#and i still have not even mEnTiOnED river

[silverflameataraxia]

SJM has an amazing ability to either forget what she wrote mere pages prior or change the narrative completely. Like how the punishment hike ended with Nesta and Cassian saying this:

She stared up at him, this male who had walked with her for five days in near-silence, waiting, she knew, for this moment.

Cassian nuzzled into her hand, closing his eyes. "I'll be with you every step of the way," he whispered into her palm. "Just don't lock me out. You want to walk in silence for a week, I'm fine with that. So long as you talk to me at the end of it."

Cassian took Nesta on this hike as punishment, not healing. He got off on the thought of her being miserable and hating it. He specifically didn't talk to her because he was pissed at her. Even after finding out she was suicidal, Cassian says in his own POV that he continued to give her the silent treatment because he was still pissed. The rare occasions he did speak, his words were cold, distant, rarely civil. Cassian spent the days walking way ahead of Nesta, not caring if she drank water or if she jumped off the mountain.

If SJM wanted this to be a healing hike then why didn't she just write that? Cassian could have mentioned to Nesta one day about this mountain trek used for healing, and one day after being bombarded by her past traumas and feeling depressed and suicidal, Nesta could have asked Cassian to take her there. They could have spent the week walking side-by-side in silence until Nesta was ready to speak. But that's not what SJM wrote.

To make matters worse, the text implies that when they make it back, Cassian heads to the river house to give an update on Nesta's progress. For what? Finally breaking her down? Nesta told Cassian some of her past traumas in confidence. I hope he didn't blab about her traumas to the IC when it's none of their business.

Nothing in this book was done to heal Nesta or done out of a desire to help her. Everything was done as punishment, hence Cassian, Lucien, and maybe Mor providing progress reports like Nesta is some zoo animal.

[thevillainswhore]

A Balm To The Heart

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: After a long day at the woodyard, Bucky finds peace in his best girl’s arms.

Warnings: Pure unfiltered fluff, like the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed, Bucky’s POV, driving while sleepy (don’t do it!!), pet names, established relationship, oh and did I mention fluff?

Author’s Note: Divider by @saradika-graphics. Proofread by @buckys-wintersoldier thank you so much my darling, you’re my rock 🧡 This is part of @elixirfromthestars cafe writing challenge!! Using the prompt 🍞 “I like hearing your heart beating when I put my head on your chest.” My first ever challenge I’ve been apart of and I had the most fun with it!! Thank you, my sweet Mel! 🥰

The Love In The Woods Collection ❄️

The sun began to lay on the precipice of the day, the light slowly fading out to make way for the dark of the night. Bucky fought the tiredness claiming his eyes, tempting him to fall asleep at the wheel. If you knew he was driving in his state, you’d throw a fit. 

But he had to make it home to his baby. 

Exhaustion weighed Bucky down from a long day at the woodyard. Hauling timber all day to prepare the town for the harsh winter coming up was enough to make his old joints ache with pain. However, with the lack of staff due to the storm blocking most of the roads, he had to do it all himself. 

Bucky just wanted to sink into you. 

All day, he was tormented by the prettiest image of you snuggled into your shared bed, pouty lips and pleading eyes begging him to call in sick, to stay home with you. 

And even though his sanity was tested, Bucky regretfully declined. All the old folks needed wood to keep their homes heated in the cold season and his mind wouldn’t have settled knowing a full day would be lost to his own selfishness. 

Though as he drove back to his cabin, rivers of golden beams shining into his truck, Bucky wished he had taken your offer.  

Although, his sourness sweetened into a warm affection as he caught the glint of his wedding ring in the dying sunlight. 

You love sunsets, Bucky smiled to himself. He had to take you to the top of the mountains to watch another one soon.

He could imagine you at home, watching the remnants of the day with its beautiful colours reflecting into your eyes. 

Sunsets mean the end of the day, fresh starts and hope that tomorrow will bring us more peace than today. Remember that, Bear. 

Your voice instantly calmed the mess in his mind, the stress that had wound his muscles tight. With a heavy sigh, Bucky let go of the toll the day had taken on him and instead focused on where the path ahead would lead him — you. 

The truck grumbled to a stop in the driveway and Bucky didn’t bother stopping to grab his tools or his bags. The pink painted door called to him, called your name, his home. 

Throwing the door open, Bucky quickly shook off his coat and boots. His steps didn’t falter as he made his way to the bedroom. Not when he began peeling his clothes off one by one on the way. Not when emotion clogged up his eyes at the smell of your sweet scent lingering around the house. 

And there you were as he entered his bedroom. Once crafted by his bare hands as part of his first home after he left college, now his safe space in which he was lucky enough to share with his wife. His haven. 

It looked like you hadn’t moved from the morning. Still tangled in the sheets, your hair was messy from your tossing and turning, though your skin glowed beautifully in the golden sunlight that shimmered through the window. The orange tones that tattooed your body almost gave you a vintage look and the sight was enough to render Bucky speechless. 

Just like the day you showed up on his doorstep after years apart. 

Your smile was blinding as you looked up at him, tearing yourself away from your fantasy book he knew you loved so much and placing it on the nightstand. “Hey, baby. I missed you.” 

If that didn’t do things to Bucky’s heart. 

“Dolly,” he gasped, a slight whine to his voice. 

Instantly, because you’re so well in tune with him, your arms opened wide — an invitation to join you. “Come here, you big lug.” 

Bucky didn't waste another second. Clad in only his underwear, he all but jumped onto the bed, the pristinely crafted wood of the frame creaking from old age. 

You shifted the duvet to swaddle around his frame once he reached you, cocooning him in your accumulated warmth over the day. Feeling your bare skin against his after hours away from you was liberating, like he had ascended to heaven. Even after years of wedded bliss, Bucky still got tingles whenever the two of you touched. 

You were pure magic wrapped in a bottle. 

“Can I lay my head on you?” Bucky asked quietly, relishing in the serenity you so easily provided him. 

You laughed, the sound mesmerising to his ears. “Like you even have to ask. Tell me about your day, Bear.” 

Needing no other permission, Bucky laid in your arms. Positioning his head on your chest, his arms wrapped around your stomach and his legs intertwined with yours. He was so much bigger than you, comically so. But Bucky needed to lose himself in your softness from time to time. 

He groaned as the muscles in his joints finally had a chance to relax. “I would much rather hear about your day, sweetheart. Lemme hear your voice for a while, will ya?” 

Bucky looked up to find your cheeks tightened from the large, bashful smile on your face, one that he knew you had tried to smother but failed to do so. They were his favourite. 

You shook your head fondly and squeezed him before beginning to recall your day. It wasn’t filled with much — mostly with bathroom breaks when you could rip yourself out of bed, a trip to the home library down the hall to pick the next book of your series, and lastly an hour of baking. Even so, Bucky listened to you intently, his soul replenishing more with each activity you listed off. 

Because that was his goal in life. His vow to you in marriage. To make your life as easy and simple as possible. To bring you peace when the world threatened to dull your sparkle. 

And boy was he satisfied to know he had achieved that. 

Bucky’s eyes began to grow heavy, the kind that he couldn’t fight any longer. You must have noticed from the loosening of his limbs and the sudden lightness to his body. “Are you sleepy, baby?” 

The rhythm of your heart soothed him as he murmured a lazy hum of agreement. 

“You can rest now, Bear.” Your soft voice sounded further away as sleep started to overtake him, like the prettiest lullaby he’d ever heard. “I’ve got you.” 

Before the whispers of slumber could steal him, though, Bucky smiled — drunken and free. “I like hearing your heart beating when I put my head on your chest.”

The giggle that vibrated from your body to his only made him fall even more in love with you. Bucky purred like a cat as you ran your nails through his hair and finally let himself go. 

The last sensation that registered in his mind was the feeling of your lips pressed against his head and a last declaration of love. “Thank you for being the reason it does.” 

[synthetickitsune]

hoshi,,,blind date,,,fluff

Hoshi (SVT) | Blind date fluff | 0.7k | gn!reader

The evening was… nice.

And that’s about all that you can say about it.

Honestly that is in part why you seldom say yes to blind dates. But since your one-plus-one deal coworker and trusted friend in one insisted you and their other friend Soonyoung should give it a try, you eventually agreed.

There was nothing wrong with him. He was nice. A little awkward, his shyness matching yours, but you didn’t mind much. He was laughing at your jokes a little too hard, but it was endearing. The conversation flowed well, he was kind, funny. Nice.  

Not to mention handsome. Maybe slightly cuter than a guy has any business being, but it works so well for him. It’s very charming, actually.

But for a date, it was nothing special - which is to be expected, of course. It was obvious he liked you, as much as you could like little more than a stranger, which made him less of a social butterfly than he is at the office (at least from what you could tell from his stories). You’re sure that the next date would be better since you’d be more familiar with each other, but honestly… Is it worth it? Perhaps you had too high expectations after a long and tiring week, just craving something magical to make the struggle worth it.

You feel slightly guilty for feeling that way when Soonyoung has been nothing but sweet the whole time, even now as you’re strolling along the river with the setting sun shining down on you, he’s great. It’s quiet, the comfortable kind of quiet. You’re grateful for the brief pause in conversation as you sip on the cold drink in your hand. 

The park on your other side is getting empty, but there’s still plenty of people chatting on the blankets having a late picnic. The insects are buzzing, the water is rippling. It all makes up a nice ambiance of dying summer.

While you’re pondering the pros and cons of a second date, the kids in front of you finally talk their parents into buying them some ice cream. Just as you’re passing by them, the youngest one tries to run away from its siblings and the ice cream suddenly splatters on the ground as they wobble. The kid looks at the mess like it’s the biggest tragedy to ever befall mankind.

You bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from laughing. Soonyoung next to you isn’t so successful.

He starts walking faster, about to burst, and his barely contained laughter only makes it that much more difficult for you so you match his pace, and then all it takes for you to lose it is one glance at each other. At least you’re out of earshot of the parents fussing over the kid.

“It’s not nice,” a shaky breath interrupted by laughter, “To laugh at something like that.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” you don’t take the scolding to heart, instead you try to calm your breathing. Which just makes Soonyoung laugh harder, which in turn makes you laugh again.

“We’re really messing up our karmas,” he finally manages to say relatively calmly after a couple minutes. He wipes at his eyes quickly and you take the opportunity to do the same.

“I’m so glad you started laughing first,” you take a deep breath, “I thought you’d judge me.”

“Never!” his hand shoots up to clutch at his chest as he acts all offended.

“Are you sure?” you tease, “I’d be very disappointed if that was a lie.”

“My sense of humor is really childish,” he waves you off. His ears look a little red. Soonyoung really is a bit too cute. And you still don’t mind.

“Yeah? Give me your worst joke,” And that challenge is your undoing. 

How you got here, sitting by the river and leaning on Soonyoung because you’re laughing so hard, you have no idea. It’s a blur - and the memory is filled by too many jokes that would just make your cheeks hurt more. He really wasn’t kidding, the jokes are bad. Horrible. Childish. And exactly your taste. And just what you both needed to relax and be comfortable apparently.

