whatever meat didn’t have mold or rot which landed him in isolation for further observation until USSTRATCOM was sure that he didn’t have any bug in his system. It’s not like he can unwind and relax in his room– there was a lack of decorations and furniture, absent of any warmth; everything was either white or beige that was damn near white and the food wasn’t even that good. For some odd reason, he was forbidden from having outside contact until he completed all 48 hours of total isolation. It’s not like he can even do anything to soothe himself, aware that hidden in the lampshade, lighting fixtures, and sockets lay bugging devices.

Luckily for him, he’s cleared their health checks and is free to go home. After parking his black sedan in the garage, he unlocks the door with a hidden spare and walks; the comforting warmth contrasts the biting chill of the night, a safe haven in this little corner of the universe. The feeling of walking inside your shared home is something he could get used to, the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting through the air instead of the stench of death and decay. A change in the curtains and pillow cases remind him of how much time has passed, how the trees and shrubs have shed their old leaves and grew new ones in place. Leon wishes he was just like the shrubs you loved to tend to: if only he could let go of the past , move forward, and become a new person. The sight and realization sends a pang of grief and guilt straight to his heart like a poison-tipped arrow, souring what was supposed to be a fuzzy feeling that brewed inside him. He walked further into the house, his mud-caked boots thudding against the clean floors; somewhere inside he heard your humming accompanied by music playing in a low volume and he picked up the pace, unable to wait any longer.

“Leon!”

Your sweet voice peaks into a high-pitched squeal, ending on a slightly shaky note as you stop whatever you were doing and run into his arms. Leon gently says your name back, running to you before colliding into the first hug in 4 months. Neither of you are unable to stop the cascade of tears that flow down, wracking both your frames as you cry into his chest and his tears drizzle down and drop on your shoulder; his hands bring your head closer to him, finger digging into your scalp. The embrace is tight as if your hearts are trying as hard as they can to press into each other and fuse as one but it’s definitely needed after those months of separation and sparse contact with one another. You pull away first, looking up at him with tear-glossed eyes.

“I’m so relieved to see you in one piece, sweetheart.” Wiping at the tears that streamed down your cheeks, you give him a wobbly smile. “I was worried sick.”

Leon felt his heart lurch in guilt at the fact that he’s mainly the reason as to why you’re constantly on the edge and uneasy.

“I’m so sorry for leaving you alone again,” he apologizes. “I’m so sorry for always worrying you and leaving you wondering if I’m still going to come home to you.”

You take his face in your hands, feeling the slightest prickle of an incoming stubble in your palms; pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, you brush away all the negative feelings that have followed him home from Spain.

“It’s alright Leon. You’re here with me now, safe and sound. You’re saving the world from those horrors, you deserve a moment of peace in your life.”

He looks up from you and gazes longingly around the room, eyes settling on what aspects of his home changed or stayed the same since he left those long months ago. As he takes the sights in to really let it sink in that for once he doesn’t have to worry about enemies and their attacks, he catches sight of a banner reminiscent of a lost city.

“‘Welcome home, Leon!’,” the banner reads. Unlike the one from 1998, this one isn’t made up of yellow letters and blue circles with some star streamers; instead, it’s floral print cardstock cut into letters with neat origami flowers, butterflies, and lions of different colors.

“Do you like it?” You ask meekly, clasping your hands together as you watch Leon walk up to the decoration you put up for him. “Hunnigan sent me an email yesterday saying that you’d be home in a few hours so I decided to spend some time making that. I know it’s not exactly your taste in aesthetics.”

His silence worries you but he’s lovingly touching the little origami animals you put up, tinkering with the lion specifically. You watch on at the scene, letting him have his moment when you hear a barely-concealed sniffle and see his shoulders tremble.

“It was just like this,” he reminisces. “Back at the station, in Raccoon. Well, not exactly like the design, but there was a banner for me. They were elated to have me join the force.”

You walk up to him, hugging him from behind while resting your cheek on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to bring up the past–”

“No,” he interrupts gently. “It’s… it’s fine. It’s incredibly sweet and touching for me.”

Turning around to face you, he takes your hand and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckle.

“Why did you decide to decorate around though?” He asks. “Not that I’m complaining, just curious.”

“Because your survival and accomplishments are worth celebrating,” you simply say with a tender smile. “Everytime you get out there and disappear from me for months on end with no contact and no clue on how each of us are doing, you’re making the world a safer place. You’re on the front lines, behind enemy lines even, and throwing yourself at these threats just so we won’t have to.”

Overflowing to the brim with a variety of emotions, thoughts, and sensations, he cries his weary heart out in your arms. You let him take this time to feel his emotions and properly process it, giving him pats and soothing words.

It eventually dies down and gives way to hunger, his stomach rumbling for some good food. Much to his glee, you thought to cook his favorite food– his first decent meal in months. With each forkful, bursts of flavor and comfort exploded inside his mouth which reminded him that for now, he’s far away from the sight of death and the stink of rot. You’ll be there to hold him as he sleeps in your comfortable bed and to greet him when he wakes up come morning time.

NOTE - thank you to the anon who requested this!! and apologies for taking a long time 😓 i hope this little thing was worth the wait and you had a great time reading it <33 this is a little shorter than average but i hope that this is still okay with guys coz a lot of ppl i know prefer longer fics so yeah huhu :| anyway, that's all and thank you for reading my fics + supporting me!!!!!!! I <33333 UUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!

The divider (the lacy flower one) is not mine [ I forgot who made it :'( ] , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[ms-demeanor]

I apologize, do you know anything about "rugged" laptops? I'm an ADHD college student who has a lot of difficulty with spacial awareness and stuff so I have trouble with delicate laptops that break if you set them down too hard and I'd like something that can handle basic coding requirements (R studio, Jupiter Notebook, etc), and preferably can stream video for classes as well, though that's less of a requirement. I emergency ordered a cheap lower-spec used rugged laptop from eBay because my laptop isn't working, but I was wondering if a.) you think the whole thing is a gimmick and there's an easier way to get what I need and b.) if it's not a gimmick which ones actually do what they need to. Thanks!

Rugged/Ruggedized laptops are absolutely not a scam, they are incredible, it's just that the ones that are actually rugged are incredibly expensive.

I have a small collection of used Panasonic Toughbooks that are absolutely positively not functional as modern computers but work great for slowly connecting to the internet and running a word processor or programming radios. They are literally used lineman's computers and are supposed to be able to survive falling off a telephone pole. They're dustproof, so they're great to use in the desert. If I tried to edit raw image files on them they would go on strike. I'm pretty sure I could use one as a hammer.

You CAN get used or refurbished ruggedized laptops that are useable; here's a site that sells them. BUT. BUT. You're still going to be paying a high price for computers that are slower and more limited than a cheaper, more delicate computer.

So basically you're combining two separate needs here and they're not playing together great. A rugged laptop can be a great thing to have if you're the kind of person who drops your phone ten times a day (me!) But it's going to be slower and more cumbersome than a lot of what is on the market and it's going to cost a lot.

Honestly in your situation I'd probably focus on getting better performance specs out of a thinner, cheaper, lighter laptop and maybe maximize performance at the lowest price possible if you know you're a laptop destroyer (there's a reason my phones are always whatever's cheapest and in a protective case; I drop them so frequently and so creatively that I can't afford to have nicer phones).

Either that or throw power into a desktop and get a chromebook or something similarly cheap to carry around campus and have your real working computer live on a flat surface that never moves.

If you're trying to find a middle ground, business-class computers can take a bit more abuse than the flimsiest cheapie student computers because they're meant to last and are expected to move around. ThinkPads are my fallback rec for a bunch of reasons, and "sturdiness" is one of those reasons, but a business desktop is not going to tolerate being dropped. So it depends on what level of sturdy you need.

From an ADHD management perspective, you might want to consider your habits around how/where the computer gets moved; don't put it in a backpack if you're likely to drop your backpack on the ground when you get to class. Don't put it on the arm of a chair if you'll forget and knock it off the chair. Don't put it on your bed if you'll forget and sit on it. Make very specific landing spaces and very specific rules for how it gets moved and where it can go (my laptop can only go in one specific backpack and only if it's totally turned off; my laptop cannot be moved when open, i need to shut it before I carry it someplace; my laptop is not allowed on the bed or the center of the couch, it is only allowed on my desk or on the arm of the couch; I tend to set my laptop down hard so I don't set it down on my desk, it gets set on a stand. Etc, etc, etc)

Hopefully that's at least somewhat helpful. I wish that real rugged computers were more affordable and had better performance specs; if you can find one that will perform to your needs and you can function with linux, you may be able to get a toughbook or something like that for under a thousand dollars but you'll sacrifice processing power to get one that old. Good luck, I'm sorry!

[itsa-not-me]

So this is NOT related to my previous Alien Konig post. It's separate from that.

...I don't know what I wrote y'all

content warning

alien fucking, breeding, tentacles, breeding, oviposition, two peens, the lost of my sanity. This is UNHOLY

"Research Log # 593; Now that we've been able to confirm the efficacy of Nikto's translation devices we've been able to communicate with the human more efficiently than with the simple sound board. She has confirm that she is a brooding member of her species, and that she is willing to participate in the Counsel's interspecies breeding proposal. Despite what Krueger says I am not preening over the fact that the human stated she would only participate with myself. It just shows that the human is able to distinguish who is the superior sire." "Log # 595; All lab tests are complete. Human is surprisingly more willing to allow lab draws when we can explain what they are for. Happy to report that so far tests show there should be no danger to either of our species during copulation.

Note; Human does not like being called Human, but her Earth name is not possible for us to pronounce in our language. She has agreed to the alias of Nebula."

"Log # 596; Due to our species faster gestation time, and the fact that we do not bear live young, Nebula as agreed to try carrying a fertilized clutch first. I am eager to see how many eggs she will be able to carry."

"Log # 597; Nebula has told us an interesting fact, after a brooding human's bleeding cycle there is a window where they are extremely fertile and is an ideal time for mating. They call this 'ovulation'. According to Nebula her ovulation period is starting shortly. We will begin copulation experiment point one shortly.

Note; I wonder if this ovulation may explain the rather...hungry looks she has been giving me of late."

Konig wasn't nervous, no matter what Krueger tried to say. Kruger was an idiot who kept getting rejected by Nikto. If anything Konig was...brimming with scientific curiosity. Yes that's what it was. He was going to be making important discoveries. With Nebula.

He could admit that at first he had found her of little interest, simply a spare brood human for their external breeding study incase one failed to thrive. But then they had discovered so many little things that made her interesting, unique. It had become difficult to see her as only a study subject. And there was the fact that she always seemed to prefer Konig to the others.

When she was allowed out of the containment area he was the one she choose to follow around the lab. His protection hood was the ones she stole when Krueger had foolishly let her wander the personal quarters. He was the one she would pull towards her nest of bedding when she wished to have a sleep companion, which seemed to have been most nights.

It was his thigh that she chose to use for her pleasure when the Turlian pods ended up acting like a strong aphrodisiac.

So of course it would make sense for Nebula to choose him to participate in the breeding clinicals with. Besides he was the ideal candidate when compared to Krueger.

With that in mind he tried not to think about how the lab felt a little cooler without his usual protective hood and tunic on. Since they had come to a compromise of only having a recording feed instead of Krueger and Nikto as observers, Konig had decided to undress in the lab, trying to ignore the feel of Nebula's stare as he did so.

He knew she had been curious about his physical form, the number of times he'd felt her hands slide along his chest and abdomen at night, exploring the skin and muscle there was a clear give away. Let alone the number of times he had to pull her hands away from under his protective hood. The last time she had even licked the lubricating mucus from his tentacles off of her fingertips! And this was before they even knew if it was safe for her! Really did human's have any survival instincts?

With a huff he turned to look down at the little human, who was already looking up at him with that same wide eyed curiosity. He wasn't sure what he anticipated her reaction would be, but once again reaching for his tentacles wasn't it.

"Why are you so fascinated by my face?"

Nebula couldn't help but grin as the ear piece Nikto had made relayed Konig's words to her. Before she always had to guess with what his body was saying. And that was hard to tell sometimes with the hood and loose drape he chose to wear.

"Because it's a pretty fascinating face."

Really all of him was fascinating. From his height, to how big and wide he was, not to mention the less than human details. There was the obvious face full of tentacles, all circled around what she assumed was his mouth. They all seemed to move independently of each other and the last time she had tried the sticky substance that seemed to constantly coat them well...She'd had exes who had tasted worse in her mouth.

