#call this your canon event baby

[ziipzeepzop-eez]

Ohhh my binky bonky Nomzy, it's OKAAAYYYYY ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡

Ah, yeah I remember working my fast food/customer service job. It will be more tiring (that's a given) yes!! But it's also like, you love finally being productive. I get all of that I really do!! And I'm really proud of you for being out there and bustin your butt (/pos!) being a hardworking bumblebee 😁🥰🥳

Mmm, and I definitely get that too. Creativity zap? Mhm mhm. Aww, but don't worry about it love muffin!! :(( You're a wonderful writer and trust me, it won't feel like this forever! No matter how much it may seem like it will <3 (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃ but I understand your frustrations ml: writing is my safe space/destressor too.

But hey. You're gonna be okay, okay? <3 It's a new year! Each day's a new opportunity, and even if you feel like nothing's happening, or if you don't feel good, that's completely okay too! You're not expected to be at your 100 all the time yk? 🥹 It's okay to not be okay. But what's important is you don't stay in the slump forever, yea? Never forget that you've got people who care about ya here too! <3

You're getting out there, and even if it's for working, there can be something great in the slump too! 🥰

I'm here for ya. You want an inspiration playlist?? 👀 I'll make it for you rn I promise-

Hey bunji!! You doing okay? ^^ Just checking in!!!! <33 How's the new job and everything?! I know you've been a busy busy bee on your end so I hope you're resting and recharging where and when you can !! & actively making time for it above all else ! 😁💛

Miss ya loads down here but I'm so happy you're out and about and doing your thang!! 😎

I have work in two hours but it's awesome so far, i'm more tired than usual, (a given), but I really like finally doing something productive.

But the other day I was kinda down because since I started working it just feels like all of my creative energy is just ZAPPED 😩

I wanna wrote SO bad but I just CAN'T put any words out- It's so frustrating and it's honestly starting to make me kinda upset,

My sleeping habits are getting worse too so I'm always SO tired-

Otherwise I'm just really busy busy. I MISS YOU SO BAD ZEEPIE 🥺🩷

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ my life with you (that’s way over now)

synopsis. some people get drunk calls from their exes, maybe even flowers with hand written apologies. you get a knock on your front door with two random kids and a murder case

length. 3.0k words (once more it was supposed to be short)

contents. exes to lovers, ex boyfriend! suguru, gn! reader, slightly deviated from canon (he doesn’t kill the entire village + doesn’t defect), slightly a fix-it fic, blood, murder, child abuse + neglect (canon events with suguru and the twins), angst to slight fluff with hopeful ending (pretty much happy tbh), mentions of family + kids, suguru pretty much being a broke and depressed lil guy lollll

notes. idk what this is but it was written for me i just wanted to write it so here. take it and look away

right before you graduate, you and suguru break up. you don’t want to, but he insists it’s only fair—he can hardly be there for you the way you need him to be, he says. something’s changed in him, it has since that day last year. but still—you don’t want to break up.

so you argue, he stays firm, you cry, he doesn’t change his mind, you break up, he leaves, and the world momentarily collapses.

it’s the way things work, you suppose. they don’t quite always go the way you planned. you graduate not long after that, leaving him behind to throw yourself into work while you toe into the baby steps of adulthood. real adulthood—the jujutsu world has a way of thrusting you into that faster than normal, anyway.

by the time it’s late summer, you get your first apartment. it’s a rundown place—the bathroom tiles look dirty no matter how much you scrub, the walls haven’t been repainted in what seems like decades, and the thermostat never works properly to feel like what the temperature indicates.

but it’s yours—you leave jujutsu high fresh into the real world, paying your taxes and buying your groceries all while you exorcise curses for a living. barely an adult, barely getting by, barely alive as you get up each day and live.

and then suguru comes knocking on your door half past midnight.

“hey,” he says nonchalantly, like there’s nothing wrong with standing there—but you know him better than that. you can hear that detachment in his voice as he stares between your eyes, but not quite in them.

“you—” you start, staring at him incredulously before you decide to give up. there are no surprises with suguru, not anymore you suppose. you don’t really know him anymore. “suguru, it’s midnight,” you sigh—and that’s when you see them: two small children that can’t be much older than five.

bruises are clear as day on their arms, even while standing in the darkness outside. there’s also the slight swollen curve of their eyes, and you can’t help but notice how they’re practically skin and bone. children who have probably not yet even lived for five winters, and you almost wonder if they’ve been through more than you have in you’re entire lifetime.

suguru clears his throat before you can stare at them any longer.

“this is nanako,” he gestures at the blonde, “and this is mimiko.” the brunette one seems more shy, curls behind his leg further as her name is uttered.

you don’t know what to say, so you settle for smiling—you’re not sure if it comes out too genuine, but you try. it’s all you can offer, really.

“hello,” you hum for a moment. and then you turn back to suguru, “it’s midnight.”

“i know.”

“you should be at school grounds.”

“i know.”

“suguru,” you sigh, eyeing the blood stained on his cheek. you don’t like where this is heading. there’s a sick feeling twisting in your gut, bubbling, bubbling, bubbling.

bile. you can taste it. something’s not right.

“where did you find these kids?”

“on a mission,” he says simply, “village heads were keepin’ em locked in a cage like animals. can you believe it?”

again, that casual tone. it almost as easy as humming your favorite tune, as smooth as your skin on freshly washed sheets, as quiet as the first day of snow when the world is still. but something about it is hollow—something’s not right.

“why’d you bring them here? instead of school? shoko should look at them—”

“i told them they’d be safe here.”

they’d be safe anywhere, you think. as long as suguru’s there too. as long they’re under his watchful gaze, nothing could hope to beat down on their youth like it already has their whole lives. but you don’t say that—something tells you he won’t believe you.

maybe not right now.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. something’s not right, but there are children present. so you throw on your best smile and open the door wider, offering them to come in.

your apartment is small, just one bedroom and one bath. there’s hardly enough food for yourself for tonight, you still have to go grocery shopping this week. the missions were lined up back to back to back—but that’s just life as a sorcerer, you suppose. most days you hardly have the energy to eat more than a few apple slices when you return home anyway.

you wave your hand at your place dramatically as you say, “come on in, ladies. your humble abode awaits.”

they giggle slightly at that—it’s the first time suguru hears them laugh. you have that effect, he knew you would. it’s why he brings them here and not there. and…well, there’s a more complicated issue at hand. but that’s for later.

right now…well, for right now, he lets you guide them to the bathroom.

“you have money on you right?” you ask. he blinks, staring at you for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

“spent the last of it on cigarettes this morning.”

great, you think, before sighing and trudging over to grab your wallet as you press a few crisp bills of cash in his hands.

“here.”

“what’s this for?” he raises a brow.

“go buy them clothes,” you look at him like he’s stupid. he might be, in all honesty. just a little. “i’m not putting them back in…those once they’re all cleaned.”

“wha—i’ve never shopped for children before,” he gapes, “and i don’t know what size they are, or—”

“figure it out, suguru,” you say tiredly. it’s half past midnight—by now, you’d be passed out from your mission. he seems to take the hint. “and bring some snacks too. should be enough.”

“fine,” he grumbles—and then he’s walking out the door.

for a second, it feels familiar watching him leave. but then you decide not to dwell on it—there are much more important matters at hand.

you turn to the two girls before crouching in front of them with a gentle smile, “who’s ready for bubbles?”

——————

nanako and mimiko have never had a bubble bath before. you decide to let them taste the first tendrils of youth by splashing in your tiny bathtub while you find suguru for some much needed answers.

he sits on your couch, shirt wrinkled and hair falling loose and blood still staining his cheek as he hunches over his legs, elbows resting on his thighs as he thinks. and thinks. and thinks and thinks and thinks.

you wonder about what—what could be plaguing his mind? a lot you’re sure, but this isn’t suguru. not the one you know, at least.

the one you knew, the voice in your mind hisses—do you really even know him at all anymore?

“so,” you sit on the opposite side of the sofa, curling your legs under yourself as you eye him from the side, “care to explain?”

“i killed them,” he mutters. you go still. “the village heads. i did it without hesitating. that’s bad, right?”

“well fuck, suguru,” you breathe, restless, “that’s certainly not good.”

“i had a reason,” he argues, “all i needed was one.”

“there’s nothing that excuses murder—”

“oh, but we can excuse locking kids in cages, is that right? why? cause they’re sorcerers? they’re not—they’re children.”

“i didn’t say that,” you rub your forehead. this is all too much. too, too much.

being a sorcerer is too much. being in front of suguru is too much.

you finish your third year with a broken heart and graduate in spring—at one point you’d hoped graduating wouldn’t change anything between you and your friends, between you and the boy you loved. everything would be the same, even if you’d leave the place that held you all together—you’d still find a way back to each other, you liked to think. but then it all changes before you can even comprehend.

haibara is dead. nanami is hardly coping. gojo is everywhere but here. shoko is in high demand. suguru is hardly present even when he’s right in front of you. nothing is the same and you don’t think it ever will be. you lose the one thing you count on being yours forever, and now, he’s right here again. but not really here—not with you so much as near you.

suguru has killed people, sitting on your couch with you while the two children he finds are bathing happily in your bathtub.

there’s some irony in that—maybe in a perfect world, suguru and you would sit on the couch, much happier than right now, though. maybe you’d be tucked under his arm and curled into his side as you both chuckle at the happy squeals in the distance. maybe in a perfect world.

but this world is cruel. too cruel, in fact. it forces children to grow up too fast during some times and lets adults continue to be children during others. it’s sickening and all too much.

but this is the world you live in. there’s not much to change in that—not much you can change. maybe sitting on the couch with suguru is what you should be grateful for, whether it’s in this world or another.

“i came here because it’s safe,” he mumbles, quieter this time, “i don’t���i didn’t trust anywhere else.”

something tells you he’s not talking about the kids. you look at him for the first time that night—really look at him. you take in the lost weight, the sunken cheekbones and the bruised under eyes from the lack of sleep. the cracked lips from being chapped and the dry hair that’s lost its normal shine.

something’s not right—you won’t be able to mend it, but you think you can keep it from getting worse.

“it is safe here,” you murmur, nodding in assurance, “but you can’t…i can’t let you do that. not again.”

“what? kill people?” he snorts in dry amusement. it’s quiet for a bit—you open your mouth a few times like you want to say something, but nothing ever comes. he finally decides to fill the silence. “i don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. people shouldn’t kill. but some people shouldn’t live.”

“i think jujutsu is supposed to save people. not everyone will deserve it, but i suppose we wouldn’t be much better than them if we used it for anything other than that,” you whisper. he looks over at you at that, peers at you deep in thought as he contemplates your words.

“that’s funny,” he chuckles, “i used to think that too.”

“what changed?”

“everything.”

“then change it some more,” you shrug, “until you think it again.” he looks at you incredulously at that, eyeing you like you’re crazy.

“you’re an idiot,” he scoffs.

“says the killer,” you scoff back. you look at him this time, in the eyes and full of conviction, full of promises you couldn’t make before but fully intend to keep now. “don’t kill anyone else and i’ll help you. with those kids, i mean.”

“you want to co parent with me?” he chuckles.

co parent—the word makes your stomach twist. even after all this time, after all the hurt and pain, suguru is easy to imagine that with. he’s easy to imagine anything in the future with, really. he’s always been perfect like that, but you’re starting to realize there’s a lot more imperfections to him than you initially thought.

but it’s okay, you think. if you didn’t stop loving him before, you certainly don’t stop now. blood on his hands or not, he’s yours—even if he doesn’t want to be.

“don’t say it like that,” you murmur softly, hugging your arms around yourself, “please.”

you let yourself be vulnerable for just a moment—not because you want to, but because he needs to know. he needs to know how unfair he’s being and how patient you are with him despite it all. you deserve that much.

“sorry,” he mutters—he has the decency to look away and drop his smile.

“you don’t kill anyone, and i’ll look for a bigger place. deal?”

“for us…all?”

“yes. just until you figure it out, i’ll help you out with them. and then you’ll responsibly use your paycheck as a full time special grade sorcerer and maybe send a few checks my way to say thanks to my good will.”

he chuckles at that, shaking his head. “i’ll repay you,” he hums, tapping his foot. he does that when he’s nervous, you still remember—you could never forget anything about him. “i…i owe you, anyway.”

it’s quiet some more. you don’t know what to say, and quite frankly, you don’t want to say anything at all. but once more, he fills the silence for you after a while.

“what if…” he starts, “what if i want to co parent with you?”