Somehow you’re still sitting there when the sky gets dark, just talking. The contrast of before and now is night and day. Suddenly you’re reluctant to leave even though you really should. And your date doesn’t seem too excited about the idea of leaving either - not even after you already scheduled another date.

Although you think just one more won’t be enough.

[belovedivies]

Hello👋 I was wondering how would the skinless chicken-I MEAN Nathanael interact with Raphael's older sibling?😅

cw: minor spoiler dividers-credit: @kodaswrld m.list

nathaniel and you…

⋆ ˚｡⋆are the epitome of a match made in hell! We have a body dissection loving maniac who breaks guns with bare hands and a sociopath whose father you buried for the throne that your brother now occupies. Of course, you guys get along like a house on fire.

⋆ ˚｡⋆surprisingly have the time to hang out. You always find a way to forcefully squeeze yourself into his schedule, like dropping by unannounced during his night shifts so you can whip him away for a few minutes! The nurses and patients mistake you two for a couple all the time, something Nathaniel doesn’t bother to clarify anymore.

⋆ ˚｡⋆share what can almost be considered as a bond despite the chaos going on. Aside from Raphael, he’s the one guy whose company you somewhat enjoy and find amusement in. You’re also the only girl who gets to spray deodorant in this scary man’s face and don’t end up being slammed against the wall. It’s a win-win! ☪︎ ･ﾟ ･Nathaniel... begrudgingly acknowledges the influence you have on Glory Club. How a fragile-looking woman can command fear and respect without trying. He, though, still has a hard time wrapping his head around the mind-boggling jokes you blurt out sometimes versus the cruelty you’re capable of inflicting. One night, after a quick patient checkup, the Apostle found you in the hallway along with two of his men out cold on the floor, their hands and legs bent at all different angles. Then you just ran up to him with a smile, never elaborating on what happened. ☪︎ ･ﾟ ･You... think Nathaniel’s pride now might as well be his downfall. He’s strong, he’s smart, and he has potential. But this is THE Peter we’re talking about. If that boogeyman is lurking around the corner and somehow still as unbeatable as he was 50 years ago, Nathaniel—even in all his evolutionary glory—statistically stands no chance of surviving. And if he is lucky enough to just barely make it out alive, the man’s ego is gonna be damaged for good. ☪︎ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･❂

“It’s so cold out here…” You tugged your legs underneath your chin and let out a loud yawn, wiggling your feet. “I thought the rainy season ended last week?”

Five centimeters away from you on the bench, Nathaniel leisurely sipped on his Americano. “High humidity levels,” he set the cup aside, “so your clothes might get saturated by the moisture in the air.”

“Huh, guess that’s why I’m still shivering in these 70D stockings—“ mid-sentence, your eyes widened when the guy suddenly took off his blouse and draped it over your lap. “Thanks.”

Nathaniel just shrugged and picked up his drink again. Two nurses walked by and cooed at the scene, though you weren’t sure if the attention was on you or him, or the playing-house act he had been tolerating for a while.

You scanned your surroundings: the hospital’s courtyard was mostly empty at this point. A few elderly patients hung out in the right corner of a dimly lit cafeteria, doing their nighttime stretches. When you look up, a billboard on the side of the building greeted your eyes—a picture of an old-looking Peter with his back hunched. The bounty flashed beneath it in place of the contact number for donation: 7,6 Billion Won.

“Kim Soongu…” The words left your lips as an afterthought, but then you caught Nathaniel’s jaws clenching in your peripheral vision with the coffee cup suddenly crushed to a pulp in his palm, a river of brown dripping to the ground.

The awkward silence didn’t even last for three seconds before a hysterical fit of laughter left your throat as you clung to your stomach.

“Holy fuck—“ snickering, you leaned against Nathaniel’s side like you two were having a sleepover. “Look at the way you got your panties in a twist with just the mention of his name. Is he that good?”

Your slightly-closer-than-an-acquaintance furrowed his eyebrows and answered through gritted teeth. “Brat…”

“Annoying too?” you mirrored his cocked brow with amusement, cheek leaning on his shoulder as you watched the guy slip off his beverage-soaked glove, “didn’t the stats say Soongu is just another D-rank killer though?”

“Not it from my observation.” Nathaniel huffed. “He had some untapped potential. Having him on my team would be… beneficial.”

You tilted your head. “For…?”

“Taking down Peter,” he looked a little irritated at your constant questioning, but ultimately decided not to show that frustration. Instead, Nathaniel’s raspy voice took on what seemed to be a teasing note; his lips curled up into an easy-going smile as the man flicked your forehead.

“So much for your plastic surgery idea, princess.”

“Ow—!” You squealed, touching the violated skin; he wasn’t even using force and you could already feel a bump rising. “What do you mean? So it wasn’t him?”

“It’s real skin from what I felt.” Nathaniel ran a hand over his hair. “Tch, whatever. When he shows up tomorrow, I’ll definitely find out.”

Tomorrow. You tucked your legs further under your chin, eyes still trained on him.

“Hyun Il.”

“?”

The Apostle turned his head towards you.

“You’re 100% likely to die.”

“Doubtful, aren’t we?”

You let out a giggle. “You wanna hear me say it?”

Nathaniel’s gaze hardened. “I will win.”

Cute.

A sigh left your lips as you stared up at the dark sky above. It was a relatively starless night, but there were still some lonely orbs twinkling if you squinted hard enough.

Some saw themselves as the sun—the center of this universe with planets orbiting around them. Constantly striving for a new high. Yet there were bound to be limits. A wall in between. Something, someone who might just show up one day and render all of their efforts useless.

How incompetent we were in the grand scheme of things.

☪︎ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･❂

"Planning to dig up his body?"

Raphael's comment earns a small smile from you. Taking your little brother's hand, you stand up from where you have been crouching on the ground for the last few minutes.

"Nathaniel doesn't need to be physically here to haunt me," you hum playfully while his fingers brush off the imaginary dust on your hair. "Jokes aside, he's cremated. I'm surprised to find out that could still work without the furnace blowing up; he's like a walking T vessel."

"Mhm…"

"Found anything at the scene?"

At your inquiry, Raphael's brows drawn together in a way that reminds you of Nathaniel. Then again, frustration doesn't have a second face.

"Tch, nothing at all." His grip around your shoulders tighten. "That bastard vanished without a trace."

All the killers dying… so that really was Peter's doings. You've seen the outcome from miles away, yet who is to say the result doesn't baffle you in the slightly? What Glory Club is dealing with here is no longer a human being.

"Hey, Raphael…" for a second, the face of an unfamiliar teenager pops up in your mind—black hair, red eyes that hold an immaculate sense of authority, "do you think that…"

"Yes?" Your brother tilted his head. There's a lump in your throat that is suddenly too hard to swallow.

"Nevermind," as quick as that eerie hypothesis comes to be, you forcefully swat it away; a sharp edge to your smile, "let's get back, shall we? It's gonna start raining soon."

[kckt88]

Jilted.

Summary:

After Y.N is jilted at the alter she recieves comfort from an unlikely source.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Swearing, Alcohol Consumption, Mention of Infidelity, Smut, Kissing, Fingering, Oral Sex (F Recieving), P in V.

AEMOND x Y.N

Word Count: 8278

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @toodlesxcuddles @mamawiggers1980 @minttea07 @nommingonfood

Y.N sat on the soft grass, her knees pulled up to her chest as she stared out at the river flowing in front of her, the bottle of champagne gripped tightly in one hand.

It had been meant for a toast on what should have been the happiest day of her life—her wedding day—but now it served a different purpose entirely.

Her mascara ran in dark streaks down her cheeks, mixing with the tears that continued to fall as she wiped them away with an angry swipe.

She raised the bottle to her lips and took a deep swig, the bubbles burning her throat.

She wasn’t sure if the burning was from the alcohol or from the bitterness that welled up inside her. Jacaerys, she thought, her lips curling into a frown as his name echoed through her mind. Her fiancé—no, her ex-fiancé—had come to her before the ceremony and confessed to being in love with another woman.

He had left her here, heartbroken and humiliated, without so much as a second thought.

"Fucking coward," she muttered bitterly under her breath, taking another swig. He hadn’t even had the decency to tell the guests himself that the wedding was off.

No, he’d left that task to her, left her to stand in front of their family and friends and break the news.

The memory of their shocked faces, the murmurs of confusion and pity, was still fresh in her mind. She had never felt more embarrassed.

From the distance, she could hear the faint sounds of music drifting from the estate.

She had insisted everyone still attend, considering everything had already been paid for.

At least someone’s having a good time, she thought bitterly.

The life she had imagined with Jace, the children they had talked about, the future they had planned—it was all shattered now.

She let out a huff of frustration, bringing the bottle back to her lips for another long drink.

“How could he do this to me?” she whispered, her voice trembling. She thought they had been happy.

What had gone wrong?

As she wiped her face with the back of her hand, she heard footsteps approaching from behind. Her shoulders tensed, and she let out an annoyed sigh.

"I thought I said I wanted to be alone," she called out, her voice rough from the crying.

She turned her head, to see Aemond Targaryen, her ex fiancé’s uncle.

He stood there, his long silver hair shimmering in the moonlight as he casually leaned against a tree, lighting a cigarette.

He took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the evening air before meeting her gaze with his cool, ever-watchful eye.

He was dressed impeccably as always, but there was an unreadable expression on his face as he watched her.

“Well,” Y.N said, wiping away another tear and taking another sip from the champagne bottle. “Come to gloat?”

Aemond raised a brow, but said nothing for a moment, simply taking another drag before responding. “Hardly.” His voice was low, calm, as though nothing in the world could ever rattle him. He let the silence stretch out before he added, “Just thought you could use some company.”

Y.N snorted at that, shaking her head. “I’m not exactly great company right now.”

"Neither am I," Aemond replied dryly, his lips curling into the slightest hint of a smirk.

He moved to sit down beside her, still keeping a comfortable distance, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the air.

She glanced at him, unsure whether to be annoyed by his presence or grateful for the distraction. “You don’t strike me as the comforting type.”

Aemond chuckled softly, the sound almost surprising in its warmth. "I’m not. But for you I shall make an exception” he said, glancing out at the river.

Y.N stared at the cigarette Aemond held loosely between his fingers, the smoke swirling into the air in lazy patterns.

Without a word, she reached over and plucked it from his hand, bringing it to her lips for a long, deliberate drag.

The familiar burn of nicotine filled her lungs, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, savouring the feeling she hadn’t allowed herself in years.

Aemond arched a brow, clearly surprised. "I didn’t know you smoked."

Y.N exhaled the smoke with a scoff, her lips curling bitterly. "I used to. But I gave it up because Jace didn’t like it." She took another drag, the resentment heavy in her voice. "But he’s not here, is he? So, fuck it."

