#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 🫡

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!

[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

[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 ♥)

[wonderlandwalker]

Soon and Sooner | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Inbox

Summary: Finnick makes his way back to you after the arena separated the two of you last night. He is worried about your safety in a place as cruel as this, but he knows in his heart he'll see you soon again. Turns out it wasn't exactly the reunion he had hoped for.

Content Warnings / Tags: Angst, violence, blood, wounds, mentions of death, hurt with no comfort, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: I don't know how to write long fics I'm sorry, but enjoy this piece of heartbreak that's been stuck in my head xx

Whether or not today was a good day depends on at what point of that day you asked. Finnick was alone, as alone as someone can be in the arena. He wonders at which point a greater plan is at work, and at which point it's a coincidence, but the more he thinks about it, the less he wants to. Maybe you had been separated on purpose, singling everyone out for a carefully curated show, maybe this was simply how things were meant to be. It doesn't matter either way, he tells himself, because he'll find his way back to you soon enough

The leaves rustled around him, and if he had been home the melody would have calmed him, but not here. It wasn't relaxing in the same way a breeze is on a summer day by the lakes, not serene any longer. In the arena it only put him on the edge further, dangerously close to the edge. He had last seen you yesterday, having no choice but to go in opposite directions. But that wasn't what worried him, because he knows how to find his way back, recalls the direction of the rendezvous you were probably waiting at already, all he had to do was get there too.

So he went on, only taking small breaks to refill his water, check his surroundings, make sure he would live to be with you once more. As the day passed and he got closer to his destination, he found himself growing negligent, deciding to worry later about the cut on his leg from the thick branches, not bothering to thread carefully over the ground anymore. He was growing restless, desperate.

It didn't take long for Finnick before he could already see the beach coming closer, determination carrying him far. With every step closer he couldn't deny his growing worry, his worry for you. He knew for sure you had survived the attack yesterday, your picture had not been shown in the sky and he had felt relieved, but this morning there was  a cannon, and he had no idea who that belonged to. He thinks he would know, somehow, if it had been you, that his heart was so irrevocably tied to yours he would have felt the string being cut, but that doesn't stop him from wondering, what if it had been you. What if you had been left with a fatal wound that claimed your life after hours of agony, what if there had been another attack, what if-. No, he would know, and he knows he'll see you again soon, so he continues on.

As he turned through the clearing, he could see you standing there, laughing at some joke Johanna had made. The two of you had always had a soft spot for each other, finding family in even the most dire of circumstances. As he finally saw you, the band around his heart released, no longer being tugged at with every step he took. As he finally got closer to you, he called out for you, knowing you’d reach out for him with the same amount of vigor. As he finally reached out for you, so close to having you in his arms once more, he was lost in the sight of you turning around, beaming at him, only for your expression to drop faster than his heart could. He hadn’t even seen it, hadn’t even thought about it, his sole focus on finding you. If he had paid more attention he might have remembered that he was not alone in this arena, that there were people here hunting you, that he was sharing delicate secrets by shouting them loudly, his mind too clouded by its current storm to even begin predicting the next.

He blinked once, twice, but your eyes were wide, no hesitation as you rushed forward. His mind tricking him with a false narrative of ease in a moment where he should have known better. You rushed for him, and he expected the sweet relief of holding you in his arms, but all you did was reach for his shoulders, spinning him around and out of the path of the tribute he could now see retreating back into the forest. He should have known better than to get lost in the euphoria of your presence, you’d always lecture him for it, ranting about how you’re not worth dying for. As he looked back over to you, expecting you to tell him exactly that and kiss him when he’d promise not to do it again, he wasn't smiling anymore either. His bubble shattered into pieces like the sand he was standing on, joining it in hopes that never came to be.

It was as if you hadn't blocked the hit at all, as if the dagger had found its way into his heart regardless. At first he didn't even see it, too caught up in the look of pain on your face, too determined to fix it for you, but he looked down to see he had assigned himself an impossible task.

He felt like a statue, ever forced to watch the violence of mankind without means of intervering. He wanted to envelop you in his arms and whisper assurances to you, but he was too scared that his white lies would be too crimson from the blood that was dripping down onto the beach. The beach, a place that held so many memories of the both of you, now forever stained by this single day.

Simple seconds ticked by, time he once thanked, betraying him. You dropped to the ground like a wave collapsing in on itself, holding a power too great that must now be returned. And the moment it did, the second your now limp body hit the sand beneath you, finding its final destination, he screamed once more. Maybe it was the shock being forced to wear off too soon, maybe it was the denial he didn't want to leave, but the sight before his own eyes was one he could no longer ignore.

He rushed for you, sliding onto his knees as he reached for you, shouting in agony for you to stand back up, to smile at him and cup his jaw like you always did when he was worried. He yelled at those around him, the people he called his friends, doing nothing to save you. And if he had been paying more attention, he would have heard the cannon just like them, would have heard the sound signaling it no longer mattered, because you were already gone. If he had been level headed he would have known that he was only attracted more attention from the other tributes out there, not that it would have mattered, he would have gladly stayed here for them to kill him, maybe he would have even wished for it, because his world would forever be incomplete without you. He would spend eternity searching for you even if he knew it was fruitless, because to him, you were absolutely worth dying for. Not that you’d let him, you would have never let him, you would lay down your own life before letting him sacrifice his, but he could do without the cruel reminder. 

Yes, he should have realized it was too late, but he couldn't, he couldn't hear anything other than the ringing in his ears from how loud he was screaming for you, desperate for you to comfort him, already longing to feel your fingers sifting through his hair, the one thing that calmed him down when nothing else could. He could feel someone reaching out to him, and he wished they were here to let him join you, wondering if you’d ever forgive him if he indulged the thought. But the touch didn’t bring relief, it was simply another painful truth trying to pull him into a now worthless world. 

He could hear them now, hear them talking about having to move, about getting him to move, it only made him cling to you harder. He could no longer feel your muscles confulsing in slight twitches against his fingers, the stillness was unsettling, but he wouldnt dare let go.

If only he could see the rose flush disappearing from your cheeks, the glimmer in your eyes fading to join the others amongst the stars, here you were, finally in his arms again, but he didn’t enjoy the feeling like he thought he would, here you were, reunited yet never having been able to say hello, never even being able to say goodbye. He wonders if he shouldn't have stopped to drink water from the stream he had passed, thinks about how he could have walked faster, not worried about a time limit he hadn’t even known existed, he ponders the possibilities from each and every second that had separated the two of you, every breath he took without you and every breath he’ll take longing for you now, wishing you’d be there to take it from him. Every step he took and every step he’ll be taking wishing you were at the end of it. 

He had been so sure he would see you soon, that you were still here because he could simply feel it, this time he felt it. He felt the connection being severed, and would spend the rest of his life holding on to his end of it. Would wonder for eternity what would happen if he'd only gotten here sooner.

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Fateful Love in Motion (Prologue)

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies.

This is the story of a princess from a small country, trapped like a caged bird, who meets her destined partner.

(The day has finally come.)

I was walking down the mansion's corridor with a heavy heart.

(I really want to escape from here right now, but...)

The thought that the survival of my family rested on my shoulders made it difficult to abandon everything.

------------Flashback-----------

Father: "You are of marriageable age now. You need to get yourself a husband."

Mai: "What?"

A month ago, my father, with whom I had hardly interacted, suddenly summoned me and said that.

(He lived in a separate mansion and hasn't sent a single letter since my mother passed away.)

Mai: "I'm sorry, Father. I haven't been able to find a suitable partner yet."

Father: "Don't worry. I've chosen some excellent men for you."

(What's that supposed to mean?)

Father: "If there aren't enough guys, I'll bring in more. You can have as many men as you like."

Mai: "Wait! Why are you making such an important decision on your own?"

Mai: "Who are these 'excellent' men? And why are there several of them?"

Father: "You're my only child. It's better to have many to increase our bloodline."

Mai: "Are you saying I should take multiple husbands?"

Father: "Exactly."

(----!)

I felt the blood drain from my face, understanding the implication of my father's words.

Since I was an only child, I had been prepared to be told to bear children, but I never thought he'd use me like this.

(I don't want to be embraced by numerous men, and I don't want to be used as a political tool either.)

(But running away from Father would mean abandoning my responsibility as a princess.)

(If you ask me if I made the right decision...)

Father: "You're not going to argue with my decision, are you?"

Mai: "No, of course not."

Father: "Good, as long as you understand."

Father: "I’ve already gathered the men in a special mansion."

Father: "You will live with them and ensure our lineage by bearing children."

---------Flashback Ends--------

Thus, he prepared the mansion known as the "Ooku," where the men were staying.

(I wonder what kind of people these guys are.)

Vassal: "Princess, it's time!"

He shouted and instantly opened the door.

(Whoa!)

The brilliance was so overwhelming that it made my head spin.

Everywhere I looked, there were handsome gentlemen.

(There are so many of them!)

Despite feeling dizzy from nervousness, I somehow managed to make my way to the inner chamber.

I took my seat in the designated place, and the men of the Ōoku lined up in the hall.

Nobunaga: "So, you’re Princess Mai. I've heard about you."

Mai: "Y-Yes. And you are?"

Nobunaga: "I'm Nobunaga. I belong to the Seiya Group and oversee this Ōoku."

Mai: "Seiya Group?"

Yukimura: "Huh? Did you come here without knowing anything?"

Ranmaru: "It can't be helped. Lady Mai seems to have a lot going on in her life."

Shingen: "Well then, let's explain the workings of the Ooku briefly."

Kennyo: "First, let's explain the groups, then we can show you around the mansion."

Mai: "Groups? Are the roles divided based on kimono styles?"

Sasuke: "Exactly. Lady Mai, you're quite perceptive."

I received immediate praise and felt a little relieved.

Yoshimoto: "As you said, the Ōoku is divided into three groups."

Mitsunari: "Those dressed like me belong to the Seiya Group. We're responsible for internal affairs within the Ōoku."

Hideyoshi: "Those in the same attire as me belong to the Suimei Group. Primarily, we are your attendants."

Kanetsugu: "Wearing this attire makes us part of the Fūgetsu Group. Everyone here excels in the arts."

Mai: "I understand the roles in internal affairs and caretaking, but why arts?"

Ieyasu: "Why? To entertain you, of course."

Masamune: "Each of us must capture your heart with our talents."

Mai: "Huh?"

My heart skipped a beat as they directed powerful gazes toward me.

Mitsuhide: "Oh dear, why are you surprised? Surely you understand your own situation by now."

Kenshin: "You're in constant demand from the seventeen men here."

Mai: "That's..."

(I thought I understood Father's intentions and my own position, but...)

Whenever they put it into words, I felt like I was being pushed into a cage and wanted to run away right now.

Keiji: "Whoa, ease up a bit. You'll scare the princess, you know?"

Kicho: "But we can't just leave her in the dark. It would be troublesome if she continued to live unaware of her position as a princess."

Motonari: "He's right, so you better brace yourself, Princess."

Mai: "I..."

I desperately wanted to escape from this situation.

I never intended on getting involved with any of them, let alone falling in love. Yet, as I spent time with them in the Ōoku, I ended up falling in love.

Collection Events Masterlist

[thatsoanjie]

Beneath the shadows

Sebastian Sallow x reader

[spoilers, obviously]

Summary : Sebastian meets you for the first time, and invites you on a clandestine quest

Word count : ≈ 2 685

Notes : A differently developed version of Secrets of the Restricted Section. Flirty and SFW!

Read my disclaimer and fair use notice here

You were a mystery wrapped in layers of secrecy and quiet intensity.

You didn’t say much in class, always kept your head down, eyes fixed on your parchment, as if the very ink from your quill was more interesting than the people around you. But sometimes, a flicker of curiosity would break through that cool exterior, especially during Professor Garlick’s herbology lessons—something about the way you handled the venomous tentacula with such care made Sebastian’s mind wander.

He noticed you, of course. Who wouldn’t? There was something about the way you moved through Hogwarts, not fully a part of its chaos, yet not entirely separate from it. You seemed to glide through the castle’s halls like a ghost, seen but not often heard.

Sebastian didn’t intend to get close to you. He wasn’t the type to be drawn to quiet enigmas. No, he preferred the thrill of a good duel, the crack of spells meeting shields, the satisfaction of outsmarting his opponents. But you were different.

The first time your paths crossed properly was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when Professor Hecat paired you for a duel. Sebastian had smirked, sizing you up. “Time for a proper Hogwarts welcome,” he’d said, a mix of challenge and anticipation in his voice.

You’d met his gaze with a steady calm, no trace of intimidation. The duel was fierce, the classroom alive with sparks of magic and the cheers of your classmates. But it was your skill, your precision, that caught him off guard. You weren’t just holding your own—you were matching him, step for step, spell for spell. By the end of it, he wasn’t sure if he’d won or simply survived.

From that moment on, something shifted. Sebastian found himself looking for you in the corridors, curious about the person who had met his challenge without flinching. He started noticing you in the library, tucked away in a corner, surrounded by books and parchment, your focus unbreakable. He wasn’t sure what it was that drew him in—maybe it was the way you seemed at home in the solitude that others might have found lonely, or maybe it was the memory of that duel, the way you’d met him head-on.

It wasn’t until one night, when the castle was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, that he finally approached you outside of class. You were by the Black Lake, your silhouette framed by the water’s shimmering reflection.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet of the night. You turned to him, surprised but not startled. There was a brief pause before you spoke.