Then there was his skin. It was so pale he was practically translucent in some spots. One night she had spent hours tracing the veins she could see running up and down his inner arm. Plus it seemed thicker than her own. Almost like rubber but less unpleasant to rub against.

And then there was between his legs. At first glance it looked like Konig lacked anything used for 'mating' as the alien persisted in calling it. Nebula had seen enough penises in her life time to know where they were on a human, but Konig lacked that, and a vagina. Instead it was almost like he was a Ken doll, only instead of being smooth there were two...plates, she'd say for lack of a better word, that met and had a seam down the center. Maybe they'd part to reveal these phalluses Konig had talked about earlier. Like that one movie.

She could feel herself start to get wet at the idea of what could be instore for her.

She must have been staring a little too hard because Konig shuffled his weight awkwardly, drawing her attention away from his vent and back to his face. Even being so pale it seemed that Konig's species didn't blush like human's did. Instead a flush or warming of the face his tentacles fluttered a little more exuberantly, lifting high enough at times to reveal a curved little beak. She probably shouldn't have found that so cute. For all his boasting that he was the superior sire, when it came to actually siring he seemed a little nervous. That was something she could certainly find cute.

"Wouldn't you say I'm a little fascinating too?"

Konig would never admit that he found her intense study of him a little intimidating. Instead he was simply being considerate to wait for her to literally welcome him with open arms, turning around as if to give him an unobstructed view of her body. Which he could admit he fully appreciated.

He stepped into her personal space as she turned to face him, hands coming back down to her sides, fingers tapping against her thighs. Perhaps she was a little nervous as well.

"I would say I am starting to find humans more fascinating...Now tell me, how do most humans start their mating rituals?"

He watched as she tilted her head in consideration, little pink tongue coming to lick her bottom lip.

"Well a good one typically starts with kissing?"

"And that would be?"

"It's when we touch lips, even tongues."

"And it is pleasurable for you?"

"If done properly."

Konig hummed in consideration as he studied the shape of her mouth. It looked so plump and soft compared to his beak. He didn't quite think that she'd enjoyed getting poked with it.

"I do not have lips. I do not know if I would be good at kissing."

"Well...maybe I'll just kiss you then?"

Before he could argue the semantics of it she was touching the closest tentacle to her, bringing it up to purse her lips against the side of it. It certainly wasn't an unpleasant experience. Even if the translator couldn't exactly explain what the trilling from his chest meant, it seemed she got the idea as she continued to pepper kisses along the length of his tentacle, ending at the tip.

It wasn't scientific curiosity that urged him to push past her plush lips. It was the way she stared up at him with dark eyes. And oh he was glad he listened. He couldn't resist exploring more as she opened her jaw, giving him more access. Her tongue was warm and soft, not a texture he was expecting but enjoyed as he slid his tentacle against it. Brushing the tip against the roof of her mouth made her squirm, an airy chuckle leaving her as he pulled back.

"That tickles."

"Does it normally?"

"Don't know. Haven't had a tentacle there before."

That pleased him to hear. That this was new for her, that he was the first.

"I found that version of kissing pleasing."

"I'm glad. I'd be upset to hear I'm a lousy kisser."

Without thinking he was cradling her head between his palms, absentmindedly amazed at how tiny he was compared to him.

"I would like to do it again."

"So kiss me then."

Konig let his curiosity get the better of him, the tip of one tentacle tracing the shape of her lips, pushing and dragging against the lower lip to see how it grave under his force. Again that little pink tongue darted out like it was second nature, only this time also licking over his tentacle. The sensation caused the beginning stirring of his phallus.

He pushed back into her mouth, less exploratory and more simply wanting to enjoy the feeling of her tongue against him. He wasn't expecting the suction around him, cheeks hollowing as it seemed she tried to pull him further into her. With a growl he withdrew, leaning down so he could be closer to her eyes, those sweet alluring eyes of hers.

"Little Nebula, is that also a part of kissing?"

He should have known then from the little smile she gave him, that he was in for unexpected discoveries.

"It's a next step after kissing."

Logically, she should be nervous. If she had any survival instincts she wouldn't have been excited about the restrained strength she could feel in the way Konig held her face. She shouldn't have enjoyed feeling his tentacles tracing along her throat and collar bone. But she did. She could feel her nipples start to tighten as a few wayward tentacle tips drifted further down her chest.

"What else comes after kissing?"

She realized she could take it anywhere, that Konig was allowing her to take more of a lead, to set the pace. Her hands drifted up to hold onto his wrists, just a grounding point as she thought about what it was she wanted next. She wanted to feel his tentacles on more of her body, in a specific space if she was honest. And she wanted to explore more of him.

"Humans have foreplay. All sorts of ways to turn their partner on before they fuck."

"And how would you like me to foreplay you?"

Konig seemed almost distracted as he focused on the tentacles that were exploring the swells of her breasts. He could feel the plush give of her skin, how her nipples seemed softer. He looked down in curiosity as he felt them tighten. The little buds seemed to beg attention and who was he to deny that?

He could feel her nails dig into his wrists as twin tentacles wrapped around each nipple, starting with the lightest squeeze he could manage. He kept adding pressure until he heard her sigh, resting more of her weight into his hands and frame.

"This is a pretty good start."

With her approval he continued his exploration of her breasts and nipples, seeing how hard he could squeeze and pull before she would squirm in discomfort. Whenever he found a limit he'd ease back and brush against the poor flesh in apology, before going back to what seemed to be acceptable pressure or strength. He had to move his hold from her face to her ribs to keep her steady, finding the way she would squirm in his grasp cute. It made him want to explore more parts of her.

"Konig..."

And judging from the way she whined his name, he could only assume that his little human felt the same.

She normally wasn't one to enjoy having her nipples or breasts played with, but knowing that it was Konig that was doing it? That he was paying extra attention to the way she'd react to every way his tentacles touched her? It set her nerves on fire. It also sent her on a desperate need to feel him else where.

Thankfully he didn't keep her waiting when she called for his attention, focus shifting from the back arching movements back to her face. It was intoxicating to have that gaze trained on her.

"Is there something you need little star?"

She didn't care if how eager she seemed as she nodded, taking one of his hands to pull him back towards her bed pile. She wanted a lot.

"Wanna to show some other things to do. And I wanna touch you too."

Konig let her pull him to the nest, but didn't expect the strength she had to push him into it. He didn't loose his breath when he landed on his back, but he did when he looked up at her and watched as she stood over him.

"I am at your mercy then."

She could feel nerves creep up the back of her neck as she joined him, tongue thick as she tripped over her words to explain.

"Sometimes humans can pleasure each other with their mouths at the same time."

That drew a curious noise out of Konig, feeling his own self lubricant start to seep from the slit in his vent.

"And how do they do that?"

"It's called sixty-nineing. Typically one partner is on top of the other and their kind of laid in opposite directions?"

He tilted his head back to look at her as she stood above him, her eyes roaming up and down his form. He would have teased her for it if it wasn't for the fact that his own gaze traveled up her legs and froze when it came to the apex of her thighs. It seemed like human's could also self lubricate.

Only hers looked so much more appealing than his, in his opinion.

"I think I may need a demonstration of this."

She seemed a little in a daze as she nodded, looking back at him once before carefully trying to lower herself to her knees, not wanting to hurt him. Once she was there it was an entirely new world of discovery for Konig.

The way her sex opened to him was almost beautiful. Each lip seemed to call his attention with the way they were puffy, drawing his attention inward. His tentacles were already wrapping around her thighs, crawling upward as he took in the way a small nub above her not cloaca seemed to come out from behind it's hood, like it was saying hello and begging for attention.

"So typically a partner would stimulate your sex with their mouth? Like kissing?"

She sounded a little breathless as she rested her weight on either side of his hips, already feeling herself start to get excited when his tentacles would squeeze her thighs.

"Y-yeah. With their lips and tongue and stuff."

The hum he gave was thoughtful, watching her not cloaca seem to clench in excitement. It was rather cute when it did that.

"Should I treat it like I did your mouth earlier then?"

She couldn't help the moan she gave then, hips pushing back as if to open herself further for him. That was exactly what she wanted him to do.

"Yeah. Yeah. With as many as you can."

The desperation in her voice caught him off guard, but who was he to deny her? She had been so sweet for him. He circled his hands around her thighs, used them as leverage to pull her closer to him so his tentacles could have free range to explore.

It was exactly what she had been wanting since she had realized what had been hiding under his hood. Konig's tentacles felt firm as they pushed through her sex, his natural tackiness giving him a drag that felt good against her clit as her own slick started to make it easier for him to glide against her.

And then she felt the first tentacle push into her.

She didn't care about how loud she moaned as she tried to push back into the feeling. She just wanted to feel more of him fill her. But the grip he had on her thighs was too strong, keeping her immobile and at the mercy of his curiosity.

And curious Konig was. Her own slick felt silky, nothing like the thin lubricant he could make. He wanted to coat every tentacle in it, in her. Rubbing against the little nub he noticed earlier seemed to please her, given how her back arched and the noise she had made as he rubbed his tentacle back and forth over it. But actually having a tentacle enter her? It seemed to give her a new level of pleasure he hadn't anticipated. It gave him a level of pleasure he hadn't anticipated.

The sensation of sliding into her was only as similar to her mouth that it was a warm and wet sensation. But sliding into her sex, her...cunt as she had called it once? It was better. She was so soft and as soon as he was moving she was clamping around his tentacle, squeezing around him in a way that her earlier action couldn't compare. Plus it made more of that tempting slick of hers.

As he penetrated her over and over again with his tentacle, slowly as to savor every feeling, he let himself explore, pressing the tip of it against all of her walls with each pass. It thrilled him to feel how she expanded around him. He could see why she had said to use as many tentacles as he could fit, and he would try it, but the back of his mind made him wonder if she was capable of more than one clutch.

But that was getting a head of himself.

She knew she was suppose to be returning the attention that Konig was giving her, that it was the point of sixty-nineing, but she honestly didn't know if she could do much more than lean her head against his hip and moan.

He had followed her please so wonderfully, stuffing one and then another tentacle into her. The stretch was so good, maybe almost painful, but it was the way that his tentacles filled her that was making her wetter. It was like they were taking all the space inside of her so they had no choice but to press and rub against every spot that lit up her nervous system like fireworks.

A third one started to push it's way in, fighting to take what little space was left and she was sure she was going to loose her mind. At least he had been consistent on her clit. She didn't know if she would have survived with her sanity if he chose to explore it with the same voracity.

In an attempted to try to be a good partner, a good mate, she ran her hand along his hip, using the feel of his skin to tell when she had found his vent. It was a little rougher to the touch, ribbed in a way that would make her curious about later. She could feel the growl Konig made in his chest as she rubbed her hand along the slit, surprised to feel it also be wet.

She brought her fingertips to her lips quickly, stealing a taste before Konig could distract her with a particularly cruel flick. Just like everything else she had tasted from him, it was something she found pleasant, something she'd want to try to have more of...but later.

Konig seemed to get the idea of alternated thrusting of his tentacles because it rocked her for a moment, making her whimper and dig her nails into his inner thighs to stay grounded. She refused to be distracted.

Gulping for breath she went back to what she had been exploring earlier, rubbing her fingers along the seam of his vent. She treated it like she would her own cunt, trying different pressures of her fingertips to see what would make him wetter, what would part him for her.

A purring sound started to fill the next as Konig allowed himself to enjoy her touch and ministrations. He could feel himself relaxing, tentacles becoming a little lazy as his vent started to open, readying for his phalluses to make their appearance.

He must have been feeling good because his grip on her thighs relaxed and it allowed her a little leeway to pull herself up further to actually come face to face with his vent. She wouldn't say it was the prettiest cunt she had ever seen, but it was probably the prettiest alien non cunt. She couldn't see Konig's phalluses yet, instead the inside of his vent being filled with these bud like nubs. It was almost like seeing dozen's of little pale blue clits.

And she knew what to do with clits, regardless of color.

Gathering saliva in her mouth she leaned down quick to drag her tongue along his vent from top to bottom in one long, slow pull.

Konig had not been ready for the pleasure that exploded behind his eyes. With a roar he grabbed her hips and pulled her back, simply wanting to stop the immediate onslaught of overstimulation. Only he also pulled her back onto his tentacles. Hard.

The orgasm that caught her was quick and blinding. She hadn't been prepared to suddenly be so full of his tentacles, or for them to suddenly writher inside of her like they were all independently trying to press as hard as they could into every pleasure spot. And maybe she could have resisted that, but the tentacle that had been rubbing her clit had suddenly wrapped around it and squeezed? It was over for her.