Aemond huffed a low laugh at that, when Y.N offered him the cigarette back he shook his head, before pulling another from his pack and lighting it effortlessly. "Fair enough."

Y.N watched the flame briefly before taking another long drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke slip from her lips in a quiet sigh.

The music from the distant reception still played faintly in the background, a cruel reminder of the day that should have been hers.

“Has Jace’s mother and stepfather left yet?” she asked, the bitterness creeping back into her voice.

Aemond took a drag before answering, his tone as nonchalant as ever. “Yes. They couldn’t get out of there quick enough.”

Y.N scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “No doubt Rhaenyra’s gone to coddle her darling boy. It’ll all be my fault, of course. I drove him into another woman’s arms, or whatever bullshit excuse she decides to come up with.” Her voice was sharp with resentment. “Seems to be a talent of hers—blaming others for her sons’ actions.”

Aemond’s lips curled slightly as he glanced at her. “I’ve experienced that myself.”

Y.N knew exactly what he was referring to. Her gaze lingered on the scar that marred the left side of his face, the reminder of the day Jace’s younger brother, Lucerys, had slashed out Aemond’s eye when they were children.

Aemond had never received an apology. Lucerys had never been punished. Another one of Rhaenyra’s sons shielded from the consequences of his actions.

She took another drag, feeling the cigarette burn down to its end before stubbing it out in the grass. Her thoughts swirled darkly, anger and confusion twisting together.

She unscrewed the champagne bottle again and took a swig, then wordlessly offered it to Aemond. He accepted without hesitation, taking a drink before handing it back.

“There’s one thing I can’t understand,” Y.N muttered, staring at the bubbles rising inside the bottle.

Aemond flicked ash from his cigarette, giving her a sidelong glance. “What’s that?”

Y.N shook her head, her brow furrowing. “If Jace is in love with someone else, it’s obviously been going on for a while-why not just end things with me? Why ask me to marry him? Why go through all the planning, the ceremony, spending all this money—for it to end up like this?”

Aemond took a slow drag, his expression contemplative. When he spoke, his voice was cold and matter-of-fact. “Because he’s a fucking spineless coward.”

Y.N huffed in agreement, her lips tightening in frustration. "You got that right." In a sudden, angry gesture, she reached up and ripped the veil from her head, throwing it to the ground beside her.

The delicate fabric fluttered briefly before settling in the grass, forgotten.

Aemond stifled his cigarette in the dirt, watching her with a quiet intensity. Then he noticed the way her shoulders had started to shake ever so slightly, her body trembling from the cool breeze now settling in for the evening.

Without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Y.N blinked in surprise, turning her head slightly to look at him. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice softening.

Aemond nodded, his sharp gaze lingering on her face. He noticed the fresh tears that were sliding down her cheeks, the pain evident despite her attempts to mask it with bitterness and anger.

For a brief moment, he hesitated, unsure if she would accept comfort from him.

He shifted slightly, reaching out but pausing just before his arm could settle around her shoulders. “Is it okay?” he asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Y.N gave a small nod, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

With that, Aemond wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into a warm, firm embrace. Y.N didn’t resist.

She leaned into him, burying her face into his shoulder as the tears came faster now, her body shaking with quiet sobs.

He held her tightly, letting her cry without saying a word, offering her the kind of quiet strength she hadn’t known she needed.

After a few minutes of quiet sobbing in Aemond's embrace, Y.N suddenly pulled away, furiously swiping the tears from her cheeks.

Her jaw tightened as she shook her head, her voice firm with newfound resolve. "I’ve shed too many tears over that man today, and I refuse to cry anymore."

Aemond, watching her closely, reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief. "May I?" he asked, his voice as gentle as it had been all evening.

Y.N hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

Aemond shifted closer, lifting his hand and gently placing it under her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

His touch was unexpectedly soft as he wiped away the stray tears that still clung to her cheeks, dabbing at the streaks of mascara with deliberate care.

His fingers brushed against her skin, and for a moment, their eyes locked, the spark of something unspoken passing between them.

Neither of them moved for a moment, but then their faces inched closer, the tension in the air palpable.

Y.N’s breath caught in her throat, and Aemond’s hand paused under her chin, his gaze flicking briefly to her lips—

Then his phone buzzed, shattering the moment.

Aemond blinked, his expression shifting as he reluctantly pulled his phone from his pocket.

He glanced at the screen, his thumb brushing across it to check the message.

It was a text from Helaena: Heading home with Aegon. You coming?

Aemond’s lips thinned for a moment before he typed back a quick response: No. I’m staying with Y.N.

He waited a moment, then Helaena’s reply came through: Take care of her.

Aemond slipped his phone back into his pocket, turning his attention back to Y.N, whose eyes were still clouded with the remnants of her earlier emotions.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

"It was just Helaena," Aemond said with a small shrug. "She’s heading home with Aegon and asked if I was coming."

Y.N gave a half-hearted smile, her tone self-conscious. “You can leave if you want to. You don’t have to stay with me.”

Aemond looked at her, his gaze unwavering. "I’ll stay if you want me to."

Y.N’s eyes softened at his words. “I’d like that”.

Aemond glanced down at the empty champagne bottle between them, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "We might need more to drink, though," he pointed out, his tone light as he lifted the bottle, giving it a little shake.

Y.N huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in her chest easing ever so slightly. "I’ve got a mini bar in my room," she said, standing up slowly.

She clutched his suit jacket tighter around her shoulders, the warmth of the fabric still clinging to her.

Aemond stood up as well, slipping his hands into his pockets as he gave her a small, knowing smile. "Lead the way."

Y.N met his gaze for a moment before turning toward the estate, her steps steady, the weight of the evening still heavy on her—but somehow, with Aemond beside her, it didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

As Y.N unlocked the door to her room, Aemond’s sharp eye immediately took in the sight before him.

The rose petals on the bed, arranged meticulously in the shape of a heart, a cruel reminder of what this room had been meant for.

The honeymoon suite. He glanced over at Y.N as she kicked off her heels without a second thought, crossing the room and draping his jacket over the back of a chair before heading straight for the mini bar.

"Don’t you have to pay for that?" Aemond asked, raising an amused eyebrow as he watched her pull out a handful of miniature bottles.

Y.N flashed him a mischievous smile. “Yes, but it’s not me paying. It’s Jace-he used his credit card to pay for the room-”

Aemond let out a genuine laugh, the sound rich and deep as he crossed the room. “Well, in that case-” He grabbed a handful of the tiny bottles, particularly all the whiskeys.

He poured them each a drink, watching as Y.N downed the amber liquid in one go, grimacing at the harsh burn it left behind.

Y.N sat down on the bed with a soft thud, laughing as Aemond handed her another drink. He tilted his head, curious. “What’s so funny?”

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “When I woke up this morning, I never imagined I’d end up in the honeymoon suite-with Jace’s uncle.”

Aemond smirked as he leaned against the bedpost, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Could be worse. You could be with Jace.”

Y.N burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Yeah, and none the wiser to his cheating.”

Aemond’s expression darkened for a moment before he gave a slow nod. “Blessing in disguise, then.”

Y.N raised her glass, her eyes locking with his. “Here’s to spending the night in far better company.”

Aemond’s smirk widened. “Here, here.” They both downed their drinks in unison, the liquid burning all the way down, and Aemond poured them each another.

As the silence settled between them, Y.N leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting over him with a curious intensity. “You know,” she said slowly, “I always thought you didn’t like me.”

Aemond looked at her, caught off guard. “No-why would you think that?”

She shrugged, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “You never looked at me when I was around. Never spoke to me unless you had to.”

Aemond sighed softly, running a hand through his silver hair. “It’s not that I disliked you,” he said quietly. “I just-find it easier to push people away.”

Y.N tilted her head, her expression softening. “That’s not a healthy way to live.”

Aemond gave her a wry smile, his gaze flickering with something like understanding. “Neither is changing who you are to suit someone else’s idea of you.”

Y.N blinked at that, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Aemond took another sip of his drink before speaking. “I mean how you changed when you started up with Jace. You stopped being-you.”

Y.N scoffed softly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What would you know about that?”

Aemond’s voice was steady, unflinching. “Oh, I know plenty. Like how you gave up smoking because he didn’t like it. How you turned down that dream job offer because Jace threw a tantrum about you being away too often. And how you stopped dyeing your hair because he didn’t like the colour.”

Y.N opened her mouth to argue but quickly closed it, swallowing hard as she looked away. “That’s not—”

Aemond cut her off, his voice firm. “What happened? Of course it is. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Any man who treats a woman like that is no man at all.”

Y.N looked down at her glass, biting her lip. “Maybe…”

Aemond scoffed, sitting down on the bed beside her. “There’s no ‘maybe’ about it,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “You don’t need to change yourself for anyone. You are perfect just the way you are.”

Y.N turned to face him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You think I’m perfect?”

Aemond downed the last of his whiskey, his gaze intense as it locked onto hers. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I always thought so.”

Y.N’s heart skipped a beat at his words, her pulse quickening as she leaned forward just slightly, her voice barely audible. “So, you wouldn’t change me?”

Aemond shook his head, his expression sincere. “No. I like you just the way you are.”

The air between them shifted, thick with tension as Y.N slowly leaned in closer, her gaze drifting to his lips.

Without thinking, she pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. Aemond froze for a moment, caught off guard, but then responded, the kiss deepening as something ignited between them.

After a breathless second, he pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against hers. “I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with restraint.

Y.N shook her head, her hand cupping his cheek as she looked into his eyes. “You’re not. I want this. I want you.”

Aemond’s resolve crumbled at her words. He leaned in again, and this time, the kiss was urgent, filled with all the emotions neither of them had spoken aloud.

Aemond’s hands began to roam over Y.N’s body, his fingers gripping the fabric of her wedding dress.

In his desperation, he tugged too hard, the sound of ripping fabric breaking the silence. He froze for a moment, pulling back, eyes wide with regret as he muttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

But Y.N shook her head, a wicked smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice husky with desire. “Rip it some more.”

Aemond’s breath caught, a soft laugh escaping him as he eagerly obeyed. His hands found the delicate silken fabric again, tearing at it with abandon.

The sound of buttons popping off echoed in the room, the gown splitting further under his grasp, until the once-pristine dress hung in tatters from her body.

His eye darkened with lust as he took in the sight of her, and before she could say another word, his mouth was on hers again, kissing her with a fervour that sent heat coursing through her veins.

Y.N moaned against his lips, her arms winding around his neck to pull him closer, pressing his lean body against hers.

As their kiss deepened, her fingers tangled in his long, silvery hair, tugging gently, and Aemond groaned into her mouth, his hips shifting toward her at the sensation.

Her hand trailed up to the leather strap of his eyepatch, her fingers brushing it tentatively. She broke the kiss just enough to whisper, “Can I take this off?”

Aemond stiffened for a moment, hesitation flashing in his eye. "It’s-unsightly," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to scare you."