“Sometimes the night is more comforting than the day,” you replied, your voice as soft as the breeze.

He moved to stand beside you, the two of you staring out at the lake in a silence that felt comfortable, unforced. There was no need for words; the connection between you was enough.

“I’ve noticed you,” he admitted after a while, his voice quiet, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell of the moment. “In class, in the library... you’re always so focused, so determined. It’s... intriguing.”

You didn’t respond right away, and he wondered if he’d said too much, revealing more of himself than he intended. But then you looked at him, really looked at him, and there was something in your gaze that made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t before.

“You’re not what I expected, Sebastian Sallow,” you said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “But then, nothing at Hogwarts ever is.”

You can feel the weight of Sebastian’s gaze as you turn away, letting the stillness of the night settle between you. The moonlight reflects off the water, casting everything in a silvery glow, making the moment feel almost surreal.

“I’m not what you expected?” Sebastian’s voice breaks the quiet, a hint of curiosity laced with something else—something almost playful.

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “No, you’re not. But that’s not a bad thing.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Hogwarts has a way of surprising you, doesn’t it?”

You nod, the words resonating with you more than you care to admit. There’s something about this place, about the people you meet here, that feels like a constant shift between the known and the unknown. And Sebastian, with his sharp wit and even sharper dueling skills, is a part of that.

The conversation drifts, easy and light. It’s not until Sebastian’s expression turns thoughtful, almost serious, that you realize he’s been working up to something.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to do,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But it’s not exactly… well, let’s just say it’s not something we’re supposed to be doing.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

He grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “The Restricted Section of the library. I’ve got my reasons, but I could use some company.”

A thrill runs through you at the idea. The Restricted Section, filled with books and knowledge that most students can only dream about accessing. It’s dangerous, risky even, but you can’t deny the allure of it.

You remember a certain book professor Fig mentioned- could it be found in the Restricted section?

“How concerned should I be about the librarian?” you ask, trying to recall what she is like.

“Madam Scribner doesn’t take kindly to clandestine activities among her precious books,” Sebastian admits, the playful edge to his voice fading. “She and I have had our… entanglements, but I can hold my own against her. You, on the other hand, you may not be so lucky.”

You weigh the risks in your mind, but the curiosity, the need to obtain a certain book beyond those doors, is too strong to ignore. “All right,” you say, meeting his gaze with a determined nod. “I’ll help you.”

“Good,” he says, his grin returning. “Then meet me by the library tomorrow night. We’ll go after curfew when the castle is quiet.”

·····

When you arrive at the library, Sebastian is already there, his eyes flicking toward the door to the Restricted Section. “See that?” he says, pointing. “That’s the door we need to reach, and those annoying prefects would love nothing more than to rat us out to Scribner. So don’t let them see us.”

“Understood,” you start, your voice hushed but steady. “I can be sneaky. Let’s go.”

Sebastian chuckles softly, grabbing a hold of your arm with equal gentleness, pulling you back from the prefect’s sight. “Hold on now, there’s a spell you should know. The Disillusionment Charm—it’s good for getting into places you’re not supposed to be. Cast it, and you’ll appear as little more than a trick of the light, just as long as you keep your distance and stay quiet.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “You mean I’ll actually be able to turn invisible?”

“Something like that,” he says with a smirk. “It’s not as foolproof as a cloak, but those are expensive… and spells? Spells are free. Give it a try.”

You nod, concentrating as you cast the Disillusionment Charm. The sensation is strange, like a ripple spreading across your skin, but when you look down, you see nothing but the faint shimmer of the air around you.

“Not bad,” Sebastian whispers approvingly. “Let’s move.”

“Wait, one last thing,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you point your wand toward the prefects patrolling ahead. With a quick flick, you mutter, “Confundus.”

The spell hits its mark, and you watch as the prefects glance around, confusion clouding their faces. 

Sebastian, standing close beside you, whispers, “Where’d you learn that one? Students don’t usually pick up Confundus until a month before the O.W.L.s.”

You smirk, knowing he can’t see it. “Oh, and you would know?”

“Of course,” he replies, you could hear his smirk as he spoke. “But my question was about you.” 

You turn towards him. “Let’s just say I have a talent for picking up things early.”

“Clearly,” he murmurs, lingering beside you just a moment longer than necessary. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You shrug. “I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Oh, I fully intend to.”

The two of you sneak into the library, the darkness enveloping you like a protective cloak. But then, as you approach the Restricted Section, Sebastian curses under his breath. “Blast, the librarian’s still here. Quick, behind the bookcase.”

You dart behind the nearest shelf, your heart pounding. You both drop the charm. His cheeks are flushed. “You told me the librarian would be gone by now!” you whisper pointedly.

“I said usually,” he retorts, a hint of tension creeping into his voice. “But it’ll still be all right. Do you see her desk behind me? The key is in the drawer of that desk. Now, here’s what we’re going to do: I’ll create a distraction to draw her away, and you focus on getting the key. I’ll meet you outside the Restricted Section.”

“You distract, I get the key. Understood.”

Sebastian gives you a confident nod. “I said I’d get you in, and I always keep my word. Trust me.”

With a quick glance to make sure the coast is clear, you slip around the bookcase, keeping low as you inch toward the librarian’s desk. You’re hyper-aware of every sound, every creak of the old wooden floors, but you manage to reach the desk without drawing attention. As you carefully open the drawer, your fingers close around the cold metal of the key.

You don’t have time to feel triumphant; you quickly retreat to the safety of the shadows, the key clutched tightly in your hand. Sebastian is already waiting for you, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“Nicely done,” he murmurs as you hand him the key. “Let’s get inside before she comes back.”

You slip into the Restricted Section, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and forgotten secrets. Shelves loom around you, filled with ancient tomes that seem to whisper as you pass. You can’t help but feel a shiver of excitement at the forbidden knowledge within your reach.

But as you approach one particularly enticing book, its cover adorned with an emerald jewel, Sebastian’s voice stops you. “Oh, that one’s charmed to look more useful than it is. Fooled me twice. Never judge a tome by its cover, I say.”

You nod, moving past the book as the two of you continue deeper into the section. The eerie glow of ghostly figures catches your eye—Victorian-era spirits gliding silently through the aisles.

“Ghosts,” Sebastian warns, his voice low. “Don’t let them see you.”

You manage to avoid their gaze, slipping further into the shadows until you reach the lower levels of the Restricted section.

As you turn to head back, Sebastian drops his Disillusionment Charm, gesturing for you to do the same. “We should be in the clear now,” he says, his voice returning to its usual casual tone. “No need for us to be skulking about.”

You dispel the charm once more, the cool air of the library brushing against your skin as you reappear beside him. “So, what is it you’ve been looking for?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

Sebastian hesitates for a moment, his expression darkening. “I’m looking for a cure,” he finally admits, his voice softer. “For my sister, Anne. She’s been… well, Merlin knows everyone else has given up.”

A pang of sympathy shoots through you. “Why do you think we’ll find a cure in the Restricted Section? Hasn’t the Hogwarts matron helped?”

“We’ve tried everyone—from Nurse Blaine to St. Mungo’s,” he says, a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice. “But I can research on my own. No need to concern yourself with that right now. Let’s focus on what you’re after… which is what, precisely?”

You hesitate, not quite ready to reveal your own secrets. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You’re being awfully cryptic.”

Before you can respond, a familiar, mischievous voice echoes through the Restricted Section. “Sebastian Sallow and his new little friend! Out exploring where they shouldn’t be! Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty!”

Peeves.

The poltergeist swoops down, cackling with glee as he threatens to expose you both.

“Don’t you dare,” Sebastian hisses, but Peeves only grins wider.

“I’m going to tell, I’m going to tell!” Peeves sings, darting off toward the librarian.

You grab Sebastian’s arm, panic rising. “Wait! I don’t want you getting into trouble for me.”

Sebastian shakes his head, determination hardening his features. “I have a way with the faculty when it comes to disciplinary matters,” he says with a small smirk. “Besides, I like having friends who are in my debt. Now go! Good luck in your search.”

With a final nod, you slip back into the shadows, making your way out of the Restricted Section as Sebastian confronts Peeves. You can hear his voice in the distance, cool and confident, as he weaves a tale to Madam Scribner.

When you finally make your way back to the main portion of the library, the book safely hidden in your bag, you find Madam Scribner and Sebastian locked in a tense conversation.

“Sebastian! Sneaking into the Restricted Section again?” Madam Scribner’s voice is stern, her expression disapproving. “I had thought we were through with this mischief. Clearly, detentions are insufficient. I’m afraid I must take this to the Headmaster.”

“But—” Sebastian starts, but she cuts him off.

“That being said, Peeves informs me that you didn’t come alone tonight. If someone has coerced you, I would have you tell me. You’re a bright boy, don’t waste this.”

Sebastian glances your way for the briefest moment, but when he speaks, his voice is resolute. “There was nobody else. I came alone.”

Madam Scribner sighs, her disappointment palpable. “Oh, Sebastian, what will your uncle say?”

You slip away before she can spot you, your heart pounding with the narrowness of your escape. But as you head back to your dormitory, you can’t help but feel a strange mix of emotions. Gratitude, certainly, but something deeper too—a sense that whatever connection you and Sebastian share has only grown stronger in the shadows of that forbidden library.

Later that night, back in the quiet of your dormitory, you can't shake the thought of what happened in the library. The way Sebastian covered for you, taking the blame without hesitation—it gnaws at you. The least you can do is check on him.

You sit at your desk, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the parchment as you dip your quill in ink. The words come easily, your concern for him spilling onto the page.

Sebastian,

I wanted to make sure everything’s all right. You didn’t have to take the blame back there—I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble. Let me know if you’re okay.

You tie the note to your owl’s leg and send it off, watching as it disappears into the night.

It’s not long before there’s a soft hoot at your window. Your owl returns, a letter clutched in its beak. You untie it, your heart quickening slightly as you recognize Sebastian’s handwriting.

---

Well, well,

Got your letter—nice to know you’re worried about me. I’m fine, really. Scribner gave me a good scolding, but nothing I can’t handle. I did tell you I have a way with the faculty, didn’t I?

But if you’re feeling guilty, I wouldn’t mind if you made it up to me. Maybe a walk by the lake again? This time, I promise not to drag you into any restricted areas… unless, of course, you ask nicely.

Looking forward to hearing from you, Sebastian

***

Thank you for reading! I felt like the whole quest needed a better ending to it hehe

[corrodedbisexual]

The ultimate shadow ban survivor guide

I've seen multiple people I follow, or their mutuals affected by shadow bans lately (makes me wonder if it's @staff's attempts to fight bots going totally haywire). As someone who survived a 2-month-long shadow ban on my main this winter, I thought I'd make a post.

First step of being shadow banned: calm down and take a breath. A shadow ban is just a stupid glitch in tumblr's anti-spam system. You're not losing your blog. You're gonna need a whole lot of patience, and deal with inconveniences, but it's fixable.

Read the incredibly useful post All About Shadowban by @that-damn-girl. It outlines the symptoms quite well. The only thing I'd point out is "your original posts won’t be visible to your followers either" - afaik that doesn't happen. Everything you post and reblog will still be visible to your followers, and also they can interact with your posts - like them, reblog them, reply to them.

Just like the post says, contact support. I recommend using a different email than what your banned blog is registered to; not because your ticket won't go through (mine actually did, as I found out when they finally replied), but because you might not receive an email confirmation for your ticket (it's somehow tied to the anti-spam thing, I think), and you're going to worry and try to send more tickets, like I did.

Now wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. They are SLOW. I've seen some miraculous 1-day unbans in the #shadow ban tag, but most people, like me, wait around a month for support to reply. Those are the same guys going through thousands of bot reports every day in addition to user tickets.

If you're going to wait, might as well keep blogging. Now if this is your sideblog that's shadow banned, consider yourself lucky. Make a new temporary sideblog, use it to post your original stuff so it goes into tags (mind that it might take a few days for a new blog to start showing up in tags). Reblog everything to your shadow banned blog so you still have all content in one place and your followers see it. If it's your main that's banned, you can still do that, but there's the extra pain of not being able to reply to posts or send non-anon Asks, since that is only done from main. Might need to register a separate account for that.

Some more fun facts under readmore.

Fun fact #1

Trying to send support follow-up emails in the request confirmation email isn't going to do anything to speed up the process. But I did tweet at them using this tumblr support summoning picture by @cornmayor and offered a raccoon blood sacrifice to resolve my issue when it was like a month with no response. This is what they replied.

3 hours later I got an email that my shadowban was lifted. I honestly don't know if it was a coincidence, but I mean, this is tumblr staff. Maybe they do accept blood sacrifices.

Fun fact #2

If you're wondering why my shadow ban lasted 2 months if I got a support reply after 1 month, well. It's hard to say exactly how their ban/unban system works bc support replies exclusively with pre-written template sentences, but basically they fucked up. The first time they told me my blog has been restored, I gained pretty much all functions back, except that my posts were still not appearing in tags. Which means probably that being hidden from tags is some kind of different flag on your blog that they forgot to remove. So I had to send a follow-up ticket and wait another month.

My advice is, when they tell you it's fixed, don't take that at face value, go and check all the functions you'd lost (replies, messaging, asks, tagging, appearing in notes, getting mentioned by others).