“you dumped me,” you point out, unable to hide the bitterness any longer. it cracks from your tongue through your words like honey that went dry. “remember that? cause i sure remember.”

you’re an adult now, just barely, but an adult all the same. you should handle this the mature way—but you’re still young. still hurt. still blanketed in the fresh wave of nostalgia that leaves you aching with grief.

so you let yourself be bitter. suguru can handle that much after he left you to pick up your shattered pieces.

“i didn’t want to,” he says quietly. “i never wanted to.”

“but you did.”

“i didn’t…you didn’t deserve to see me unstable.”

“you’re not very stable right now either,” you pinch your nose tiredly, “you killed people, suguru. but somehow you can manage to have two kids now. but not me.”

“they need me,” he defends.

“i needed you too,” your voice cracks.

you did. you needed him—and you like to think he needed you too. maybe it wasn’t perfect, nothing ever is, especially not when you fight curses and see their ugliness every day. but that’s the best part of having each other—having something pretty amidst the hideousness.

he left you with more ugly than you knew what to do with. it’s unfair, you think for a moment, unfair that two girls who hardly know him at all have more of him than you ever did. he’d never abandon them—that much you know for sure.

you’ve laughed with him, held him and wiped his tears and kissed him under the moon until it became the sun. you’ve seen him with his hair down and his guard lowered. you’ve seen him in every way possible but in the end, he walked away.

they’ve seen him for less than a day and somehow, he’ll be there forever. there’s something unfair about that and you hate that you’re bitter with children but the world in cruel like that.

suguru slowly inches over—it’s cautious at first, and then he fills the gap all at once. you pretend you don’t feel the way your thighs touch.

“i need you too,” he admits, voice small. there’s a small, shaky crack that eats away at your heart, trying to gnaw into the raw part. the easy to reach part. the part you shouldn’t let him see anymore. “i…i always needed you. i’m sorry.”

“we were supposed to need each other,” you sniffle.

“we do,” he slowly slumps his head onto your shoulder. you let him stay there—don’t dare move a muscle in case he pulls away. “you’re the only thing that keeps me stable. i don’t think that’s fair.”

“needing someone isn’t unfair, suguru,” you scoff.

“okay,” he grabs your hand, squeezing. for the first time, he lets it all go. lets tears slowly slip from the corners of his eyes as he slumps into your side. he cries for riko. for kuroi. for satoru and the time he lost him for a moment. for their youth. for haibara. for not being enough even when he shouldn’t have had to be. somewhere amidst all that, your arms wrap around him and he’s pulled into your chest—that familiar feeling of your fingers threading into his hair makes the world start spinning again. “i need you,” he chokes.

“okay,” you say shakily, nodding slowly as you let yourself hope, “as long as you don’t stop this time.”

he buries his face into your chest, and you kiss the crown of his head.

cruelty is an unstoppable force. your love for suguru is an immovable object. neither is going anywhere, but perhaps they can coexist.

“satoru’s gonna have a massive headache when he explains this one to the higher ups,” you snort after a while.

he laughs into your shirt, real for the first time in a long time. “i’ll buy him something sweet. should make up for it,” he hums. and then he looks up, smiles innocently as he asks, “wanna lend me some cash? i’ll pay you back when i’m a responsible handler of money.”

“you’re hopeless,” you chuckle, “but at least you’re here.”

————— BONUS —————

“okay,” satoru starts, holding his hands up in surrender as he stands before the higher ups. damn old geezers, he thinks. “so he did kill a person or two…but—”

“there is no excuse,” a voice hisses.

“he didn’t mean it,” he huffs indignantly, “it was an accident. those can happen sometimes.”

“what—”

“he’s going through a phase, okay? let him work through it, he’ll be fine.”

“that’s not—”

“i’ll let him off the hook this time,” satoru grins, pushing his glasses up his nose as he shrugs, “he’s got a family now, y’know? kids and a spouse, and they’re looking for a home. can’t take that away from them.”

“he’s not even married—”

“it’ll happen eventually,” he insists, “so let’s all just calm down, yeah? great, thanks!”

“gojo—”

“see ya!”

he walks out, flashing an obnoxious peace sign at the higher ups as they hiss at him to return as he’s walking out. that takes care of that, he thinks, as long as suguru doesn’t make his life harder and kill more people, he can handle it—you did promise him kikufuku if he does.

satoru is babygirl defender no. 1 ain’t nobody doing it like my guy 🤞🏽 he would be loyal to you while you were in jail no doubts

[gay-dorito-dust]

hi!! i’ve been searching high and low for fanfic since seeing deadpool and wolverine LOL so i was wondering if you could do either head canons or a small fic (whichever you prefer) about deadpool x reader x wolverine? either a poly relationship or both of them trying to compete and woo reader? maybe it could take place during the movie events? tysm!

Your relationship with Wade and Logan oftentimes consisted of them trying to hog your for themselves, which leads to the other getting jealous and or upset, so much so to the point where they’ll end up squabbling over you preferred more.

This is not new as the pair seemingly have something against sharing but overtime it does get better and they’re less likely to fight over you and who gets your attention.

They’ve even had it scheduled out at one point but that didn’t last as either Wade or Logan would accuse the other of prolonging their time with you to the point it was intersecting with the other pre established times slots.

Logan: Oi scrotum face! You’ve been hogging them five minutes more than established!

Wade, acting coy as he clings onto you; oh am I? I’m pretty sure my cuddle session was 11:30 until 12:30pm-

Logan: it’s 12:35 dickhead!

Wade: *gasps* oh my gosh you’re right! I guess time must’ve slipped my mind when cuddling my pookie here *boops you on the nose*

Logan: *not too impressed*

When they’re not at each other’s throats over who you love more, they’re wooing you as though you’re not already fucking dating the pair of them. Particularly Wade more so than Logan. 💀

You’d find Wade draped across your bed with a rose held between in his hands, buck naked and with nothing but a pillow to cover his dick or ‘the surprise’ he calls it.

‘You can peg me tonight.’ ;) - Wade

‘I am so honoured, ass up baby girl.’ - you (probably)

Logan isn’t use to soft touches of love, he really isn’t and so if you were to ever kiss the places where his wounds once were before they healed, he’d melt. His smile is soft as he silently watched you kiss the knuckles, completely unafraid of his claws popping out and or caressing the calluses on his palms. At long last his soul was at ease, his mind was quiet as all Logan could focus on was you being tender and soft with him as though he hadn’t lived through the past 200 years of pain, trauma and suffering.

You treated him like he was just Logan Howlett and nothing more, not wolverine, not weapon X, just Logan and only Logan for that’s who the man sitting next to you was. You helped numb the pain whilst holding his hand through the nights were he awakes breathless and his claws out and ready.

Logan panics if he were to see that he accidentally nicked you with his claws during his nightmares, for hurting you was the last thing he ever wanted to do, and would try to push you away whenever you tried to get closer to him. He has hurt you and he shouldn’t be worthy of your comfort when all he could see was the really small nick on your arm.

‘Logan-‘

‘Don’t. I hurt you.’

‘It’s only a small cut, I’m fine Logan please.’

‘No! What if next time I cut you badly?’

Your heart broke whenever he got like this, so naturally you had to force yourself into his arms and make him come to terms with the fact that he would never hurt your willingly and grab ahold of his face, resting your foreheads together as you told him to focus on you and your breathing; showing him that you were alive and well.

Wade might as well have whined when you kissed his skin where wounds should’ve been before they healed. They’re his favourite moments between the two of you and would even imitate it back to you, but without the wounds, so it’s just him kissing your skin wherever whenever. He might even blow raspberries to keep the spirit of your somewhat goofy relationship alive and well.

Wade has photos of your dates, movie nights and such kept in somewhere in his room, whether that he a box or album, he has them and will look at them and smile because he’s a sap for making memories that’ll live forever much like him. He cares deeply about you and would even keep tokens or other random things as mementos too.

Some are more weirder than others.

‘This was a ticket when we went to the arcade.’

‘Oh this is that stick we both said looks like a penis when we took Dogpool to the dog park.’

‘This was the bandaid that you tried to use to cover my wounds before you found out either of me or wolvie could heal-‘

Logan and Wade don’t like to share, that we already know, but if someone who wasn’t aware of your polyamorous relationship with the two and decided to shoot their shot, they’d know first hand how much these men don’t play with you as Wade verbally beats them down with his crude sense of humour and Logan hovers over you, glaring as the poor person until they’ve ran away with their tail between their legs.

Remy?

Logan would growl and glare at the man while keeping a possessive hand on your waist, tugging you to his side to show that you were taken, or even have you wear his jacket to further get the point across to Remy.

Wade would just make a big joke out of it all the while having his hand in your back pocket. ‘You cant have our pookie, go get your own magic mike.’

Also when it comes to cuddling at night your either between Wade and Logan or Logan is in between you and Wade, or Wade is in between you and Logan. It changes now and then but when you’re in the middle of them both, it’s the safest you’ll ever be in your entire life, nothing can get to you and you can rest easily knowing that you’ve got two men who’d do anything to keep you safe and secure.

[kiirschtein-archive]

⋆ 「 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐢’𝐬 (𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞) 𝐦𝐨𝐦. 」 ⋆

feat. — toji fushiguro x f!reader, kid!megumi

word count. — 1.4k

content. — sfw, non-sorcerer au, established relationship (marriage), mostly just fluffy domestic stuff, reader is addressed as ‘mom/mama/mommy,’ toji’s kind of a bad parent but he’s working on it, brief mention of toji smoking (cigarettes), overprotective!toji, very minor suggestive themes (from toji 🙄 he’s a walking cw/tw)

notes. — idk. this has been incessantly on my brain pretty much from the moment i  woke up today, even to the point where i was writing half of this at  the laundromat lmao. mother’s day yesterday had me feeling some type of way, so here have some fun headcanons from a strange eldest daughter!!!! (i might end up doing a set of these for gojo x reader too 🤔)

⋆ 「 — he’s not your biological son, but you’ve been around since you started seeing toji when megumi was still a baby. but now, a few years later, you might as well be his real mother. you certainly act like it and feel like it, so toji gladly initiates the conversation about official adoption. it just makes sense. you eventually explain the situation to megumi as best as you can simply so that he doesn't grow up thinking he was lied to or anything of the sort, but as far as he's concerned, you're his mom whether it's by blood or not.

⋆ 「 — and oh, megumi’s a mama’s boy. i imagine he’s just a little bit of a healthier kid vs. canon given the better family situation, but he’s still always a bit of a grumpy baby, appreciating his autonomy and trying to be as self-sufficient and mature as he can be. but he’ll most certainly run to you when he needs help, is truly hurt, or just needing a bit of comfort. you’ve always treated him so softly and kindly with understanding, so he honestly feels more comfortable coming to you most of the time instead of his dad.

⋆ 「 — he likes the way you organize the bookshelf in his room or fold and sort his clothes in special little ways. he gets upset any time toji tries to put a book back in the wrong place or can’t figure out where his damn socks are. gumi will scowl and say, “that’s not where it goes.” or go deadpan and be like, “mom always keeps the socks in the bottom drawer.” disappointed that his father can’t even remember. toji just grumbles and says, “your mama’s gonna ruin you.”

⋆ 「 — has called you 'mom' basically since he was old enough, but don't let him fool you. megumi will drop the big boy act and come out with 'mama' or 'mommy' when something's wrong or he's really excited. he'll come to you with quiet tears and sniffles, a little ashamed that he's crying, but present to you a scraped elbow, "mama... it hurts." you clean up the scrape and explain to him the little medical details in a somewhat understandable way to help him focus on something besides the pain, and you tell him that it'll be okay, and that it's alright to cry. or on the flip-side, you and toji take him to the zoo, little gumi on his dad's shoulders, and he gasps and points excitedly, "look, mommy! look at the big elephant!" and it feels incredible to see him be so spirited.

⋆ 「 — along the lines of the art from this post and the thought i had about it earlier, just imagine that you're at some event (maybe like a birthday party or something), and toji's been hauling megumi around. they're both so over it at this point and are like 'please get me out of this' so as soon as toji walks past the obnoxious inflatable bouncy house, he smirks and just YEETS that kid inside without a second thought. after regaining his breath, megumi just looks at his father with the most EVIL little scowl as other kids bounce around him with smiles. by the look on that child's face you could've swore that his father had just done him the ultimate betrayal.

so gumi slides out and hurriedly makes his way over to where you're sitting off to the side, quietly climbing into your lap for a little bit of solace. he wiggles in close to your chest and you tuck him under your chin with a ‘come here, sweetpea,’ rocking slowly and humming something soft because he always seems to like it when you do.

toji comes over and you look at him through narrowed eyes. "kids are supposed to like shit like that," he says.