Y.N shook her head softly, her thumb brushing over the strap reassuringly. “It’s okay-you could never scare me”

He closed his eye, giving a small nod of consent, and Y.N carefully removed the patch, letting the worn leather slip from his face.

She gazed upon him, her breath catching as she took in the sight of the jagged scar that bisected his face, the brilliant sapphire gleaming where his left eye once was.

Y.N didn’t flinch or recoil. Instead, she reached up, cupping his face gently in her hands.

She pressed a soft kiss to the scar, her lips brushing over it with reverence, and whispered, “You are so beautiful.”

A single tear slid down Aemond’s cheek, and he pulled her into another kiss, this one tender and full of unspoken emotion.

Y.N responded with equal fervour, her hands running down his chest, fingers slipping beneath his shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath.

As their bodies pressed even closer together, her hand drifted lower, fingers brushing over the bulge straining against his trousers.

Aemond’s breath hitched, a low groan vibrating in his throat as she cupped him, the pressure sending a rush of heat through him.

“I need you” exclaimed Aemond quietly as he pulled Y.N into his arms and ran his nose up and down her cheek, his hot breath tickling her skin.

“Then take me” whispered Y.N as the rest of her ruined dressed slipped from her body.

“Not wearing a bra, you naughty girl” muttered Aemond as he pressed a firm kiss to Y.N’s shoulder and directed her to sit on the bed.

Aemond’s singular blue eye roved over Y.N’s body, thinking how beautiful she was.

“Open”

Aemond smirked as Y.N obediently opened her mouth; he ran his thumb slowly over her plump lower lip before slipping it inside her mouth.

Without further prompting Y.N closed her mouth and began to suck, her tongue sliding along his thumb, Aemond watched as a small trickle of drool made its way down her chin.

He leaned forward and ran his tongue over her chin as Y.N continued to suck the thumb he had in her mouth.

“Such a good girl”

He removed his thumb and grasped Y.Ns chin, holding her mouth open as he leaned forward and spat in her open mouth.

“Swallow”

Aemond growled as he watched Y.N obey and swallow, her eyes never leaving his.

“Give me your hands” ordered Aemond as he slowly slipped off his tie and his shirt.

Y.N placed her wrists together and held them towards Aemond.

Aemond pressed Y.N backwards, so she was laying on the bed, he loomed over her as he hooked his long fingers on the tie and moved her arms above her head.

“Aemond” gasped Y.N.

“Don’t move your hands” said Aemond sternly.

Aemond pressed a series of delicate kisses to Y.N’s neck before he nipped at her ear lobe.

“Be a good girl for daddy” whispered Aemond as he moved his lips to hers.

Y.N whimpered as Aemond pulled away and began moving down, pressing kisses and running his tongue over her body as he went.

Aemond could still smell vanilla infused lotion that she had no doubt massaged into her skin earlier in the day.

When Y.N began squirming, Aemond knelt down beside the bed, reaching to remove her knickers, he bunched them up his hand before he pressed the white lacy material to his face, inhaling the scent of Y.N’s arousal, his eye rolling into the back of his head.

After stuffing the underwear into his pocket, Aemond slid his hands up Y.N’s smooth legs and held open her thighs as he moved forward and teasingly pressed his nose against her slick folds.

“A-Aemond”

“Hm, so wet for me baby” rasped Aemond.

“P-Please”

“Please-what?” asked Aemond.

“Please daddy. I’ve been so good” moaned Y.N as Aemond’s mouth descending on her cunny.

Ravenously, he pressed into Y.N’s core with his tongue, in and out.

Remembering that Aemond had ordered her not to move, Y.N clutched the bedspread above her head, her fingers digging into the fabric.

Aemond withdrew from her soaking wet core and lashed hard at her clitoris with his tongue, pulling on it with his lips.

He was hard, fast and brutal, alternating between her assaulted bundle of nerves and drinking deep from her cunt.

Y.N ground down on Aemond, hard; his tongue speared deeper inside her, and she felt the warm curl of her peak approach.

“That’s it come for me baby” urged Aemond, his fingers reaching forward to caress her pearl.

“AEMOND” screamed Y.N arching off the bed as she peaked.

“Hm” muttered Aemond as he pressed a series of kisses to Y.N’s inner thighs.

“P-Please A-Aemond. Need you” begged Y.N.

Aemond rose from the floor, his chin shining with her slick, he smirked as he swiped the back of his hand over chin and then ran his tongue over his hand, savouring the delicious taste of Y.N.

Aemond reached forward and manoeuvred Y.N onto all fours, pressing her face into the mattress,  as she braced her weight on her arms.

Y.N was a delectable sight indeed, her arse in the air, her wet cunt on display, gods he needed to be inside her, but first he reached over her body and quickly untied her hands.

Throwing his tie over his shoulder, Aemond squeezed the meat of her arse before he slapped her, delighting in Y.N’s squeal of surprise.

He then bent forward to press a series of kisses to her glorious arse, his large hands kneading the soft pale flesh, before he sunk his teeth into her.

“AEMOND” squealed Y.N.

“Hmmm”

“P-Please Aemond” whispered Y.N, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her face into the mattress.

Aemond stuck his finger in his mouth before he ran it over her puckered hole.

“Is this alight?” breathed Aemond.

“Y-Yes. Put it inside me. I can take it” whimpered Y.N.

“Tell me-Tell me if it’s too much” replied Aemond as he slowly pressed his finger inside her.

“Ooh Aemond, yes. Please. More” babbled Y.N as he moved his finger in and out before adding a second.

“Your doing so well-my darling” moaned Aemond as he moved his fingers inside Y.N.

“I want you-please Aemond”

“Now baby, I’m going to fuck you until you scream” said Aemond, delighting in the way Y.N began nodding and whimpering.

“Y-Yes” whimpered Y.N

“FUCK” groaned Aemond as he removed his trousers and took his cock in hand and began rubbing it along Y.N’s wet folds.

“Please, daddy. I want it-I want you, please don’t make me wait anymore” begged Y.N.

“Fuck, that’s it” moaned Aemond his hard length filling her cunny in one smooth stroke.

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Y.N, his fingers in her arse and his cock deep in her cunt was so good.

Aemond began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts, his fingers moving in rhythm with his cock.

“Harder-more-please” wailed Y.N

“My dirty girl” growled Aemond, his fingers moving faster.

“Aemond-” whimpered Vaelynn.

“That’s it-take it-take all of me” muttered Aemond as he removed his fingers, and grabbed hold of Y.N’s hips and increased the pace of his thrusts.

Y.N took one of Aemonds hands that was on her hip and brought it to the back of her head.

Knowing what Y.N wanted, Aemond placed his hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching.

His cock reaching deep inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair sticking to his sweaty back.

Aemond then grasped both of Y.N’s arms and held them behind her back as he pounded into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoed around the room.

Y.N’s cries of pleasure were muffled by the mattress, her face buried in the soft fabric.

Her body arched in response to Aemond’s relentless rhythm, each cry escaping her lips in a series of desperate moans that reverberated through the room.

Aemond’s grip on Y.N was fierce, his movements relentless. He drove into her with a force that seemed almost brutal, but Y.N took every thrust with an almost frantic eagerness.

Her body trembled under him, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she surrendered completely to the intensity of their coupling.

“Fuck-that’s it” moaned Aemond.

He released Y.N’s arms and then took hold of her hair, twisting his fingers into her messy tresses before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

Aemond held Y.N tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved to her throat, squeezing gently.

“Give it to me please” pleaded Y.N her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder, her arm reaching behind her to tangle in his hair as their lips connected in a messy, passionate kiss.

Aemond felt his balls draw in; his peak was approaching.

But he didn’t want to finish like this, he wanted to see her face as she came around his cock.

Aemond withdrew, ignoring Y.N whimper of protest as he rolled her onto her back and slipped inside her again.

Y.N wrapped her legs around Aemond’s waist, drawing him closer as he began to thrust inside her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“A-Aemond, I’m close-please” begged Y.N.

He snaked a hand down Y.N’s body and played with her clitoris, teasing it with his fingers.

“Oh gods” moaned Y.N as her whole-body began to shake.

“Come for me, love” breathed Aemond, his thrusts starting to jerk.

He was close. So close. Just a little more-

Y.N screamed as her desperately needed peak exploded from her body, making every limb tremble as her body bucked around Aemond’s cock.

Aemond’s own peak nearly took him off his feet. The sensation took over his body as he spilled rope after rope of his seed, he had no recollection of what he did or said for the good minute it took for his peak to crest, then subside.

He had never come so hard in his life.

For a moment he held himself over Y.N’s body, as his cock softened inside her.

After a few minutes Aemond gently pulled out and rolled onto the mattress beside Y.N, he reached forward and enveloped her into a tight hug.

“I-I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not at all” replied Y.N smiling.

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room as Y.N slowly stirred awake.

She felt the warmth of Aemond's body pressed against hers, his arms wrapped securely around her, holding her close. For a moment, she just lay there, taking in the strange turn her life had taken.

Yesterday, she had woken up believing she was about to marry the man she thought she’d spend the rest of her life with. But instead of the dream wedding she had envisioned, Jacaerys had cruelly abandoned her, leaving her humiliated and heartbroken.

And now, here she was, wrapped in the embrace of his uncle, having spent what should have been her wedding night in a completely unexpected way.

Y.N bit her lip as she thought back to the events of the night before. She could still feel the ache of Jace’s betrayal, but perhaps Aemond had been right—it was a blessing in disguise.

Better to have been spared more pain in the long run. As hurtful as Jace’s actions had been, Y.N knew deep down that the relationship had been built on shaky ground.

She had been bending herself to fit into his world, while he had been unfaithful and deceitful.

Her mind drifted to the night she’d spent with Aemond. A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered how incredible it had been.

It had been a long time since she had felt so wanted, so fully satisfied. Shamelessly, she couldn’t help but think that Aemond’s prowess in bed far surpassed Jace’s by miles.

The thought made her giggle softly to herself.

Aemond stirred beside her, pressing a lazy kiss to her shoulder. His voice was still heavy with sleep as he asked, “What’s so funny?”

Y.N turned slightly in his arms, her smile widening as she looked at him. “Just a thought I had.”

Aemond hummed, his interest piqued. “And what would that be?”

Y.N smirked, biting her lip playfully. “How skilled you are in bed,” she teased, watching as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his cheeks flushed a faint pink.

He chuckled, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft yet filled with amusement. “Not too bad yourself,” he added, his tone teasing as he pressed another kiss to her shoulder.

Y.N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but feel a little flutter of satisfaction at the compliment.

She shifted in his arms, feeling his warmth against her skin. “Do you fancy some breakfast?” she asked, her voice light. “I can order room service.”

Aemond’s lips grazed her shoulder again, and he hummed in consideration. “Sure,” he said, but then he shifted, his hard cock pressing against her body. “But in a little while-there’s something else I’d rather have first.”