[sant-riley]

[Black Out Days]

A mission goes wrong

Pairing: Ghost x OFC!reader (Teddy)

A/N: requested by a LOVELY anon turned friend, they really got me with this suggestion and now it's here lmfao. I hope this is okay! Kinda left my comfort zone to write this one :) comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Word count: 2.5k

TW/CW: Age gaps, Bodily harm, blood mentions, mission going wrong, angst, angst with happy ending, Ghost being conflicted and kinda an ass? (as always lmk if I miss anything!)

--

It was just a simple mission, it was just a fucking reconnaissance mission. Now she can feel her heart start to slow, her ears ringing as she weakly whimpers in pain. Her hands shakily brushing her side, fingers coming back saturated in her blood. 

Not good. Very much not good.

~

Teddy doesn't care for recons, having to sit in one place for hours on end never bid her well. She much rather be following her partners around in on the field, not high up in the middle of bum fuck nowhere with a m40 that she's not even confident she can use correctly.

 That's what Soap had been helping her in the shooting range, long range weaponry. Her mind was running, trying desperately to find something to grasp onto, anything to make the time go by faster. She has half a mind to start messing with the comms but thought better of it. She wonders what Price and Gaz are up to back at base, what dinner will be, if they'll even be home by tonight at that.

Ghost was stationed on the other side of the compound where the target was, Soap closer to the grounds than either of them. Looking down the scope, she sees Soap and his body outline, his tactical gear making him even look bulkier than normal. Shouts ensue and he's suddenly moving, running to take cover and shit he's opening fire. 

She quickly readjusts and starts to pick off any enemy she can see, sweat on her brow as she pants from the adrenaline. Bodies after bodies fall but there's still just so fucking many. She knows there's no way in hell that the three of them can possibly thin the crowd out, not when separated, not with no backup.

"Soap, How copy?" Ghost gruffly speaks into the comms, faint gunshots can be heard through his mic.

"The bloody fucking bastards spotted me! Fucking bullshit!" More Gaelic cursing as Soap moves from cover to cover, moving backwards.

Ghost curses under his breath, starting to make his way down, running towards where Johnny is to help return fire lest the scot gets overwhelmed.

"Teddy, how copy? Need you to cover us." 

 Ghost watches an armed guard run up on him, the man getting way too close for comfort. He unsheathes and flicks one of his knives out of his thigh holsters, ready to throw with full force into the bastards neck. Right when the man drops down like all gravity escaped him, a good portion of his head is laying down on the pavement. Ghost feels the blood spray but doesn't pay any mind to it.

"Already doing it L.T." She breathes, quickly moving her focus back to Soap's location after making sure Ghost was okay to proceed moving.

"Atta girl." 

She pretends the heat rushing to her face isn't due to the pet name, just her nerves. Teddy watches as the two men convene and breathes out a sigh of relief. Momentarily distracted, fumbling to reload, she doesn't hear the footsteps come up behind her. A Rookie mistake that she will indefinitely beat herself up over if she somehow survives this.

It doesn't take long for a gunshot to ring out, and she lets out a blood curdling scream. White blinds her as she squeezes her eyes tight, her body curling in on itself, trying in vain to stop the pain.

For the amount of pain she's in, she's fortunate that whoever just shot her into her side, figures that's enough and rushes down towards the compound, leaving her to bleed out. Damn, not even worth the second bullet to finish her off? Kinda funny if she says so herself. The stinging is getting worse and she feels fluid rush from her body. Okay, maybe not funny.

She forces her arms to move herself, forcing her body to flip over onto her back. With more strength than she ever thought needed to just use her fucking hand, clicking the comm to life.

"Gh..ghost-" a groan cuts her off, her body trembling as she starts to feel woozy.

"Teddy, how copy?" Ghost mutters, his nerves are shot, he hears the scream. Not alot of things can unsettle him anymore, not after what he's seen and done but her scream gets to him more than he'll ever admit.

Soap curses and whirls around, looking at the Lieutenant with a shout. His accent getting thicker and thicker.

"Oh fuck, we gotta move, now L.T."

Soap juts his chin towards your location, his breathing getting heavy. He's trying to meet Ghost's eyes.

Ghost refuses to meet them, he has to be the calm one here, no matter what his body may be telling him otherwise.

"Teddy! How copy?" The sweat coming down his face is disgusting, he can feel his heartbeat out of his damn chest.

"'m losin' alot of blood si, I don't-" She's crying, hearing the sniffling.

"I'm scared." That's what springs Ghost and Soap to start gunning it. Not even looking behind them to see if they're being followed.

Ghost shot off like a bat out of hell.

Teddy hears him curse louder than she ever has, hearing him start to pant. He must be running towards her.

"Soap, follow and cover!" It must be bad if he's not even attempting to use military talk.

"Aye." Soap quickly responds, following Ghost from a short distance. His hands tightening harshly, knuckles turning pale as he pushes himself to keep up.

A few moments passed as she tried to get the lump from her throat to go away. She's barely conscious now, her eyes keep fluttering.

"Si, Johnny, I don't think I'm gonna make it." She whimpers. It pushes Ghost to run faster, faster than he's ever run in his entire life.

"Shut the fuck up with talking like that, I'm coming." Ghost snarls, zeroing in on the area she was meant to be safe at. God fucking damnit. A fucking reconnaissance mission.

"Don't worry Lass, good ol' Johnny and Ghost are coming to save ya." Soap added, trying his best to get the mood even a fraction bit lighter, He feels his legs start to burn and ache.

Soap only gets a faint chuckle back, followed by a pain filled groan.

"Ghost, I need to tell you something." She stares up at the treeline, watching the leaves move about in the wind. There were alot of things she could tell him, how much she loves spending time with him, watching movies, teaching him about internet culture, how much she appreciated him going out his way to look out for her, to taking her in, for trusting her, for, dare she say it, loving her. She told herself it wasn't romantic at first, but it was impossible to not fall for him once he let her in. It wasn't her fault, it was as natural as breathing for her to fall in love with Simon.

Though that's too many words for too little time. So she'll have to settle for something shorter. She prays to a God she isn't quite sure she believes in that Ghost doesn't meet her one day and beat her ass for what she's about to pull.

 She had no clue if he shared her romantic feelings, she figured it didn't matter now. One hand are on side, weakly trying to put pressure and the other holding onto her necklace, running her fingers on the charm that lays there.

"Don't. Don't you fucking dare."

"I lo…" Before she can finish her sentence, she sees black, hearing thundering footsteps approach her and a shout of her real name. Funny, no one ever called her that anymore.

~

  Everyone is in a scramble when she's brought in, curled up in Ghost's arms while Soap shoves through the doors to call for medics.

The extraction came quickly after Ghost bundled her into his arms, Soap calling Price and telling him off the situation. They have never heard Price bark out orders as harshly and as fast as he did, no doubt he's the reason 141's base is a mess.

Gaz is there, yelling and shouting her name as he watches from the sidelines, asking what the the fuck happened as he frantically looks back and forth to Ghost and Soap, to Teddy who lays limply in the specters arms.

 Price is there ordering the medics to hurry the hell up, his body high strung while his eyes zoned in on Teddy, he feels bile rise in his throat. 

"Son, what the fuck happened to 'er?!"

Medics come running, arms reaching to grab Teddy and place her on a stretcher. Ghost tightens his grip for a second, looking down at how pale she's become, and hands her over, a tremble in his hands. Her blood soaks his gear, his hoodie, down to his undershirt. It makes his skin crawl as he stands there, watching her get farther and farther away from him.

He can see Soap, Price and Gaz try and get his attention but can't move, can't utter a damn word while he watches.

He stands there for God knows how long, staring down the hallway.

~

First thing she hears is beeping, every second. It's fucking annoying and she turns to roll over and turn it off until her skin pulls and she legs out a "fuck!".

She peels up each one of her eyes, squinting against the harsh lights of the room. Stark white, the nasty smell of disinfectant. Ah, so she's alive. She groans as the pain finally seeps in. The heart beat monitor beeping more as she awakes, her anxiety mounting.

There's a rush of a pair of heavy footsteps that rush towards her cot, the curtain being swung back to see Ghost, who funnily enough is pale enough to be his namesake. She tries to formulate a sentence but all she can do it let out a pathetic noise from her mouth. She wants to hug him, so bad, she just wants to feel safe again but she can't move from this fucking bed. Her legs won't cooperate with her heart that screams to get closer.

He reaches her cot in seconds, putting his hands on the side of the bed, gripping the rail with enough force to snap it if he pushed any further.

"God fucking damnit runt." He breathes out, his eyes scanning her flushed face. His thumb caresses the bandage that lays there on her cheek. 

She can't help but lean into it, basking in the contact.

She shoots him a weak smile, eyes tearing up as she sees him again, not through a lens, he's here and he's warm. She's okay, they saved her.

Ghost sucks in a ragged breath before his eyes steel and he looks down at her. He suddenly looks all too big, too intimidating.

"You have alot of fucking nerve in that head of yours, to say what you did."

The fucking audacity she has, to confess her love to a old man while she's fucking dying on the cold ground. Not a message to her family, not a message of her fighting, nothing. Just a love confession for a man who doesn't deserve it

She tries to play dumb, looking confused trying desperately not to burst into tears. The repercussions of her actions hitting her like a fucking truck all over again.

"I'm not sure what-"

"Don't play fucking dumb with me. You know damn well what you said. Say it again." Another growl, he's looking at her like he wants to shake her.

"Ghost I don't think-" She's pleading.

"Damnit Teddy! Fucking say it!"

She feels herself snap, the overload of emotions that she's felt since she joined the task force coming out.

"What do you want me to say? That I love you? Because I fucking do, I've loved you ever since I met you! Is that what you wanna hear? The Rookie has a crush on her superior? The secrets out, I know you don't see me that way, you don't have to tell me!" She feels her cheek dampen as she starts to breath heavily, her emotions overwhelming her. Ghost says nothing, his eyes widened beneath the balaclava. If she was in a clearer state of mind, she's notice he didn't have the black smudge around his eyes, or that the bags under his eyes were darker. May have noticed his red they were too.

"I didn't mean to fall in love with you! I didn't!" She hiccups, voice straining as she shoves her hands up to her face, trying to muffled herself.

She knows she should shut up already, but almost nearly dying, she can't bring herself to care all too much.

"I love you, I love you so much it hurts, you see me as some stupid little kid and it fucking hurts.

All her life, she was just a kid to people, it didn't matter what she did, how she acted, how she dressed, no one treated her as an adult. No one ever took her feelings seriously, always being told that it was just a phase. No one ever cared how she felt til she came here. Until she met the team. For the first time she felt like she mattered. And here she was ruining it.

Her hands are gently pried from her face, skeleton gloves in her eyesight as her body trembles.

"You're just confused kid, relax." A slip of his tongue, he immediately knows he's fucked up with the petname. He didn't mean to say that, he truly didn't but he was so taken aback at her confession. He wasn't thinking. 

He could feel her stare on him til she started chuckling to herself, her body getting rigid, yanking her hands away and shoving him away with what little strength she has.

"See! You think I'm a kid! Fine, you know what? Send me out already, get it over with. Discharge me-"

Her voice is rising in volume, the heart beat monitor going haywire. She's surprised there's not a nurse here yet.

"Can you shut that mouth of yours for one damn second so I can speak?" He shouts, he regrets yelling but she's spiraling and he needs to put a stop to it now.

Your mouth snaps closed, staring with glassy eyes up at him.

"I have never, never cared for someone as much as I care for you."  He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, his two hands on her shoulders as he tries to collect his thoughts. It feels like his head is fucking ringing, information overload.

He knows he should say the word love back, she deserves to know but truth be told he's fearful. If he says that one word, it all becomes too real, she becomes truly someone that he loves and cherishes and that is fucking horrifying.

He moves his hands down, gently until he reaches her hands, where he intertwines them. She stares at where they meet, her body involuntary trembling.

She's so fucking small and fragile, young and pretty, God. He knows he shouldn't, he needs to be Ghost and put his foot down but he can't. Simon is creeping in and taking control. He wants to be selfish for the first time in God knows how long.

Ghost pulls up his mask, just above his lips while she shudders at seeing the stubble and faint scars that run across his skin. Her pupils were blown out and wide, her breath catching in her throat.

Gently pulling her forward to kiss her forehead, his lips are rough and chapped. She feels a joke creep in her mind but decides against it.

He rests his forehead on hers, using one hand to tangle itself in her hair as he looks into her eyes.

"You're mine, got that? I'm yours, so stop that shit, you're not going anywhere, ever."

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[orviposition]

0th yjh makes me feral. I wonder what he was feeling the whole time this unknosn constellation helping him. And all those things he said to KDJ before his regression began. What are your feelings about the 0th turn?

some small spoilers (only the first paragraph) for the yoo mia side story.