"you know he likes when things are more quiet," you respond, and toji rolls his eyes at how you seemingly spoil your son.

"just thought it might be good for him to try and get along with the other brats." toji tries to cover up the fact that he tossed his kid for the sheer personal enjoyment of it.

you huff in disbelief. "oh, like you get along so well with everyone?"

he scoffs and moves in behind you, leaning down to place a kiss on your neck. "i get along with you," he says almost suggestively.

you just keep stroking megumi's hair and give the top of his head a gentle kiss. "yeah, well not today," you say, shooting a smug, resolute smile towards your husband, ultimately taking his son's side.

⋆ 「 — outside of his alone time, megumi would honestly much rather be with you instead of other children. toji thinks it's probably unhealthy and you're inclined to agree, but you also don't want to force megumi into situations that will just make him miserable. so, when appropriate, you don't mind at all pacing around with him in your arms or have him walk next to you (maybe holding your hand if he’s not in a ‘big boy’ mood), teaching him about the things you see in the woods, the park, or even the museum. when toji's not away working, he'll join too because it admittedly makes his heart feel soft to watch you two together. it always has, because you've been doing this with megumi since he was a baby. it never gets old. if it wasn't already so difficult trying to figure out how to do things right by his son, he'd want you to give him even more babies.

⋆ 「 — megumi likes doing things with his dad sometimes too, though. toji tries his best to do it right and watch both his mouth and his temper. you like seeing them getting along, even if it's just quietly watching tv or a movie (probably a cartoon where toji gets kind of into and will ask the occasional question like "why does that one stupid chick keep doing that?" and megumi just shrugs like, "i dunno. she is pretty dumb.") or playing ball outside because gumi's starting to show some athleticism. but you have to remind toji that he can't always be so rough or competitive with games because megumi is literally a child.

⋆ 「 — toji can also be way too overprotective of you two at times. you'll be out and about and he'll just be wearing such an intimidating expression as he walks behind you both, on the lookout for anyone who might want to cause trouble or take the wrong sort of glance at his wife. he'll even snap at people for walking too close or like cutting in line or something petty, and you have to tell him stop acting like an attack dog and looking like the grim reaper because dear god you're literally just having lunch at the park. even at his age, megumi's just eating his ice cream and looking at his dad with his little baby deadpan expression and thinking "this man really needs to take a chill pill." other times he can be more relaxed, however, obviously confident in his ability to protect you. it depends on his mood. but that still doesn’t stop him from being embarrassing and going off on people in public if something happens.

⋆ 「 — you also know all of gumi’s favorite meals and snacks. it’s yet another one of those things where, if his dad does it wrong, megumi expresses a disappointment beyond his years. toji will be making and packing his son’s school lunch just as instructed by the notes you gave him, but it’s by no means as neat and meticulous as when you do it. toji’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth with furrowed, concentrating brows, his free hand shakily reaching for a cup of fresh coffee, and megumi’s standing there with his little backpack, criticizing his father the entire time. “mom doesn’t do it like that,” he says.

“well mom ain’t here right now. and it doesn’t matter how the sandwich is cut, is still tastes the damn same.”

gumi doesn’t even physically react, still wearing the same neutral expression, just waiting for his dad to hurry up. “mom says you shouldn’t smoke. and she also says not to use bad words.”

toji scoffs and then smirks. “well mommy uses all sorts of bad words you don’t even know about when her and daddy have play time.”

megumi’s already almost late for school and can barely feel his feet from how tight his dad tied his shoelaces. he also asks you later about “play time,” and you want to absolutely murder your husband over it.

[oceaneyesinla]

I RAN OUT OF TAGS (i am so sorry i just have too much to say)(i've written too much i'm so sorry)

I will continue my love of the Shinazugawa brothers under a cut <3

Sanemi loves genya so much i actually can't

genya is the one place where sanemi can be sanemi and not a hashira of the corps

the continued beef between tanjiro and sanemi is so fucking funny they really are beefing in every lifetime

also inosuke stealing the boar head and sanemi calling him the rabid one is fantastic I love him just judging his little brothers friends

Um the reference to genya looking like their dad and sanemi wondering if it had come from him was entirely uncalled for and heartbreaking, thanks

genya asking if everything is okay 🥺 these brothers make me want to CRY

sanemi having a private trust for genya and SETTING ONE UP FOR READER damn boy you are down bad pls just admit it and call her 😭

ugh just sanemi looking out for his little brother, worrying if he's eating, wanting his opinion on what's going on, rough housing with him - LOVING HIM

'there's a girl gen' 'a real one?' still gets me every fucking time

genya just immediately understanding just how down bad sanemi is and also being horrified that he's essentially ghosted her

genya reminding him of their mom please I might actually cry (fun fact I did tear up a lil bit when I finished reading bc this was so good)

peach the way you've written their bond is perfect

'you were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky' that paragraph is my favourite one of the whole piece; I love the symbolism and it describes so well everything he feels for her (and I'm a sucker for using astronomy and sky metaphors)

that ending is everything- so simple and absolutely perfect

Peach thank you for such a wonderful story <3

COMPASS / CHAPTER 2

bad boy!Sanemi ♢ modern gang AU

A/N: oh boy oh boy! It only took me four months to write this, and I still had to split it in half.

This is a very Sanemi-focused chapter. Enjoy seeing some other characters and everyone's favorite little brother. Smut enjoyers have no fear, there are plenty of references to sex this chapter, and the next installment will be fucking filthy. For now, enjoy pining bitch boy Sanemi, some humor, and a whole lot of self-hatred.

CW: 17k. MDNI. Morning-after awkwardness. Humor. Gang-related violence. Brief description of bones being broken. Gun violence. Masturbation. Somewhat explicit references to sex that occurred in the previous chapter. Mentions of blood. Angst.

chapter one // masterlist

Sanemi doesn’t remember ever having woken up as peacefully as he does that next morning, with you in his arms. His hands are resting against the curve of your spine, his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

You’ve remained tangled up with him throughout the night, your legs intertwined and you, laid out against his torso. A small smear of your drool has dried on his skin, right beneath where your cheek is mashed between his pectorals where you snore softly.

If he could, he’d stay like this forever; warm and wrapped up in blankets that smell distinctly of you while you remain asleep on his chest. No outside world to speak of, no debts to collect or bones to smash. Nothing beyond the parameters of your bed, and the way your body fits so perfectly against his.

Sanemi is acutely aware of your mutual nudity. The luxurious feel of your bare skin pressed to his ushers in a flurry of images from the night before, each snap shot flashing through his mind, a montage of naked limbs and breathless moans.

He’d fucked you — though some small voice in his head quips that he’d done something more than just fucking, but he resolves to ignore that for now. Worse (was it?), he’d done it without using protection — and he came in you.

Whatever rule book he’d played by before, it no longer mattered. It’s been thoroughly shredded, cast aside along with every last fragment of common sense he’d had, its remnants strewn somewhere among his clothes where they lay discarded on your floor. He should feel horror; should feel guilt and shame for being so fucking reckless with you despite having committed to doing everything in his power to be more careful with you than he is with himself, and yet, Sanemi cannot seem to find a morsel of regret.

Instead, all he can feel is bliss. He can focus on nothing more than how warm you are, how your soft breasts are squished against his abdomen. How sweet your hair smells, how silky your skin is beneath his greedy fingertips. How badly he wants you again; selfishly. Completely.

And despite knowing he’s in the wrong, Sanemi can’t help but be struck at how right this feels. So right, in fact, that his body is quickly coming to life the longer he spends beneath you, his blood hot and full of need.

He shifts under you, gnashing his teeth together as your lower belly rubs right against his groin. His morning wood is almost painful, and he half contemplates waking you up to see if you’re willing to go for a second round, but he refrains. While it wouldn’t be out of the realm of reasonability for him to ask for more, given the events of the last twelve hours, he knows it wouldn’t be smart. 

More importantly, Sanemi doesn’t want you thinking he feels entitled to your body — or your affection — now that he’s had a taste of both, no matter how addicted to you he is.

Gently, he untangles himself from you and lays you back against your pillows. Once he ensures the blankets are pulled up over you, he peels off the bed to search for his pants. He finds them a few feet away and tugs them on, though he leaves his belt unfastened. He forsakes his shirt, too, at least until you wake up, not wanting you to feel overexposed in your nudity while he’s fully dressed.

Sanemi quietly pads into your kitchen and begins fumbling around for your coffee machine. He pulls two mugs from your cabinet and finds your stash of coffee beans shoved on a random shelf, and he sets to work, doing his best to keep as quiet as he can.

He hears you stirring from the kitchen right as your mug of coffee finishes brewing.

He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey.”

You sit up in your bed, clutching the blankets to your chest. His heart throbs. You’re beautiful like this, unfairly so, despite having just woken up. Your hair is a little messy, but your eyes are bright, and your bare skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through your windows.

“Hi,” you say shyly, eyes tracking him as he crosses the room, mug in hand. You gratefully accept the coffee he hands you, but you keep one hand fisted around your blanket, holding it tightly to your chest.

He grimaces. Even though Sanemi has now seen every inch of your body, you seem committed to shielding as much of it as possible from him. 

Whether it’s out of insecurity or morning-after regret, he can’t say.

“I wanted to wait ‘til you got up before I left. Didn’t want you to think I just dipped.” Sanemi runs an awkward hand through his hair. “But now that you’re up, I can run down the street. Grab ya the morning after pill.”

At your questioning look, his cheeks redden. “Since — y’know —“

He gestures lamely at you, as though that somehow is enough of an explanation. But it’s apparently successful, because your eyes blow wide with understanding, a twin blush creeping up your neck.

“I don’t need it.” You squeak, ducking your head, your fingers tightening around your blanket.

Sanemi blinks. Great, he groans internally. He knew you were a virgin, but he’d assumed you knew the risks associated with fucking raw.

“Yeah, you do,” he corrects, and his stomach flips as the memory of last night — of how tightly you’d gripped him as he came, of your soft moan as you’d felt the first spurt of his cum fill you — flashes through his mind. “We didn’t use protection, and I assume you know how babies are made —“

“I don’t need it.”

Your insistence sets off alarm bells in his head. Maybe he should’ve explained to you his stance on children before he came in you, but he’ll be damned if he lets you baby trap him now.

No matter how in love with you he is.

“Yes, you do. I’m not lettin’ you get pregnant —“ he starts hotly, his temperament shifting into something dangerous.

With a huff, you reach over to your nightstand and yank on a drawer. You root around inside it for a moment before pulling free a small card lined with neat rows of pills.

You wave it at him, sarcastic.  “No, I don’t, dumbass.” And you busy yourself with popping one of the pills free to swallow. “I’ve been on birth control since high school.”

Sanemi blinks. “But you’d never —“

You toss your pills back into your drawer with a groan. “You don’t need to be sexually active to be on birth control, Sanemi. It has other uses.” You chew on your lip as you stare down at the mug balanced between your legs. “My periods are horrible. It helps me manage them.”

He stares at your bedside table for a long moment, feeling decidedly stupid.

“I can still take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you offer. “But I’ve been consistent with taking my birth control for years.”

“Nah,” he clears his throat. “If you think the pill is enough, then that’s fine by me.”

Silence, tense and stiflingly awkward settles between you once more, and Sanemi feels damn near ready to jump out of his skin.

“Feel okay?” He asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blush again. “I think so,” you pause and stretch, testing your limbs, though you manage to keep that blanket locked tight against your chest. “Maybe a little sore, but I guess that’s normal, right?”

“Yeah,” and to his embarrassment, Sanemi finds himself needing to clear his throat again to cover up the way his voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Sanemi blinks. “Well — yeah.” It’s not a lie. Physically, he feels phenomenal. How he feels internally, however, is a whole separate matter, and it’s not one he’s particularly keen on exploring at the moment.

Absently, you tap your thumbs against the ceramic lip of your coffee mug. “So —,”

“—So,” he starts, but he falters just as you do, the two of you looking quickly away from one another in mutual embarrassment.

This would be far easier if you were just another hookup. He would’ve already left, would already be on another job, riding his post-sex high for the remainder of the day. He wouldn’t feel as he is now, full of doubt and oily shame for having to leave you now, naked and vulnerable as you are.

“I should go,” he finally offers after another unbearably awkward moment. The phone in his pocket is a burning weight he cannot ignore, one that’s started buzzing with an incessant demand that he answer; that he collect.

You nod, your gaze almost reproachful as you watch him retrieve the gun he’d laid on your kitchen table the night before and tuck it into his waistband.

“Will I hear from you?” Your voice is soft, almost imperceptibly so.