It was so much. It was practically dizzying the way his phalluses sprung from his vent, both spilling copious amounts of lubricant. Konig was still reeling from the pleasure, but then to hear her shout as she did, and to suddenly rain her slick down on him? To have it fill his beak and slide down his throat? Overwhelming wouldn't begin to explain it.

It was as if something switched within him. Something that told him that he needed to breed this human as many times as it took. To fill her over and over again. To fuck her until they both lost sense of who they were.

If the orgasm was dizzying, having Konig pull out and start flipping her around until she was under him? It left her spinning. She couldn't help the whimper that escaped at suddenly being so empty, cunt still pulsing in pleasure. She was practically teary eyed as she looked up at her alien, who loomed over her, eyes like a predator ready to devour her.

"I am sorry little star, but I do not think I can withstand more foreplay. I need to mate with you, to breed you until you are so full of my clutches there's no way they won't take."

He came in closer with every word he uttered, hands already grabbing her knees and pulling her down to where the head of his phalluses glided against her cunt.

Unable to speak she nodded desperately, reaching up to wrap her arms under his and cling to his back.

The only thing he needed to apologize was the fact he wasn't fucking her that moment.

With a nearly sub level growl Konig thrusted as deeply into her as he could, both of them groaning at the feeling of his cocks pushing past her walls to make room for him.

It was deep, and hard, and intense.

Konig fucked her like he was trying to carve the shape of himself into her, make a permanent space for him so she'd never be able to forget the way she was claimed.

She felt like she couldn't breath. She couldn't see what was happening below but she could feel it. Konig's buds had unfurred to reveal dozen of little suckers that attached to her sex and thighs, instantly starting a hard suction that left her shaking. Together he was just thicker than his tentacles before, but softer at the tip. It didn't hurt when one head would crash against her cervix, instead it let her feel how the firmer head forced her to feel every push and rub against her G-spot.

Even as her next orgasm crashed through her Konig didn't stop. Instead he just loomed closer, tentacles exploring her mouth, her throat, her chest. Konig was making sure that the only thing she would be able to see, feel or think about was him.

She had no idea how long it kept like that, just that every time she came he showed no sign in stopping. She had lost her sanity by the time she found her words, pleading and begging because she only had one thing on her mind.

"Breed me breed me breed me breed me please please please please need it need it need it."

Oh what a sweet mate Konig had. Begging for his clutch like that. Of course he'd give it to her. He'd give it as many times as he could. It was like his body was at her command, his insemination phallus molded itself to her cervix as his cum started to pour out; hot and thick, forcing its way deep into her womb.

She moaned, deep in her chest as she felt him start to fill her. It was so much deeper than anyone had ever reached before. Her body was practically too weak to cum again, but it still gave a valiant effort to pulse around him like it was trying to encourage every drop.

She would have gotten it one way or another, and by the time he was done she felt a fullness so deep in her she didn't know if she could ever live without the sensation again.

But it wasn't over.

Just as she was starting to relax she felt something bulge against the rim of her poor abused cunt. She tried to run away from it, she did. There was no way she could survive more. But Konig wouldn't let her. With an iron grip around her hips he pulled her back onto his cocks, just as the first few eggs were passing through his oviphallus to settle into her cunt.

He cooed at the way she cried a little, gentle tentacles wiping away the tears.

"There there little Nebula...we have to make sure we give you as many clutches as you can take. Be a good mate it for me."

She was practically in a daze by the time Konig seemed to take mercy on her. Seemed because he simply slowly fucked himself out of her. Each thrust would jostle a soft, jelly like egg that would press against her walls and cause a strike of pleasure to hit her.

She whimpered, a sad little sound of over stimulation and he again was there to reassure her.

"Just creating a plug little star. Can't have our precious clutch come spilling out now."

And true to his word by the time he pulled out of her cunt he'd made the perfect plug with his lubricant, secure enough that not a single drop of his cum or egg would escape.

Once he was sure their clutch was safe he gathered his Nebula in his arms, letting her curl into his side. She looked so cute already so full her stomach already rounding a little. He was so very pleased by she had decided he was the best suitable sire.

Edit

I...I don't know what I wrote. I blacked out and I'm just coming too.

[kix-mm]

King slime

Love - friendship - Pt.2 -

You've been separated from your party, and wonder lost down the ancient tunnels of this large underground kingdom.

A king slime towers over you. You never knew they could get this big. The encounter had you feeling nervous for many reasons, the kings impressive health bar was one of them, the other was your lack of it...

"A visitor? I haven't seen a live morsel in ages." You shiver when being referred to as live food, slowly taking a step back in an attempt to distance yourself from the royalty.

This king was clearly well-fed and even had food to spare. It made you wonder if being referred to as a "live morsel" was what was to come of you if you were to overstay your welcome?

It seemed to recognize your discomfort, speaking in a surprisingly clear and sweet voice. "Does my size make you uncomfortable? My presence?" They ask while giving you a rather bothered stare, a mixture of worry and confusion.

You shake your head, but it sees right through your lie. It watches you keep your eyes trained elsewhere and try to keep a tough stance, but your inexperience makes it difficult to look calm and collected.

"Sit, I insist." he waved his hand, thick grobs of slime yank you down onto the jelly-like floor. You couldn't resist even if you tried. The landing was soft, squishy, and very much alive, it made you wonder if all of this slime belonged to this one entity- or that there were many more simply coexisting and doing the kings bidding.

Your personal space feels very much invaded, especially since the king had no issue getting so close and touchy, it was in no means to be inconsiderate, slimes were used to such closeness, it's how they survived, but you werent one of them, something he seemed to have forgotten.

After some squishing, pushing, and prodding, the king settled back into place "where were you heading?" Finally, a question you knew how to answer. "The surface" you say but gives the king a bewildered look "nonsense, you were heading deeper into the dungeon, not out of it"

A pin dropped, ah. That explained why the monsters were getting harder... and why you came across this early (although harmless) boss. "I could help you to the surface you know, on one condition.."

You silently celebrate. This could be your way out! "What's the condition?" You crossed your fingers, hoping it was nothing more than an easy side quest. "When we reach the surface, I want us to become a party." Now you're stumped again, lost just as you were before "but- I already have a party" you try to explain, but the king shook his head.

"I see no party members beside you, if you truly were part of a group, they would have found by now, not let you wonder on your own. You can't do this on your own. Let me join you." He had a point, and the king was rather powerful, hence why you needed a full party to take him down...

You still feel hesitant, worried that you might make the wrong choice, but you have little choice, you could either accept, and you'll have a powerful enemy by your side that can easily be leveled up, or decline and find your way back on your own.

[frownyalfred]

when i write something about batman with another bat there i always wonder if i write their hypercompetence and fighting abilities right. this is gonna get a little bit in the power level discussion so bear with me. obviously the character i want to win or find the solution IS gonna do exactly that... but what about Barbie? Aka Mary Sue aka Batman? In other character's comics HE'S the one they call to figure out this month's Mega Evil Planet Destroyer problem and. He does. Often. Almost every time. Superman needs a working strategy in less than five seconds? Batman's got it. Survive impossible odds daily? You know it. Find cures for incurble diseases? Why not?

So you got this guy. Who can do all that. And you have to find a way to put him into situations where the silly goose Riddler is giving him problems. And 16 year old Robin, fresh member of the Teen Titans, 3-4 years of in-field experience, comes crashing in to save the day.

I know i'm basically asking "How can you fit 80+ years of stories, at LEAST 30 of those years spent on making Batman God, into a coneivably convincing story?"

What's your approach to the nightmare that's DC's inconsistency? How do you make Batman capable and hypercompetent and keep the batfam on a believably similar level while still having a big enough gap between everyone due to experience, age, skills, etc and not throw your own story's consistency out the metaphorical window?

It’s very hard! I’m not always certain I do a good job either. But I try to find things that are realistic enough to scale down power without making him ooc. For example in borderline - Bruce is skilled enough to hunt down and find Dick when the Court of Owls took him. But even he can’t split his attention between two people at the same time. So when Damian was taken by the LoA, Bruce was in a difficult choice where he has to choose who to go after. Because even he couldn’t be in two places at once, focusing on two separate cases before sunrise.

Specialization is another thing. There are some things Bruce trained to do, and some areas he has self admitted blind spots in canon. He doesn’t like magic, for example. Most canon iterations have him training for strength instead of acrobatic ability, so while he can still flip and bend, he’s probably not bounding around like Nightwing often.

Kids vs adults - Bruce is a large man. There are situations where having Robin crawl in/etc is much more effective. Robin can be bait in a trap, etc. he can hide in things. He might have slightly better hearing due to are. There’s lots of things to use there.

Experience is another one. Sometimes it’s a double edged sword. Bruce has seen everything at least once, so sometimes he’s very (rightfully) jaded. A kid’s hope or belief might defy that experience and still be right.

When it comes to truly scaling Bruce vs the Batfamily, I always try to remember that they learned from him directly and want to be like him. Which means they’re a lot like him in every way except 1) Bruce is a better teacher than his own mentors and 2) they are limited by time/age/experience. But there will come a day where they’re at or nearly at the same level as Bruce in many respects. It just hasn’t happened yet. And that’s okay! Because by that time Bruce will be off the field.

[croquettish]

Hi!! I’m a big fan of your meta and really appreciate your contributions to the fandom. especially your post on sexuality in medieval Bohemia, which I found sooo fascinating and well done.

I was wondering if you’ve ever written about medieval noble marriages and how that arrangement might affect Hansry. There’s a lot of discussion (and fanfic lol) about whether it would have any real impact on their relationship, or if it would just be seen as a political necessity with no hard feelings. Henry comes across as fairly nonchalant about it by the end - especially compared to Hans, who seems more conflicted. And it also makes me wonder: how would Jitka feel about all this?

Given how amazing you are with historical context AND Henry and Hans character insight, I’d love to hear your take on how you think things might play out for them post-canon

This is so kind, thank you so much 😭

Naturally this sent me down a research spiral. I haven't written about medieval noble marriages before, but I do know more than the average bear about it. (You will learn more than you bargained for here; this is a threat and I apologize in advance.)

The short answer is that marriage among the nobility was pretty much never about love. I'm using a qualifier here even though I really want to just say never. But idk, maybe there were some nobles who got just insanely lucky and happened to fall in love with a viable match that their parents also approved of. Usually, like 99% of the time, it was a purely contractual thing. The purpose of marriage was the consolidation of assets or land, the joining of two houses for the purposes of a treaty or an alliance, etc. For that, they rarely needed to meet before the wedding to begin with.

The general hope was that the two parties involved would fall in love after the wedding, but that's more of an ideal outcome. People were fully aware of the fact that this wasn't realistic, and there wasn't some weighty expectation for either party to make that happen. All that's really expected is for them to produce at least one heir that survives into adulthood. That didn't always happen, but you know.

We have a few examples* that we can turn to here. Edward II and Piers Gaveston were almost certainly involved with each other, and even then, both of them had wives and produced children. Richard the Lionheart and King Philip II likewise were as close as Hansry, said to have eaten from the same plate "... and that their beds did not separate them." (Hilariously, one historian went on record that poor people shared beds all the time and therefore this meant that the two weren't gay. Because royals are famously very poor and need to share beds for warmth.) Richard didn't have any children with his wife, though he was said to father an illegitimate child.

Philip, on the other hand, is a very interesting case. He first married Isabelle of Hainaut and then decided four years later to try and divorce her on account of consanguinity. At the time she was fourteen and it's "not at all clear that the marriage had been consummated by then." The request for a divorce was denied, and five years later she died in childbirth. This left him with one very sickly three year old son, which meant that he needed to produce another heir who would live to adulthood. He was set to be married to Princess Ingeborg of Denmark, who was said to be "beautiful, holy, and of good morals" (here, her dowry was cash instead of land, making this less politically savvy of a match). I make mention of her character specifically because the day after the wedding Philip decided he didn't want to be married to her anymore, and supposedly "began violently to abhor, tremble, and pale at her sight." Supposedly he entered the marriage bed and then promptly left again, insisting that he was unable to consummate the marriage (Ingeborg said differently). He then got the French church council together to request a divorce on account of her supposedly being related to his first wife. Ingeborg, tragically, had no idea that this would happen and effectively broke down sobbing when an interpreter gave her the news. After Philip married someone else and had kids with her, declared that that marriage was null and void because he was still married to Ingeborg, and after his wife died he inevitably had to take Ingeborg back.

This is quite a bit later than 15th c, but another fascinating example is Frederick the Great, who almost certainly was queer and who did not want to get married to the point that he threatened suicide and explained to his sister that there could be neither love nor friendship between them. Despite this, he was forced to marry, and he proceeded to put her in another palace far away from him and forbade her from visiting him. They didn't have kids and he never displayed any affection, though he did occasionally deign to visit her on her birthday.