0 is fr so so so boyfailure pre-scenarios. he's tone-deaf - cant sing, cant dance, cant act, is terrible with money, his manager at ASH (thats his gaming team name) is absolute trash, and he even had haters online (tis implied that biyoo did protect him from them) he and mia got food poisoned once after ordering take out which is the reason that pushed him to learn how to cook and make their own meals from then on

during the scenarios 0 and dkos started off on the wrong foot, so to speak. naturally, yjh understood he was being used as entertainment, but he still wanted to survive until the end, and needed information to do so. he just couldnt immediately open up to the guy that had knocked him unconscious before. regardless he established midday tryst with dkos, always paid for it (and got several praises whenever he did good things) and after some time had passed he ought to have realized that dkos knocked him out for his own good.

flashforward to his dying moments, he's already said his goodbyes to his friends, wife and children. even if he's in his mid 30s he looks twice his age. he is twice his age. all stars in the sky have fallen. but one. in his dying moments there's only one other person that is watching him. even if separated by a wall yjh cant cross as he's now, hes still being watched.

so he pours his heart out. tells him how it always felt to him as if he dropped from the sky out of nowhere. no memory, no parents. only a name. he tells kdj that he's happy, but he never understood how and why he existed (kdj didnt know the full truth either at this point in time tbf. he only thought that yjh existed bcs tls123 wrote twsa and he, as the oldest dream read it. he didnt know that yjh was written into existence bcs kdj needed him to survive and live by reading yjh's story) just that he felt as if this life had been completed by someone else. then kdj tells him that he can send him back in time but theres a catch. he'll lose most of his memories, and all his memories of dkos.

it's at that point when 0 starts growing a bit desperate. he says how he wishes that he could still help him. he asks him to be his sponsor so that they can meet and fully understands that kdj doesnt want to give him the regression stigma and only complies bcs it gives yjh his own agency. but still kdj warns him that it'll take 1864 regressions before they can meet and 0 seemingly doesnt care. he focuses more on his voice than any other details. even so, as he begins to scatter, he tries one last time tmyfiictrwiegtmya and only when kdj is too devastated that he cant even get an answer him does 0 accept. tries to reach out towards the sky and tells him that he will pray for him to at least continue to exist.

phew, i want to say peak romance but tbh it doesnt do them justice. romance can never fully embody whatever it was that was going on in those private moments for the two of them

[deedee-sims]

Tutorial - extracting stuff from Disco Elysium (+ viewing the models in blender)

Due to... recent events, I decided to finally get myself to write a tutorial about this, because all I found was some half-assed reddit comments when I was trying to figure out how to do it sometime last year.

I'll show you how to extract... pretty much everything (including voice lines) from the game.

This is a beginner tutorial, so you don't have to know shit about any of these programs, I'll try to explain everything.

I promise it's pretty easy! I extracted stuff from various games, and this is one of the easiest I ever did, so yeah.

You'll need:

Disco Elysium on PC

AssetStudio

Blender

+1 Interfacing

+2 Endurance (mostly to survive my bad jokes)

First of all, open AssetStudio. You don't have to install it or anything, just unzip the file you downloaded and open the program inside (AssetStudioGUI).

This is how the bad boy looks like, we'll be able to see the asset list on the left and the preview on the right.

Click on File../Load Folder.

Select the folder where the game is installed. For me it's Steam\steamapps\common\Disco Elysium\disco_Data. You can load individual files too, but it's easier to just list everything and then filter them imo.

Wait... for a while. It's a lot of assets. Make a tea or something (hydration is important).

After everything loaded up, click on the Asset List tab. You can see all the stuff! Well, it's rather confusing. Let's see what is what!

If you click on Filter Type, you can see the types of the assets. These are:

AnimationClip: I think these are supposed to be the animations, you can export them if you select an animator asset alongside and right click Export Animator + selected Animation Clips (couldn't get the animation to play but that's probably on me).

Animator: These are the rigged models, you can export them to .fbx format, but I couldn't figure out what to do with them in Blender because they were kinda distorted (funnily enough, when I imported it to the shitty Milkshape program it showed up just fine... and people wonder why I prefer shitty Milkshape XD) Anyway, I hope someone can figure this out that actually knows something about Blender lol.

Audio Clip: Sounds, voice lines, background music. (.wav format)

Font: Well, fonts. Can be exported and installed to your device like any fonts.

Mesh: 3D models of the characters, objects, scenes. (.obj format)

MonoBehaviour: No fucking clue.

Shader: Shaders for the game. Not interesting in our case.

Sprite: Images that the game uses: portraits, object thumbnails, user interface elements.

Texture 2D: The textures that belong to the 3D models. (.png format)

TextAsset: ??

VideoClip: The stuff that plays when you open the game.

You can preview any assets (well, the ones that you can preview), if you click on them. You can view them in the right panel.

You can extract by left click on the asset in the list -> Export selected assets. You can select multiple assets and export them at the same time.

The program will ask you to select a folder where you want to export the stuff. It'll export them into separate folders, by assets.

Well, yeah, now you know what is what, and how to extract them, but there are still a lot of assets. Good news, you can filter them with the little search bar too, if you type in some gibberish! Some stuff are a little tricky to find.

Voice lines are grouped by task / place, so if you know where the particular thing takes place, you can try to filter for those. The assets are named with the speaker's name - either a character or a skill. I think the numbers mean some kind of order, but I couldn't really figure it out. If you click on one of them, you can preview, and listen to it in the right panel! Super easy! (if you want your own daba-doop-doop-dead it's Kim Kitsuragi-YARD  HANGED MAN-556. Just saying)

For objects and characters, you can find them by name, although some characters are named differently. Like, Harry is referred as Tequila in the game files.

Basically if you want to have a character or an object extracted, you’ll need to extract a mesh and a texture that belongs to it. You can quite literally play dress-up game with Harry, because all of his clothes are separate files (and named with kinda the clothing item name). The Kineema has multiple parts (exterior - interior - door - whatever else).

Anyway, let's move on to the Blender part before I forget how to do it (I learned it this morning lol). (Disclaimer: I don't know jack shit about Blender, I use it for extracting stuff and creating the simplest shapes in existence. I use the godforsaken program Milkshape on a daily basis.)

Open Blender.

Hit delete to get rid of this beautiful default cube.

File.../Import.../Wavefront (.obj)

Select the thing you want to import (I'll import the gremlin child).

There he is! And he doesn't fucking care!

Btw, you can zoom with the middle mouse button scroll or middle mouse button + Ctrl, rotate with middle mouse button, move the view with middle mouse button + Shift. So you can see his itty-witty mischievous face from very close!

Now, that's great, but he doesn't have textures still. First of all, change the Viewport Shading to Material Preview.

Select him (just click on him, you'll see an orange outline). And go to the Material Properties tab on the side.

Click on the little dot next to Base Color, and select Image Texture.

Click on the Open button that appeared out of nowhere, and search for the Cuno texture.

Tada! He looks beautiful now! (and he still doesn’t fucking care)

You can do the same with any 3D models, objects from the game, really.

Well, that's it lol. I hope it made sense! And I really hope someone runs away with extracting the animators + animations, because I'm pretty sure it's doable, I just have no clue how.

[separatist-apologist]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Horde Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his horde, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

The pikis returned that evening and though they tried, Feyre refused to speak to either of them. Why, when they’d turn around and tell the horde king everything she said should it benefit them. Perhaps they were angling for a chance in his bed? 

Unlikely.

Nuala, with cheeks flushed with what Feyre assumed was embarrassment, spoke to her anyway. She explained the roles of pikis in-depth, perhaps thinking it would engender Feyre to her. As she bathed Feyre, she said pikis served the wives of the horde warriors, which made no sense to Feyre. She wasn’t the horde king's wife—she was his whore. 

It was apparently a custom for unmarried women—females, as they called themselves—to do this in order to attract a mate of their own. The unclaimed males would see how well they did, that the horde king had hand chosen them for his plaything, and apparently it made the other warriors find them marriageable. Feyre couldn’t imagine how, and part of her wanted to explain how humans did it.

There had been true customs in the past—she knew her father had courted her mother with money and gifts before they’d dated for a period of time, and then they’d married. Now, though, it was simpler. For either love or security—sometimes both—partners were chosen. There was no grand ceremony, no one to perform the rites. It typically happened among families behind closed door. One day they lived separately, the next they were together. 

Had Elain already reached out to Graysen, she wondered? He had connections to the federation—perhaps he could get her off the planet. Maybe Nesta would go, too. The thought made Feyre’s chest ache. She didn’t want to be left here alone, used up and discarded before dumped back in the village she hated.

She’d never get off. 

Feyre kept her eyes down as the piki prepared her for the brute she was saddled with. This was the promise she’d made him—and it was too much to hope he’d honor his word and not touch her until she healed. She supposed the piki had also told him she refused the salve. Perhaps he’d only said it to lower her guard, knowing he’d go back on his word just as soon as it suited her. 

When a mirror was held before her painted face, Feyre hated what she saw looking back. She barely looked human, let alone alive. Once again, Feyre thought she looked like a heathen gods plaything in her sheer night dress that covered nothing. The piki had somehow managed to set soft waves into her hair and made her face seem brighter despite the hollow hunger she could see gazing from her eyes. 

She doubted the horde king cared much about her own desire or interests beyond getting what he wanted. Still. Once it was done a few times, he might tire of her entirely. She couldn’t imagine, with a horde of women his own species to choose from, he’d stay interested in her for long. 

The piki left just as the sun had fully set, leaving Feyre kneeling on the edge of the bed, eyes cast down. She had but minutes before he arrived, and she intended to take advantage of it. She didn’t trust him not to hurt her, to maybe even kill her in the pursuit of pleasure. The horde king was careless—there were several sharp, curved daggers half hidden around his tent. Feyre stole one, sliding it beneath her pillow.

Just in case, she told herself.

The flaps moved just as she’d righted the pillows. Kneeling on the furs, she hoped she looked demure and submissive and not guilty. She certainly felt it. He seemed wary looking at her—perhaps it was the uncharacteristic silence she greeted him with. 

“I’m tired,” he announced. Feyre felt her irritation rise, though she swallowed it. 

Grit your teeth and bear it. 

She knew what to expect, at least. Did the Drakkari use any kind of protection, she wondered? Feyre had wedged half a lemon into her body before letting Isaac have her. Something told her the horde king wasn’t going to allow that. What would he do if she ended up with a half Drakkari, half human child?

She shoved the thought from her mind. Feyre very much doubted they were compatible that way. Surely this man—male, whatever—wasn’t the first to take a human woman. If it was possible, Feyre would have heard by now.

He dropped his belt without ceremony, turning toward her as she raised her eyes to look at him. He was trying to get a rise out of her, to provoke a little temper. Did he want her to fight him?

She wouldn’t. Not unless she had to, anyway, just to ensure she remained unrestrained for as long as possible.

“This was not how I imagined this moment,” he murmured as he came to stand before her. “Will you speak to me, kalles?”

“What do you want me to say?” she replied, hating how her voice betrayed her. “Take me, horde king, my body is yours?”

He cocked his head. “Yes,” he admitted.

“You’ll never hear those words,” she scoffed, hands forming fists at her side.

“You are mine,” he snarled in return, clearly frustrated. It had been a day, she wanted to scream—a day in which he’d examined her naked body, pinned her against him and forced her to eat, and dressed her up like his personal pet. Did he genuinely expect her to fall to her knees in gratitude?

Looking up at him, it was clear he did. For a moment, it occurred to Feyre that he might think he’d rescued her from her previous circumstances. It was arrogant of him to assume he’d saved her at all—that she’d required his presence, that he’d fixed her life.

All he’d done was made her more miserable than she already was. Feyre loathed seeing how the Drakkari lived, with all their opulent excess. No one was hungry here. Everyone was absurdly clean, they were safe, they were happy. She seethed with her resentment that she wasn’t even allowed to participate in it—only ever witnessed as an outsider, forced to obey the whims of truly cruel man.

Feyre only shrugged her shoulders before laying flat on her back with exaggerated boredom. She’d hoped to get away with not undressing, but he’d caught her.

“Stand, Morakkari,” he murmured, a strange reverence seeping into his tone. Morakkari. What did that mean? Feyre sat up, trying to hide her frustration as she did what he wanted.

“You swore to serve me,” he murmured, standing before her utterly naked. Feyre was trying not to notice his erect cock but it was hard. Even with her eyes fully on his face, she could see it bobbing from the corner of her eye. Must everything about him be so excessive? So large? 

Feyre lifted her chin, the little defiance she could offer when the odds were so against her. The horde king reached for her shoulders, brushing his fingers over the sheer material of the gown.

“Do you like this?”

“It’s clothes,” Feyre replied with a shrug. In truth, it was likely the nicest thing

His mouth dropped immediately, his frown prominent. “What would please you?”

Feyre didn’t dare answer that question to the naked male standing in front of her. “Just tell me what you want.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Take off your nightdress,” he ordered, removing his hands from her. His slow seduction had been ruined by her refusal to play along, but Feyre preferred it this way. The less touching, the better. Feyre dropped it, letting him once again look at her. There should have been lust—and perhaps there was—but it made her uncomfortable to see his concern.

“You didn’t eat today.” It was an accusation.

“And I never will,” she replied, heart pounding in her chest.

“I’ll give you something, if you do,” he said, catching her off guard. 

“What could you possibly give me?” she demanded, certain what he was offering hung between his legs. 

He seemed guarded—almost wary, as he said, “What do you want?”

Feyre considered this for a moment. “Anything?”

His brows furrowed, creating two creases between his eyes. “Do not order me to kill myself, kalles.”

Feyre hadn’t even considered that. Indignant, she said, “I wasn’t going to! I was going to ask…”

Feyre bit her inner cheek as he dared a step toward her, seemingly forgetting they were both naked. The Drakkari seemed more casual when it came to nudity—perhaps this was simply familiar to him. It seemed strange to Feyre, though. Intimate in a vulnerable way, even. Resisting the urge to cover her chest, Feyre said, “I want to know your name.”