The guilt in Sanemi’s knotted stomach turns sour. He shouldn’t be surprised — he can’t be, really. Not when he knows you’ve heard the rumors of how he acts with other bed partners.

Still, your quiet, resigned assumption that he might treat you the same way — that he was satisfied with using your body and would now would fuck off and do whatever — stings.

“‘Course you will.” And he means it — and not just because he knows he said a lot of things last night while between your legs and damn near delirious with pleasure. He told you things he’d meant; things he doesn’t want you chalking up to passionate outbursts brought on by the heat of the moment.

But he also said things that probably mean he’s fucked himself over, and now, he needs to figure out what he’s going to do about it.

Sanemi fishes his shirt from its discarded place on your floor and tugs it over his head. He can feel your eyes tracking his every movement, and he feels near ready to burst into flames as he crosses the studio to your bed.

He stoops down to press one, soft kiss to your forehead. “‘Til next time.”

You don’t respond; you only remain there, sitting still in your bed, your sheets clutched to your chest. The scent of your hair ushers a flood of memories from only a few hours earlier, and the way they blur together make his head hurt and his heart ache.

Mine. He’d said to you, just before you shattered so prettily against your sheets as he fucked you. You’re fuckin’ mine.

Yeah, he thinks as he closes the door of your apartment behind him. Yeah, he’s fucked.

—

When he was a boy, Sanemi always imagined what it would be like to fly.

Life in the Silo was suffocating and he’d often found himself turning his face up toward the sky, savoring the wind as it rustled his hair and carried leaves off into horizons he would never see. He envied the pigeons that always clustered near the overfilled trash cans spilling out onto the streets, pecking at molded scraps of food because they could take off at any moment. One loud noise, one obnoxious asshole barreling through them, and they could launch right into the sky, their wings beating as they rode the breeze to seek out safer sidewalks. 

He’d never join them; he knew that. But on his bike, Sanemi feels like the wind itself, and he supposes it’s the closest he’ll ever be to flying free. 

He finds his bike where he always parks it – in a back alley behind your apartment, tucked behind a dumpster far out of sight. Straddled upon it, his helmet secure, he keys the ignition and it roars to life beneath him, its engine a steady rumble that echoes off the pavement. The moment he releases the clutch, he is soaring. He drives, the wind whipping at his clothes, his knuckles, until it sings in his blood and he feels weightless. 

He tears down streets, darts between honking cars slowed on the freeway as he makes his calls, collects the Corps’ dues. And in those moments when he zips and speeds through throngs of traffic, sometimes narrowly avoiding clipping a side mirror or two, he can almost forget the magnitude of his royal fuck up with you.  

Almost.

—

It’s nearly midnight when his bike gutters to a stop in front of the dingy shoebox he calls home. Not that this mildewed apartment complex has ever been anything close to such a thing, but it’s one of the few things in his life Sanemi can call his own. 

No matter how shitty it is.

Deep down, he knows the closest thing to home is back at your apartment, likely wondering when the fuck he’ll shoot you a text. Not even he knows the answer to that; all he knows is that he hasn’t spoken to you since shutting your door behind him this morning, and he has no idea how to start if he did. 

So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text you even as he strips himself of his clothes, readying for his shower. Nor does he so much as glance at his phone when he catches the whiff of you on his body as he kicks off his pants and underwear, the faint, lingering scent of your pleasure redirecting his blood flow straight to his cock.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to reach out — he does, very much so. He’s wanted to talk to you the moment your apartment building faded from view, his fingers itching to reach for the phone buried in his pocket and send you something, anything, so you might know that he has no intention of treating you like any of the others. Even if he ultimately decides that he can go no further with you, that last night can only be a one-time indulgence, he will give you the courtesy of telling you as much. It was the least you deserved.

Sanemi tries his best to keep thoughts of you and this wonderfully fucked situation at bay, focusing entirely on the way the water burns his skin, a thousand needles of flame licking at his face, his scalp, his back. He scrubs hard at his hair first, then his face. He leaves washing his body for last, unwilling to soap over whatever invisible marks still linger upon his skin, left behind by your hands and lips. Only when he cannot possibly procrastinate the task any longer does he pump a generous amount of soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it turns frothy and thick.

As he washes himself, Sanemi manages to avoid thinking of the way you touched him the night before, soft and tentative and yet passionate. He thinks he might just make it through without his mind wandering too far away, but then his fingers brush over the odd, raised lines of the mark branded between his shoulder blades. A sudden thread of images from the night before unspools in his mind: your hands, dropping from his hair down his back, resting over the ugly scar seared into his skin. Your nails, raking along his spine as you gasped his name. The flutter of your hands against his abdomen, exploring him; how they gripped his backside and pulled him hard into you.

An arm braces against the cold, sud-scummed tile of his shower and Sanemi’s forehead follows. Even the hot beat of the water can’t un-work the tension in his muscles, the way his body now demands to be reunited with you. He is powerless against this onslaught of memory; the flashes of you tangled up so perfectly with him; the scent of your hair. Your voice, God, your voice, sighing and moaning in his ear until he could focus on nothing but how to make you cry out louder, call his name –

With a frustrated grunt, Sanemi takes his stiffened cock in his hand and he works his frustration – and longing – out under the roaring spray of the shower until his spend washes with the soap bubbles down the drain.

—

Showered and dressed in nothing but his underwear, Sanemi paces his apartment. 

It’s not that he regrets doing what he did with you – he doesn’t, not by any means. And that’s exactly what makes him so selfish. 

Deep down, he’d wanted to be the one to do it – taking your virginity. For whatever reason, the universe decided to give him you, had brought you back into his life after years of him not sparing you so much as a passing thought. And he’d been weak, unable to stick to the code he’d sworn his blood, his body, to upholding. He’d broken it at the first opportunity, all but jumped at the chance of human connection after years of being starved for it, only to find that the first person he latched onto was also the one person who ever actually saw him; saw past the mask forged out of cruel rumors and his own blood-stained hands.

He should’ve known the moment you expressed anything more than mild interest in him that he was in danger. His impulses scream that he should run before the fallout of last night can catch up to him. To you.

Running is a temptation more dangerous than any of the heists or debt collections he’d ever carried out, even the one that left his face half-ripped open and bleeding. Dangerous not just by the amount of consideration he gives the idea of leaving the Corps and this rotting city behind, but dangerous because if he runs, he’s taking you with him. And that means exposing you not just to his enemies, but to all the consequences dealt to those who dare try and leave the Corps.

Sanemi paces and paces until he finally wears a tread into his shabby bedroom and collapses on his bed. He recites to himself the tenets of the Corps that he’d abandoned – namely, the rule for not getting attached – before a crude voice in his head sternly reminds him of the most important rule of all. The one even he doesn’t know if he can bend, let alone break. 

Number one: once you’re in, you’re in. 

No one leaves the Corps unless it’s in a body bag or because a higher-up forces your retirement, and the latter is usually reserved for those who survive bullets meant to kill. Those who will never be the same, if they even made it out of the hospital at all. 

There is no room for deserters, and none are tolerated. Whispers of plots to abandon the Corps were sniffed out and reported, the conspirators dealt with severely. They usually fell back in line once the reminder of the fate that awaited them should they try was thoroughly beaten into them – usually by one of the Hashira (including him). And Sanemi has shattered his fair share of the bones of those starry-eyed juniors stupid enough to think they were the exception.

In any event, leaving itself was only half the battle. Evading capture was a whole separate beast. The Corps didn’t take well to losing its investments, so their recovery was entrusted only to one person: the most senior of the Hashira.

A man Sanemi only knew by surname and his massive, hulking size, reserved primarily for guarding the Boss and his family.

Himejima’s success rate in tracking down and dealing with deserters is perfect. The few who’d tried since Sanemi’s own initiation had managed on their own a few days at most before they were caught. 

Bitterly, Sanemi supposes their wishes were granted, in a way. They did get out – but in a body bag, a bullet-shaped hole between their eyes. 

Without fail, photos of their lifeless faces – blood soaked, portions of their skulls missing – were circulated through the Corps’ networks, popping up on phones from unknown numbers.

A warning. A reminder. 

It is not just a risk – it is a guarantee, a nuclear bomb designed to snuff out any hope that other Corps members might follow in place. And even if he could try, Sanemi does not know how to ensure you won’t be caught in the blast zone. No Hashira has ever tried to escape, but he can imagine if any of them dared, they’d be made a bigger example out of than some rank-and-file Corps member. There is a mythos surrounding the Hashira even among the junior ranks, a sort of air that they carry. In his own days as a junior, he’d heard whispers comparing his now-equals to gods, because really, what else could not just survive, but prosper in a place that claims far more lives than it produces? 

That very mystique is why he can almost guarantee his defection would be met with a retaliation proportionate to the level of his betrayal. There would be no quick end for him; it would be brutal and drawn-out, his death a kindness they would make him beg for. 

No one leaves hell in one piece and Sanemi is no exception. He knows better than to think – than to wish – for different. The Corps will swallow him whole, suck the marrow from his bones and turn him to dust before that happens. 

But as the memory of your skin beneath his fingertips and your lips moving with his beckons him to sleep, he’d be damned if he said the idea of trying wasn’t tempting as hell.

—

The days mount alongside Sanemi’s self-loathing until almost a week has passed without so much as a word from you – or him, for that matter. 

It’s likely you’re only parroting his own radio silence, giving him space he’s made you think he needs. But the lack of your name above any notifications on his phone grates at him. 

It’s hypocritical of him to be bothered at all, given that he could just as easily pick up his phone and shoot you a text or give you a call. He knows that. But he sulks all the same. 

He sulks and sulks, his mood souring with every passing minute until not even his fellow Hashira risk triggering his bitchy attitude. Just when he thinks he might cave, might actually pick up his damn phone and put an end to the nonsense he’s created, Uzui dings him with a job, and all thoughts of you come to a grinding halt.

The job itself seemed straightforward enough: go to a pawn shop and collect on a payment owed by its broker. When the orders initially came through on his phone (always an unknown number, never the same one), Sanemi at first, was confused. He’s used to being called upon to help other Hashira on their jobs; used to being the extra muscle, the extra layer of intimidation needed to ensure promises were made good on. He looks terrifying; Sanemi knows this. His scars are just another weapon for the Corps to use, and it is not wasteful. Deals tended to go smoother, debts were paid, when they shook hands under the eye of the Corps’ boogeyman; the monster who’d come knocking should they forget their obligations.

Customers don’t know how to see past his scars. Not like you do, anyway.

But the job Uzui has sent him on isn’t like the others; for one, the obnoxious peacock isn’t accompanying him. Nor is the pawnshop broker in default yet on his payments, and the amount Sanemi’s been tasked with collecting isn’t particularly large. More perplexing, the instructions sent from the anonymous number were specific to direct him to pick up a burner car from Rengoku’s garage, an unusual command that made him click his tongue in annoyance. Sanemi doesn’t do cars. 

It’s not his place to question orders, however, so he doesn’t. He merely picks up the piece of shit car from its designated spot and tries not to put his fist through the dash when he struggles to figure out how to drive the stupid thing. As it stands, Rengoku currently owes him a favor, and he’d rather not waste it by having him forgive damage Sanemi does to his inventory.

The ramshackle store he’s been forced to pay a visit to teeters right on the edge of the Western Wing — Kizuki territory. 

Confusion gives way to suspicion the moment he steps inside the pawn shop. Throughout his gruff conversation with Uzui’s client, Sanemi is unable to shake the prickle at the back of his neck that only ever came from being watched.

Survival, as he’d learned, was in the details. It was about noticing the gaps between the counters, the foggy reflections in the display cases. He’s survived this long because he knew when a silent door had opened, could feel the slight shift in the air as it warmed a couple of degrees even when his back was turned.

It is these very observations, this very compulsion to be hyper vigilant every hour, every second of his life, that has Sanemi’s hand flying to the gun tucked into his hip the moment he sees the shadows in the glass ripple. 

It’s drawn and cocked, his finger ready to jump the trigger without a moment of hesitation, but no one ever comes inside. If the pawnbroker is taken aback, he doesn’t show it, and tensely, Sanemi reholsters his gun, though he keeps an eye trained on the front door. 

The moment he exits the pawn shop, Sanemi knows he’s being followed. 

It starts with a pair of headlights that flash in his mirror. Though evening is rapidly approaching, it is still far too light outside for the lights to be necessary, and Sanemi isn’t stupid enough to think they’re trying to signal that something is wrong with the burner car, piece of shit though it is. Helpful drivers don’t lay on their horns and whoop taunts out their windows.

His suspicion is confirmed when a second car jerks over into the opposite lane and rides even next to the one tailing Sanemi. It lingers for a moment, keeping pace with the other car before it falls back behind it.