What does this mean for Hansry? As ever, the answer is "it depends." We know nothing about Jitka and certainly don't know her character. We can assume that she wouldn't necessarily expect there to be love in her marriage, but it would almost certainly be the hope. If he does what's expected of him and produces an heir, there isn't a whole lot that anyone could say against him unless his relationship with Henry was discovered. It definitely is something that would only happen out of political necessity, but that doesn't always mean that we can account for human emotion to not get in the way. Realism dictates that there would be no love, but perhaps not to the extent that people like Frederick or Philip shunned their wives. For fic writers, it will be entirely up to them to decide how Jitka might respond, but in terms of what things were like at the time, so long as an heir was produced, that is really the only expectation that a marriage would carry with it.

*This is a misnomer. We can't really impose modern sexualities on people of the past and we tragically can't ask their opinions on the matter, so everything I'm saying here is purely reasonable speculation, which is all a historian can really ask for.

Source:

Karras, Ruth Mazo. Unmarriages: Women, Men, and Sexual Unions in the Middle Ages. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014.

[ladyhallen]

Solving the Wonder Woman Problem

So, for the past few days, I've been reading DC (specifically batman) and PJO crossover.

Let me preface this in that I only vaguely know people's origin stories in DC and that I mostly know PJO, even if slightly faded since I haven't read it in a while. I'm basing Wonder Woman's origin story from the movies.

Now, it's a delicious crossover. There's heroes (JL) and then there's Heroes (PJO Demigods). These nice, morally upright people might also have some opinion on the survival rates on demigod children, child neglect, etc. And there's also the potential hilarity of these two worlds interacting, because some abilities these kids have are just straight up terrifying and we need some normal people reactions to this shit.

But, and it's a small but, I've noticed a glaring issue.

And Yes, it's Wonder Woman.

Look, in Diana's origin story, she was crafted from clay, given life by Zeus himself and stuff. Okay, cool.

However, if both these worlds exist in the same plane of existence, it also presents a problem. Because why would Diana, who left Themyscira (who has her mother, and her sisters and was basically paradise) to fight for the good of the world of man(which, arguably, is not paradise. It's very far from it.), leave these underaged heroes to fight two wars with basically no support? Hmm?

Most authors I've found, would either do the following:

Make Diana unaware that the demigods exist, which. HMM. Sus.

Make Diana Not Care/Not Realize that the Second Titanomachy and the Second Gigantomachy was actually the war these kids were fighting.

Make Her be OffWorld at the time. (Which I haven't seen many people do?

You can see the problem.

Solution:

The Romans.

No no, don't boo. I'm not done, I'm not crazy, I have a point!

Let me Just paint the scenario for you.

It's WWII, and Diana is newly arrived to the World of Man, and she decides to fight in the war.

In the PJO books, it was said that the involvement of the demigods caused the war to escalate to crazy proportions, so it's not out of left pocket for Diana and some demigods to meet, do the spiderman pointing meme, and then realize some truths here.

But here's the thing.

What if the demigods she meets are Roman demigods?

Think about it. Those Roman kids thrive on structure. On orders. On following rules. There's only two ways a kid raised on that kind of environment would go. One, they would go completely the opposite way and be a wildcard and follow no rules, or Two, they would find comfort in the rigid structure of rules all their life.

Ergo, Roman demigods would mostly thrive in bootcamp and would probably excel at it. And then Meet Diana.

They become friends, etc, etc. It's a whole montage of two people realizing that they can relate to weird upbringings. Gotcha. (I mean, their demigod children, if not up to standards, are eaten by Lupa, WTF)

Now, how would the Romans lead to Diana not wanting to get involved in demigod affairs now?

Let's see, they called their city in Camp Jupiter New Rome. What did Rome have? A lot of assassinations, backstabbing and power grabbing. There were schemes and shit. Octavian was not an outlier, he was probably the mouthpiece a lot of discontented people in the senate.

In the PJO lore, it was said that the American Revolution was devastating to both camps, because they didn't get a long and it was implied that the Original Festus fell because the camp was invaded. Thalia's tree didn't exist yet and so the magical border of the camp didn't exist either.

Bunker Nine's existence indicates that perhaps each of the gods have their own separate buildings. Maybe Cabin 6 had a library rivaling Alexandria, maybe Cabin 12 had a vineyard and sold wines. Who knows, perhaps Cabin 3 had a waterpark to help troubled ocean animals.

But the thing is, Bunker Nine's existence can stretch that to maybe, New Athens existing. Maybe there used to be a space for Greek demigods existing. Maybe that space was destroyed when the Romans invaded.

What makes the Roman-Greek war so hard and devastating, is that both sides have advantages and disadvantages over the other.

The Romans have a clear line of command, structure, they recruit from legacies etc. It also means they don't really think on the fly once command structure is broken.

On the other hand, the Greeks are descended more closely from the gods, and thus have stronger powers. They also don't always get along and sometimes work at cross purposes when irked (see, Apollo Cabin and Ares Cabin in TLO).

Enter Diana.

Look, I know I know that people's memories were erased so that both camps didn't know of the other's existence and that the American Revolution was entirely earlier than World War 2, but memories being erased doesn't erase entirely written records. War has transcripts, logs and maybe someone left a diary. Maybe someone figures it out. Maybe there's a second to the last Invasion of Camp Half Blood.

Picture this, one enterprising Roman Senator invites Diana during the invasion. Someone uses the Mist on Diana so she doesn't realize that she's fighting children.

Once the fighting ends and the haze of battle disappears, Diana realizes that she's devastated New Athens to rubble and weeps, realizing that she's been used.

Then and there, Diana swears on the River Styx that she won't interfere in demigod fights unless the gods themselves order her to.

This doesn't stop her from making safe spaces for demigods, but fighting for them? NOPE. Unless there's a direct order form on high, she won't do it. She's learned that lesson. She won't do it again.

Now, in the TLO, during the second Titanomachy, demigods do try to contact her, but she ain't falling for that again. No sirree. Chiron does a facepalm like, right, I forgot she swore on the Styx. He explains. The kids are devastated but understand. Lots of resentment, but they understand.

Now, the gods are lowkey aware of her, and that she could help. They assumed she would help. But they are not aware of her oath and are doing the pikachu surprised face when they seal Typhon and find no Diana helping the demigods defend Olympus.

I'm just saying. It's the Romans fault.

[penguwastaken]

Nobody Understands Mukuro Ikusaba (aka Mukuro Character Analysis)

...except for the people that do (lol).

But first I want to clarify what I mean by this title and why I even wrote this thread in the first place. Mukuro is my second favorite Danganronpa character, only beaten out by Kyoko. There's a lot of reasons why I really like Mukuro, but one of them is her writing.

I think she's one of the best written characters in the series. But unfortunately, she also happens to be one of the most misunderstood characters as well. Not even by the people who don't like her, but also by her own fans.

"Mukuro has incestuous feelings for Junko" "Danganronpa 3 retconned her character" "Mukuro was just a plot device" These are all claims that baffle me because simply just consuming the media will say otherwise.

To many, Mukuro is either a one note incest freak or a pure innocent cinnamon roll who did nothing wrong and both of those interpretations are wildly incorrect. I've been meaning to write this post for a while, but we're finally here.

Nobody understands Mukuro Ikusaba (a ""🧵"") (Spoiler warning for the entire series)

Story Overview

We don't actually know too much about Mukuro's backstory aside from the fact that at a young age, she was separated from her younger twin sister Junko. Before being taken away, she claims that she was homeless and after she was taken she was forced to become a member of the military group Fenrir.

So clearly Mukuro never really had the chance to have a normal life, and more importantly: never had a chance to feel the care of another person.

Her sister, who Mukuro had not seen in years, suddenly got in contact with her and called Mukuro over to participate in her plan to overthrow Hope's Peak Academy (and the world). Mukuro, who already felt bad for losing her sister and was desperate for any kind of affection, accepted and began working for Junko.

Junko took advantage of Mukuro's desperation and had her basically work as a servant to her plans. She started by having Mukuro wipe out the entirety of a middle school in order to prove Mukuro's skills and how far Mukuro would go for her.

With that out of her way, Junko made Mukuro obey like her servant in order to overthrow Hope's Peak and cause the tragedy. Mukuro did so without batting an eye and disregarding any second thoughts she might have had, all while facing Junko's abuse.

During her time attending Hope's Peak, Mukuro met Makoto Naegi. Unlike most of her classmates, Makoto was friendly to her and showed her compassion. This confused her as we already established that Mukuro wasn't used to affection. Because of this and her tendency to latch onto anyone who shows her even an ounce of care, she began to develop feelings for Makoto (that even Junko acknowledged).

"In the past two years, Ikusaba had gained an interest in the world beyond her sister. And in that world, Makoto Naegi--the first person who smiled at her and bridged the gap between her and the world--had become like a sapling of sincerity taking root in her heart." -Danganronpa IF confirming Mukuro's feelings for Makoto

"Upupupu… I wonder what kind of fun you were having in the infirmary? Did you take care of your rival in love, or did you wish them a happy marriage? Either way, don't you think our nice guy Naegi standing side-by-side with Kirigiri makes for a wonderful picture? If this were a thriller, they'd be the last surviving couple!" "Upupupupu… Or how about just killing all of the others? If everyone but you and Naegi die, then the two of you can spend the rest of your student lives together! After all, we can't even hold a trial if there's only two people left. Maybe it'll be best if you just hole up here, safe in the building forever!" "And what're you going to do once he goes back to his old self? It's not as if you were dating Naegi, right? You were just watching him from afar all this time! Now this is a shock. You can shoot right through people's heads and hearts without even blinking, but you can't even steal away some skinny little boy's heart! You want me to tell you who Naegi had a crush on before his memories were erased? Upupupupu…" -Junko teasing Mukuro about her feelings as she aids Makoto in Danganronpa IF

Once the tragedy occured, Mukuro was locked inside of Hope's Peak with Junko and the rest of their classmates and she helped orchestrate the killing game. She disguised herself as Junko, under the impression that Junko would fake her death and they could spend the rest of the game together.

This is when the seeds of doubt began to sprout inside of Mukuro. I wouldn't say that she necessarily began to go against her sister, but she definitely was starting to get a little more hesitant.

"It was only recently that she began to question her mindset. Hearing about this plan from Junko and watching the world burn at the hands of people in Monobear masks did nothing to sway her, but when she heard that Junko was intending to plunge Naegi and the others into a game of murder, something within her began to move. The seed of doubt soon took root, sprouting into a thorny vine that twisted around her feet. And the moment she met her friends for the first time under the identity of Junko Enoshima and realized their memories were truly gone, the vines quickly tightened around her ankles." -Danganronpa IF describing Mukuro's feelings when the killing game began

To Makoto and the player who are under the impression that this is Junko, they assume that she's referring to not wanting to be a model anymore. But given her backstory of never being able to live a normal life and always having to fend for herself or follow the orders of others, we can infer what she actually means. She expresses disappointment in the fact that she never really had a chance to do what she wanted.

This all culminates in the moment where Junko was supposed to fake the death of Mukuro, but that isn't what happened. Instead, Junko killed Mukuro and betrayed her. To say that Junko felt no remorse from this action would be a lie, however. Junko only did this because she knew it would hurt both of them.

...but what if that wasn't what happened? What if Mukuro wasn't killed? What would happen then? That brings us to:

Danganronpa IF

Danganronpa IF answers the hypothetical question of what if Mukuro survived Junko's attack. Of course this means it isn't canon, but due to Kodaka being involved with its creation and its existence as an event that hypothetically could have happened, it is canon compliant. This means that while the events didn't happen in canon, they could have and things like characterization are all accurate. Think of it like an extended free time event. While the events themselves aren't canon, the things they say and imply are. I'll also be referencing Danganronpa IF a lot because since it's told from Mukuro's perspective, it gives a lot of insight on her thought process.

After regaining his memories, Makoto recognizes and rescues Mukuro seconds before her would-be death and he gets impaled by one of the spears. Mukuro rushes to save him, abandoning her disguise and goal.

During this time, Mukuro does a lot of thinking. Why did Junko try to kill her? For all the time they've been working together, Mukuro always assumed that her job was to prop Junko up and help her achieve despair.

It turns out that Junko didn't want Mukuro to obey Junko's every order, Junko wanted Mukuro to retaliate. She didn't want Mukuro to submit to her, but instead to fight back.

With this Mukuro changes her mind, choosing to fight Junko instead of assisting her. Not because she's on the side of hope, she never cared about hope or despair, but because she only wants what's best for the only person in her life who cared for her.