He cocked his head, considering this. “Names have power, kalles. Are you asking to have power over me?”

“I just want to know what to call you.”

“No one can ever know,” he replied, perhaps assuming she was going to announce it to everyone she met. Maybe she would, if she felt so inclined, though some small sliver of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. 

“Who would I tell?” Feyre heard herself say, voice small and sad. “I only know you.”

There was a pause. “If I tell you my name, you’ll eat?”

“Broth only,” Feyre informed him, thinking he’d lay out a massive spread she’d never be able to finish without vomiting. Besides, she still felt guilty when she looked around at how nice everything was here, even if he was about to push her to the bed and have his way with her. 

“You’ll eat the portion I serve you?” he demanded. There was a trick to it, though Feyre was too tired to figure it out.

She nodded. “Fine.”

He swallowed, as if it pained him to say this. Perhaps it was just unusual given no one shared names, except for herself. Or maybe this was some kind of violation, telling his stolen whore his name only to have it used against him.

“My name is Rhysand,” he finally said, the words coming so softly that they felt like a dream. “But you, Morakkari, should call me Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she whispered, catching how his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “What happens now?”

“Exactly what I promised,” he said, though he hesitated as he looked down at her. “I’m…”

“Yes, horde king?” she pressed, certain he wasn’t going to now. He should, though. This was too intimate, too soft. Push her to the bed—force himself on her. At least she could go back to thoroughly hating him then. It would be so easy. 

He sighed, crouching for her nightdress. Feyre didn’t dare move as he fixed the fabric before sliding it over her head. Like a child, she held her arms up to get them into the sleeves. “Sleep with me tonight,” he murmured, climbing into the bed utterly naked. Feyre stood there dumbfounded.

“What about—”

“Veekor, kallas,” he murmured, reaching for her. “Sleep.”

He was warm, his hold strong. Feyre let him pull her against his chest, a million questions running through her mind. “Can I ask you other things?”

He groaned. “In the morning.”

Feyre felt him angle his pelvis away from her, well aware his cock was still rigid. It was a small gesture he didn’t need to make and it bothered her. “I have questions.”

“Yes, your questions are endless, I imagine,” he replied, his mouth in her hair. “I want to hear them. In the morning.”

“What did you do that made you so exhausted?” she demanded.

“I spoke with you. That’s enough.”

She twisted to find his unserious face smiling down at her. “You’re rude.”

“So you say, kalles.”

“Would you call me Feyre?” she asked him after a moment. “Where I’m from…female is an insult.”

He paused. “But you are a female.”

“No, I’m a woman,” she protested as he snorted.

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. When…when human men want to put women back in their place and remind us we’re lesser, they call us females. It’s how you’d describe an animal. They’re more…elevated, I guess? But we’re little more than cattle.”

Rhys blinked. “Why would they want you to believe you’re lesser?”

“The same reason you took me to be your whore, I guess? Power?”

Rhys sat up quickly, the fur covering his body sliding to his waist. “My what?” he demanded, tone thundering. 

“Your whore,” Feyre repeated, careful to keep her tone even. “Remember when you exchanged my sisters life in favor of servitude—”

“I never said whore,” he replied, those violet eyes flashing. He was so strange to her right then with his tail, tattooed gold right before the little tuft at the end. Those dark, nearly colorless eyes were staring so intently that Feyre thought he could see right down to her bones if he wanted to.

“You said kasikkari,” she reminded him. “Whore.”

He spluttered then, murmuring what sounded like both curse and prayer to his goddess “It does not mean whore.”

Feyre stilled, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought this up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperately wanting to avoid whatever came next. “We should—”

“It means mate,” he continued, determined she would hear him. “Blessed by Kakkari herself.”

“Rhys—”

“Not my whore. My mate, my wife, my Morakkari—my queen.”

Feyre was going to be sick. In a way, that was the best she could have hoped for, and yet…Feyre’s mind turned immediately to a man Nesta had a brief flirtation with—Tomas Sr. and his wife. He’d beaten her behind closed doors, taking his every little frustration out on his wife and no one had ever said a word because wives were the property of their husbands.

And she was the property of the horde king. Tomas had no power at all and still was allowed to do whatever he liked. The people here couldn’t even look at Rhys. If he wanted to harm her, who was going to help her? Her own piki told him everything she said. She had no friends, no allies.

Feyre felt her chest rising and falling, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. He was going to kill her, she realized. There was no escape, no way she’d convince him to let her go back home once he tired of her. All her plans were crumbling around her because wives couldn’t leave. 

She felt his hand on her back, rubbing a line down her spine as he murmured something she couldn’t hear. Blood roared in her ears and right then, Feyre was determined to escape, no matter the cost. She had the weapon under her pillow. She could wait until he was asleep and kill him before escaping on foot. She’d lay low for a while—maybe in the mountains? 

“Don’t touch me,” she managed, pulling further away from him. “Don’t ever touch me.” His jaw clenched, eyes going dark, but Rhys said nothing. Feyre gripped her knees, chin tucked against her chest as she worked to settle her racing heart. 

You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re safe.

It was an old mantra she’d repeated from the time she was young. It didn’t need to be true to settle her down, it just needed to be repeated. Feyre had never been safe a day in her life, and she certainly wasn’t here. But she had herself, and Feyre had never let herself down. Not when it mattered.

Rhys settled back to the bed, covering himself while he waited for her to make a decision. Every inch of him was taut, coiled like a waiting spring. He expected her to try and run and was prepared to grab her. Feyre wasn’t stupid. She knew better. It was pure hell to force herself to lay beside him, rolling to her side so her back faced him.

She heard him huff out a breath, like he wanted to say something before thinking better of it. Smart. Feyre knew if he tried to talk to her, her temper would get the better of her and she’d give away the only card in her hand. 

Just breathe.

“Feyre—”

“Not tonight,” she snapped, silencing him entirely. “Sleep, remember?”

He huffed again, clearly not used to being told what to do. He was silent, his breath steadying as Feyre laid beside him, counting slowly in her head in an attempt to make it seem like she was sleeping. Once, she’d started to move to her back and he’d made a soft noise, reaching for her before Feyre slapped his hand away.

If he felt it, he gave no indication. His breathing was even and slow and didn’t budge even when, this time, Feyre did move. She tested how deep he slept by sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. His eyes remained closed, his face soft. She almost didn’t believe this man—male—slept at all.

Pulling her legs back to the bed, Feyre reached beneath her pillow for the Drakkari blade. The metal sang softly against the scabbard it was sheathed in, causing her to suck in a breath as her heart pounded. Had he heard? 

Rhys didn’t move. 

Feyre crept closer, thinking of the people she’d killed in her village. She knew how to end a life, now. One decisive slide against his throat would keep him from screaming, and a second to his chest—piercing the hard breastplate—would stop his heart. He’d be dead before he knew what was happening, and she’d have the necessary head start to avoid his warriors. 

Still, her hand trembled as she brought that curved blade to his throat. Unlike the dagger that had been taken from her, this one was sharp—capable. Feyre took a breath, willing herself to move, but her vision was flooded with the sight of red blood as the echoes of the gasping filled her senses.

Fingers curled around her wrist. “Have I displeased you, kasikkari?”

His grip was iron-clad, keeping her from cutting him open but also preventing her from moving away. She’d been so lost in her memories that Ferye hadn’t noticed his eyes had opened and he was watching her. 

“I’m not your wife. Not yet,” Feyre hissed, trying to jerk back. The blade made contact with his throat, causing a thin line of flood to slide over his golden brown skin. The horde king didn’t react. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed, but Feyre did. 

“Where have you gone, kasikkari?” he whispered, his gaze burning against her skin. “I know that look.”

Feyre hated him for noticing. No one else ever had. Feyre tried to pull back but he was stronger, yanking her forward until he had her on top of him, straddling his waist. His free hand held her in place, and fuck him, he was erect and pressed against her body. The only thing between them was her night dress, so thin there might as well be nothing at all.

Feyre’s body responded against her will and she knew he felt the rush of heat that flooded between her legs.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she snarled in response. 

“You swore to serve me in all things,” he reminded her, darkness creeping into his tone. “Answer me.”

Feyre managed to break free from his hold, falling off the bed as she did so. The knife slid from her hand and she could have impaled herself on the sharp blade had Rhys not caught it easily, flinging it across the room. The blade hit one of the golden chests at the far end of the tent, clattering loudly. 

“I didn’t swear to tell you all my thoughts!” Feyre replied, her voice rising in anger.

“You will do whatever I ask you to!” he growled, rising from the bed like a terrifying, dark king. Feyre was almost afraid of him at that moment, even when she reached for her sandal lined on the floor nearby. His eyes flashed. “Do not do whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, launching the sandal at his face. Rhys caught it easily, tossing it to the side as he advanced toward her. Feyre threw her other shoe, which he batted away from his face without blinking. “I’ll always hate you.”

“You will be my wife,” he breathed, reaching for her. Feyre stumbled back, nearly at the flap of the tent. “My queen! I will fill you with my heirs and you will bear warriors for the horde, and you will like it!”

“I agreed to be your whore!” she shot back, screaming her words loud enough that anyone near them could easily hear. “I never agreed to be your wife or your queen! You may have my body, but you can have nothing else!”

“Know this, kasikkari,” he breathed, reaching for his discarded trousers instead of her. “When the Black Moon rises, you will be my wife and I will have you in all ways—your body and your mind.”

He stormed from the tent, unconcerned with his nakedness. Feyre didn’t bother chasing after him to tell him he was wrong. Maybe he would get her body, but he’d never have her mind. Feyre would fight him until she died. 

Rhys didn’t return that evening and Feyre didn’t sleep, waiting for a continuation of their argument. Instead, the piki were back, regarding her with wary eyes as they coaxed her into the bath. Remind her of her promise to the Vorakkar, they brought a massive bowl of broth for her to consume. It was nearly too much and yet a welcome reprieve from nothing at all. 

She barely finished it, protesting when she had a third left. The piki merely regarded her without sympathy, informing her the Vorakkar would be displeased if she didn’t. He’d given her his name—this was the bargain between them. Feyre did, strangely satisfied by the end of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been full. 

“I’m not wearing that,” Feyre informed them when the small skirt was brought out. “I’d rather walk around naked.”

That was a lie, but the piki weren’t Rhys. They weren’t about to call her bluff, either. After they realized she would not put the clothes on, even with cajoling and several threats to get the Vorakkar, the two left, she assumed to bring him back so he and Feyre could have another go at each other. 

Instead, a different woman stepped into the tent. She had similar features to Rhys—and was easily just as beautiful. Feyre had never seen hair so blonde on Drakkari before, but this woman’s cornflower hair fell in glossy waves down her back. Her eyes were closer to the Drakkari gold so many others had, though a shade darker—almost brown. They reminded her of her sister Elain, if she was honest. 

“Hello,” she said in a sunny voice. 

Feyre was immediately suspicious. “Who are you?”

“Morrigan,” she said without an ounce of concern she’d shared her name with Feyre. “Do not tell me yours.”

“Because names have power?” Feyre asked in a huff. Morrigan smiled, a pretty thing even in the gloom of the tent.

“Exactly. You’re learning. I heard you refuse to wear the clothes I provided for you?”

Oh, was that what this was about? She’d offended the seamstress? “You made the clothes?” 

Tail swishing behind her, Morrigan looked around the tent. “And lent you some, yes. I saw the rags you came in with—I burned them, by the way.”

“Of course you did,” Feyre replied through gritted teeth. “And my dagger?”

“Some of the young are playing with it,” she said dismissively, eyes flicking toward the flap of the tent. “It’s not dangerous.”

“It was all I had.”

“That’s sad,” Morrigan replied, back to examining Feyre. “I would be surprised if the blade could slice through butter.”

“Did you come to insult me?”

“Why not?” Morrigan replied with a shrug, her gaze flicking toward the golden chests before turning back to look at Feyre fully. “You insult the horde so well. My cousin is unwilling to give you any back, but I am not so kind.”

“How have I insulted the horde?” Feyre demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Morrigan’s clawed, six-fingered hand unfurled so she could tick off the insults. “I hear you will not eat. You do not wear our clothing, you shout at our Vorakkar, you hide in this tent all day and night making your demands, you have—”

“He kidnapped me!” Feyre nearly exploded.

Morrigan wasn’t impressed. “You disrespect our goddess Kakkari, burn the land and then lie when our warrior come to repay the goddess. Lie, even. And then, I hear, you swear to serve only to turn around and act ungrateful for the mercy of my horde. Or do I misunderstand? I speak the universal tongue best of us all…but sometimes I do not get it right.”

“I agreed to be his whore—”

“Ah, yes, we all heard that,” Morrigan replied, tail swishing angrily behind her. “You are content to be a whore but not a queen. Humans are so curious—I should think being a respected member of our horde would be better than…that. But enlighten me, kallas. What is so offensive about becoming Morakkari?”

“I don’t want to be his wife,” Feyre retorted stubbornly, feeling a little shamed by Rhys’s apparent cousin. She saw it, then—the similar features, the near-otherworldly beauty. Even the way she conducted herself screamed royalty. Though if she was or not, Feyre wasn’t sure. She didn’t understand how someone became a horde king to begin with.