Well, he knows that move; they were talking. Plotting.

That’s when all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the job clicks into place. Small job though it was, Sanemi knows anyone ranked lower than him would’ve already been sporting a bullet hole in their head. 

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised by the tail, and it’s even less of an oddity that he’d been instructed to take a car to pick up rather than his bike. Uzui had known he’d need the cover. 

They keep their distance while Sanemi weighs his options. He could try and lose them, but Sanemi is far better at ditching tails when he’s on his bike. This body hunk of metal on the other hand is foreign, its dimensions unfamiliar. Survival meant taking risks only when there were no other options, and he’s not there. Not yet. 

There’s a sharp pop and the glass on his side mirror shatters.

“Fuck.” His low growl slides out through clenched teeth. Sanemi throws his body down, willing the high back of his seat to give him the cover he needs. 

It was a warning shot; the chase is up and now, the cats are ready to catch their prey.

The tires squeal over the pavement as he wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the left, gunning down a side alley  nestled between the high rises of the business district. He’s too landlocked in civilian territory to risk anything more; he’ll have to try and lose them. 

Good thing Sanemi knows these streets like the back of his hand. He can only pray his tails aren’t as wise.

They know he’s affiliated with the Corps but not who he is; if they had, there would be no play, no production. These are lower-ranked Kizuki members — pathetically named Demons — who think they’ve caught themselves a fun little Corps member to toy with.

Sanemi lays his foot out on the gas. He’s no fucking mouse, and he’ll be damned if he end up in their trap.

His eyes flick to the rear view mirror. All he can see are the two sets of blinding headlines rapidly gaining behind him. 

He slams down on the accelerator as far as it will go, yanking the steering far to the right. The car Uzui had given him may look like a piece of shit, but right now, it’s his best shot at getting out of this in one piece. So far, Sanemi’s lifeline is holding fast, the tires squealing only slightly as he veers sharply off the freeway and flies down First Street. 

Somewhere over the cantankerous hum of the engine, his phone rings.

“What.”

“Looks like you’ve got a demon on your tail, Shinazugawa.” A familiar voice intones through his speaker.

Sanemi smirks into the phone. “Two. You offerin’ to help, Uzui?” 

There’s a crackly laugh on the other end. “Go south three blocks and take the first right. Gun through the light and then get down. It’s a straight road.”

Sanemi’s mouth thins. Three blocks south is Market Street, dangerously close to Center City — a hotbed of civilian activity, especially on a summer night like this. 

“No innocents,” he warns. “We ain’t them.” The implication is clear: we only kill the bad guys. 

A banal moral line, but they’ve got to draw one in the sand somewhere. 

“Just focus on getting back to base without a bullet in your skull,” Uzui dismisses, but his tone loses that playful edge as it always does when he means business. “We’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

“I’m in this shit because of you.”

“And I’m the one getting you out of it.” Uzui finishes smoothly. “Be grateful I was tracking your ass.”

Sanemi doesn’t know if he likes the idea of having his movements scrutinized but he can’t worry about that right now. He clicks his phone off and tosses it to the side, not caring whether it lands on the passenger seat.

Right now, he needs to get the fuck out of here.

A deft twist of the steering wheel enables him to narrowly avoid smashing into a minivan that tries to ease into the intersection Sanemi guns through.

If he’d been hoping the pedestrian van might slow down his pursuers, he is bitterly disappointed. They pull the same stunt, the poor driver of the van laying on his horn that no one pays any heed toward.

He shakes it off; doesn’t matter. He just needs to drive.

An unfamiliar beep sounds, further fraying his nerves. His eyes find the gas on the dashboard, and Sanemi unleashes a new string of vicious swears as he realizes the low light is dinging its warning. Leave it to fucking Uzui to stick him not just with a piece of shit, but a piece of shit with a low gas tank. 

Fuck, he hates driving cars. His bike allowed him to be far nimbler, to soar away from enemies as fast as the wind could take him. But his bike is back at the garage, so for now, he’s stuck with this lumbering hunk of rusted metal.

If by some miracle, it does its damn job and keeps him from having to make another unexplained trip to Tamayo to get a bullet fished out of his flesh, Sanemi swears he’ll never shit talk a car again. 

Another sharp crack of gunfire rips through the evening air, and Sanemi grinds his teeth at the sound of his tail light shattering. They’re getting bold; Uzui’s assistance will mean jack shit if he doesn’t get to Market soon. 

He whizzes by the signposts marking Central Avenue and Main; one more block to go. 

Behind him, an engine revs and Sanemi doesn’t have to look in his rearview mirror to know the tail is nearly at his bumper. He shifts forward in his seat, ruching his shoulders up as he guns harder for Market, the demarcating stoplight growing closer, closer – 

The light turns red but he does not slow; he sails through the intersection, jerking the car sharply to the right. The tires squeal and groan beneath him but the vehicle does not give. Turn cleared and hands glued firmly to the steering wheel, Sanemi throws himself to the side, ducking down below the dash. 

A half second later and the telltale spray of bullets nearly shatters his eardrums.

Adrenaline vibrates in his veins, forces his foot down harder on the accelerator. He doesn’t dare breathe, and doesn’t think he could try even if he wanted to; the air is lodged in his throat, a bubble threatening to choke him. Though his ears ring, it is not enough to drown out the screeching of tires against pavement, nor does it muffle the sudden, sickening crunch of metal as the car tailing him veers off the road and slams into something hard. Half a heartbeat later, the other car meets the same fate. 

The gunfire ceases for a moment and only the eerie echo of a horn lingers in the air, growing more distant with each inch he gains.

Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two – 

Three gunshots fire in rapid succession, now much more muted than that first initial barrage. Only when they fade does Sanemi chance pushing himself up, allowing himself to return to his normal position the driver’s seat, the car’s speedometer hovering somewhere near eighty. Somewhere in the distance, Sanemi hears the familiar wail of police sirens, no doubt already speeding for the chaotic scene that just unfurled behind him. Swearing, he eases his frantic hurtle down Market Street, falling in line behind a string of traffic flooding out of a nearby baseball stadium, its attendees blissfully unaware of the violence that nearly followed him into their midst. 

Three shots; three bodies between the cars behind him, now splattered across the interiors. Those final bullets were more a formality than anything; Sanemi suspects most if not all the car’s inhabitants had been killed in the initial blitz, but being in the Corps means being thorough. There are no survivors among enemies. 

His phone bleats its shrill ring and Sanemi’s hand shakes as he lifts it to his ear. 

“Clear.” 

Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales. 

—

He coasts back to base on fumes, but manages to sneak into a garage fashioned out of a converted warehouse, one made to store stolen vehicles like the one now guttering under the steering of his sweaty palms. 

The car screeches to a stop the moment he guides it into the safe shadows of the garage, the door quickly lowered behind him by a greasy-haired Corps member whose name Sanemi can’t be fucked to remember. Fighting to quell the faint tremor lingering in his hands, Sanemi pitches himself out of the driver’s side of the car and throws the keys at the kid, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Fuck, he hates when he’s rattled.

He swallows his anxiety, forces it back into whatever bottle it slipped free from as he crosses the alley toward the faintly glowing purple neon sign that marks his target location. 

The Wisteria Tree is a deceptively whimsical name for the grungy den of iniquity that serves as Uzui’s homebase. The club is one of three located in the Silo and one of many that are operated throughout the city, each location ranging from cheap strip joints to upscale nightclubs, making Uzui the biggest money-maker among the Hashira. Sanemi supposes that makes sense; as long as humans have lived, there’s been a market for selling bodies. 

At least Uzui takes care of his workers – pays them well, makes sure they’ve got the healthcare they need. He kept their bellies fed, and made sure Sanemi was on speed dial to take care of any customers who forgot that their dollars didn’t entitle them to rough up the merchandise. 

Whores, some might call those who danced atop the sticky, sleek bars inside Uzui’s joints. Not Sanemi. Long ago, his mother had worked the streets of the Silo, trading her feeble body for spare change that she devoted to the baby boy her bastard husband had saddled her with. Sanemi’s birth had weakened her already fragile health; Genya’s arrival a few years later was the nail in her coffin, their mother being found dead on a sidestreet not three months after he’d been born, half-dressed and a crumpled twenty-dollar note in her hand.

Perhaps if she’d been employed by someone like Uzui, she would’ve lived. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and Sanemi had long-since learned that if he let himself mourn every life stamped out by the Silo, he’d never stop. Surviving meant letting bygones be bygones, so Sanemi locked away his sadness for his mother in the space between his ribs, right alongside his love for Genya and you. 

And no matter; Uzui’s whores are all fiercely loyal to him and serve as the Corps’ best source of information in the City. People have a tendency to forget to watch their tongues when they believe themselves to be surrounded by nothing more than stupid whores. 

Time and time again, that was their mistake. 

It is dark inside The Wisteria House. The only light comes from clusters of strobing lights with colors that pulse and change in time with the beat thundering over the speakers, so loud that Sanemi can scarcely hear himself think. Though the night is young, the way the darkness inside the club swallows up any and all trace of the world outside its doors is enough to convince him he’s fallen down a rabbit hole into a land of perpetual midnight. Then again, the club thrives on sensory deprivation, relying on its ability to trick customers into thinking it’s still the wee hours of the morning, when alcohol flows freely and dollars rain from the ceilings to be tucked into the waistbands of non-existent thongs and the linings of jewel-crusted bras.

When people lose track of time, they lose track of their own inhibitions; it’s a smart business tactic on Uzui’s part. Already there are patrons lining the massive bar that sits in the center of the club’s main floor.

Stuffed far in the back behind the bar is a small hallway, nearly hidden from sight. Sanemi shoves his way back, stopping only before the unassuming door leading to the club proprietor’s office to allow the guards standing by to pat him down. 

Uzui prefers the company of women to men, and it’s that preference that has Sanemi on edge. While he’s certainly never been shy around handsy women, Sanemi feels wrong allowing them to touch him, though protocol demands it. 

Their hands aren’t yours.

The guards in question are two of Uzui’s favorite girls — Suma and Makio, if memory serves him correct. But neither are gentle as they search for wires Sanemi wouldn’t dream of being stupid enough to wear. 

Rough hands dip into the pockets of his jacket, his pants, before sliding down his legs. “You wanna check between my ass cheeks, too?” Sanemi snaps irritably. “Or under my balls?”

“If you’re looking for someone to make you bend over, Shinazugawa, then you’ve come to the wrong place. Uzui doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” A gruff voice — Makio’s, he thinks — chuffs back. 

He rolls his eyes. “Pleasure is his business.”

Neither woman bothers with an answer. 

“Clean.” One confirms to the other. Sanemi does not allow himself to breathe until those hands withdraw from him. 

Makio shoves open a door leading into Uzui’s office and waves him through. “Hina’s inside. Don’t linger.”

“Never do,” Sanemi grumbles, and he breezes past the two bodyguards without another word. The door swings shut behind him, muffling the thumping bass and grating dub music crackling through the club’s surrounding speakers.

For all the flashy glitz and seedy glamor of The Wisteria House, Uzui’s office is surprisingly subdued. Like the rest of the club, the small room is dark, but absent are the neon lights pulsating in time with overloud music. Instead, the office is lit by a handful of dimmed lamps and the few computer screens idly displaying the club’s logo.

A large desk stands at the back wall, flanked by one considerably smaller — more a repurposed table than anything. And behind the empty, high-backed leather computer chair neatly pushed in stands a large safe. Its door is an austere slate gray steel, one that gleams even in the muted overhead lights and takes up almost the entire back wall. The stout, wheel-turn lock looks untouched, and it’s just as much a silent brag that no one is stupid enough to fuck with it when they shouldn’t as it is a subtle dare that they try.

But Sanemi knows better.

It’s a decoy; no matter how much Uzui liked to make a spectacle of himself, he isn’t stupid enough to keep cash in such an obvious place. At least, not the type of cash that matters; not the kind Sanemi risked his neck to bring here. 

Another notable thing about this hole notched in the back of the club’s sticky walls? How neat everything is. Unlike the rest of The Wisteria House, the floor here isn’t tacky from spilled alcohol and god knows what else. The surfaces of every desk, of every cabinet is free from dust and smudged fingerprints, everything properly in its place and out of sight. 

It’s a rather stark contrast to the debauched chaos that plagues the rest of the club. If Sanemi were a betting man, he’d wager a fair amount of cash that the office’s tidiness had less to do with the club’s loudmouth owner, and more to do with the the pair of luminous violet eyes tracking his footsteps across the neatly swept floor. 

“I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece, Shinazugawa.” 