"'That's why… I'll take responsibility. I'll make you happy, Junko . I'll make youdespair. I'll save Naegi-kun… I'll make sure none of our friends die. I'll get them all out of here. And I'll kill every last one of the ones on the outside. You planned this for years and killed so many people to make this work… so I'll destroy every last trace of it.' She was not driven by resentment at the sister who abandoned her. Ikusaba would do all this for her sister's sake." -Mukuro changing her approach to making Junko happy in Danganronpa IF

Who is Mukuro Ikusaba?

Now this is the part where I finally exit the synopsis phase and finally get into the character analysis, explaining why Mukuro acts the way she does in all entries.

Now, I want to begin with a common critique of Mukuro's character, specifically one that's attributed to Danganronpa 3. The one that says that Mukuro's behavior is not only out of character, but also claims that she has romantic feelings for her sister.

First point out of the way, Mukuro's blushy and flustered attitude is nothing new when it comes to her character. It's been an aspect of her since the very beginning of her characterization.

"'I don’t know if… she attracts despair, or despair attracts her, but… she’s lived her whole life with despair by her side. She lived while immersed in despair. That’s why she began looking for despair in others; she began to enjoy pushing people into despair. But you know… that’s normal. It’s no different than someone cursed by misfortune falling into hatred for those who are better off than them. But what’s special about her was that… she learned to enjoy inflicting despair upon herself. That’s how the link to despair began: as she chased down despair, she pushed it onto others along the way. Doing so caused her to crave falling into despair even more… and because of that chain to despair, the Ultimate Despair was born.' While she spoke, it was like she fell into a fever; the expressions on her face slowly turned into ecstasy. It was so completely absurd that it would have been difficult for anybody to think of it as anything but a joke, but I could tell that this was real. It might have been the hazy memories of Junko Enoshima inside me that led to that conclusion. 'You don’t get it right? That’s fair, I don’t think anybody could… But you know, only I can understand it…' Consumed by ecstasy, even Ikusaba’s breathing had begun to turn ragged." -Mukuro describing Junko in Danganronpa Zero

The second (and more important) point to address is the one that Mukuro holds some kind of romantic feelings for her sister. Now, in all honestly, I can't hold this against anyone for thinking this even if I think it's a wild misinterpretation of her behavior. Danganronpa has a track record of using incest for comedic effect (to always poor results). However, Mukuro's relationship with Junko is not used to comedic effect and it's portrayed in a negative light. Not only that, we know that Mukuro does not enjoy behaving that way.

"'She hoped that, perhaps her sister on the screen would say something like 'Not! You seriously thought I'd say something that sappy? Jeez, you're annoying! Can't you just disappear forever or something?'. She hoped that Junko might criticizeher and call her useless. Ikusaba was no masochist, but she would have preferred to hear scornful laughter and be shot at rather than continue to endure this pain." -Danganronpa IF explaining Mukuro's "masochism"

Mukuro doesn't behave the way she does because she has feelings for Junko, she does so because she believes that's how Junko wants her to behave. Danganronpa Zero and IF makes it clear that Mukuro was wrong about how Junko wanted her to behave.

“'You don’t get it right? That’s fair, I don’t think anybody could… But you know, only I can understand it…' Consumed by ecstasy, even Ikusaba’s breathing had begun to turn ragged. 'Only I’m able to understand her… That’s why she needs me. She still hasn’t realized it, but… maybe she’s only pretending not to. Ufu… It’s because she’s so shy. Ufufufu…'” -Mukuro explaining that Junko needs her in Danganronpa Zero

"Ikusaba knew that not even she herself was her own ally. After all, despite the fact that Junko had betrayed her and very nearly killed her, Ikusaba still believed that she was the only one who could understand her little sister. And that was why she felt that she had to protect her. That's right… you were just being you, Junko. You just wanted despair, right? It's because you love me. You wanted to kill me and fall into despair. That must have been it" -Mukuro in denial in Danganronpa IF

"Ikusaba believed that she alone could understand the despair known as Junko Enoshima. It was a ludicrous notion. The moment Junko said, 'I love you', Ikusaba realized--to her agony--that she never truly understood her sister. Only now had she come to realize Junko's feelings." -Mukuro realizing that she didn't understand Junko in Danganronpa IF

Because of Mukuro's incorrect interpretation of understanding Junko, Mukuro believes that Junko expects her to respond to her abuse with acceptance and masochism. Even if she was uncomfortable to, as long as it made Junko happy, that's what mattered. Of course, we learn that Junko wanted Mukuro to respond her abuse with retaliation, and as soon as Mukuro realizes that her behavior immediately shifts. Mukuro holds a great deal of admiration for Junko, so much so that she only wants to do what would please Junko the most.

She does not have romantic feelings for her sister and to say so misses the point entirely. She isn't behaving that way because she's a masochist, she behaves that way because she believes it's how she's expected to, even if she's visibly uncomfortable. Once she learns this isn't what's expected, she immediately changes course.

Danganronpa 3 also has official relationship charts that depict the relationship between characters. In this chart, crushes or explicitly shown romantic feelings are labeled with a heart (as seen with Kazuichi's attraction to Sonia or Toko's attraction to Byakuya). Mukuro's relationship does NOT feature this heart. You would think that if Mukuro's very obvious admiration towards Junko was romantic it would have a heart, but it doesn't because it isn't. If what I said before didn't convince you, I think this itself is proof enough.

Mukuro's admiration doesn't extend to just Junko though. Due to her unfortunate upbringing, Mukuro has a tendency to get attached to anyone who shows her the affection she's desperate for. So much so that her behavior changes completely around the people she cares about.

"The mass of monochrome spun round and round, making it look as though they were projecting a hypnotic image from three directions, but Ikusaba remained expressionless. In fact, the bizarre sight unfolding before her compelled the Super High School Level Soldier to regain her focus. She was an entirely different person from the girl who had panicked at Naegi's injury in the gymnasium." -Mukuro while fighting in Danganronpa IF, behaving completely differently from when she panicked over Makoto's injury

"Not only that, if anyone who knew her as the Super High School Level Soldier and mercenary were to see her now, the difference in her attitude might even make her look like another person altogether. And Monobear continued to drive the girl into a corner." -Mukuro panicking over Makoto's injury in Danganronpa IF

"The mask of ice she wore around others was entirely unlike the face she showed her sister, making it almost seem as though she had multiple personalities." -Danganronpa IF explaining that Mukuro's behavior around Junko is different from her typical icey expression

This is why around most people, Mukuro has a pretty blank expression. However when she's around Makoto or Junko, the two people who she cares about, she displays a much more soft and emotional side.

That being said, an often overlooked aspect of Mukuro is that she actually has a slight ego and is proud of her skill. This is especially obvious in her fight with Peko in Danganronpa 3. Of course, if I spent years in the military without getting a single scratch, I'd probably have an ego too.

Mukuro is also capable of turning off her feelings and going into a "killing machine mode" whenever the situation demands it, mostly when she's carrying out some mission. It's not because she doesn't feel bad for what she's doing or isn't having any second thoughts, it's that she pushes any doubts to the side to focus on getting the job done.

"In battlefields, where she made her home, her main mission was to kill and survive. And in that setting Ikusaba was invincible. She could put her own emotions on a leash in order to become a killing machine." -Danganronpa IF explaining how Mukuro is capable of ignoring her own feelings

"With a single whisper that was drowned out by the sound of gunfire, Ikusaba went completely silent. Thanks to her status as a member of Super High School Level Despair, her heart was filling with joy. And as if to offset the sudden surge of emotions, the sparkle in her eyes disappeared." -Mukuro turning her emotions off while fighting in Danganronpa IF

So Basically...

Due to her upbringing Mukuro is someone who gets attached to people easily, particularly those who give her attention. Junko took advantage of this to make Mukuro essentially act as her servant. Believing that Junko expected her to return the abuse she faced with enjoyment, she forced herself to do just that. Even if it made her uncomfortable, making her sister happy at her own expense is better than being alone. She's capable of turning off and ignoring her emotions to following orders when necessary and is generally a proud and skilled soldier, though she has a softer side that she only shows to people who she cares for.

That is who Mukuro Ikusaba is.

Conclusion

There's a lot of reasons I really like Mukuro. I think she's silly and cute and I like her singing voice. But I also think her characterization is really good in all of her appearances. I think a lot of the critiques made towards her (especially towards her appearance in Danganronpa 3) are misguided or just a result of her being misunderstood.

She's not a plot device or a character exclusively there to act as an extension of Junko. She's filled to the brim with character depth and interesting writing and has plenty of characterization on her own. I'll admit that her presence in Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc is a bit limited, however she doesn't just become an important character in four other entries without getting some kind of development.

Many think her characterization is inconsistent or different across entries, but I honestly think it couldn't be any MORE consistent. The only times where I'd say she acts out of character is in the comic anthologies, but those are non-canon media that's kinda known for flanderizing characters for the sake of comedy.

Basically, I like Mukuro. I hope I managed to change some minds or shed a new light on her to anyone who didn't before. And if you already liked her, I hope maybe I could make you appreciate her a bit more or just help you explain her in some way.

anyways follow me on twitter cough cough

Also special thanks to Twitter user @LKSixtyfour for their tweets about Mukuro's characterization, many helped me organize my thoughts to form the thread that you just read.

Edit: didn't make any changes to the post, just fixed some typos

[hunieday]

9th Anniversary story - Chapter 5 : Thank you for the gift!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

Please note that I am not a professional translator and I'm only doing this to share the side materials to those who cannot access them, if you notice any mistakes please let me know nicely. Enjoy!

Reporter: The final test is the vaulting box!

Reporter: This test requires coordination, explosive strength, flexibility, stamina, timing, and speed...

Reporter: You need a well-balanced sense of gymnastics!

Reporter: There are a total of 18 levels in the vaulting box. The highest level is over two meters tall.

Nikaido Yamato: Over two meters!? No way, that’s impossible. You need CGI or something to make it look doable.

Momo: You never know, it might be! Everyone, do you best and be careful not to get hurt!

Osaka Sougo: That’s right!

Reporter: Now, let’s start from level 8!

Reporter: Ready, start!

Inumaru Touma: …Ahh! My right foot got caught…!

Yaotome Gaku: Nice fight, Inumaru!

Inumaru Touma: Thanks! So there are only three people left now.

Natsume Minami: You can tell who’s gonna end up at the top when doing vaulting boxes since they’re going at it by level.

Isumi Haruka: Go for it, Tora! Show them what a drama stuntman can do!

Mido Torao: Yeah!

Isumi Haruka: He actually responded.

Inumaru Touma: I bet he’s so nervous he didn’t even hear you.

Natsume Minami: If you make it, you better treat us!

Mido Torao: Got it!

Isumi Haruka: He actually agreed.

Inumaru Touma: Nice.

Yotsuba Tamaki: Do your best Nagicchi! Don’t lose!

Rokuya Nagi: Fufufu… Yes! I’ll show them what I’m made of!

Nanase Riku: Nagi, you’re really good at vaulting! Keep going…!

Izumi Iori: Is it really okay for a prince to be jumping over a two meters box?

Izumi Mitsuki: Get their ass, Nagi!

Nikaido Yamato: Don’t lose to Mido and Tsunashi-san!

Kujo Tenn: Ryuu, you got this! I know you can do it!

Yaotome Gaku: Do your best! And don’t get hurt!

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: I will! Root for me!

Momo: Since it’s easy to see who’s left, they’re turning this into a cheering match! I wish I survived this long to be cheered on too!!

Yuki: I dropped out at level 13, so I’ve been cheering for you this whole time.

Nikaido Yamato: What level are they at now?

Izumi Mitsuki: They just cleared level 17, and now they’re challenging level 18! Do your best, you three…!

Mido Torao: Yes!

Rokuya Nagi: YES!

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: I’m going for it!

Reporter: Now, take your positions! Ready, start!

Mido Torao: …! I did it!

Reporter: 1st place! Mido Torao-san! Cleared level 18!

Isumi Haruka: He did it!

Inumaru Touma: Amazing!

Natsume Minami: Congratulations!

Reporter: Tied for 2nd place! Rokuya Nagi-san and Tsunashi Ryuunosuke-san!

Rokuya Nagi: OH… How unfortunate.

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: Ahh, that was so close. Torao-kun really has control over his body thanks to his stunt work.

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: But we put up a good fight, right Nagi-kun?

Rokuya Nagi: We did. Congratulations, Mido-shi.

Mido Torao: Thanks!

Reporter: Mido-san, what’s your secret to winning the vaulting box event!?