“Have a lot of suitors back in your human village?” Morrigan asked, her voice deceptively sweet. “Perhaps someone who puts our Vorakkar to shame? I would be careful if I were you—he’s likely to end them if he learns your feelings lay elsewhere.”

Feyre wanted to sink into the ground. “There’s no one else.”

“Then explain it all to me,” Morrigan replied, plopping down on one of the large cushions beside the table. “Perhaps I can ease some of your worries.”

Feyre stayed standing just long enough for Morrigan to huff out an impatient sigh. “Sit,” she ordered, and something in her voice compelled Feyre to comply. She left space between them, just in case Morrigan decided to attack her. Those claws, painted gold, seemed deadly enough. 

“I came to save my sisters. I thought…” Eyes cast downward, Feyre didn’t dare admit what the female beside her was piecing together.

“You thought you’d let him bed you a few times, he’d grow tired, and let you go?” she guessed. 

“Yes,” Feyre whispered, embarrassed by the whole thing. “Men have never been interested in me. I thought he simply wanted to punish me.”

“Males have never liked you?” Morrigan asked with slight disbelief. “Human males are blind, I suppose? You have been all the horde warriors have spoken of since we arrived—the human kalles and her great beauty. Well…and how you looked the Vorakkar in the eyes.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Feyre demanded.

“It isn’t done,” Morrigan replied casually, reaching across her chest into the satchel she’d brought. She pulled out a long strip of folded leather and laid it out in front of her. “I suppose the Morakkari is allowed. But the rest of us would be showing great disrespect to look him in the eyes.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me,” she said with a playful smile. “Though, he tolerates it on occasion. When we were children, I used to do it simply to remind him he wasn’t that special.” Feyre tried—and failed—to hide her smile. She didn’t want to like Morrigan.

“Is that why no one will look at me?”

“It is,” Morrigan agreed. “It would be disrespectful to you and our Vorakkar. I hope you don’t mind—”

“Please,” Feyre said, a little embarrassed by how badly she wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t so deferential. “At least…in private, it would be nice. Humans look each other in the eye to convey respect.”

“Interesting,” Morrigan replied, eyes shining. “And they take whores before they take wives?”

“Noooo…” Feyre dragged out the syllables, because she didn’t know how to explain that marriages as they’d once been simply didn’t exist here. “It’s complicated.”

“So you say,” Morrigan replied, sliding a razor between her teeth as she drew across the leather with a piece of white chalk. “Most things aren’t that complicated.”

“Oh yeah? Like the Vorakkar taking a human for a wife?”

“Exactly,” Morrigan said, words muffled. She pulled it out, urging Feyre to stand so she could measure her hips, waist, and legs. “He decided he would take a wife and that wife is you. Simple.”

“And everyone agrees with his decision?”

Morrigan grimaced. “Nik, they do not. But he is the Vorakkar, so he will do as he wishes.”

“And if people decide to leave?”

“They’re free to return to Dothik if they wish. No one here is a hostage…except, perhaps, you in your mind. They won’t, though. Everyone here would gladly follow the Vorakkar anywhere, even if he has a human Morakkari. They might even like you if you stopped screaming at him and left the tent.”

“Or they’d hate me more,” Feyre said glumly, not bothering to add that nearly everyone else in her life did. Even her sisters didn’t truly like her—seeing Nesta speak out in her defense had been shocking and unexpected. If she’d been Elain, perhaps it would have been different, but Feyre and Nesta had always been at odds.

“I like you,” Morrigan informed her cheerfully, jotting some things down on the leather with the white chalk. “And I came prepared to hate you.”

Feyre sat back down gingerly, her body measured for whatever Morrigan was putting together for her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What do you know of our goddess? Kakkari?”

“Very little,” Feyre admitted, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Morrigan pulled out heavy thread from her bag and a curved needle, threading it with deft fingers.

“Kakkari is all life,” she began in that soft, lilting voice of hers. “Think of her as the earth—all life comes from her. She is steady and solid. Her counterpart is Drukkar, who is her foundation. If she is steady and forgiving, he is the opposite. Violent storms, punishing droughts, unrelenting heat—all is Drukkars wrath. And still, Kakkari always opens for him and accepts him, and in return he loves her, protects her, and punishes all that would harm her.”

Feyre only blinked. Humans had once had gods, too, though she figured they’d been destroyed along with her planet. She didn’t know the stories anymore. Nesta did, and sometimes clung to them when they were younger, praying to this god or that, for all the good it did any of them. It all felt like stories meant to explain a confusing and harsh world.” It was clear that the Drakkari believed in their gods, though. Feyre kept her mouth shut.

“The Vorakkar is much like Drukkar,” Morrigan said when it was clearly Feyre had missed the subtleties. “He is still a male.”

Again, the whole conversation was lost on Feyre. “Oh. Okay.”

“If you want things from him, open up for him,” Morrigan explained, all but spelling it out for Feyre. She laughed to herself, shaking that head of golden hair “Drakkari males worship their females.”

“Rh—the, uh, Vorakkar doesn’t…”

Morrigan glanced over, pressing her lips into a line as Feyre’s mind betrayed her. She’d held a knife to his throat and he’d simply tossed it to the side. He’d threatened to have his way with her twice and stopped, both times because she was hurt and frightened. Even last night after their fight, he’d left rather than push her further.

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” Morrigan replied with a shrug of delicate shoulders. 

“Gone?” Feyre demanded. 

“Yes, gone. Out with some warriors. And do not ask me when he will return because that is something you should know. I am certain he will return—the Black Moon is nearly upon us. He won’t want to miss it.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” she said glumly.

“He’s ordered a tassimara,” Morrigan said, before quickly explaining it was something equivalent to a marriage. It seemed to be more of a festival than anything, but he’d make his intentions known then and there would be no argument or debate from anyone. The emphasis Morrigan put on that word implied that Feyre, too, would keep her mouth shut as well. 

Morrigan left not too long after that, promising to have a decent compromise for Feyre in the form of a pair of pants. Maybe she’d feel better if it was only her breasts that were exposed rather than all of her. Feyre turned over Morrigan's words—who later insisted she call her Mor—for the two nights Rhys wasn’t home. Heart pounding, she’d begun to think he wasn’t coming at all.

That something might have happened to him and she’d be trapped here in a hostile place, with no friends or allies save for his cousin.

But the night before the infamous Black Moon, she heard the ground thunder beneath the feet of the pyroki. Feyre stepped into the cold evening air, ignoring the chill to watch the eight of them ride in.

There he was.

The man who would be her husband. Their eyes locked for only a moment before he trotted on. He’d be in to see her soon.

And she’d be ready. 

[tyran-the-tyranical]

That one line from Raphael's Second Diary will never cease to get me 🥺 LIKE MIGHT I ADD- these are his private thoughts, separate from his manipulation attempts and so he, with his full chest, admits so much in his second diary, like when he says "never have I been so attracted to mortals as I am to those infested by the tadpole." AHH, (my delusions are so real, trust)

BUT WHEN HE SAYS "They gestured to the melting hooks, suddenly glanced my way, and in their face I saw they had the best of me." look, I get the subtext behind all these quotes, but a girl can just ignore all that media literacy and take it for face value, OK? 💅 but also reading into it, he does admire Tav to a certain extent, and I have to wonder, why? Tav isn't an origin character and Tav's actions and character basically changes with every playthrough (Same with Durge, as they can change too) So I have to wonder if it's because Tav is controlled by the player, since, Raphael does end up breaking the fourth wall in his epilogue speech, so perhaps that's what he sees.

Another way to look at it is, either way, no matter what the playthrough, he sees something in Tav, something that makes them stand out much brighter than their companions (For some reason???)

To further that statement, what is the best of Raphael? I mean, if its an evil playthrough, that would be obvious, but if you're playing a good playthrough, what then? perhaps what he sees is someone he can finally use to get the crown, that's also very likely. Still though that's a very to the point (IMO) not as interesting of a reading since it's literally just his end goal for us, BUT STILL A VALID ONE, because, it is true, that's what he wants from us the most.

Also his third diary where he just straight up admits that he's being so honest with us so he can manipulate us, love that for him, "I am master here. A prince of bargains cloaked like scarlet satin. All that hidden under sublimely obvious truths that cannot be discounted." Which also makes me wonder, is Raphael actually an honest person? I mean, Korilla thinks he's at least decent, but honest? outside of helping us, if we look at Yurgir, he really fucked him over lol. Obviously, Raphael isn't what he seems, even if he's honest with us, to what extent? he says it himself, he's honest about "...sublimely obvious truths..." but what about when he says he's grown quite fond of us in his own way, HMMMM?

I wish this man got a proper story arc in the game, outside of the whole deal for the hammer and House of Hope, that's all plot related for the hammer, but a storyline about Raphael as a character? I mean yea, maybe that would whisk away some of his mystery, his intrigue, but I'm sorry- you cant just end it with him fucking himself (poorly) and trying to break Hope (making her a metaphorical symbol of hope anyway, I think....) AND LEAVE IT THERE?!?!? at the same time, I do like the ambiguity of his character, you could think of him as a cruel bastard after seeing what he's done in the House Of Hope to his debtors and Hope herself or perhaps just a Pathetic lil guy who's shit in bed lol, or maybe even soft, if you go off Korillas words and what he does for us in game he can come across as quite nice, especially after we've interacted with Mizora who's is the only other Cambion example we can go off of.

I also just think it's interesting that he sees anything in Tav/Durge at all. Ofc he says he sees the best of him (Always gotta relate back to himself lol) but that especially a mortal is what he could see himself, the best of himself, but then again he does see potential and ambition as admirable (?) or just something he appreciates, you can see that with Mol and Gortash to some extent anyway, But what ambitions does Tav have outside of just trying to survive? Like, the obvious answer is he wants us to give him the crown and we're the underdog in the story but then why does he refer to Tav so differently then? I fear this has turned into another rant again, lol.

Just a final thought here, but, if he did ever get a story arc, similar to the companions, would they give you multiple directions to take his character? i mean with Shadowheart for example, you could help her break from shar or have her fully convert into shars chosen, but even then, if you free her from shar theres the point of saving her family or freeing her from Shars (curse?) there's multiple ways for her story to end. Though, Raphael isnt a companion, so would he have something similar to idk a minor companion like Halsin or Minthara, who don't really have that much of a diversion (I think) in their endings, they don't really have the option, only really if the player decides to be evil or not, they kinda just follow them either way, it doesn't really impact their own stories. Obviously, I would prefer something with nuance but also, HE ISN'T A COMPANION 😭 and pressingly some of the companions need more work done than he does atm lol. Maybe that's me just projecting lol, once again, me wanting to have my cake and eat it too, anyway, that's me done... for now lol

[ganem-ouchie]

Fuck it I'm calling all Hannibal fans who still have had the misfortune of not knowing about The Amazing Devil and their music.

THEIR SONGS ARE FOR US TO FUCKING GNAW ON!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here are the ones I think are the most hannigram coded to ever hannigram code (the list is not short)

Love Run Intro

King

Pruning Shears

Elsa's Song

Pray

New York Torch Song

Two Minutes

Love Run Reprise

The Rockrose and the Thistle

The Horror and the Wild

Farewell Wanderlust

Fair (wailing)

That Unwanted Animal (ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?????????)

Marbles (wailingx2)

Battle Cries

Secret Worlds (this one is self indulgent and a little more reach but i cant help but imagine them to it)

The Calling (ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING MEx2)

Blossoms

The Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace (this is literally Will s3 don't touch me)

So, after basically listing almost their whole discography. AND I MEAN ALMOST THEIR WHOLE DISCOGRAPHY. No matter if you're looking for cozy Hannigram vibes, Murder hubbies shenanigans, funky psychological " I wonder if either of us can survive separation" stuff, Will's POV, Hannibal's POV, both in different segments, WHATEVER. Please listen to them.

[xmalereader]

Joel Miller X Male Reader X Simon Riley

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|| Masterlist ||

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Authors note: Sorry for the long wait on updating, I lost a bit of motivation and got busy with life and had some issues with work but I should be good for now! Also, wonderful request and enjoyed writing it out, was a little unsure of making this pairing either a love triangle or just make it plain poly and have them all love each other but, instead, decided to make it angsty as requested! Hope you enjoy and their is more to come soon!

Requested: Hey could I request a crossover between Joel Miller and Simon “Ghost” Riley? Reader is part of Task Force 141, and had met Joel before the outbreak, forming a relationship between the two of them, until they had a fight (could probably be since reader would leave for missions without having no contact with him and haven’t told Joel about his work and kept secrecy both of them hurt each-other with their words in that fight), after that they lost all contact and the outbreak happened, until they found each other again after reader got separated from the group, ghost and reader were having kinda of a thing (both of them would protect each others back but starting to feel things for each-other) sorry if this is long btw! maybe Joel and reader talk while Ghost looks for reader please take any liberties after that! (can you tell I like angst?) || @un-namedmalereader ||

Warnings: Slight fluff, angst, love triangle-ish, mentions of animal death, survival, FEDRA, slight last of us spoilers from video game, crossover between ghost and Joel. Ellie is protective, memories, past trauma, separation, closure.

Word count: 5k

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He knew that the world would become dangerous when the outbreak happened. Being separated from his team and only finding Ghost who roamed the city on his own. The two stuck together during their time of the outbreak, moving from city to city, state to state, looking for safety or perhaps a place to stay? They’ve tried working along side FEDRA but, soon found out that FEDRA wasn’t a safe place and only cashed humanity to grow angry by the control FEDRA brought to the people.