Sanemi snorts, but gives the woman seated behind the smaller side desk a tight nod. While Uzui may have expressed that sentiment with a hint of the dry sarcasm that he never dropped, Hinatsuru – the third of the silver-haired Hashira’s favored girls – was never anything short of genuine. 

If he were honest, the pretty, dark-haired woman reminded him a great deal of his mother. Her face was kind in the same way Shizu’s had been, unhardened by the hollowness of her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. And, just like his mother, she always found the time to spare him a soft smile, one that seemed far too out of place in the dump they’d had the misfortune of being born into.

But where Sanemi would have normally been a bit more subdued around her, the afternoon’s events had left him far too unsettled, and he cannot remember how to blunt his bite.

He only hopes she understands. 

Crossing the space between the entryway and Uzui’s great, paper-covered desk, Sanemi pulls the envelope free from the inside of his jacket and dumps its contents over the desk’s surface. “Here’s his fuckin’ money.” 

The stacks thump pathetically against the stained wood, and Sanemi feels no compunctions about selecting the one nearest the top and shoving it into his pocket. He doesn’t bother counting out the amount; he knows how Uzui demands to have his cash delivered. Bundles of twenties, a hundred bills per strap. 

Sanemi’s brush with the enemy will cost his fellow Hashira two grand. 

“Tell him I took my cut. If he’s got an issue with it, then he can go get shot at next time. I’m outta here.”

If Hinatsuru disapproves, she says nothing. “You’re not going to lie low?”

“Fuck that.” Sanemi is already halfway out the door, his beaten leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “I’m goin’ to Kasugai. If you need anything, make it someone else’s problem.” 

He’s out the door before she can say goodbye. 

—

Kasugai is the nearest dive bar firmly nestled within the Corps’ territory. 

While he certainly has his vices (an entire contact list of them, at that), alcohol has never been one of them. But right now, the promise of a stiff drink is calling his name, and since he hasn’t been able to indulge in any of his past dalliances in the months since you became the only thing on his mind and heart, Sanemi is desperate for a distraction. 

By no means is it a respectable joint, but Kasugai is full of Silo rats like him, which means it’s the closest thing to a safe house that he has, apart from base. Not that anywhere in this City is safe for someone like him, but Sanemi takes his silver linings when and where he can.

He coasts his bike to the alley behind the dive and kills the engine. The faint scent of oil and grease lingers in the air, signaling it needs to be serviced soon. 

Great. He’ll be sure to pencil that in between smashing femurs and pathetically pining after you. 

The back door opens filling the air with a sudden rush of stale beer and the loud, slurred voices of the bar’s patrons. His irritation flares at the thought of having to shoulder through a throng of sweat-stained bodies sardined inside, and Sanemi decides he needs to take some of his edge off before he reaches the sticky bar top inside. He’s in no particular mood to smash in anyone’s teeth. 

Good thing he’d stopped to pick up a new pack of cigarettes on his way over; a few, quick puffs is sure to calm his agitation enough to allow him to avoid picking any unnecessary fights. Though he'd brazenly insisted to Hinatsuru that he didn’t care to lie low following the brush he’d had with the Kizuki, he knows better than to make a public spectacle of himself. If word got around that Sanemi Shinazugawa, the most brutal of the Corps’ Hashira, was getting drunk at shitty bars and starting brawls with the first scrappy asshole that made the mistake of looking at him the wrong way, more of those Demons would come sniffing, eager to make a name for themselves by taking him out. 

And Sanemi has no intentions of turning his recklessness with you into a greater pattern. He still has some interest in living, after all. 

He thumps the sealed carton of cigarettes against his palm, loosening the tobacco before flicking the lid open and thumbing one free. Stuffing the pack back into his jacket, Sanemi rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Once lit, he brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long, indulgent drag. He holds in his breath for a moment, loosing it only when his lungs burn, the smoke curling delicately around his head.

The rush of nicotine eases some of the jitter in his limbs, quiets his racing thoughts. He needed this; if he can’t get his fix of you, then the cancerous little stick wedged between his lips is the next best thing. Puffing lightly on his cigarette, Sanemi pulls his phone free and flicks through his notifications. An update on a new shipment of fine jewelry from Iguro. A report from Genya’s school — his midterm grades. Gambling tickets that need collecting for Rengoku.

Not a single notification is from you. Just like the yesterday; just like the day before that.

Annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Sanemi takes another harsh drag before flicking some of his ash to the ground. His irritable mood isn’t your fault, he knows; it has everything to do with his inability to make a fucking decision about if or how he moves forward with you. 

I love you, Sanemi.

You’ve laid all your cards out on the table already; it’s his own damn fault he hasn’t figured out how to show his hand. So no, he can’t be surprised you haven’t reached out, considering he hasn’t been able to say a damn thing at all. 

Since you’re already on his mind, he figures he might as well indulge himself and think about you some more; what you might be doing right then, on the other side of town. It’s Thursday, so you’ve already dealt with your weekly shipping orders, no doubt each box already inventoried, its contents swiftly organized and shelved. He wonders whether that new release he’s been waiting on has come in; the next installment in a series you’d turned him on to, one he’d stayed up for nearly a week straight devouring in the few precious moments of free time he’d squirreled away.

Do you feel his absence as keenly as he feels yours?  Since that night, there have been no movie nights, no cheap, greasy takeout dinners that he usually insisted on paying for in light of your pitiful earnings and inability to cook for yourself. He wonders whether you’ve settled back into your pre-him routine of relying on cereal for sustenance, and his mood sours even further when he realizes you probably have. After all, you’ve never shown a particular interest in your own well-being, as evidenced by your inexplicable attraction to him. 

Fuck, he shouldn’t be here. He’s not in any mood for watered down liquor, and he knows better than to try and drown his feelings into a glass. If he drinks, he’s liable to act like an idiot, calling you or showing up at your place without first taking all the precautions he normally does before opening you up to the risk of his presence. 

No, drinking is the last thing he needs to be doing right now, no matter how it might dull some of his edge. And unfortunately for him, the only thing he truly wants is exactly what he can’t have.

He takes one last, heavy drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. No sex and no booze; he really needs to come up with better vices. 

A quick glance at his phone confirms it’s late and he should probably fuck off home before he lets temptation entice him any further. He eyes the date on his home screen and thinks about the inquiry he put in with that firm in that obsolete, faraway city. 

He’ll need to pay it a visit soon; he’s got more shit to give them and, with any luck, a new account to open. But it’s been a few days since he’d received the confirmation that his query was under review, and the lack of response has him even more on edge. 

If his ruse is discovered, after all, it’s not just him who’s fucked.

Sanemi leans against the solid body of his bike and retrieves his helmet. He’ll give them another couple of days to respond. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with Plan B, C, Plan whatever-the-fuck to ensure that all his soul-shredding work doesn’t go to waste once a bullet gets shoved through his brain. And perhaps sometime in between all his violence and plotting, he’ll grow a pair and figure out what the hell he’s going to do about you.

—

Crunch.

“P-please! I’ll p-pay, I s-swear —“ 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi dismisses. The skin on his knuckles split a while ago, but he’s long since stopped being able to feel the sting. “Heard it all before.”

Crimson spills down the man’s face, drips down his front from his nose, flattened on its side. His plea is garbled by the blood filling his mouth, quieting into a single, wet rasp as Sanemi socks his fist hard into his soft gut. 

When it came time to collect on the Corps’ debts, Sanemi finds he no longer needs to think about the how. How he breaks bones; how exacts the vengeance of his fellow Hashira when their ventures were taken for granted. Even the crow bar or steel pipe that inevitably ended up in his hand felt like a mere extension of his body, every swing, every crush of metal into flesh, pure instinct. Slipping back into this cool detachment is easy; it is a transition ingrained into his bones, the product of having spent years contorting himself into the perfect toy soldier. 

The man is still doubled over, choking and sputtering to catch his breath, when Sanemi throws him back against the wall.

Blood bubbles in the corner of his busted mouth. “P-please — tell Mr. Tomioka it was a b-bad bet, b-but the next one —“ 

“Mr. Tomioka said you could take that bad bet and shove it up your ass.” Not exactly how the dull waste of brain matter had put it, but close enough. “Where’s his money?”

The customer babbles some pitiful excuse Sanemi can’t be bothered to piece together. He takes note only of the number of stuttered syllables, none of which point to any drawer or lockbox, and all of which stack up to reveal the admission he’s so desperate not to make.

He doesn’t have the cash to fork over. 

His hands are tied, then. Sanemi has to do what only he can. 

Fingers tight around the man’s collar, Sanemi spins them away from the wall. The entire room shudders when he slams Tomioka’s bloodied patron down on his own desk, the wood creaking and groaning beneath the man’s mashed cheek. 

Before he can finish moaning his pained grunt, Sanemi takes his right arm and twists it sharply behind his sweaty back. 

“Fifty grand to The Striking Tide. One week.” He gets the man’s arm into position. “Last warning.”His target tenses beneath him, whimpering under the mounting pressure in his arm. “Or else the next time you see me, it’ll be at the Wisteria overpass.” 

The answering gulp of fear is confirmation that he understands Sanemi’s threat. All those dumb enough to dip their toes in the Corps’ Acheron learn rather quickly that the Wisteria overpass is where bodies go to disappear. Perhaps the taunt is overkill; after all, fifty grand isn’t worth the bullet. But it’s effective, judging by the trickle of urine that puddles on floor by the man’s feet. 

If he thinks that’s the extent of his warning, however, he’s sorely mistaken. Sanemi doesn’t deal in empty threats. 

Sanemi’s grip tightens. The arm joint pops and the man begins to beg. He knows what comes next; what Sanemi means to do, as he wraps his hand around the man’s wrist.

Blood spatters across the desk as he coughs his last plea. “N-no —!”

But there’s nowhere to run; nothing the man can do but scream as Sanemi gives a single, harsh jerk, snapping the bone. 

Message received; job done. 

So, Sanemi takes and he takes, and with every job completed, he reminds himself that this is what he truly is. A monster. A fiend. Not someone who might build a better life elsewhere, who could live normally – peacefully.

Not someone who deserves to have you. 

As usual, the numbness doesn’t set in until after he’s finished, while Sanemi scrubs blood from hands he knows will never fully be clean. It starts as a pit deep within his stomach, but it quickly blooms into a terrifying knot of twisted brambles that takes root in his veins. Before long, Sanemi is immune to the sting of cold water on his skin as he washes and washes, unable to hear the curses being spat in his direction by his bleeding, broken target with a hatred he can’t feel. 

“Fifty grand.” Sanemi repeats as he departs. His final warning sounds faraway, a disembodied voice that does not feel entirely his own. “One week.”

That unfeeling continues seeping into his bones until he’s heavy with it. By the time his bike roars through the rusted shipyard buttressing the Silo, Sanemi can’t even feel the wind whipping at his face.

The numbness follows him inside the shitty box he hardly calls home and Sanemi knows he needs a fix, and fast. A monster with a conscience is one thing; one without is a nightmare he’d prefer to avoid.

Your face flashes through his mind and some of his paralysis eases, but Sanemi pushes you away. Not now; not while he’s like this.

Though the practice of slumping on his couch and reaching for his phone feels familiar, Sanemi does not dabble in old habits. That particular cure for the gaping, gnawing paralysis that’s taken him over is one Sanemi hasn’t had the stomach for even before you’d so sweetly offered yourself to him. Now that he’s had you, he is doomed never to go back, and right now, you’re not an option.

And so, Sanemi scrolls through the contacts on his phone, his eyes glazing over at the series of entries marked by random emojis denoting his past distractions. He almost gives up, but then his half-hearted perusal turns up one name that sticks out over all the others. 

Sanemi’s thumb is tapping the phone icon before he can question whether he should. It’s been too long, anyway. More than three weeks, for that matter, so he’s due to make a call. 

Besides, it would do him some good to hear the little bastard’s voice. Especially right now, when his head and heart are so delightfully fucked.

He waits only two rings when the other line answers. 

“Aniki?”

“What are you doing?” Sanemi glances at the tiny clock on his microwave. “You just get outta class?” 

It’s a question Sanemi already knows the answer to given that he has every detail of his little brother’s schedule committed firmly to memory, but it’s an easier opener than hey, I miss you, you little shit. 

“Yeah,” Genya confirms and there’s a rustling on his end, like a bag being shifted between shoulders. “I’m on my way back to the dorms now, and then – uh, practice.” 

Sanemi snorts into the speaker. “You don’t have practice on Wednesdays. Try again.” 