Y.N giggled as she felt his hard cock pressed against her, his desire unmistakable. She turned her head to meet his gaze, eyes bright with amusement and anticipation. “Oh?” she teased, her voice playful.

Aemond leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, the heat between them quickly rekindling as his hand slid down her side, pulling her closer.

“Mmm,” he murmured against her lips, “definitely.”

Y.N giggled again, wrapping her arms around his neck as she kissed him deeply, already feeling the sparks of another passionate encounter beginning to ignite.

Perhaps this wasn't the wedding night she had imagined, but in Aemond’s arms, she felt a sense of comfort and desire she hadn’t known she was missing.

And as they lost themselves in each other once more, Y.N realized that maybe, just maybe, the unexpected turns in life could lead to something far better than what she had planned.

Y.N sat across from Aemond at the small table, the remnants of their breakfast spread between them.

The atmosphere was quiet, but not uncomfortable, until her phone buzzed, vibrating against the table. She glanced down, her face stiffening slightly as she saw Jace’s name flashing on the screen.

Without a second thought, she rejected the call and set the phone back down, picking up her fork as if nothing had happened.

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you answer?”

Y.N shrugged, keeping her gaze on her plate. “I have nothing to say to him. If he’s calling to apologize, he can stick it up his arse.”

Aemond huffed a laugh, his lips twitching in amusement. “Fair enough. But you’ll have to talk to him at some point, won’t you?”

Y.N shook her head, her expression firm. “Not really.”

Aemond frowned slightly, curiosity evident in his face. “Don’t you live together?”

“No,” Y.N said, taking another bite of her food. “We still have our separate apartments. We planned to move in together after we got married.”

Aemond cocked his head to the side, a hint of confusion on his face. “That’s a little odd, isn’t it?”

Y.N let out a small sigh, her fork stilling on her plate. “At the time, I didn’t think it mattered. But looking back-I guess it was just Jace’s way of keeping his affair hidden. Separate lives, separate apartments. Made it easier for him to lie.”

Aemond noticed the sadness in her eyes, the way her posture slumped ever so slightly as she spoke.

Reaching across the table, he gently took her hand in his. His thumb grazed over her knuckles, and his voice softened. “If you wish to forget what happened between us last night and this morning, I’ll understand.”

Y.N looked up at him, shaking her head immediately. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to forget. I just-I’ve realized I’ve been living a lie for so long and I’ve spent years with the wrong man.”

Aemond smiled softly, his grip loosening as he let go of her hand. “The right man is out there somewhere,” he said, his voice low and sure.

She smiled at his words, though there was a flicker of something deeper in her eyes. Checking the time on her phone, Y.N bit her lip in thought.

“What are you doing?” Aemond asked, sensing her change in mood.

Y.N hesitated for a moment before answering, “I, uh-was the one who paid for the two-week honeymoon in Italy. It was supposed to be a surprise for Jace, but obviously, he’s not going anymore.” She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “But I’m not about to waste all that money. I still plan to go. The flight leaves later tonight, so I’ve got time to go home, grab my suitcase, and head to the airport.”

Aemond nodded. “That sounds nice.”

She was quiet for a moment, her mind clearly racing, before she suddenly blurted, “Would you like to come with me?”

Aemond blinked, surprised by her offer. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice growing quieter. “I have an extra ticket, after all-”

Aemond hesitated, an apologetic expression crossing his face. “I’m grateful for the invite, truly, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The embarrassment was immediate, and Y.N could feel her cheeks burning. “-Oh, it’s okay,” she said quickly, forcing a smile as she pushed her plate away. “I-I shouldn’t have asked.”

She began fiddling with her fingers, her appetite suddenly gone. Aemond watched her closely, noticing the way her mood shifted, her body tensing with the sting of rejection.

His gaze followed as her hands moved to her engagement ring. Without a word, Y.N slipped it off her finger and placed it gently on the table, the small band glinting in the morning light.

“Have I upset you?” Aemond asked softly.

Y.N shook her head, though her eyes remained downcast. “No,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “It was my mistake. Last night was obviously just a one-time thing, and I let my imagination get the better of me.”

Aemond’s heart sank, guilt gnawing at him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, though he knew his apology would do little to ease her pain.

“There’s no need to say sorry,” Y.N replied, wiping at her eyes discreetly as she gathered her things. “It’s my fault.”

Aemond’s chest tightened as he watched her silently cry, her movements hurried and full of hurt. She stood up and walked over to the corner of the room, grabbing her ruined wedding dress, now nothing more than shredded fabric, and threw it into the bin without hesitation.

Once all her things were packed, she picked up the spare plane ticket—the one meant for Jace—and crumpled it in her hand before tossing it in the bin as well.

The tears were falling freely now, though she tried her best to keep her composure.

Y.N turned to Aemond, her voice barely above a whisper as she said, “Thank you-for everything,” before quickly leaving the room, the door closing softly behind her.

Aemond sat at the table, his fingers toying absentmindedly with the engagement ring Y.N had left behind.

The silence of the room felt suffocating, and the more he thought about what had just happened, the deeper the pit in his stomach grew.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

His mind drifted back to the first time Jace had introduced him to Y.N. He remembered the surge of jealousy that had ripped through him, a sensation so raw and unexpected.

Jace had Y.N—and he didn’t. She had been more than just beautiful, though her beauty had certainly caught his eye.

It was her intelligence, her wit, and her infectious laugh that had captivated him. He could still hear it in his mind, the way her laughter lit up a room and made anyone within earshot want to join in.

Aemond had tried to bury those feelings. He had told himself over and over that if Y.N was happy with Jace, then so be it. He cared about her enough to wish her well, even if it meant stepping aside.

But the more he tried to forget her, the harder it became. His feelings for her had been relentless, unyielding, and he hated how they refused to fade no matter how many other women he took to bed.

None of them had been her. None of them even came close.

When Jace and Y.N’s wedding had been announced, Aemond had dreaded the thought of attending. The idea of watching her marry his nephew, of seeing her in a dress meant for someone else—it had been too much.

He’d almost convinced himself not to go. But in the end, he had decided it would be the perfect opportunity to say goodbye, to let go of whatever foolish hope he had clung to for so long.

Then the wedding had been called off. The moment he had heard about Jace’s cowardly confession, something inside him had snapped.

He had always disliked Jace, but now, now he hated him.

Jace had cheated on Y.N, broken her heart, and abandoned her on the day they were supposed to be married.

The bastard had left her alone and humiliated in front of everyone. Rhaenyra and Daemon, of course, had rushed to coddle their darling son, leaving Y.N to fend for herself.

It made Aemond sick.

When Y.N had run out of the room, her voice thick with tears as she insisted that everyone should still enjoy the reception, Aemond couldn’t just stand by. He had to find her. He had to know she was alright.

And when he did find her—sitting by the riverbank, her hair a mess, mascara running down her cheeks—she had still been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

But seeing her there, so broken and alone, had torn at something deep within him. He knew she didn’t have any family left to lean on, her parents long gone, and her grandmother recently passed.

She had no one. So, he had sat beside her, intending to comfort her, to offer whatever solace he could. He never expected how the night would turn out.

It had been one of the best nights of his life.

Taking Y.N to bed hadn’t just been a fleeting moment of lust. It was something Aemond had fantasized about, but actually experiencing her, feeling her trust, her passion—it had been indescribable.

The way she responded to him, the way he could bring her pleasure—it was something he had dreamed of for so long, and the reality of it was far better than he ever imagined. Even that morning, waking up with her in his arms, he had felt something he hadn’t in years.

But then he had ruined it. He had ruined everything.

His words, his hesitation—they had shattered the fragile connection they’d built in the span of one night.

He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, the way Y.N had pulled away from him, the hurt in her eyes when she asked him to come with her to Italy.

He cursed himself for not saying yes. He’d watched as she silently cried, throwing the wedding dress in the bin, discarding the plane ticket, and leaving him behind with nothing but regret.

Aemond stood up suddenly, his chest tight as he walked over to the bin. He reached in and picked up the crumpled plane ticket, smoothing it out in his hands.

As he stared at it, the weight of the decision he knew he must make pressed down on him.

Y.N stood in the queue at the airport, clutching her passport and boarding ticket. Despite the whirlwind of emotions from the last 24 hours, she was determined to make the most of this trip.

It was supposed to be her honeymoon, but now, it was a chance to truly move on from Jace—and perhaps even from Aemond.

The thought of him stung more than she wanted to admit, but she knew she had to clear her head, away from all of it.

The boarding attendants had just opened the doors, and people began filing onto the plane. Y.N took a deep breath, ready to step forward when suddenly, she heard her name being called.

Her heart skipped a beat. She turned, and there he was—Aemond, rushing toward her, his long strides quick and desperate.

Before she could say a word, he was in front of her, wrapping his arms around her. His apologies poured out between kisses—on her forehead, her cheeks, her lips—as he held her tightly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept saying, breathless and frantic.

Y.N blinked in surprise, her brain trying to catch up with what was happening. "Aemond, what—what are you doing here?" she asked as he finally pulled back, his eyes full of urgency.

Aemond took her hand and gently pulled her out of the queue, leading her to the side. "I would've gotten here sooner, but I couldn’t find my damn passport,” he explained, almost laughing at himself, “and then I had to pay to change the name on the ticket.”

Y.N stared at him, still trying to comprehend. "But you said it wasn’t a good idea—coming with me," she reminded him, her voice tinged with confusion. “What changed?”

Aemond let out a breath, shaking his head. "I shouldn’t have said that," he admitted, regret heavy in his voice. "Because I’m a complete idiot."

Y.N crossed her arms, raising a brow. "You can say that again."

He smiled, but it was fleeting, his eye soft as he looked at her. “I’ve spent too many years watching from the sidelines, Y.N. Letting my feelings fester and pushing you away because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought you were happy with Jace, and that was enough for me. But I was wrong. And I know it’s probably going to take time, but I want to prove to you that I can be the man you deserve.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Years?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond nodded. “Years. But I kept it to myself because-I thought you were happy, and that’s all I ever wanted for you.”

Before Y.N could respond, the flight attendant interrupted. "Ma'am, are you getting on this flight?" she asked, her voice professional but expectant.

Y.N looked back at the attendant, momentarily torn. She handed over her ticket and passport. “Yes,” she said, glancing back at Aemond.

As the attendant checked her details and nodded, Y.N turned back to Aemond, her heart racing. “What about you?” she asked softly, her emotions all over the place.

Aemond’s hesitation lasted only a moment. He met her gaze, and the vulnerability in his eye was unmistakable. “Please,” he said quietly, “give me a chance.”

The attendant turned to Aemond. “Sir, are you getting on this flight as well?”

Y.N smiled at him, her expression softer than it had been earlier. “Yes. He’s coming,” she said confidently.

Aemond's lips lifted in a relieved smile as he handed over his ticket and passport. The attendant checked his documents and smiled back, nodding as she cleared him to board.