It didn’t take long for him and Ghost to escape the facility and continue on with their journey. The outbreak happened when he was sent on a mission to Mexico when he heard the news of infected people going crazy and attacking others. Him and his team were sent to the front lines, helping as many people as they could whether they were good or bad they helped as many as they could. But, in the end many lives were lost and many that were saved were already infected. It was difficult saving lives when humanity was pushing away their own people from hiding behind walls. Giving the infected more people to create a bigger army to create trouble for everyone.

Y/n had been traveling with Ghost for years. The two getting closer every year to the point where they wouldn’t leave each others sides, wherever the other went they followed. They were skilled in military combat and knew how to survive the infected. Both he and Ghost took their time to actually study the infected, figuring out how to kill them faster and which infected they didn’t have to worry to much about. Whenever they moved at night they’d walk in silence, ears open as they listened for any clickers that roamed the dark streets.

They always made sure that where ever they went it was safe for them to stay a night or two. They didn’t know where they were heading at first and simply traveled anywhere that contained food and shelter for a few days. Y/n had wanted to return back to Texas, to see Joel and Sarah again. But, after the last time they spoke with each other it ended in an argument and a break up between the two. Joel was upset each time he was called off to his team, telling him that he wanted him home along with his daughter and to be a family.

Y/n couldn’t abandon his team who needed him and it became difficult for him to decide. Until Joel made the choice for him and made him leave. His eyes full of disappointment and heartache. That was the last time he’s ever seen Joel and once the breakout happened he had no idea if either of the two made it out alive or if they were even alive at all. He forced himself to think that they were long dead and that he was on his own.

Both he and ghost decided to head up West, nearing winter season the two suspect that the infected would slow down a bit with the colder weather approaching. Y/n had his own mask over his face, keeping his face warm from the cold winter air. His own rifle in hand as he walks next to Ghost who remained quiet. The sound of snow beneath their boots is heard as they continued to move up hill. The sun was out and bright but that didn’t do much with the cold.

“We need to find a place for the night.” Said Ghost as he stops in his steps and looks at his surroundings. “Where?” Y/n speaks up, puffing out some air from his mouth and looking around too. All they saw from a distance were trees but no signs of buildings near by.

Before Y/n could speak again he’s stopped by ghost lifting his hand, shushing him before he could say anything. Ghosts gloved finger points to his covered ears, telling him to listen. Y/n stood quietly, listening to the wind blow and waiting until he hears the sound of crunching snow from a distance, the sound of huffing. He looks over to his left to see a horse from a distance.

“Over there.” He whispers, nodding towards the distance while Ghost also watched. “Riders.” Ghost muffled, grabbing Y/n by his back pack and dragging him down to the nearest fallen log. Y/n stumbled in his step and falls onto his back, glaring at Ghost while the other smirks under his mask.

“Asshole I can walk.” He whispered harshly, getting his rifle ready and checking over the log they hid behind, getting a better view of the two riders. “I’ve got four on sight.” He whispered, breath hot whole ghost watched the small group of riders approaching them at fast speed. “Take the first two, I’ll take the others.” Ghost got his own gun ready as Y/n takes the first shot, shooting down of the riders as the horse shots up in panic, throwing off the dead rider from their back and running off. The fired shot gets the rest of the others attention as they frantically moved to get their own weapons but both he and ghost were faster, killing the three and watching them fall into the snow ground.

“The horses?” Y/n calls out.

Ghost hums. “Kill one, will use it for food will at least have something to eat tonight. I’ll round up the other three.”

Y/n nods in agreement, standing from his hiding spot, rifle raised as his eyes followed the horse and taking the shot. He always hated this part of surviving, having to kill innocent animals who were only trying to survive too but knew that they needed food and had to eat soon. He slings the rifle over his shoulder and makes his way over to the dead animal and gets to work in skinning the animal and storing some of its meat away in his bag while ghost piled up the dead riders on the side and tracked down the other horses.

The day grew dark, covering the sky in stars. Ghost had brought the horses back, tying them up near a tree and sitting down next to Y/n who cooked their food on a small fire. They knew that a big fire could get someone’s attention from miles away and they didn’t want to attract too much attention. When the meat was cooked well, he hands Ghost a piece and the two eat in silence with Y/n’s head leaning against Ghosts shoulder.

“How much further?” Y/n mumbled, chewing on his food and focusing on the fire.

“More miles than you think.” He hears Ghost mumble out, tossing the small bones into the fire and wiping his hands on his own pants before slipping the gloves back on. Leaning closer to Y/n and sighing deeply. “We should make it to a warmer area before another storm hits.” His companion reminds him. They haven’t faced any bad storms yet, but knew that a bad one could be approaching anytime soon.

The two are silent, listening to the sound of the wood cracking in the fire. The wind blowing on their faces while the horses moved silently, huddled together to stay warm. Y/n sniffles, tossing the bones into the fire and sitting up. “We should get some rest before daylight hits.”

Ghost hums in agreement. “I’ll take first watch.”

Y/n chuckles, opening his bag and pulling out a blanket, wrapping it around himself and leaning back against the log. “You know what to do if anyone approaches us.” Y/n mumbled, tiredness taking over as he lied his head back, closing his eyes and letting the darkness take over as he slept for the night. He was suppose to sleep for a few hours only and he woken up by Ghost in order to change shifts with each other but he wasn’t woken up by him.

He’d woken up with a hint of worry in mind as he looks around to see Ghost with the horses, checking the riders things. Y/n can’t help but be a little irritated at Simon for not waking him up. He puts his blanket away and approached Simon, crossing his arms. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You needed the rest.” Simon had his back to him, rummaging through the bags and finding a few knives and extra food too. “You rarely slept.” Said Y/n while Simon chuckles. “I’ve gone longer with no sleep, besides—I found this.” Simon holds out a Map to show Y/n who snatched it from his hands. Eyes wide as he stares at the map before him. “There’s a village close by, probably abandoned but, it’s a few miles out in the direction we are heading. We can stay the night.” Said Ghost.

“Then let’s head there.”

The two pack up their things and mount their horses, riding up hill and through the snow. It took them a few hours to arrive at the village, guard up as they grew cautious of the place and looked around for any signs of infected people or people in general. Simon was ahead of him while he rode behind, other horse close to them as they hold their weapons close. Y/n checks his surrounding and finds no signs of infected only the sight of torn down homes and old bars that he took notice. His gaze is focused to his right that he noticed a deer dashing across the snow, causing him to come to a small stop before the deer is quickly shot down by an arrow, throwing the animal off and to tumble down.

“Shit, Ghost!” He calls out to his partner ahead. Who didn’t take notice of the kill, too focused on his own surroundings. Y/n watched the dead deer closely, waiting silently and watched as a young girl steps out from hiding. She’s focused on her kill that she doesn’t notice him at all. He watched her remove the arrow from the animal and tying it up to take with her, she was very young and possible alone. Y/n didn’t want to frighten her but also didn’t want to cause any trouble in case she was with more people.

The young girl frowns to herself and looks over her shoulder to see him on top of his horse, causing her to react and pulling out her bow with an arrow ready. Before she could shoot him he takes notice of Ghost appearing by the girls side with his own gun raised at her.

“Ghost!” Y/n shouts, cursing under his breath as he jumps off his horse and rushed over to him, not wanting to frighten the kid any longer. “Ghost lower your gun.” He hissed out, glaring at his partner who focused on the girl.

“Shoot me and I kill your friend.” The girl threatens, glaring at the two.

“We don’t want any trouble.” Y/n speaks up, holding his hands up in surrender. “We thought this place was alone, we’re only passing by.” His eyes shift to Ghost. “Lower the gun.” He orders.

“Lower your bow.” Ghost directs to the girl.

Y/n watched the two as they both lower their own weapons. The girl is tense, intimidated by the presences of two grown men covered from head to toe. “We won’t hurt you, like I said we were just passing by.” He says again. “Are you alone?” He simply asked, earning a glare from her. “And if I am?” She shot back.

“Then we won’t worry about you.” Ghost huffed out, putting his gun away and approaching Y/n, protective of his partner as he stood by his side. He continued to watch her closely, ready to attack if she decides to raise her bow again.

“What my partner said, if your alone will leave you alone.” He repeats, lowering his hands and taking a step backwards. The girl bites her lip. “Wait.”

The two turn to her.

“I need medicine, my—my friend needs medicine.”

“Are they infected?” Y/n asks.

She shakes her head. “He’s hurt.” Her hands shake from the cold, grip growing white as she held her bow. “I need medicine, give me the medicine and I won’t disturb you or tell anyone who comes through that you were both here.” She grits her teeth.

Y/n glanced at Ghost who stared back at him, the two communicating in silence until Y/n speaks up. “Take us to your friend and will give you what you need.”

“I’m not doing that.” She hissed.

“Come on, kid. I don’t know how old you are but it’s obvious that just you and your friend who is hurt and your alone trying to keep him and yourself alive and do you really think you can carry that back to wherever your staying?” He makes a good point, the kid hesitating at his words until she finally gives in.

“Do anything and I’ll kill you.” She threatens once more and side steps to allow them to help her. It’s Ghost who steps up first, bending down to throwing the deer over his shoulder and carrying it back to their horses while Y/n walked along side the kid. “We’ve got an extra horse you can ride along on.” He mentions, getting her attention.

“Unless you wish to ride with me?”

“I’ll take the extra horse.” She quickly says.

Y/n nodded and guided her back, he decided to take the extra horse in the back instead in order to make sure that the kid didn’t try anything funny while he wasn’t looking and pretends to tell her that their extra ride is the horse between them. He hoists the kid up and checks up on Ghost who’s strapped the deer and mounted his own horse. “Where too?” Ghost asks the kid who swallows nervously and nods ahead. “Up ahead, I’ll let you know which house.”

Ghost gives the kid a nod and a glance to Y/n who quickly mounts his own horse and began to move forward, keeping an eyes on his surroundings and checking on the kid every few minutes as they continued forward.

“What’s your name?” He finally decided to ask.

“Ellie.” She breaths out, pulling her coat closer to herself, trying to stay warm from the cold weather. “Y/n.” He responds back. “My partner here is Ghost.”

“Ghost?” She raised a brow, looking over her shoulder.

Y/n chuckles. “Long story, but he prefers to be called that.”

“Does he have a real name, at all?” She decides to ask.

“He does, but he doesn’t give it to anyone. Only those he trusts.” Y/n clarified.

Ellie frowns and turns back around to face ahead, staring at Ghosts back before spotting the house she was taking shelter in. “That’s the one.” She points over, bringing them to a stop.

“Check the inside.” Ghost orders Y/n who rolls his shed, hopping off his horse and glancing at the kid and heading inside. His gun is raised as he checks the place, both floors and finding no one. He’s starting to believe that the kid was lying to them until he reached the garage, pulling the door open and finding someone under a blanket. He moves down the stairs cautiously, gun raised as he approached his target, getting a better look at who it was.

His body froze, eyes widening as he takes in the man that lied under the blanket. His face is pale and looked to be in pain. He didn’t think he’d ever find him here thinking that he was long dead.

“Joel?”

—

Ghost had grown worried by the long wait, tempted to rush inside and shooting anyone that got in his way in order to find his partner but, his worry quickly fades away when the garage door is pried open with Y/n standing on the other side and signaling over. Ghost helps the kid down as she rushed to her friends side, checking up on him as Ghost removed the deer from the horse and carried it inside while Y/n guided the horses inside, enough space for all of them before closing the garage door behind him.

“Hey, I’m back—you’ll be alright.” He hears Ellie’s soft whispers as she pulled the covers higher to his neck and watched nervously at his ragged breathing. “How long had he been like this?” Y/n asks, taking his pack and kneeling down by her side.

“A few days.” She answers, watching the other as he unzips his bag and checks the medicine they had and hands the kid a few pills. “Here, this should help him.” He also hands her some water which she accepts and helps Joel sit up, his eyes still closed and weak as he willingly takes the medicine and is lord back down. “Will help you with making the food, you’re cold and should rest.” He instructs the kid who gives a short nod.

“Thank you.” She sniffles out.

Y/n glanced at Joel and then back at her, nodding softly. “You’re welcome.” He comes to a stand and walks over to Ghosts side who was on his knees, skinning the animal and getting the meat ready. “You should start a fire.”

“I’ll make sure it’s low, it should keep us warm throughout the day.” Y/n walks further away from the three and gets started on a fire, collecting anything he could find in the room that was flammable and getting a fire started. The flames are small but good enough to warm up the space they are staying in for the night and cooking their own food, they make sure to give Ellie the rest of her food to stare away and letting her that they had enough of their own .

Ellie sat in-front of the fire, eating in silence while Y/n and Ghost sat back against the garage door. Ghost leaning back with crossed arms over his chest and head back as Y/n watched Joel from a distance. His partner takes of this and silently whispers. “You know him.”

Y/n swallows nervously and adjusts his sitting position. “I thought he was dead.” He answers back, lying down on his side with his head on ghosts lap. “He looks like he is.” Said Ghost but Y/n wasn’t paying much attention as he focused on Ellie helping Joel and checking on his bandages and making sure that he was warm enough.