Mido Torao: Ummm… thanks to my members’ support.

Natsume Minami, Isumi Haruka & Inumaru Touma: Yaaaay!

Natsume Minami: Not that he could hear us, though.

Reporter: With that, the physical ability test is complete! We will now divide you into two teams based on your results.

Reporter: While we finalize distributing the teams, please enjoy some refreshments!

Nanase Riku: Red and White teams, huh? I wonder how we’ll be divided!

Inumaru Touma: We’re usually in separate groups, so it would be awesome if we could be in the same team, Riku.

Nanase Riku: Yes!

Yuki: I’m always with Momo, so I hope we’re in the same team again.

Momo: I don’t care either way! Ahh, finally, I got my hands on my favorite person’s physical fitness data… I’m over the moon…

Yuki: Thanks. All that running around was worth it if you’re happy.

Momo: These numbers are so adorable. I’ll use them as my phone passcode…

Yaotome Gaku: Since we’re already here, I actually hope I’m on a different team from Ryuu. I wanna go all out against him.

Kujo Tenn: I get that. I wanna be completely overwhelmed by his power.

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: You two are still at it huh? I wish you’d say you wanted to be on the same team as me…

Kujo Tenn: This is a rare opportunity…

Yaotome Gaku: It sure is.

Isumi Haruka: Different teams, huh…

Natsume Minami: I don’t mind either way, but…

Mido Torao: I guess we’ll be on separate teams…

Reporter: Thank you for waiting! The teams have been decided!

Nikaido Yamato: Whoa, that was fast.

Izumi Mitsuki: This is exciting!

Reporter: I’m gonna announce them now! Please respond when I call your name!

Reporter: Red Team!

Reporter: Izumi Iori-san!

Izumi Iori: Yes.

Reporter: Osaka Sougo-san!

Ousaka Sougo: Yes.

Reporter: Nanase Riku-san!

Nanase Riku: Yes!

Reporter: Kujo Tenn-san!

Kujo Ten: Yes.

Reporter: Tsunashi Ryuunosuke-san!

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: Yes!

Reporter: Momo-san!

Momo: Heeere~!

Reporter: Isumi Haruka-san!

Haruka Isumi: Y-yes!

Reporter: Inumaru Touma-san!

Inumaru Touma: Yes!

Reporter: That concludes the 8 members of the Red Team!

Reporter: Next, I will call out the White Team members!

Reporter: Nikaido Yamato-san!

Nikaido Yamato: Ah, yes.

Reporter: Izumi Mitsuki-san!

Izumi Mitsuki: Yes!

Reporter: Yotsuba Tamaki-san!

Yotsuba Tamaki: ‘Sup!

Reporter: Rokuya Nagi-san!

Rokuya Nagi: YES!

Reporter: Yaotome Gaku-san!

Yaotome Gaku: Yeah!

Reporter: Yuki-san!

Yuki: Yes!

Reporter: Natsume Minami-san!

Natsume Minami: Yes.

Reporter: Mido Torao-san!

Mido Torao: Yes.

Reporter: That concludes the 8 members of the White Team!

Inumaru Touma: So that’s how they split us up!

Natsume Minami: ŹOOḼ ended up being divided into the vocal group and performance group.

Nanase Riku: Te… Kujo-san and Touma-san are with me! So are Sougo-san, Tsunashi-san, Momo-san and Haruka-kun!

Izumi Iori: This is gonna be the Nanase-san pampering group, isn’t it…

Nanase Riku: Iori, we’re on the same team too! Let’s do our best!

Izumi Iori: Well, yes.

Izumi Mitsuki: That makes us rivals, Iori!

Izumi Iori: I… suppose so.

Izumi Mitsuki: Come at me with all you’ve got!

Izumi Iori: Of course.

Reporter: You’ll be competing as the Red and White teams during the actual event!

Reporter: You might feel a bit odd since you'll be teaming up with members outside your usual groups.

Reporter: So, to help you build teamwork, we’ve prepared these envelopes!

Reporter: Red Team, this envelope is for you!

Momo: What’s this?

Reporter: White Team, here’s your envelope!

Yaotome Gaku: Thank you. Can we open it now?

Reporter: Go ahead, yeah!

Nanase Riku: What’s inside?

Momo: Let’s see… a gift card for yakiniku! (Grilled meat)

Inumaru Touma: Yakiniku! Awesome!!

Yaotome Gaku: We got a gift card for sukiyaki. (Hot pot)

Yotsuba Tamaki: Sukiyaki!

Nikaido Yamato: Nice, awesome! Let’s eat sukiyaki and improve our teamwork!

Reporter: You all must be hungry after all these physical tests, so go enjoy some delicious food as you improve your bond!

Haruka Isumi: Yay! Yakiniku! Izumi, let’s see who can eat more!

Izumi Iori: You’re challenging the wrong person.

Haruka Isumi: I know, but Yotsuba’s not with us so I have to challenge you instead!

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: I’ll take you on. I’m confident I can win.

Haruka Isumi: Oh shit… you seem really strong…

Momo: Momo-chan loves meat too! so I’m confident!

Inumaru Touma: Me too! Sougo, you don’t eat much, so don’t push yourself.

Osaka Sougo: Thank you, you’re very kind.

Kujo Tenn: The Red team fosters a lot of kind-hearted people.

Izumi Iori: Please exclude me from that. I’m supposed to be the cool one.

Nanase Riku: But Iori’s kind too! Everyone’s so nice~! I’m really looking forward to the yakiniku!

Yuki: Sukiyaki, huh… I’m not really a fan…

Nikaido Yamato: I figured. I’ll take the meat. I’ll swish some greens in the broth for you.

Natsume Minami: Rokuya-san, do you like sukiyaki?

Rokuya Nagi: I love it! Sukiyaki is the OG Japanese dish!

Rokuya Nagi: But the raw egg is a bit… I can’t help but wonder. Were there no other options…?

Natsume Minami: Do you want a substitute for raw egg? How about custard cream or something?

Mido Torao: That sounds absolutely disgusting… Also, how exactly does eating sukiyaki build teamwork?

Yotsuba Tamaki: You know. There’s always someone in charge of the pot.

Izumi Mitsuki: Ah, I see. I’m usually the one in charge so maybe I should leave it to someone else this time.

Izumi Mitsuki: You gotta communicate, right?

Mido Torao: I’d rather have someone who knows what he’s doing take over…

Nikaido Yamato: If Mitsu doesn’t do it, who will?

Yaotome Gaku: If you’ll allow me to take the lead, I’ll take it.

Nikaido Yamato: "Take the lead”? Do you really need to make sukiyaki sound so cool?

Yaotome Gaku: You thought that was cool?

Yuki: I’ll take charge of the pot then. I won’t be eating the meat, so I’ll be free.

Yotsuba Tamaki: Then I’ll take charge of the eating!

Natsume Minami: I’d also like to take charge of the eating.

Mido Torao: Same here, for the most part…

Rokuya Nagi: Of course, I would like everything around me to be taken care of as well.

Nikaido Yamato: I see. The white team is severely deficient in reliable people.

Yotsuba Tamaki: Well yeah, Rikkun took most of them.

Rokuya Nagi: Riku’s luck really shines in moments like these.

Takanashi Tsumugi: And so, they built their teamwork through yakiniku and sukiyaki…

Momo: Riku, the meat’s ready.

Nanase Riku: Yaaaay!

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke: Riku-kun, this one looks tasty too.

Nanase Riku: Awesome!

Inumaru Touma: Riku, want me to peel your shrimp for you?

Kujo Tenn: Here you go, the corn is grilled just right.

Osaka Sougo: Riku-kun, do you want a new drink? I got apple juice.

Haruka Isumi: Nanase-san, do you wanna try a little kinako ice cream?

Izumi Iori: You’re all spoiling him too much!!

Yaotome Gaku: Alright. I’ll take the lead.

Yuki: I’ll manage the pot.

Izumi Mitsuki: I should just step back and just observe.

Yotsuba Tamaki: I’m taking the extra meat!

Nikaido Yamato: Onii-san’s eating too!

Natsume Minami: I will take some too.

Rokuya Nagi: I don’t need a large portion, but I’d like a beautifully marbled cut with a good balance of meat and fat.

Mido Torao: Got any Matsuzaka or Tajima beef? (1)

Takanashi Tsumugi: And so, the day of the Idol Sports Festival arrived.

To be continued…

Matsuzaka beef & Tajima beef are two expensive, high-end cuts of wagyu beef.

[askganon]

I very much don't understand you.

You claim to wish for Hyrule, yet you don't use your Hyrulean heritage to your advantage to leverage the fact that, by the simple fact that your father was likely Hylian, you automatically have a degree of claim for at least whatever land he owned upon his eventual death. Likewise, so would any & all other Gerudo by that same logic.

You reject Hylians, Hylian fathers specifically, yet get angry when Hyrule rejects you.

Not only that, but if the Gerudo truly wished for such, then why wouldn't they simply stay in Hyrule with the self-same Hyrulean men they sleep with in order to preserve your race? If those men are specifically one-night stands, then perhaps the Gerudo should learn to not go out looking for one night stands?

Maybe they should learn to not take their children from them & raise them solely as Gerudo?

I mean, how would you react if one of the women you slept with (let's say she was from Holodrum or some such) became pregnant, but rather than include you in any way, she ran & raised the child without your input at all?

What if that child was raised entirely as a Holodrum citizen & knew nothing of you, your people, or your culture?

This is why I don't understand you.

You are either very young, very naive, or very stupid. My instinct is to assume the latter, but for the sake of education I shall temporarily pretend one of the former. I hope you listen closely like a good student.

You first speak about my father, claiming to wonder why I do not rely upon his status as a Hylian to claim lordship over Hyrule.

This is because, for a start, I do not know him, his history, or his lineage to make any claim worth hearing. He could have been a pauper, a cobbler, a lord, or even a King. All are inconsequential to those in power. Were he a pauper, I would be no better than an urchin. Were he a King, I would be but a bastard, legally bereft of any royal claims.

Even were we considered Hylians in their eyes, that would not grant us what we seek. There are those in your realm that were brought their against their wills, torn from their families and forced to labor until your lands were the nation that came later. Can you tell me they are seen as true equals by your leading class?

I reject Hyrule and its leaders because they refuse to see my people as such unless we bow to them and call them superior. The other races might settle for such shame, but not the Gerudo.

You ask why some sisters do not remain in Hyrule with their mates. To this, I say that some, in fact, do.

There are some in my tribe that are blessed enough to find a mate that not only suits their needs, but earns their respect, and eventually their heart. These sisters are always welcome to stay with their mates for as long as they desire, bringing no shame upon themselves for creating a new life outside of our borders. It is enough for us that they continue our people and find their own peace.

But even then, they are not given a life free of care. There are many in Hyrule who look down upon Gerudo, figuratively. Such sisters who make lives in Hyrule are exposed to much bigotry and hatred. It can even become dangerous for them and their daughters, facing men who wish them harm and worse, with no sisters around to aid them. In some ways, life in Hyrule can be more hazardous than life in the desert.

And here is when my assumptions on your naivety and stupidity spawn. You ask next why we should only be with Hylian men for one night, as if it were some great shame that "perhaps we should learn to not do that".

I ask you why? Why should we have need to learn this? Do you think there is no separation between sex and romance?

Perhaps in the current age they go out seeking love, but that was not always so.

In my first era, we were a dying people. In order to survive, our sisters went into a land they were not wanted to procreate and keep our people alive. Many did this for the Gerudo as a whole, not for their own personal pleasure. Such Gerudo were hailed as heroes for their bravery.

It is one thing to have my people sleep with the enemy. It is another thing entirely to ask them to love. Many of my sisters entreated with Hylians no more than they had to, and I had no desire to ask more of them. To do so would have been an insult to every single Gerudo who fell because of them.

Were you in such a situation where you had to breed with one who was happy to see you die and your people and culture become extinct, would you do this? Further more, would you willingly spend a lifetime with them, knowing how they see you and how many of your own have died at their hands?

To answer your next question, would you willingly force your daughter to be raised by the same men who would treat her with the same disrespect they treated you? Or would you rather have her raised among people who understand your struggles, and let her know what is it to live without the dangers of predatorial adults?

Were I the father in such a union, I would prioritize my daughter's wellbeing before any of my other desires. If that would mean separation, then so be it.

To shed a sliver of light on a story from which many have been asking details, that would not be a first for me.

I hope now you have gained some understanding of my history, mindset, and culture.

If not, then perhaps my instincts were right about you.