As they walked toward the plane together, the reality of it all sank in. Aemond draped his arm over Y.N’s shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

For the first time in a long time, Y.N felt something close to peace. Maybe this trip wasn’t about running away or moving on anymore.

Maybe it was about finally finding what was meant to be.

Two years later, Aemond stood tall and proud, his eye never leaving Y.N as she walked down the aisle toward him. She looked radiant, her smile glowing under the warm sun, her white dress flowing like waves with each step.

Aegon walked beside her, grinning as he gave his brother a playful wink when they reached the altar.

The sound of the sea crashing gently against the shore created a perfect backdrop for their beachside wedding. The sky was clear, the soft breeze carried the salty air, and everything about the day felt like a dream.

Aemond held out his hand, his heart swelling with love and disbelief that this moment was finally here.

As Y.N took his hand, their eyes locked. He stared at her, his chest tightening with emotion. She was everything he had ever wanted, and now she was about to become his wife. He mouthed softly, "I love you."

Y.N blushed, her smile growing even brighter as she mouthed back, "I love you too."

Their small, intimate ceremony had only his siblings—Helaena, Aegon and Daeron—his mother Alicent, his grandsire Otto, and a few close friends. It was exactly how Aemond had always imagined it. Simple, quiet, perfect.

The priest began to speak, but Y.N’s mind briefly wandered, filled with gratitude for the strange twist of fate that had led her to this very moment. She thought about Jace jilting her two years ago and how, in hindsight, it had been the best thing that could have happened to her.

If not for that heartbreak, she wouldn’t have Aemond. The man who now held every piece of her heart, who made her feel seen, valued, and loved in ways she never thought possible.

As they exchanged vows, hands tightly clasped, Aemond’s thumb brushed gently over her knuckles, a silent reminder of his unwavering devotion.

Even during the ring exchange, they couldn’t stop smiling at each other, their gazes filled with tenderness and joy.

Everything felt so right. Aemond slipped the ring onto her finger, and she did the same, feeling the warmth of his skin as he squeezed her hand in reassurance.

When the priest finally proclaimed them husband and wife, Aemond wasted no time. He cupped her face in his hands, pulling her in for a deep, passionate kiss as everyone cheered softly around them. His lips moved against hers, full of love, full of promise.

When they finally parted, his voice was filled with pride and happiness as he whispered, "Mrs. Targaryen at last."

Y.N laughed, a sound so joyful it made his heart leap. "At last," she echoed, gazing up at him with all the love in the world.

As they stood there, hand in hand, the sun setting behind them over the ocean, they both knew that this was only the beginning of their forever.

The End.

[lufyuu]

I have a doubt about how your oc would react to an asexual reader (doesn't like physical contact) or demisexual, who is cold and somewhat proud, but when he gets affection he is a sweet little ball of affection, type: Do you want to eat something?, he cooks it for you, it's something like: a reader not so accustomed to contact, but who is so affectionate when he gains affection, of course, respecting personal space.

Thank you for taking the time to read💖 I don't speak English very well, I hope I'm not wrong💖

Asexual or not they'll still love reader! I show a lot more sexual content when it comes to my ocs as most of the time I'm feeling freaky/hj

Eun Hyunwoo

He's generally the kind of guy to go along with anything the reader initiates or wants. Hyunwoo adapts fast and would absolutely love just spending time with you without anything sexual in your relationship! One of the main reasons why he does enjoy sex is because that's what he thinks pleases reader. If you are asexual and want a non sexual relationship, he would be absolutely down for it! Though, he isn't the one to initiate anything so reader would have to make the first move as he's too shy to romance reader. Your cold personality will be a bit intimidating to him at first but overtime as he sees how affectionate you are, he'd start to warm up and adore you. If you let him, he'll cuddle you to sleep everynight. Little spoon or big spoon? He'll let you decide. You can be vulnerable around Hyunwoo, he has that affect on people around him. His calm and shy demeanor makes you feel the same way around him. His positivity spreads like a virus. If you are still unwilling to speak what's on your mind, he'll ask what's wrong. Sometimes his words are just so compelling that you can't help but tell him what's bothering you.

River Sterling

River sees your cold personality as a challenge. He's interested in why you aren't head over heels for him. On the contrary, you're avoiding him. He overexaggerates it and makes it seem as if you're glaring at him even when you're not. He would purposely take your classes just so he could get closer to you. Not to mention stealing your seatmate's seat. The teachers and students don't bat an eye since, he's the protagonist! He can do no wrong in their eyes. When he and you finally get together after his many attempts, he finally realizes you're actually very affectionate. Oh boy does he blush everytime you make something for him just because he's your boyfriend and not because he's the protagonist. It makes him feel like an actual person standing next to you and not a puppet standing infront. He's very aware of your feelings and expressions, if you are in an uncomfortable position but don't want to let him know, trust, he will know and help you with a little protagonist dust. Man doesn't care if you're asexual or not either, he's so smitten with you now. River adores you and your affection<3

Liu Zihao

To him, it's not a big deal. While he does want kids, the two of you could adopt or even find another way to have a biological kid other than having intercourse. He's a dragon afterall, what can't he do with magic? Zihao was super amused when you were cold towards him, nobody had ever dared to act even the least amount of cold towards Judge Liu. Even criminals were polite and terrified of him when being questioned. Even the most heinous criminals told the absolute truth. When Zihao has you in his grasp, he'd notice that day after day, you showed more and more affection towards him. Yes staying home all day is boring but on the other hand, it's a manor! You can do anything you want. It's not as if Zihao and his employees are treating you bad either. Heck, they're bending to your will so long as you stay inside. When you pick up a new hobby and make him something, Zihao would be over the moon and place it next to his other treasures! He knows that's how you show your love. Being a judge, he can judge someone's character and how they're feeling just by looking at them. Or maybe that's his dragon self? Nevertheless, you won't be able to ask for help even if you wanted as he'd already be running to help you.

Han Minho

I say this often about Minho but he genuinely doesn't care about what's your sexuality or what's in your pants, he's way past that age. He just wants to settle down with you. Maybe become spouses? Wink wink. While he thought you would be a troublesome student at first, he realized your true nature down the road. Your affectionate self made him realize how much he needed you in his life. He's the type to overwork and accidentally or intentionally not ignore his health. With you in the picture taking care of him, he feels at home. You're his home in a way! The thing is, Minho is also a proud person, he does understand your mindset but I fear he doesn't know how to help either. That's something the two of you would have to communicate about.

Xu RenFeng

While he would have a hard time grasping the concept at first, ultimately he would understand and accept you for who you are. He loves you and that's all that matters to him. He loves your personality, especially when you're only affectionate to him. Renfeng would show it off. His significant other loves him and shows him affection despite his cold front! He's the type to bite you after you give him something, it's just the way he shows affection, it means he loves you dearly. He may seem fierce and intimidating but he genuinely wants to help, he can't bear seeing you feel helpless and unwilling to ask for help. He wants to help and hopes that one day you'll be able to open up freely about your problems to him.

[rystiel]

i keep seeing people say the doctor shouldn’t have feelings for rogue because he’s married to river…? river song… who has also married multiple people… one of the most polyamorous characters in the show…?

[mattodore]

The BOLD THE FACTS tag with Theo (requested)

tagged for theo by @wldestluv-rs and @earthmoonz <3

The Rules are simple! Tag people and name a character you want to know more about! If you want to let the person you tagged decide who to showcase, then don’t name a character and they can pick somebody. Easy! The person who is tagged will then bold the remarks below which apply to their character &, if they want to, include a picture with their reply!

[ PERSONAL ]

$ Financial: wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty / other (theo is financially dependent on his wealthy parents and technically has no money of his own) ✚ Medical: fit / moderate / sickly (he overworks himself, gets very little sleep, smokes frequently, and abuses drugs… he’s not doing so hot) / disabled / disadvantaged / non applicable ✪ Class or Caste: upper / middle / working / unsure / other ✔ Education: qualified / unqualified / studying / other ✖ Criminal Record: yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no / has committed crimes, but hasn't been caught (theo uses illegal drugs) / yes, but charges were dismissed

[ FAMILY ]

◒ Children: had a child or children / has no children / wants children ◑ Relationship with Family: close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased ◔ Affiliation: orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parents / not applicable / other (while technically living with his parents and being raised by them as a teen, theo was raised more closely by his au pair when he was younger)

[ TRAITS + TENDENCIES ]

♦ extroverted / introverted / in between ♦ disorganized / organized / in between ♦ close minded /open-minded / in between ♦ calm / anxious / in between ♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in between ♦ cautious / reckless / in between ♦ patient / impatient / in between ♦ outspoken / reserved / in between (he can lash out but generally theo keeps a lot of his thoughts to himself) ♦ leader / follower (theo doesn’t like the spotlight) / in between ♦ empathetic / vicious bastard / in between ♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in between ♦ traditional / modern / in between ♦ hard-working / lazy / in between ♦ cultured / uncultured / in between / unknown ♦ loyal / disloyal / unknown (theo hasn't had enough people in his corner to answer this one with any amount of certainty) ♦ faithful / unfaithful / unknown (similar to the above, theo hasn't dated enough to give a general answer for this)

[ BELIEFS ]

★ Faith: monotheist / polytheist / atheist / agnostic ☆ Belief in Ghosts or Spirits: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ✮ Belief in an Afterlife: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ✯ Belief in Reincarnation: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ❃ Belief in Aliens: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ✧ Religious: orthodox / liberal / in between / not religious❀ Philosophical: yes / no

[ SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION ]

❤ Sexuality: heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual ❥ Sex: sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favorable / naive and clueless / other (theo has sex regularly but that doesn't necessarily mean he's favorable... this isn't to say that he never wants or enjoys sex, but that he has a tendency to use sex in unhealthy ways. it's complicated.)♥ Romance: romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favorable / naïve and clueless / romance suspicious (doesn’t trust people not to hurt him)❣ Sexually: adventurous / experienced / naïve / inexperienced / curious ⚧ Potential Sexual Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all ⚧ Potential Romantic Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

[ ABILITIES ]

☠ Combat Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ≡ Literacy Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ✍ Artistic Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ✂ Technical Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

[ HABITS ]

☕ Drinking Alcohol: never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently / Alcoholic ☁ Smoking: tried it / trying to quit / quit / never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / chain-smoker ✿ Recreational Drugs: never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently / addict✌ Medicinal Drugs: never / no longer needs medication / some medication needed (headache meds regularly and sleeping pills a few months out of the year) / frequently / to excess ☻ Unhealthy Food: never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently / binge eater $ Splurge Spending: never/ sometimes / frequently / shopaholic ♣ Gambling: never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / compulsive gambler

tagging @wldestluv-rs for faye (i've got you nene ☝️), @veone for nick, @stinkrascal for vlad and also maybe amarie if you wanna, @omgkayplays for malaika, and @lucidicer for pogo and vincent whenever you come back from your break ♥

[youremyonlyhope]

Hey. RTD2. If you're playing some sort of long game with this whole not even mentioning the existence of Martha Jones thing as a way to throw us off the scent of a possible appearance from her later in season "1" or "2" of this era...