“It was twenty years ago, he was my neighbor. He was a single father with a daughter who were trying to survive on their own.” Y/n suddenly starts to explain, getting Ghosts attention. “I sometimes took care of his daughter whenever he worked and she’d stay over at my place,” chuckling he continues. “We’d cook together, watch a movie and I’d help her with her homework.” He remembered those times when Sarah would barge inside his home without knocking, holding her trophy from soccer and waving it around with excitement as she bounced on her toes and shouting that she’d won the game along with her team.

Y/n had only watched her play a few times due to him working or being called away but he enjoyed every moment and was happy for the kid when she first won her game. Even Joel was happy for his daughter and actually cooked for once as a celebration. A nice dinner for the three of them while they listened to Sarah ramble on about her game to him and how they won.

“You were his.” He hears Ghost say, causing him to snap back to reality and turn onto his other side, facing Ghost and grinning. “Once.” He clarified, nuzzling his face into his thigh. “Don’t be jealous, it doesn’t suit you.” He chuckles, sighing softly and closing his eyes to get some sleep while Ghost smiled softly under his own mask and gave the kid one last look before getting some rest too.

The next day started with Ellie remaking the fire again, cooking her own food and trying her best not to burn it while also checking on Joel. Ghost had left Y/n’s side and helped the kid out, taking over the cook duties while she smiles in appreciation and the two talk quietly. Simon listening to her questions and him answering with a simple hum while she continued to ask.

Y/n sat up quietly, listening to them talk.

“How many infected have you killed?”

“Too many to count.”

“Awesome.”

Y/n chuckles at her words, coming to a stand and stretching his arms. He looks over to Joel who remained asleep, hoping that the medicine would work with regaining his health and healing his wounds. He’s glad that he didn’t get bitten or get infected, things could have ended up worse. “How’s he doing?” His question startles Ellie, quickly relaxing and looking over her shoulder to check on Joel. “He’s getting better. The medicine is helping and his wound is getting better. I think the fire helped a little with heating up the room.” She tells him, sitting on her knees and watching Ghost finish cooking and handing her a piece of meat.

Y/n sighs deeply and takes one of his rifles, strapping it over his shoulder. “I’m going to check the perimeter, make sure that it’s safe.” He announced at the two as he looks out the garage door window, finding no signs of humans or infected before pulling the door open. He takes one of the horses with him and closed the garage door behind him, giving ghost a small smile behind his own mask and leaving him on his own with the kid. Most of the time Ghost would be the one to protest into coming with him but, today he knew that he needed some time on his own. The fact that he found out that his old lover is still alive shocked him to his core, not knowing how to feel about everything.

It’s been more than twenty years since they’ve last spoken and he didn’t want to be around when Joel wakes up. That’s if he wakes up.

Y/n takes his time checking the area, slow on his horse and quiet when checking buildings and for any supplies. He’s able to find a few things here and there but nothing too important that could be used in the future. On the ride back he makes sure to knock on the garage door, signaling the others inside that he’s returned. It’s ghost who slide the door up, allowing him inside and closing it behind him once he straps the horse inside.

“I only found a few things that can be useful—no sign of infected and people. Also checked a few house but they were already cleaned out.” He explains to Ghost, slipping his bag off along with his gun and setting them aside.

“Another friend of yours?”

Y/n froze, back facing the three as he takes in the familiar rough voice. His hands grip around the gun strap, lowering it down slowly as he looks over his shoulder to see Joel sitting up against the wall, no longer looking pale. He looked healthier and was eating while Ellie sat by his side.

“Partner.” Ghost speaks up, arms crossed and approaching the two.

Ellie nods. “Ghost and Y/n are a package deal, they helped me with getting you better and getting some food too.”

“Y/n?” That’s the first thing Joel questions, raising a brow and turning his gaze to him. The older man hums, wincing a little as he sits up straight. “I used to know someone with that name.” He mumbled out as Ellie urges him to stay seated. “You’re still healing.” She frowns at Joel glare directed to her, ready to argue with the kid until Y/n steps up. “She’s right, rest. Besides, we won’t be able to leave this place anytime soon. A storm is approaching and will be locked indoors for some time.” He informs them, turning to ghost who stood by his side.

“Will need enough food to last the storm.” Said Ghost.

“I wasn’t able to find anything while I was out there.” Y/n placed his hands on his hips, sighing deeply and glancing over to the horses, biting his lip and turning back to Ghost. The two already knowing what they’d have to do.

“I’ll handle it.” Ghost steps up to the task, approaching one of the horses and taking his time on removing the saddle along with the additional bags.

“Wait—your gonna kill it?” Ellie’s voice is small, eyes full of sadness.

Y/n gives a sad smile and a nod. “It’s the only way we can survive, that deer of yours won’t hold up and the meat we had from the previous one won’t last us long. These storms can last up to days, perhaps even a whole week and we need to be ready.” He instructs, reaching out to the kid and giving her shoulder a reassuring pat. “You don’t have to watch—“

“I want to help.” She says with determination in her voice, eyes stern and ready to do anything. Y/n chuckles. “You can help Ghost with the horse and look for more wood in order to keep a fire going every once an awhile.”

Ellie nods, before she can follow Ghost she stops in her tracks to turn around and face Joel.

“Go, I’ll be alright.”

Ellie hesitates.

“I’ll stay and take care of him.” Y/n bites out, taking notice of Ghosts eyes on him. “Go.” He nods to the two, letting them know that he’ll be fine as the two head outside and close the door behind them, leaving the two alone. Y/n stands in silence, taking a deep breath and exhaling as he focused on the small fire and keeping the flames from dying out. He works in silence, sensing Joel’s eyes on him as he worked.

“Need me to check that wound?” Y/n asks, glancing to Joel who winced when he checked his own bandages. “Think the kid missed up the bandages a bit.”

Y/n rolls his eyes and moves closer to his side, gloved hands lifting up Joel’s short to inspect the bandages and taking notice of how dirty and worn they were. “These need to be changed.” He whispers, standing up and getting his bag and digging out some clean bandages before going back to his side and helping the other unwrap the old ones and replacing them with new ones.

Neither talk to each other as he worked in silence, checking his work and letting him know in a soft whisper that he was good to lower his shirt and turns back to the fire, using some cardboard that he’d found to toss inside the flames.

“I thought you were dead.”

Joel’s voice is rasped, head tilting back while the other sat in silence. “Was it the name?” He questions.

“No.” Joel groans out. “It was your eyes.”

Y/n looked over his shoulder to see Joel staring at him with a soft look. “I remember those eyes anywhere.” He chuckles to himself as Y/n shifts his gaze away from him and looks down, slowly lifting his mask over his face and giving Joel a better look at his face. After twenty years not much has changed, he still looked the same since the day he left.

Joel stares. “How did you make it this far?”

Y/n’s gloved fingers graze over his mask. “I was in the military, all I ever did was survive. This was nothing new to me.” He mumbled. “My team and I were in Mexico when it happened, got separated when the infected started to take over by the third day and we didn’t have enough time to save everyone. Even though majority were infected already.” His eyes focus on the flames before him, refusing to meet Joel’s eyes. “We got separated while trying to get out of Mexico—I don’t know where the rest of my team is or if their still alive but Ghost and I were the only ones around and we stuck together for twenty years. We moved anywhere we could find food and shelter with no real destination of where we were heading.” He glanced to Joel. “Then we found Ellie, helped her and offered her medicine. She told me that you were sick and thought you were some random guy until I saw you—“

“You saw an old face that you thought died all of those years ago.” Joel added with a soft tone, eyes still focusing on the other who fidget nervously.

“By the looks of it Sarah isn’t with you…she didn’t make it did she?” Y/n whispers out the last part, refusing to believe that she was gone but knew deep down inside that she probably got infected or worse, killed by her own people. The silence from Joel was enough for him to know that she was gone and that he wasn’t going to see that girl again.

Before he could try to change the subject, Joel speaks up. “She asked for you when it all started. I never told her that things ended between us and when everything started she was scared.” Joel remembers that day clearly like it was yesterday. “She’d call your name out and begged me to call you while I was too busy getting her and my brother out of the city. I promised her that I would call you once we were safe but, we never made it far.”

Y/n eyes are wide at the new information. The bond between him and Sarah was strong and loved the kid very much, remembering the times she’s visit to watch a movie or invite him over to dinner since she was by herself and Joel was working late again.

“We had an accident and she got hurt, couldn’t walk and so I carried her and tried to get us across the river until we bumped into a soldier.”

Y/n’s head shot up in attention as he listens to Joel explain. “He thought we were infected and took a shot at us…I got grazed but Sarah took a bullet to her stomach.” Joel’s voice grows small, looking down as he goes through the memory of his daughters death, begging her to stay awake while she panicked full of fear.

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Y/n whispers. “She didn’t deserve any of this.” He wanted to reach off to him but knew that it was best to keep his distance, instead he comes to a stand and clears his throat. “I’m going to check on Ellie and Ghost, see how their doing.”

Upon approaching the garage door, Joel calls out in asking. “Ghost, does he take care of you?”

Y/n fidgets with his gloves, taking in his questions and going back to the first few days that they were alone together when the world ended. How they shared each others skills and tried their best to search for their teammates only to come up empty handed. The nights they spent together, curled up against each other in order to stay warm and the amount of times he’d hear Ghost crack a dad joke or two.

He smiles fondly and looks over his shoulder. “He always does.”

Joel nods. “Good.” With that, Y/n accepts the answer and proceeds to check up on the other two.

[maaarine]

The Troubling Trend in Teenage Sex (Peggy Orenstein, The New York Times, April 12 2024)

"For the past four years, Dr. Herbenick has been tracking the rapid rise of “rough sex” among college students, particularly sexual strangulation, or what is colloquially referred to as choking.

Nearly two-thirds of women in her most recent campus-representative survey of 5,000 students at an anonymized “major Midwestern university” said a partner had choked them during sex (one-third in their most recent encounter).

The rate of those women who said they were between the ages 12 and 17 the first time that happened had shot up to 40 percent from one in four. (…)

Twenty years ago, sexual asphyxiation appears to have been unusual among any demographic, let alone young people who were new to sex and iffy at communication.

That’s changed radically in a short time, with health consequences that parents, educators, medical professionals, sexual consent advocates and teens themselves urgently need to understand.

Sexual trends can spread quickly on campus and, to an extent, in every direction.

But, at least among straight kids, I’ve sometimes noticed a pattern: Those that involve basic physical gratification — like receiving oral sex in hookups — tend to favor men.

Those that might entail pain or submission, like choking, are generally more for women.

So, while undergrads of all genders and sexualities in Dr. Herbenick’s surveys report both choking and being choked, straight and bisexual young women are far more likely to have been the subjects of the behavior; the gap widens with greater occurrences.

(In a separate study, Dr. Herbenick and her colleagues found the behavior repeated across the United States, particularly for adults under 40, and not just among college students.)

Alcohol may well be involved, and while the act is often engaged in with a steady partner, a quarter of young women said partners they’d had sex with on the day they’d met also choked them.

Either way, most say that their partners never or only sometimes asked before grabbing their necks.

For many, there had been moments when they couldn’t breathe or speak, compromising the ability to withdraw consent, if they’d given it.

No wonder that, in a separate study by Dr. Herbenick, choking was among the most frequently listed sex acts young women said had scared them, reporting that it sometimes made them worry whether they’d survive.

Among girls and women I’ve spoken with, many did not want or like to be sexually strangled, though in an otherwise desired encounter they didn’t name it as assault.

Still, a sizable number were enthusiastic; they requested it. It is exciting to feel so vulnerable, a college junior explained.

The power dynamic turns her on; oxygen deprivation to the brain can trigger euphoria.

That same young woman, incidentally, had never climaxed with a partner: While the prevalence of choking has skyrocketed, rates of orgasm among young women have not increased, nor has the “orgasm gap” disappeared among heterosexual couples.

“It indicates they’re not doing other things to enhance female arousal or pleasure,” Dr. Herbenick said.

When, for instance, she asked one male student who said he choked his partner whether he’d ever tried using a vibrator instead, he recoiled. “Why would I do that?” he asked.

Perhaps, she responded, because it would be more likely to produce orgasm without risking, you know, death.

In my interviews, college students have seen male orgasm as a given; women’s is nice if it happens, but certainly not expected or necessarily prioritized (by either partner).

It makes sense, then, that fulfillment would be less the motivator for choking than appearing adventurous or kinky. Such performances don’t always feel good. (…)

Now consider that every year Dr. Herbenick has done her survey, the number of females reporting extreme effects from strangulation (neck swelling, loss of consciousness, losing control of urinary function) has crept up.

Among those who’ve been choked, the rate of becoming what students call “cloudy” — close to passing out, but not crossing the line — is now one in five, a huge proportion.

All of this indicates partners are pressing on necks longer and harder.

The physical, cognitive and psychological impacts of sexual choking are disturbing.

So is the idea that at a time when women’s social, economic, educational and political power are in ascent (even if some of those rights may be in jeopardy), when #MeToo has made progress against harassment and assault, there has been the popularization of a sex act that can damage our brains, impair intellectual functioning, undermine mental health, even kill us.

Nonfatal strangulation, one of the most significant indicators that a man will murder his female partner (strangulation is also one of the most common methods used for doing so), has somehow been eroticized and made consensual, at least consensual enough.

Yet, the outcomes are largely the same: Women’s brains and bodies don’t distinguish whether they are being harmed out of hate or out of love."