[yandere-sins]

So... Honkai Star Rail... have you met Dr. Ratio yet? I have literally seen him twice so far and he has my whole being in a vice grip. Man has either put me in direct danger or towered ominously over me and acted completely dismissive the entire time. I am not okay.

I have met him! (However brief that was because I'm not sure if there's more of him when you defeat the boss (and I struggle with the bosses because I don't build support characters, yes >-<)) I saw him and I knew this one is also going into my pathetic yandere shoebox with Argenti, and I wish I could see more of him because I so wanna get into his personality and yandere-fy him lol

All I can say is... since Argenti I am really into pathetic yans and Ratio just fits sooo good in that category.

Don't get me wrong, he probably started out pretty scary! He has that manipulative, confident, cocky attitude that will make everyone turn on you for being rude and conceited when you try to go against what he's preaching. He'll absolutely try to separate you from you friends and coworkers until he's that saint that still allows you to tag along with him. No one will really mind if one day he just doesn't bring you back to work. Keeps you snug and locked up and terrified in his private hideouts, enjoying that he gets to lord over you. He'll be so enarmored with the thought you now need him, you can't say anything against him, Ratio is the one you have to submit to if you want to survive in the paradise he's creating for himself.

The towering over you probably happens a lot (at night as he watches you sleep and trying to understand you) because he wants so desperately to be acknowledged by you, not even caring if it means he has to be creepy or a stalker watching the camera feed of your room. And when you don't do what he wants you to, he tries, he really tries to ignore you, lock you up and leave the whole planet if he must, but his thoughts are always circling back to you, his heart always wondering what you're doing and if you are lonely and thinking of him.

But the thing is, the situation is scary and all, but he's not exactly an example punisher from the beginning.

So yeah, I see him to a 180 after he has aquired a darling, no more pondering about science or math (I don't even know yet what exactly he is into even) but about how to make his darling like him because they really don't. Darling is just sitting their reading their book, throwing in a "mhm" - "yeah" - "sure" while he's talking, and Ratio is getting really desperate over the lack of acknowledgement and the kind of connection he wants with his darling. It's his own fault, considering he completely ignored all the reasoning and pleading you did in the beginning. And when there weren't as many awful punishments, you just grew numb to the fear of his presence.

I can just see him throw a damn fit about his darling ignoring him. Either in their presence or out of their sight, but this man hates hates hates not being in the center of his darling's attention when he demands it and he's being really pathetic about it.

The problem is just that he really expects too much from his darling. He'll be good and feed them and give them books (reluctantly even one that the darling wants and not only the other five he wants them to read so they can talk about his interests) and expect praises and teary eyes and so many thanks that honestly, he'll just be so heartbroken when the darling is "okay, thanks" and goes back to not acknowledging him or his good deeds.

And yes, he has his scary moments where he takes his darlings out on "dates" into situation that frankly would not end well for them without his presence. But he does not understand why they are angry and crying from stress and fear after he took them out and even defended them from dangers.

Ratio has times where he punishes his darling or forces them to do something they don't want to do mercilessly. Where he uses them as needed for experiments or puts them in dangerous situations, knowing it's wrong, but using these moments to put him into a better light with his darling. He might be cunning, but once he realises that really, what is the darling supposed to do except shutting down when they meet deaf ears with every other reaction? Ratio begins to panic and that makes him into such a sweet, pathetic yandere, desperate for his darling.

Anyhow, I'm sure he can be scary temperamental, but I also like to think he's just not entirely made for having the upper hand in a relationship. (Sorry, I had these thoughts for such a long time, hope it was okay to jump on yours! I know they are a little different but your thoughts about him are super valid as well ♥)

[midnight--sadness]

Hey I think this is a rather controversial question because they're are a rather well liked dynamic and my opinion is obviously in the minority. I am not being condensing at all and genuinely want to hear someone else's opinions and perspectives. You seem like one of the nicer/sensible people in the fandom and people can get VERY defensive of their favourite characters/ships/dynamics etc. So I want to ask -

Can you explain the appeal of the Gi Hun- Sangwoo dynamic?

When I started the show and it was shown that they're childhood friends I knew this dynamic will be important. But as the show went on they were just.... lukewarm to me. Which is odd because I like doomed friendships. It seemed like a rather one sided dynamic to me where Gi Hun obviously is way more into the friendship than Sangwoo is. Sangwoo at most (to me I can totally understand if people feel otherwise) seems to be just tolerant of Gi Hun. Does Sangwoo actually care about Gi Hun? Because with what he did in Honeycomb it was obvious he didn't have an issue with Gi Hun dying. I liked Gi Hun's dynamics with Il nam and Sae Byeok way more. For Sangwoo I liked his dynamic with Ali more. I want to hear your perspective. I genuinely want to know what's the appeal of this dynamic?

thank you for trusting my judgement on this!!! i really appreciated it 💖

also, this is going to be very long so i apologize 😭

for me, the appeal of sangihun is the doomed childhood friends to almost lovers to strangers. the idea that they were close friends growing up and then separated, probably because sangwoo went to snu, and were reunited in a death game, is so interesting to me bc that was not their paths.

sangwoo was supposed to have a prestigous career after graduating, which he did, but he let his own desires and ambitions lead him to steal money from his clients and get into a lot of problems. on the other hand, gihun went to a technical school and worked in a factory, so people didn't have as much expectations for him. we see this dichotomy in the games, when gihun asks sangwoo what he is doing at the games since he is the genuis sangwoo, graduate of snu.

and the relationship does seem one-sided at first glance, because gihun is a very affectionate, enthusiastic character and sangwoo is not. gihun loves sangwoo, no one can say otherwise, because his actions tell us this - he is always next to sangwoo, he turns to him for advice, he smiles and laughs and jokes at sangwoo, he trusts sangwoo's judgement and insight, he brags about sangwoo to everyone who will hear.

sangwoo is quieter in his love for gihun, but no less intense, in my opinion. he tells gihun, and only gihun, the trick about hiding behind someone to avoid the doll's eyes during red light, green light. he talks to gihun about his troubles when they are next to his mother's stand and even confides in him that he is owing more money than the guards said during the game. he looks at gihun like he is yearning for him, for the times they were friends.

he feels embarassed that gihun is always bragging about him because he's embarassed about what he did, and he feels that shame weighting on him every time gihun says he is so wonderful and smart; it's not disdain for gihun, it's disdain for his own situation.

during dalgona, as you say, sangwoo didn't tell gihun about the shapes. in fact, he told no one. this is because sangwoo is calculating. he isn't going to give away information if it gives him an upper hand; think gihun in s2 wanting to tell everyone abt the second game being dalgona. that's their difference - gihun wants everyone to survive, sangwoo doesn't mind if they die and he lives.

but you can tell that he is conflicted. he couldn't grab gihun and take him aside to tell him to pick another shape because it would seem suspicious. and sangwoo doesn't trust either ali or ilnam at this point, he isn't going to risk it. we see how distressed he gets when gihun picks umbrella but he does nothing to stop him because it would draw attention.

he is very relieved when gihun survives that round and especially when gihun "forgives" him for what he did. he wants to be around gihun. he wants to be a part of gihun's team, he wants to be a second in command. but he's also aware that this is a death game and the endgame is always the same - only one will win. sangwoo puts this off as much as he can, seeing as he picked ali for the marble game, something i believe sangwoo did on purpose since ali is easily manipulated and, honestly, there are pratically no games where two people would play that isn't in a confrontation between those people. again, sangwoo is smart, he probably picked up on this since he didn't seem surprised to hear the rules of the game.

but i think the true proof of sangwoo's love for gihun is during their fight. yes, he was going to kill gihun. he was prepared for it. he had already killed saebyeok just so that he could have a chance at the prize. he needs that money. he needs it to fix his broken reputation, his broken life, his broken dreams. who is sangwoo without everyone's expectations on him? who is he if he isn't smart and capable, someone who crawled out of a poor neighborhood and became great?

we see how much this matters to him when he and gihun are fighting after sangwoo killed the glass maker, and gihun throws in his face that yes, he might be a dumb idiot, but sangwoo is right next to him, in the same place, doing the same things. so are they really so different? sangwoo was supposed to be better and gihun, who always praised him, telling him that his mistakes brought him down to gihun's (and everyone else's) level stung him. this argument causes a shift in their relationship and sangwoo, i think, realizes that he liked gihun more than he thought and his absence is harsher on sangwoo than he thought it would be.

(also, u can't spend a long time telling a person that he is the smartest person around without them eventually believing it. sangwoo's ego might be justified in relation to his intellect but he lacks in a lot of other aspects, particularly in terms of connecting with others and emotional inteligence. and gihun thrives in those aspects, which tells me that it doesn't matter how smart you are if you can't be kind about it.)

when gihun says that he doesn't want to continue the game and offers sangwoo his hand, i think sangwoo finally realizes that gihun loves him enough to quit the prize money. and sangwoo loves him enough to let him win it. sangwoo's last few words, about how no one is calling them for dinner anymore, is him saying that he longs to return to his childhood, when he had no expections, no responsibilites. he was just a kid.

sangwoo killed himself for gihun. i know that is a sensitive topic and people love to say that it had nothing to do with gihun. but his last words are an apology to gihun. he loved gihun so much that he couldn't bare it to kill gihun anymore, but he also couldn't bare for that money to go to waste, not after everything sangwoo did it to reach it - he won't win it, but gihun will. gihun whom he loves so much.

ultimately, i think sangwoo's love for gihun is a little selfish. he likes that gihun is always praising him but he dislikes that gihun has such an insight into the person sangwoo is that he can read him like a book. for someone like sangwoo, who thinks he is above others (for example, him loaning ali bus money bc it shows how superior he is, that he has money to loan to someone poorer and below him in the hierarchy of life). gihun represents, to sangwoo, a time when they were both unbound by societal pressures, and them getting together sets sangwoo free from the expectations placed on him.

obviously, gihun loves sangwoo a lot, but i think he disapproved of sangwoo's actions and, if they came home together, i don't think he would ever fully forgive sangwoo for what he did during the games, especially saebyeok's murder.

hope this made sense, pls message me if anything was too rambly to understand!!!

[tehrevving]

Vincent Valentine Week Day 4 - Monster

“Wake up. Fuck. Please wake up.” You shake Vincent’s shoulder roughly, but there’s no response. He’s slumped sideways against a tree, soaking wet from the rain in the middle of this stupid fucking forest. You can’t lift him, you can’t move him. You managed to drag him under this tree, to futilely attempt to shelter from the downpour, but that’s all that you’ve got in you. He’s too heavy, his limbs too long and awkward for you to lift.

You’d gotten separated from the rest of the group in the rain, the terrain growing slippery while you were stalked by fiends. You’d slipped in the mud and fallen, set upon by an obscene amount of disgusting bug-like things. You shudder, still able to hear the disgusting wet clicking of jaws in your ear. Vincent had ended up transforming, Galian beast clawing the bugs off you with a roar, large body slipping in the dirt and cracking the earth, eventually sending the both of you tumbling down a steep incline that you can’t climb back up.

His massive body had protected you from the fall, but he had crashed to the ground hard, landing on jagged rocks and crying out in pain. He had limped upright, carrying you in the crook of his elbow in an attempt to return to the others, or get out of the rain. It must have taken too much energy to heal the injuries from the fall, or maybe Vincent was weak to begin with, but he had barely moved from the crater he’d made when landing, when he began to transform back.

Vincent had set you down quickly, stepping away as bones cracked and skin slithered. He was filthy, cape brown from dirt and hair plastered limply to his face from the rain. He had looked up at you, exhausted, horrified, upset, and worried, so fucking worried as he’d slumped to the floor moments later, passed out and completely dead to the world.

You’re cold, starting to shiver in your soaked clothes. The rain is showing no signs of letting up and you know it’s going to start getting dark soon. It’s going to be too cold to stay out here in the rain once that happens, and you don’t know how you’re going to survive in the dark. You need to find shelter, somewhere you can light a fire, but you can’t move him.

He’d probably be fine if you left him, but he’d panic if he woke and you weren’t there. He’d fret over your absence and likely end up transforming again. You have no faith in your ability to find shelter either, you’d probably just end up getting more lost. You need to stay with him, you need him to wake up.

“Please,” you beg again, trying to keep your voice down but you’re almost hysterical. “Vincent. I need you. Wake up. Please.” You shake him, kiss his forehead, smack his chest. You try everything you can think of but it’s no use. You know that when he passes out after transforming, he’s out for hours.

“Fuck!” you scream into the rain, giving up and slumping on the ground next to him. You lean against his side, burying your face into your hands and try not to cry.