While Sanemi knows he wields far more responsibility for Genya than most siblings would claim, he tries to toe the line between responsible older brother and overbearing parent as much as his paranoia will allow. So while he may know the first and last name of every person his brother associates with, their backgrounds, his teacher’s backgrounds, and every detail of his brother’s time at school, outwardly, Sanemi makes an effort to appear like he’s not butting too much into Genya’s life. 

But he won’t tolerate lying; especially not when it comes to Genya’s activities. His safety. 

His brother makes a disgruntled sound. “Well – I’m – we’re going to Tanjiro’s. For dinner. A few of us.” 

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I give a shit if you hang out with ‘im. As long as he ain’t gettin’ your ass in trouble.” 

Not that Sanemi would be too concerned about Genya’s ability to handle himself – after all, his brother was raised in the Silo, just like him. 

In his youth, Genya had been as hot-tempered as his older brother; prone to thinking his grievances had to be aired out through his fists. As Sanemi grew older, he realized how much Genya resembled his father when he had his fist cocked back, towering over some kid who’d run their mouth for too long. And while Genya hated the old man as much as he did, Sanemi couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s resemblance to Kyogo had come from Sanemi himself.

At the rate his anger had been progressing, Genya was on the path to a one-way collision with the Corps, just as Sanemi had been. The difference, however, was that as much as Genya resembled their father when enraged, he’d always known his little brother had their mother’s heart; her gentleness. He never would have made it far in the Corps, and Sanemi would be damned if he’d had to bury his brother, too. 

No matter how Genya idolized his elder brother, Sanemi would not allow him to follow in his footsteps. 

It wasn’t long after that he started swiping brochures for different boarding schools from the city library. The moment their old man turned cold, Sanemi shipped his younger brother away. 

Genya’s reproachfulness pulls Sanemi back out of his head. “He really is a good guy –” 

“I told you, I don’t give a shit if you hang out with him as long as your grades stay up and you’re keepin’ your nose clean.” Sanemi crosses his kitchen and yanks open his fridge, eyes narrowed as he scans the half-bare shelf for something to distract him. “I just think he’s annoying.” 

He settles on a beer and closes the door. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig. “I wanna come up this weekend. See ya for a bit.” And to sweeten the pot, Sanemi adds, “Dinner on me. Anywhere you want.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I – sure!” 

Though his brother cannot see him, Sanemi frowns. “What, I can’t come see you all of a sudden? Too cool for me?” 

“No!” Genya’s voice cracks slightly and for a moment, he sounds every bit the dumpling-faced, starry-eyed boy of Sanemi’s memory rather than the nearly grown sixteen-year-old he knows him to be. “I always wanna see you – but – I mean, is everything…good? With you?” 

Sanemi can’t help his rueful smile as he sets his beer on the counter. His brother knows him too well. “Yeah. I got some things I gotta talk to you about.” 

“Okay,” Genya sounds skeptical. “You sure you’re good?”

Your face flashes through his mind. “Yeah. It’s just nothin’ I wanna discuss over the phone.” 

It’s not a lie; Sanemi has wanted to see his brother for a while, but there’s an ulterior motive to his spur-of-the-moment decision to make the three and a half hour journey to Genya’s school. One that has little to do with his brother and everything to do with you. 

“Okay,” Genya repeats again, though he still sounds uncertain. “Sanemi –” 

“I’ll meet you at the campus entrance at five. Don’t be late, alright? I’m gonna be hungry.” Sanemi cuts his brother off. He’s not chancing bringing you up over the phone; not when enemies might be lurking in corners he hasn’t yet checked. Not after he’s spent most of his life living with one eye always open. 

It’s his brother’s turn to sigh through the phone, Genya knowing better than to try and argue. “Okay. I’ll see you then. I gotta get back —“

“Yeah, yeah, to the Kamado shithead. I know.” Sanemi snatches his beer up and takes another swig. “I’ll see ya Friday. Keep your nose clean.”

His brother grumbles his goodbye and Sanemi hangs up, more at ease now. Talking to Genya was the right call; his younger brother had a special talent for brightening his day, whether or not the little dumbass knew it. 

Now that he’s confirmed to be visiting Genya in a few days’ time, Sanemi knows he needs to plan for a stop along the way. It would be real fucking nice if the notice he’s been waiting on would come through. In fairness, it’s been a few days since he’d last checked for it, so Sanemi leans against his counter and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through the rest of his notifications and once he’s sufficiently depressed over the lack of any from you, he tabs over to a hidden folder.

To the untrained eye, the private folder  is unassuming; a collection of apps marked “Misc.,” hidden behind a single passcode. And even those who might be nosy, who might be too curious as to the type of shit Sanemi Shinazugawa stored on his phone would be sorely disappointed. In fact, they might write him off as no better than any other young, single man upon discovering a folder full of apps labeled as popular porn sites, their icons tiny thumbnails of their logos. 

Anyone who sought access to his phone would look for contacts, financials, some details about his involvement with the Corps or its overall operations. They would search his texts, his contacts, his photos, even. That was expected; anticipated. 

But Sanemi can’t imagine anyone — cop or Kizuki alike — who would give two shits about his porn habits. 

He taps the icon marked “BustyBeauties” and waits for the app to direct him to the first password screen, and then to a second. Only after he’s entered both passwords (separate, of course) does his secret email account finally open, its inbox barren save five entries. 

Right there, at the top, is the message he’s been waiting for. Eagerly, Sanemi opens and reads the letter, mentally tallying every instruction, committing each detail to memory. 

His impending visit to Genya really couldn’t be at a better time. He’d strategically chosen this firm because it is exactly halfway between here and the school. 

A quick confirmation back to his agent later, and Sanemi has his scheduled appointment time slotted just over two hours before he’s due to meet Genya for dinner. He then opens his contacts and finds the number saved under a single flame emoji, and brings his phone to his ear, waiting. 

The line picks up on the third ring.

“Rengoku?” Sanemi tips his head back and swallows the last contents of his beer in a smooth gulp. “Remember that job I did for ya a few weeks back? Got a favor. I need a car.” He pauses before adding, “And a suit.”

—-–

Life as a Hashira with the Corps entails few luxuries, but the one Sanemi appreciates most is the discretion. 

When he was a lower-ranked initiate, Sanemi couldn’t so much as shit without someone knowing about it. Time was money, and every moment not spent chasing paper for the Corps was money wasted. At best, that meant a dock in pay; at worst, you’d be treated no better than any other run-of-the-mill debtor. 

As a Hashira, however, he’s allowed a fair degree of wiggle room on his leash to do as he pleases, so long as a job doesn’t crop up. And even then, all it takes is a smooth lie or two to buy him some extra time, and that’s exactly what he gives Rengoku when he stops by his main hub that Friday morning to pick up his goods. 

“Recon,” Sanemi says simply, catching the keys to one of Rengoku’s many vehicles that he tosses his way. “Gotta blend in, y’know?” 

“Apologies for not being able to reserve something nicer,” his flame-haired comrade nods at the keys Sanemi twirls around a finger. “I’m afraid my luxury fleet is occupied at the moment.” Rengoku offers him a megawatt smile that reminds Sanemi of the flashy, bright billboards that dotted Center City — a product of top tier orthodontia, no doubt bankrolled by his family’s long-standing ties with the Corps. “Though I doubt anyone will notice while you’re wearing that suit.”

Sanemi waves him off. “Don’t sweat it. As long as I keep stickin’ my nose up, I’m sure I’ll fit right in with those rich fucks.”

Rengoku laughs heartily in response and Sanemi smirks. Though their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, Rengoku has always had a good sense of humor about the nature of the elite he’d been born into. It’s a good thing, too; after all, Rengoku’s silver spoon hadn’t prevented him from being sold off to the Corps, the same way Sanemi was. 

He follows Rengoku down to a secured garage, one insulated by three, pass-code locked doors, and guarded by a handful of junior Corps members.��

Despite his fellow Hashira’s apologies, the car reserved for him is a luxury model, even if Rengoku didn’t seem to think so. Then again, Sanemi supposes he and the burly blonde have very different definitions as to what constitutes high value transportation.

Whatever. It certainly isn’t the tin wad of junk he’d been forced to drive while getting shot at for Uzui, and that alone means luxury, at least to him. 

Sanemi hangs the suit bag from Rengoku in the back seat. He leaves his fellow Hashira behind with a firm handshake before lowering himself into the driver’s side and closing the door.  

Owlish, ochre eyes track him as Sanemi pushes the start button (of course it’s a push-start), the engine purring quietly to life. Mirrors adjusted and the A/C cranked low, Sanemi glides out of Rengoku’s garage as silent as a shadow, setting off down the road leading out of Center City and to the freeway. 

The car’s interior is all rich leather and gleaming accents, the dash controlled by a sleek touchscreen that Sanemi doesn’t dare sully with his fingerprints. The car is undoubtedly a brand new model; one any average Joe would jump at the chance to drive, and yet, Sanemi remains unimpressed. 

He still prefers his bike.

He stops at a gas station once he’s about sixty miles out from the city, eyes carefully scanning the parking lot as he totes the garment back inside. This particular rest stop has only single bathrooms, a preference of his when he travels. Better to have a door that locks out the rest of the world than to have to risk sidling up to some unknown enemy at the urinal.

The suit borrowed from Rengoku fits him like a glove, a serious but trendy shade of dark blue. The crisp white button down he wears beneath has been starched to perfection, and the glossy brown leather shoes he wears likely cost more than his monthly rent. 

Sanemi Shinazugawa’s childhood had been anything but typical. But if he’d been normal, he imagined this is what it would’ve felt like to play dress-up. Though everything has been perfectly tailored to him, he feels like a clown.

No matter; he has a part to play and the success of his performance heavily depends on his appearance. So, Sanemi swallows his pride in that gas station bathroom, dressing quickly in his costume. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but makes sure the collar is precise and properly frames the lapel of his jacket. 

His choice of forsaking the gold tie clipped inside the garment bag is intentional; while his normal appearance would certainly raise red flags among the upper echelon of the society he’s about to pretend he’s a part of, so too would him being overly polished. Thus, this small act of intentional dishevelment only serves to further his own ruse, helps him assimilate into a world he has never once been a part of.

Besides, Sanemi doesn’t do ties. He can’t stand the tightness at his throat, choking off his air; the way it feels like he’s being strangled by blended silk. 

Dressed, Sanemi considers his reflection in the bathroom’s age and mildew-spotted mirror. It’s a miracle, the difference a tailored suit can make; he scarcely recognizes the face grimacing back at him. 

The sink tap squeaks as Sanemi runs the water, dampening his hand and smoothing it back through his hair. There. Now he looks passably proper, no hint of the brutish thug he knows he is in sight, save for the silvery scars that cover half his face. Jack shit he can do about those though, so Sanemi stuffs his discarded clothes back into the garment bag and shoves out of the bathroom, the tap on the sink still running behind him.

—

Another half hour passes before Sanemi takes the exit leading to a small town, about ten miles off the freeway. 

It’s almost jarring how quickly the world around him shifts from an endless stretch of asphalt to finely crafted brick and limestone. This town is a far cry from the gilded glamor of the City. It’s respectable; clean, without so much as a hint of an overfilled trash can in sight. Once he steps outside, he knows he will be greeted by the faint, lingering scent of summer magnolia blossoms, rather than the familiar, urine-soaked sulfur which encases the Silo. 

The median household income of this town is triple than that of even the City’s dwindling middle class. But the wealth of its residents is precisely what makes this town so unassuming. No one would suspect a gang rat like him would ever set foot in a place like this, let alone know how to blend in, and that is exactly why he chose this place to begin with. 

Sanemi cruises down a familiar cobbled street, passing stately brick townhomes that look more like mini mansions than the law offices and specialty practices he knows them to be. Then again, the people who live here wouldn’t deign to live in something as small as a townhouse, what with their sprawling estates on the other side of town, locked behind the safety of tall iron gates.  

It isn’t long before Sanemi slows to a stop right outside yet another colonial mansion. Car parked and engine turned off, Sanemi steps out and fastens his suit jacket with an off-handed ease, as though the motion is second-nature. As though he is used to traversing through wealthy streets in a custom suit. 

Gloved security men open the building’s double doors to him the moment his foot hits the first stair.

The inside of the bank is all rich wood and high ceilings. The wide floor is flanked by rows of tidy desks, each topped with antique banker’s lamps. Glass-walled offices line the perimeter, reserved for only the highest-value clients who wish to deal privately with their assets and away from any overly-curious ears. It’s toward these offices that Sanemi strides, his face schooled carefully into a mask of neutrality even as his pulse quickens. 

“Mr. Masachika,” a receptionist outside the furthest glass office nods to him, rising from her desk to greet him. “Punctual as always.” 