Nah. I can't even begin to let myself hope it will happen.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Hiiiii! So, a few days ago you were talking about the whole thing with Amy, Rory, and River. And when I saw those posts a thought arose in my head and I wish to share it with you.

Since River grew up with Amy and Rory as Mels. And Mels was Amy's best friend do you think that they ever talked about children? Since I know that it can come up when talking with friends, and like... do you think that Amy might've ever expressed whether or not she wanted children?

And if she didn't, that Mels would've had to listen to her mother say that she doesn't want children? The idea is so heartbreaking and sooo interesting.

What do you think about it?

no, no, see, you're so right and this drives me wild.

because, the way i see it, i don't think amy wanted children. she's somewhere on the 'hasn't thought about it' to 'vaguely negative feelings about it happening' range to me, which falls sharply into 'Not Happening Ever Again' post-s6. (specifically, in terms of having a kid herself, even if she could, i really don't think she would. i do love that she and rory end up adopting a kid later, because that does make sense, for amy pond who grew up alone in one universe with her family swallowed by cracks in time before the doctor helped her set it right again, for her to want to make sure another child won't be alone in the world like she was. getting off-track here.)

and that's so. because the first real memory river/mels has of amy is of amy shooting at her. and depending on how well the silence fucked up the rest of her memory, it might be one of the very first memories she has at all. that's how she met her mother, crying for help and getting a bullet instead. her mother tried to kill her, so of course, you have to think. she must have needed to hear that she was wanted, right? even if she was taken away, even if amy shot her, at some point, melody must have been wanted?

river is good at getting people to do what she wants, but she is very, very bad at subtlety. and mels is younger, has less practice, so when she wants to know this, she's just going to ask. blunt and quick, easy enough because amy's used to the way mels will open her mouth and you just have to be ready to roll with what comes out if you want to keep up. it's why they're such good friends (like mother, like daughter.)

they're nine, and mels asks if amy wants kids, and amy wrinkles up her nose and says she won't have time for children, obviously, once her raggedy doctor finally comes back. they're fifteen, and amy and rory dance will they-won't they in a way that makes mels twitchy to watch, and taunting amy about wanting to have rory's babies is a good way to get on her nerves. but amy calls her gross, tells her she's got more life planned than children would leave room for, and besides, imagine her, a mom? it'd be a disaster.

mels does. a lot. she looks at her mother and just sees her best friend instead. she's not even sure what she wishes was there, but. maybe amy's right. and besides. imagine her, a daughter, instead of the ticking time bomb she really is? it'd be a disaster.

they're sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and on. mels stands on the outside of a love story that births a universe. and her. how do you compete with that? not that she would know, not yet, she hasn't been there. but it doesn't make her feel any less alienated when amy and rory talk in whispers about a half-remembered world that's bled through to this life, about roman soldiers and boxes and the big bang of belief.

all these memories, they never mention children. on amy's wedding day, she's different, not like someone remembering a dream but someone who lived it. rory stands straighter, won't leave her side, and they're both so much older than they were yesterday. maybe now, right? a wedding's as good a time as any to decide you want kids.

mels not being at amy & rory's wedding is such an obvious lazy way of them trying to explain why they totally didn't just throw this plot twist together at the last minute that i'm not even going to acknowledge it. of course she was at their wedding. she's their best friend. there's too many people around the doctor, and she wasn't ready today of all days, so despite this horrible burning need under her skin to strike, she stays her hand. doesn't let him dance with her because she might just tear his throat out if he gets too close. stays with amy and rory as the maid of honor should. she must have been there for the awkward questions that always gets asked, 'so, any plans for a baby?' 'when am i getting grandkids?' 'oh, you two are going to have gorgeous children together.' standing a few feet from amy in her wedding dress and watching her mother tense and grit her teeth and brush off the questions. watching her look nervously at rory but never ask if he means it when his mom asks him if he'd prefer a son or a daughter, and rory answers 'either one, some day, not anytime soon.'

god i'm just going on and on, aren't i. but really, what's it like to know that amy never changed her mind. the next time she sees them, she's already been born and stolen. i don't like let's kill hitler for. so many reasons. but there is something compelling about how recklessly river lashes out at the world, at the doctor. even her sacrifice at the end is almost suicidal, throwing all her regenerations into this man without knowing if that will even work or if it might kill her to do it. but it makes more sense in the context of someone who has reached the end of a long, long wait for some kind of indication, any kind, that her mother wanted to have her. and finally been told, no. she didn't choose melody.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent game related things .. hrmm...

[kangseluigi]

I almost fell back into a habit of talking to my mother like it's no biggie but today the resentment is rising

it's not even a big thing, just that

a) I'm in bed all day feeling like dying for multiple reasons, then she comes in being snarky and generally annoying b) I get up and force some food down and she goes "slept enough?" with a smirk you can hear and I'm already over it c) she gets pissy when I say she told me something, which like…tbf yes, maybe I misheard, but it's the instantly being angry and defensive for me that gets under my skin cause it happens every. single. time!! every time I say "but you said-" she gets sooooo mad, and every time she just says "NO!! I did NOT say that! There's no reason for me to say that!!!! You ALWAYS do this! YOUUUU never mishear anything it's always MEE and MY fault!!!"" when it would be so easy to say you don't think you'd say that literally any other way. And of course whenever it's the other way around I just say "??? No? I'm sure I didn't, cause I never even thought that" and just stand there confused but calm and wondering how that happened, and she just needs to rub it in my face all "SEE?? See how that is!? But I'm SURE You said that!!!" basically she cannnot be wrong and then accusesme of …not being able to accept being wrong, when I regularly admit to mishearing or not hearing things or maybe forgetting or misunderstanding, and KNOW our communication is fuckeddddd d) she then gets annoyed that I don't hurry to take the trash out before tomorrow morning like babe who give a fuck e) and when I am done with that, feeling physically and mentally miserable, she is laughing loudly and making random noises to demand attention, while I am having one of the worst days of my life.

The bottom line is, thank you, for reminding me just in time, you don't give a fuck about me. I'm tired of it, it doesn't even hurt anymore. I've accepted it tbh. Over the last month, I have completely detatched from her more than in the last few years, which already were putting it all to the test, but foolishly, I still tried to fix things with better and clearer communication. I tried sooo hard to work on it, and yeah, I definitely had moments where I just didn't know how to explain anymore that I cannot have her talk down to me like she does because it makes me SO miserable, which she considred emotional blackmail on my side, cause she just…NEEDS to help me and be clear about things, which is hilarious, cause there is a big thing of mould in the wall by the stairs, on the floor I'm on, which she doesn't pay much attention to and leaves for ages before tending to ONCE and then no more, but then gets mad when I have a couple too many dirty dishes cause ~it's unclean~ like babe, priorities.

Anyway. Today it's been 1 month since Beau died. Just 3 hours and 31 days ago. Which is why I am going through it a lot, among other things, and the whole month she just…didn't seem to care. Not about him, not about me, and yet she's mad that I don't help her with her cat, cause she helped with him, as if I'm not struggling to keep myself alive rn, or get out of bed at all, as if I'm not entirely fed up with her and wishng one of us would finally die so I don't have to deal with her shit anymore, on top of having a difficult relationship with her cat due to the love of my life-cat dying, but you know.

[chaepink]

can u make headcannons on sub!yan’s tendencies in the relationship?

also can i be 🉑 or 🌝 anon?

dating sub!yandere boys hcs ♡

sub!yandere boys when they date you.

wc: 1.1k+ words | masterlist

dom!fem!reader, unhealthy relationship, mention of killing/murder, both sfw and nsfw!, mention of feminization, bondage

note: yes you can be 🌝 anon!

— your yandere would be possessive of you, even more compared to when you two were just friends

— well, you thought you two were just friends. he already assumed you two were together sometime earlier during his friendship with you

— he would do anything for you in order to make sure you're happy and safe

— a friend of yours is getting too touchy with you? well the next day that friend is ignoring you and when you confront them, they look at you scared and quickly scurry away from you. did your yandere do something to them? surely not

— a weird guy keeps following you around your neighborhood? well a couple of days later you see on the news that his body has been found near a river and weirdly enough, you havent seen your yandere on the days before the guy's death

— you complain to your yandere about how a teacher gave you a bad grade on something you worked so hard on? suddenly your grade changes to a A and that same exact teacher suddenly resigns from the school

— he'll try his best to know where you are most of the time and try to follow you back home to make sure you're safe (though its really obvious, you don't acknowledge him so he thinks he's actually doing something)

— but no matter how scary and possessive they are of you, they just want to be good for you, really

— its almost as if they're a puppy for you, always there for your beck and call

— give them a simple command and they'll do it immediately, no questions asked

— ask them to buy you a snack from the nearest store? he'll return back with a bagful of others that he thought you would like

— they're super clingy and always want to be near you

— somehow they manage to have the same exact classes that you have and at the same time. maybe you guys are just lucky? little do you know that your yandere hacked into the principal's computer to change his schedule to fit with yours

— if you're sick, they would immediately fetch you some medicine and make so many bowls of your favorite soup that you're not sure you could finish them all

— they would be so sad when you're sick cause that means they can't be as close as they usually are with you :(

— in bed, nothing changes at all. rather, he becomes even more infatuated with you

— they're still so good and obedient for you, always following your commands. its cute

— like what i said with him doing it with no hesitation, your yandere is eager to do what you say

— tell him to get on his knees? say less as he's already doing so, staring up at you with such innocent eyes

— tell him to open his mouth for you to stick your fingers inside? he opens wide and sticks out his tongue in such a sinful manner, hazy eyes absolutely begging you to make him choke on your fingers as drool drips down his chin

— order him to suck your strap and get it all wet? he's quick to get in between your legs and get his hands on the fake dick, his mouth going straight to bobbing it up and down and gagging as it hits the back of his throat. he'll try to subtly grind his hard on against your foot without you noticing but you do anyways but he's being a good boy so you allow it

— and oh my god is he so shameless in public

— no hesitation in telling you what he wants you to do to him when there are people around

— you'll be at brunch with some of your friends and suddenly you'll feel a hot breath on your ear, such sinful words coming soon after

"im wearing lingerie under my clothes, your favorite set too. wouldn't you like to just ruin me right here and now? make me cry and look so pretty while you show everyone im yours?"