Something twists beside you, a shifting creak of leather and metal. You turn. Vincent’s eyes are open, wide open, too open. He’s staring right at you but the glow in them is yellow instead of red. You scramble back as he blinks, head tilting sharply towards you, cocking to the side like an animal. There’s something wrong in his gaze, it’s not human. You wonder if one of his other monsters has woken up.

“What is the matter, precious thing?” Vincent says, wrongly. His lips move but you don’t hear his voice. You hear something else, a dark, guttural thing, sliding and hissing over stilted syllables. A mimicry of speech, shaping sounds instead of words.

You scamper back further.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice lilts, darkness curling in the space between you. “Vincent is not here but I can help you.”

“Wa-wake him up,” you stammer, voice weak with uncertainty, with fear.

“No!” it snarls, forcing an aching, full body shiver down your spine. “It is me or nothing.”

You’ve made it angry, you’ve made it angry and you’re completely fucked. Energy surges, a crackling heat that steals the breath from your lungs. Swirling horns of an intangible, sludgy darkness crest over its forehead while shadowy skeletal wings crack against the tree, bark scattering to the ground. You gasp, suddenly recognising the creature.

When Vincent is emotional, when he’s overwhelmed and angry but not ready to transform. When his jaw is clenched and body tight with impending release, sometimes there’s a moment of stillness, a shadow of horns and wings. “I know you,” you say to the creature, to Vincent.

It cracks a foul grin, lips spread too thin, too many teeth exposed. It’s an abomination of a smirk, full of dark, suggestive implications. Its wings beat silently with glee. “Come here, out of the rain,” it purrs, voice sounding more natural, like it’s becoming accustomed to speaking. It lifts a shadowy wing, tilting it up, blocking the rain from a small patch of ground beside it.

You hesitate. You don’t know much about Vincent’s transformations. You’ve only ever met Galian before, and he is kind, thoughtful if not animalistic and instinctual. Vincent has never warned you against trusting his monsters, but he’s also the type to never mention it. You don’t have a choice, you’re still stuck, still stranded and lost. You inhale deeply and slowly make your way towards Vincent’s body, towards the shelter underneath a shadowy, bat wing.

You sit down, feeling energy and heat radiate from Vincent’s body. The wing curls above you, protecting you from the rain and wind. The creature looks down, yellow eyes fixated, pupils slit like a cat’s. You’re terrified, lost and afraid, and you don’t know what to do.

“How can I help you?” Vincent rumbles, voice sounding impossibly close to your ear. You jolt and the creature chuckles lowly.

“I’m lost,” you reply. You don’t know if you should tell this creature anything, but it’s offering help and it’s your only choice at the moment. “We’re lost and it’s raining. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what to do. We need to find shelter but I can’t carry him.” You take in a deep, shuddering breath. You try to compose yourself, but you can’t stop the tears from falling.

“Do not cry,” The creature hisses, reaching out to you with Vincent’s gauntleted arm. He never reaches for you with that arm, always tries not to touch you with it. You’re not sure what to do, the action is so jarring. The hand presses to your cheek gently, the touch so soft and at odds with everything else that’s happening. Golden fingers carefully brush the tears from your eyes.

The hand recedes and the creature holds it up to its face. It licks your tears from the metal, tongue too long and wide as it laves over sharp fingers. It purrs with contentment, a deep sound tumbling through its chest. “I will find you shelter,” it hisses, “where you can wait for him to awaken.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling mistrustful, but not really having a choice.

“There is a price,” the creature cackles.

Your mouth gapes open, speechless. You have no idea what this creature might want.

Vincent’s face laughs, mouth open too wide, head thrown all the way back. It’s an expression he would never make. A slitted gaze snaps to you, lips peeled back with too wide of a smile. “A kiss,” it coos, voice curling like smoke.

You’re confused.

He snarls. “You kiss him all the time. I want to try.”

You don’t have any other options and a kiss is fine. It’s still Vincent, it’s still his face, his lips. It shouldn’t be any different to kissing him normally. That’s what you try to convince yourself of anyway.

“Alright,” you say, mind made up. You steel your resolve. You’re committed to this now, you’re not going to back down.

The creature laughs and leans towards you. Vincent’s gauntlet hooks underneath your chin, tilting up your head. Yellow, slitted eyes stare down at you, blinking unnaturally, one at a time. A too long tongue darts out to lick full, reddened lips, twisting its length as if to show off. “Call me Chaos, Sweetling,” it purrs, voice laced with innumerable promises as the foreign, broken face of your lover slips closer.

[httpvomitello]

Hello, I am wondering if u take a fluff, Romance, little angst, request for a Tony Stark x female reader, who is also best friend of Tony Stark before he came Iron Man, but she was born in the same day as him “May 29th” but Tony Stark is also older by a couple or a few years older then her “Your choice I don’t mind” but born different places and Y/N has a different language that she sometimes speaks when she is stressed, upset, or other emotions as well but she speaks English fluently with ease as well but She also has similar personality traits as Tony Stark and she is highly intelligent, she has really good combat skills and abilities, Power Mimicry, Sorcery, but she is also a shapeshifter which she can shape shift into anything she can think of as well but only know Nick Fury only knows about Y/N powers and abilities, but also she has an Artistic Ability, and Talent where she can draw or sketch with perfect detail as well and Musician side where she can play any instrument especially with the guitars as well and she is has high medical skills as well but Y/N is also an Avenger with Tony Stark and The Rest of the Avenger were first formed by Nick Fury but Y/N is selfless and protective of the people she loves especially when it comes to Tony Stark, but she suffers from insomnia, anxiety and panic attacks as well, but she has been by his side through everything as well especially with during his Party and Playboy times as well and she went with him and James “Rhodey” Rhodes in Afghanistan where Tony Stark became Iron Man and she also helped Yinsen with his first Arc Reactor despite being injured and wounded herself in that cave as well. One Mission with Y/N, Tony Stark, and The Avengers, during the mission something goes wrong and Y/N uses her powers and abilities to save and risk her life to save Tony Stark, and The Avengers which reveals her powers and gets her wounded and injured but Y/N doesn’t notice the pain either, but she still manages to survive after the mission is done everyone does everything to finish up the mission and they fly back from the mission on the Quinjet and Tony Stark was the first one to speak to her “Y/N” to ask about her powers but she only spoke little about them because she didn’t wanted to as well and then also everyone “The Avengers” continues to ask her questions as well but she still only spoke little about it as well and then the fly back home was quite and Everyone arrived back at the Avengers, Everyone did their chores and then they went their separate ways after finishing up with their chores except for Y/N and Tony, who went to the Med bay to get their injuries and wound patched up, A few moments later as their injuries and wounds were getting patched up Tony asked about her powers again and why she never told him and she shrugged off and still only spoke little words, which got them both into an instant but heated discussion and argument about it which lead their saying their unvoiced and unspoken feelings for each other from the moment they first met each other when they were young and before Tony Stark became Iron man which caught them both off guard and they both shared a quiet silence between them, but then they both leaned in to share a long awaited kiss between them, The Next Morning after what happened and their kiss between them, they both talked and sort out what happened as they both happily agreed to be in a relationship with each other as well which Y/N and Tony Stark both kiss each other to unite and start their relationship with each other as well and but Y/N “The Reader” also likes to call Tony Stark by his last name “Stark” as a nickname for him from the moment they met or just Tony as well.

I have to admit that it took a little work to write this, and to try to put all this information together so that it would come out naturally. But I hope you like it anyway ~ ¤

Same Day, Same Stars .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: You and Tony Stark were born on the same day, years apart, in different places—but life kept bringing them back together.

tony stark x f!reader

You were born on May 29th—same day as Tony Stark. But that’s where the similarities stopped… or so it seemed. He was wrapped in wealth and legacy. You were born far away in a quiet coastal town, in a place that didn't make headlines. He was older by a few years, but from the moment you met, it never felt like it mattered.

You knew him long before the suit, before Iron Man, back when he was just Stark—loud, cocky, brilliant. The first time you met him, you rolled your eyes and called him by his last name, and the name stuck. So did you.

You were just as sarcastic, just as fast with your words, just as sharp. You challenged him every step of the way, and he loved it. You both had matching personalities in many ways—hard on the outside, brilliant on the inside, and deeply protective of the people you loved.

English came easily to you, but when you were overwhelmed—when the stress got too much, when you were angry or anxious—you slipped into your native tongue. You never meant to. It just happened. Stark never fully understood the words, but he always knew it meant something was hurting.

You had layers. So many layers. Combat skills that rivaled the best, a mind as sharp as any in the room, medical training that made you invaluable in the field. You had artistic talent too—sketching with haunting detail, drawing out what others couldn’t put into words. You played music too. Any instrument you picked up bent to your will, but the guitar was where your soul lived. You’d strum it quietly when the noise in your head got too loud.

And then, there were your powers. Powers no one knew about—except Nick Fury. You could mimic any ability you saw. Sorcery ran through your blood. And you could shapeshift into anything your mind could imagine. It was dangerous knowledge, so you kept it hidden. Not even Stark knew. Not even the Avengers.

You were one of them, though. One of the first. Fury brought you in when things got serious. You fought beside Stark, Steve, Natasha, and the others. You gave everything, but never all of yourself. You kept your powers quiet, buried under your skill and brilliance.

You were close to Stark—closer than anyone. You saw every version of him: the playboy, the genius, the alcoholic, the savior. You never left. You never judged. You just stayed, even when he didn’t deserve it. Especially when he didn’t deserve it.

You were with him in Afghanistan, with Rhodey. You wouldn’t let him go alone. You were there when everything changed. You were captured too. Wounded. Shrapnel cut through your side, but you still helped Yinsen save his life. You helped build the first arc reactor, helped design the escape. You bled for him, fought for him, survived beside him. You walked out of that cave different. He came out as Iron Man. You came out as something else too.

And you kept fighting. Years passed. Missions blurred. You kept saving the world, piece by piece, and kept your powers hidden. Until the day you couldn’t.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Routine. But it spiraled out of control fast. Too many enemies. Too much fire. You saw Stark get hit. He was falling, fast and unconscious. You didn’t think—you just acted.

You unleashed it.

Power surged through your veins. You took the air with wings you didn’t normally show. Magic burned through your fingertips. You mimicked every power you needed to survive and save the others. You didn’t feel the wounds, didn’t even register the pain. You just moved. Protected. Fought.

And when it was over, you collapsed.

On the Quinjet, silence filled the space. You sat bandaged, blood soaking through your side. Stark was next to you, eyes never leaving yours.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you whispered, lying through your teeth.

“What the hell was that?”

You looked away. “Something I didn’t want anyone to see.”

The rest of the team asked too. You gave them short answers. “It’s not important.” “I’ve had it for a while.” “Just… didn’t matter until now.” They accepted it. Sort of. But Stark didn’t. He stayed quiet, but his eyes said everything.

Back at the tower, the others cleaned up, went their own ways. You and Stark went to the med bay, side by side, like always.

“You risked your life back there,” he said, voice low as someone cleaned up a gash above his brow.

“So did you.”

“You lied to me.”

You sighed. “No. I protected you.”

“That’s not the same.”

“You never asked.”

“I didn’t have to ask,” he snapped, frustrated. “We’ve been through everything together, and you just—what? Decided I didn’t need to know who you really were?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maybe I didn’t want to lose you.”

He stared at you. “What?”

“I’ve been by your side since before the suit, before the Avengers, before the world started calling you a hero. And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know what would happen if I did. If you changed.”

His voice softened. “Why would I ever change the way I see you?”

You hesitated. “Because I’ve loved you for years.”

The air went still.

You laughed once, without humor. “Since before you became Iron Man. Before the cave, before the suits, before everything.”

Tony’s voice was hoarse. “You called me Stark the first day we met. Rolled your eyes and told me my ego wouldn’t fit through the door.”

“I was right,” you smiled.

There was no going back after that.

It was like gravity pulled them in. There were no fireworks, no dramatic music. Just two people finally letting go.

The kiss was quiet, long overdue. All the words you hadn’t said spilled into it. His hands on your face, your fingers in his hair. The weight of the years melted in that one moment.

The next morning, everything felt lighter. You wore one of his hoodies, dragging your feet into the kitchen. He handed you a mug of burnt coffee, smiling like an idiot.

“So,” he said.

“So,” you echoed, amused.

“Are we doing this?”

You looked up at him. “Do you want to?”

He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “More than anything.”

“Then yeah. We’re doing this.”

He grinned. “Good. I don’t want to lose you, shapeshifter.”

You laughed. “Careful. I could turn into you and steal your suits.”

“You wouldn’t look half as good.”

“Stark.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

And he did. Again. And again.