— safe to say that you immediately dragged him to the family bathroom and fingered him until he was gripping onto you for dear life, begging and crying out for you to stop and take pity on him (he's lying about wanting you to stop)

— when you're out with errands or just at work, he'll take such sinful pictures of himself to send to you randomly

— the pictures would include his legs spread out, a obvious bulge in his underwear, and something adorning his body whether its lingerie, a maid outfit, or rope that's tied so tightly on him

— if he's feeling like teasing you even more, he'll send whimpering audios that beg you to come home and fuck him and if you listen close enough, you'll hear some wet noises that let you know that he's masturbating

"f-fuck, [name] come back s-soon, please? i-i miss you so much! i- ah! i-im wearing your favorite outfit right now! i'll be a g-good ngh boy waiting for you ♡"

— itll end up with you rushing home after you're finished to fuck him dumb in that outfit, making it stained with his tears and cum

— he knows you can't really get him pregnant but your yandere just loves those straps with cum in them that you can just shoot inside him whenever you're fucking him fast and rough

— that'll make his eyes roll back and head throw backwards as he lets out such a loud mewl at the feeling of your fake cum filling him up

— and afterwards he'll tease you by using his fingers to push the cum thats gushing out of his hole back in before licking his fingers

— although your yandere is a good boy for you most of the time, theres times where he's a brat

— he'll talk back to you whenever you command him to do something or cum without permission

— but just some long edging or overstimulation will break him and turn him into a sobbing mess

— tying his hands to the headboard and keeping his legs spread apart whilst a vibrator is inside him on the highest setting is his favorite punishment

— your yandere thinks you don't know that since you do it all the time but you actually do know it, you just love the way his face is stained with his drool and tears while his chest and the sheets underneath him is covered in his cum afterwards

— such a slut but we love him for it

ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink

╰┈➤ masterlist | rules

[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!

[genderkoolaid]

Mustarjil is an Arabic term meaning “becoming [a] man.” Although it can be used derogatorily to refer to women who are perceived as having a masculine appearance and/or mannerisms, in Iraq’s marshes, it existed as a gender identity. Within the context of the Ahwari community, Mustarjil was a common gender identity, where people assigned female at birth decide to live as a man after puberty, and this decision was generally accepted in the community. The Mustarjils were one of many similar third gender categories around the world, such as the Hijras in South Asia. [...] “One afternoon, some days after leaving Dibin, we arrived at a village on the mainland. The sheikh was away looking at his cultivations, but we were shown to his mudhif by a boy wearing a head-rope and cloak, with a dagger at his waist. He looked about fifteen and his beautiful face was made even more striking by two long braids of hair on either side. ln the past all the Madan (Ahwari) wore their hair like that, as the Bedu still did. After the boy had made us coffee and withdrawn, Amara asked, ‘Did you realize that was a mustarjil?’ I had vaguely heard of them, but had not met one before. ‘A mustarjil is born a woman’. ‘She cannot help that; but she has the heart of a man, so she lives like a man.’ ‘Do men accept her?’ ‘Certainly. We eat with her and she may sit in the mudhif. When she dies, we fire off our rifles to honour her. We never do that for a woman. In Majid’s village there is one who fought bravely in the war against Haji Sulaiman.’ ‘Do they always wear their hair plaited?’ ‘Usually they shave it off like men.’ ‘Do mustarjils ever marry?’ ‘No, they sleep with women as we do.’” Thesiger continues to narrate several other accounts of mustarjils within the same community, as well that of a “stout middle-aged woman” who wanted to remove her male organ in order to “turn into a proper woman.” Thesiger later mentions: “Afterwards I often noticed the same [person] washing dishes on the river bank with the women. Accepted by them, [she] seemed quite at home. These people were kinder to [her] than we would have been in our society.” Around that time, Britain was still living under the shadow of Victorian norms, and gender non-normative people were still stigmatized and shunned. Communities such as the Ahwaris, presented an alternative model that created space for communities like the mustarjils, despite the dominant gender binary. 

— Recovering Arab Trans History: Masoud El Amaratly, the Folk Music Icon from Iraq’s Marshes by Marwan Kaabour

[5sospenguinqueen]

Play Pretend | Charles Leclerc x Law Student! Reader

Summary: He's Lightning McQueen. You're Elle Woods. But, when Charles misses you, he makes it known that perhaps your career isn't as important as his wishes to start a family.

Warnings: Swearing. Angst. Baby fever? Miscommunication.

Female reader with various faceclaims. Pics found on Pinterest.

2024 but some events switched around 

I'm trying to make all of these different to each other so I'm sorry that this one was less baby fever and more baby mention.

Main Masterlist

next.

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YourUserName just posted

liked by maxverstappen1, francisca.cgomes and others 

YourUserName the cause of stress v. the support systems   tagged: charles_leclerc, YourBestFriend

6,883 comments

User1 i love how all her captions ft her degree are legal themed 

charles_leclerc ❤️💛

charles_leclerc mon ange, what are you doing in that second photo

→ YourUserName it’s probably best you don’t know, char

→ YourBestFriend cocktails were involved

→ charles_leclerc this is why i don’t like leaving her with you 

→ YourBestFriend cry me a river, vroom vroom boy 

lilymhe i still think i would be a better support system than charles

→ YourUserName and i fully agree. let’s run away together

→ alex_albon whoa, whoa, whoa. get your own girlfriend

→ charles_leclerc she already has her own girlfriend! 

→ charles_leclerc wait, no

→ User2 the prettiest girlfriend

User3 i swear charles and y/n are the cutest f1 couple

→ User4 they always look so infatuated with each other 

→ User5 umm, how? she's literally never at races 

→ User6 because she’s off being successful in her own way, and charles supports that? plus, she’s always snapped in ferrari merch on race days whether she’s there or not

→ User7 omg yes! when a classmate took a pic of her leaving a final in bright red, and she was easily the most spottable person in that hall 

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charles_leclerc just posted

liked by pierregasly, arthur_leclerc and others

charles_leclerc welcome home baby leo  tagged: YourUserName

12,298 comments

YourUserName my two favourite boys ❤️

User8 did you see in the background of one of the pics, they have his “birth certificate” framed and it says leo leclerc-y/l/n. he truly is their child

roscoelovescoco can’t wait’s to see’s a new’s friend in’s the paddock’s 

→ User9 roscoe-leo play date when please

→ User10 not until 2025 😂

User11 but let’s all take a moment to appreciate how cool leo’s parents are. he has an f1 racer for a dad, and a fashionable law student for a mum

→ User12 haha his parents are lightning mcqueen and elle woods 

pierregasly thanks mate. now kika is going to want one

→ YourUserName and you should give her one. i need a mum friend 

User13 first they adopt ollie and now leo. who’s next

→ YourUserName oscar

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User1 the interviewer was asking about future races and charles wasted no time in bringing up his girlfriend. he’s so down bad 

User2 the way his face lights up when he talks about her. he really does love her. 

User3 oh Charles, honey, that’s not giving what you think it is 

User4 any other woman slightly uncomfortable with the way this was worded?

→ User5 lets all take a moment to remember that english isn’t his first language. he obviously meant well, and the love in his eyes shows that he’s excited about a life with y/n, it just wasn’t worded in the best way 

User6 the interviewer was so skeezy for that last comment though

User7 i feel so bad for y/n. she’s always so supportive of charles' races, even when she’s not there, and charles is talking about how he can't wait for her to be done with her degree so she can follow him around the world 

→ User8 i don’t think he meant it that way. he looked horrified when the interviewer interpreted it that way but the interview ended before he could clarify further 

User9 do we think mom and dad are fighting after his *slightly* misogynistic comments about making her a kept woman

→ User10 i really hope not but my heart says yes because he basically said he’ll turn her into a travel wife who only cares about his career but said nothing about her career that she’s working really hard on

User11 i didn’t realise how much i depended on y/n’s post race posts until i didn’t get one

→ User12 she always posts the most panty-dropping post race charles pics 

User13 i miss them already 

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User1 oh god, it’s official

User2 brb just gonna go cry my eyes out for an hour 

User3 literally half of her insta posts have disappeared because they were all charles 

→ User4 the only thing keeping me sane is that any post where he wasn’t the main focus but slightly in them have been kept 

User5 can someone check on ollie? see how he’s coping as a child of divorce 

liked by OllieBearman

User6 yes, yes. this is all very sad but now that i’m done crying, can we talk about what is going to happen with leo? is this going to be a shared custody agreement?

→ User7 how could i forget about leo. do you think they’ll see each other at child drop off or make arthur be the middle man?

User8 i can't believe they just got a puppy together and now they’re going to be co-parenting instead :( 

User9 maybe this is just a minor speed bump in the road to their everlasting happiness? (yes, i’m hoping that they’re simply taking a small break)

→ User10 may all your delulus come trululu

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YourUserName just posted

liked by lilymhe, arthur_leclerc and others 

YourUserName the verdict is unanimous… I’m stressing

3,880 comments

YourBestFriend this barbies practices law

→ YourBestFriend not long left, babe. just a couple of exams and we’re qualified adults

→ YourUserName i don’t think we should ever be classed as qualified adults lol 

→ YourMum i still can't get over the fact that you two used to play pretend lawyers as little girls and now you're actually going to be one

lilymhe good luck, y/n. you’re gonna smash these! 

→ YourUserName if not, fancy running me over with your golf cart? 

arthur_leclerc good luck, y/n/n. try not to drink too much caffeine 

→ YourUserName i’m not that bad! 

→ arthur_leclerc you cannot lie to me. i have had to listen to you after three red bulls

→ landonorris betrayal! 

User1 she’s so real for that last slide tho. like miss y/l/n you are gorgeous and we’re glad you know it

YourClassmate how do you look so nice despite being in the library until 2am?

→ User2 dude, no. that line is not going to pull the stunning y/n y/l/n

→ User3 literally, the love of her life is charles leclerc and this guy thinks he’s going to win her over with a bad line 

User4 guys, is anyone else missing the sweet comments charles would always leave 

→ User5 he would be agreeing with the last slide and telling her how beautiful and smart she is 

→ User6 how about we don’t remind her of her ex-boyfriend the day before her life-changing exams

carlossainz55 good luck🤞🏼

→ User7 not sainz being messy on main

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charles_leclerc just posted

liked by pierregasly, scuderiaferrari and others

charles_leclerc there is nothing like racing in italy for ferrari. i wish we had a better result, but that was the maximum today. we’ll try again next week. 

8,449 comments

User9 did you see his interview of him on his way out of the paddock? man was in a rush with poor leo tucked under his arm

→ User10 it’s y/n’s week with leo so charles was running out there because it was time to go see his favourite girl 

→ User11 he was not wasting a minute to see the love of his life 

User12 charles racing faster to go see his ex-girlfriend who he’s wildly obsessed with than he did all weekend 

→ User13 bestie you better pray he doesn’t see this 

→ User14 why? ‘cause he’ll have to fight the urge to like it 

User15 i’m so happy that it’s y/n’s week with leo because we’re going to get the most adorable puppy pics on her story all week

→ User16 also it means that his parents will be conversing 

User17 i love that we’re all depending on leo to get f1’s favourite couple back together 

Baby Fever Angst

Daniel's Version | Max's Version | Lando's Version

Lance's Version | Oscar’s Version

Oscar's version will come out next and then I promise, I'll release some of the Part 2s before making any more

(This wasn’t due out until tomorrow but I’ve released it earlier in honour of THE MONACO WIN BABY!!!!!!) 🥳🍾🥳🍾

Tag list

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