Sanemi returns her welcome with a closed-lip smile that makes her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. The guilt he’d once felt over using the surname of a long-dead friend had run out years before, when he’d been young and desperate to get his brother the fuck out of the Silo.

Besides, he didn’t think Masachika would mind, if he knew his reasoning. 

Behind the glass wall, Sanemi spies the familiar face of his accountant. Her secretary pokes her head inside the door and murmurs his name, and the accountant’s eyes rise over the top of her computer. The receptionist is dismissed with a curt nod, and she steps aside. 

That’s his cue; Sanemi mutters a small thank you and the door behind him is pulled shut. He returns the accountant’s firm handshake and settles into the small, leather chair that sits opposite of hers, and waits. 

The entire office is encased in glass, offering both the accountant and every visitor a perfect, three-sixty view of the entire bank. From a practical standpoint, Sanemi can understand its use; this bank handles considerable assets, so it’s no wonder that even the accountants want to be able to monitor every movement, every face, which passes through its doors. 

Still, though, something about it sets him on edge; makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A lifetime spent operating in the shadows means Sanemi hates feeling too exposed, and this fishbowl of an office is about as comforting as a helicopter searchlight. 

The accountant’s clipped voice snaps him out of his mounting paranoia. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Masachika. I see you’re here for an asset transfer, and perhaps to discuss a new account?” 

“Indeed I am,” the formality with which he speaks feels foreign, and yet, the words roll easily off his tongue. “The Principal’s estate has generated some new revenue, and it is his desire to add another family member as a beneficiary.” 

“I see.” The accountant’s fingers move quickly over her keyboard. “Before we begin, I will need to verify your identity and your legal authority.” Her eyes flash to his and she offers him an apologetic smile. “It’s an annoying formality, I know, given how familiar we are with you. But our system won’t allow me to proceed until I re-enter the information.” 

“Of course.” He presents her with the documents he’d had forged assigning him power of attorney over one Sanemi Shinazugawa (“the poor bastard was in a nasty car wreck. Practically a vegetable,” he’d told the accountant more than two years ago), and he waits. 

His palms are sweaty where his hands rest in his lap, but Sanemi resists the urge to fidget. His nerves are nothing new; he always feels anxious here, when he’s wearing the mask of another, more so than he would back home. At least his Hashira mask is not all that different from the core of what he is; here, the identity he assumes is his exact opposite, and the microscope he operates under feels more intense. 

The accountant enters the information with a punctual tap of her finger on her computer key, and turns her attention back to him. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, how may we be of assistance?” 

“Fifty thousand split between the two trusts for Genya Shinazugawa,” Sanemi says smoothly, reaching into the suit jacket pocket to produce an envelope full of a thick stack of cash and a folded piece of paper. “And another fifty into a new account, to be opened under this name.”

The accountant unfolds the sheet and skims the information, her lips pursed. 

A bead of sweat slides down Sanemi’s spine, the skin over his knuckles nearly turn white where his hand clenches in his lap, hidden from sight.

“Very well, Mr. Masachika,” the accountant nods before she begins promptly typing the information into her computer. “And we thank Mr. Shinazugawa for his continued business. Ms. Y/L/N’s trust will be active within the next forty-eight hours.” 

Beneath the ledge of her tidy little desk, the hand fisted on his thigh relaxes and Sanemi conceals his quiet sigh of relief by feigning a sneeze.

A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency. 

—

It’s a quarter til five when Sanemi rolls to a stop outside the pristine entrance of his brother’s school. Classes have just let out, and already he can see the flood of boys rushing the courtyard and the quad, laughing away the stress of the day.

Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.

He finds Genya easily; the boy sticks out above the others mulling about the campus in the late-afternoon sun by his height and brawn alone, but his mohawk is what really sets him apart. For as long as he could remember, his brother had always worn his hair like that – a mop thick, dark hair carefully arranged, the sides of his head always sheared close to his skin. The school’s dress code had initially prohibited it, and ten-year-old Genya had thrown himself a right little temper tantrum when he was ordered to shave it. 

A well-placed bribe by Sanemi enabled the admin to overlook it. He hadn’t been able to eat more than a can of beans for an entire month after, but it was worth keeping his brother happy. 

Genya loiters under one of the campus streetlamps, his arms folded over his chest, his face set into what he must imagine is a menacing scowl. 

Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff. 

He types a quick text to his brother and watches as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, his head shooting up. All of that feigned coolness melts away the moment Genya spots him standing at the bricked archway marking the school’s campus. In an instant, Sanemi’s little brother is bounding toward him with a lopsided grin, half-stumbling over his feet in excitement. 

With his uniform rumpled, a casual carelessness only a teenager could spare, Genya looks every bit the boy Sanemi himself never got to be.

It is not self pity that sinks into his gut at the thought; it’s relief. Because that means Sanemi has at least done something right in his life. 

“Aniki!” 

“Hey, brat.” Sanemi returns his brother’s wide, toothy grin with a half-smirk of his own. “How’ve ya been?” 

Genya skids to a halt in front of him, his arms half raised as though he means to hug his brother, before they drop back to his sides. When he was a boy, Genya was prone to throwing his arms around Sanemi’s neck whenever his brother returned home with a small bag of candy, or a cheap little toy car he’d managed to swipe from the corner store, pealing with laughter and gratitude that always left Sanemi feeling slightly embarrassed, even as he’d pat his brother’s back.

That impulse, it appears, still lingers, but Genya tampers it down, perhaps too aware of the number of curious eyes that watch the two of them. Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, his brother has an image he wants to maintain. Probably the same tough-guy bullshit he liked to front in his youth, when he pretended like he didn’t beg his big brother to tote him around on his back.

“‘M fine,” Genya rocks back and forth on his heels. “You?” His eyes are wide as they count the new scars peppering the skin of his exposed forearms, some snaking their way up to his elbow before disappearing under the rolled cuff of his sleeves. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Sanemi cuts off his brother’s question before the boy can find the nerve to ask it. “Side effect of the gig. You know that.” He tugs at the shirt’s starchy collar in discomfort. “Where’d ya wanna eat?” 

“There’s a good breakfast buffet a few blocks away. All you can eat.” Genya rubs the back of his neck, shy. “Good for the dollar too.” 

Sanemi scoffs. “We’ll stop there on the way back. I’m takin’ you to get something decent first.” Sanemi throws an arm around his shoulders and tries not to scowl at the fact he has to stretch up somewhat, his brother now standing a good inch taller than he. “They feedin’ you here? You feel scrawny.” 

Not entirely true, but Sanemi feels rather bruised that his brother has surpassed him in height. Now, the only thing he has over him is his own brawn, though from his cursory squeeze of Genya’s shoulder, he finds that his brother runs the risk of catching up to him in that department as well. 

It takes no time for them to fall into their respective roles: Genya, immediately launching into a rambling play-by-play of every single thing he’s done since they’d talked a few days later, so animated he hardly remembers to take a breath. And Sanemi easily assumes his role as the listener, occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes as his brother recounts his antics. 

As they walk, Sanemi supposes that from afar, they look more like friends than a pair of brothers. But despite having the advantage of height, Genya’s youth is betrayed by the way he curls in on himself as he walks, his shoulders slumped and his head half-pulled in like that of a turtle. 

Normally, he’d admonish his brother’s poor posture, but he lets it slide. Because, despite the mildly disinterested set of his mouth, Sanemi is far too happy to see his brother’s unscarred, smiling face.

—

Despite a rather extravagant meal at one of the best steakhouses in the area, Sanemi knows his brother is still hungry, and that is how they end up at Genya’s suggested diner not twenty minutes after Sanemi had paid their first bill. 

“Seriously, the hell am I payin’ them an arm and a leg for?” Sanemi scowls as Genya lopes back to their table booth, the plate in his hands piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, enough to give anyone the distinct impression his brother had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. “Thought their big braggin’ point was the gourmet dining hall they have. Buffet style and shit.” 

“Yeah, but they cut you off after fourths.” Genya’s eyes gleam, his fork hovering over his bounty as he decides what to start on first. “It’s okay though. Zenitsu and I sneak food back to the dorms all the time.”

He settles on his pancakes right as a waitress brings over their drinks — a soda for him and a hot tea for Sanemi. 

Genya points at the empty stretch of table before his brother with his knife. “Not hungry?”  

He lifts his mug by its steaming rim and blows on the liquid. “Not like you.”

Genya shrugs and tears into his pancakes with the same vigor as a hyena does its prey, forgoing his knife in favor of ripping off large chunks of the sweet with his teeth.

Sanemi waits until his brother has chewed his first mouthful before he speaks. 

“I saw your midterm grades. Good work.” 

Genya’s head shoots up from where he inhales his food, his eyes wide. Just as quickly he straightens and drops his gaze again, his cheeks, red.  

“Thanks, Aniki.” He murmurs after a thick swallow, bashful. “I know my math grade wasn’t the best —“

“It’s an improvement from last term. That’s all I care about.” Sanemi takes a measured sip of his tea and scowls. Too weak. He’s been spoiled; you always know how to make it the way he likes. 

But there’s nothing else he can distract himself with in the periods of silence in which his brother shovels his food into his mouth, so Sanemi forces himself to drink it. The liquid is still piping hot, enough so that it burns his tongue, but he pays it no mind. His scorched taste buds just make it easier to choke it down.

“You hangin’ with anyone else? Or just Kamado and the other shits?” He asks after a moment, his eyes sharp over the lip of his mug. Anyone new? Anyone I haven’t properly vetted?

“Still ‘em,” his brother answers through another garbled mouthful of pancake. “Muichiro ‘n Zenitsu, too.”

“What about the other one?” And when Genya raises a confused eyebrow, he clarifies. “The one with rabies.”

His brother snorts and swallows half a piece of bacon. “Inosuke?”

“Yeah. That thing.”

“He doesn’t have rabies — he wore a taxidermied boar head one time —“

“Yeah, and you dumbasses ended up in the Dean’s office because he’d stolen it.” Sanemi narrows his eyes, annoyance flaring at the memory of the phone call he’d received right in the middle of breaking Maeda’s left leg. He’d had to shove the toe of his boot into the rat’s mouth to keep him quiet while he’d borne the brunt of the Dean’s condescending lecture about why it was unacceptable for students to break into the science and tech building mess with the school’s natural history displays. 

As though he’d been the one to break curfew and at least half a dozen other school rules, and not his shithead brother. 

Genya only shrugs and returns his focus to his food. He hunches over his plate, leveling his mouth with its edge as he shovels in the rest of his pancakes.

Sanemi watches in muted distaste as his brother shifts to attack his eggs with the same ferocity, only remembering to come up for air to take a long gulp of his drink. 

“There’s a girl, Gen.”

The boy’s head snaps up, his jaw slack enough that a dribble of his soda escapes down his chin. 

Sanemi wrinkles his nose. “Close your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Genya swallows thickly and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “A girl?”

“Yeah.”

“A real one?”

Sanemi chokes on a slurp of his tea. “The fuck does that mean?”

“N-nothing!” Genya turns bright red and shrinks beneath Sanemi’s accusatory glare. “Just, you’ve never — at least, you’ve never told me about anyone you’re seeing —“

“That’s ‘cause I don’t see anyone.” 

His brother eyes him carefully. “But…you are now?”

For a moment, Sanemi says nothing; he only plays with his unused knife, spinning it on its tip as he considers his words.

“Things…escalated. Between us.” Sanemi frowns. It’s the most judicious way he can put it; he doesn’t exactly air the details of his sex life to his younger brother on principle, but at the same time, there’s no other way he can phrase it. “And I don’t know what’s gonna happen going forward.”

The implication of exactly how things between Sanemi and you changed is not lost on his brother, and Genya’s cheeks turn a faint red. He focuses hard on his half-eaten eggs before him, pushing them around with his fork. 

“You…like her though, right?”

Sanemi grimaces. Far more than that, actually. It’s a truth he’s hardly been able to admit to himself, save his silent utterance against your hair long after you’d fallen asleep on him that night. 

He’s in love with you. And fuck if that’s not the most terrifying damn thing in the world.

Genya must realize it too, for he only offers a soft “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sanemi leans forward on his elbows, his hands folded under his chin. “And fuck if I know what to do about it. Woulda been easier if I hadn’t crossed the line, but well,” he gives his brother a wry grin. “Since when have I ever made shit easy for myself?”

For a moment, there’s no sound but that of Genya’s fork scraping across his plate. “What does she think?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”

Genya’s eyes widen in something like horror. “You mean - you all —“ he turns scarlet. “You all did  — whatever — and you haven’t talked to her since?” 

His face heats and Sanemi disguises his discomfort with a cough that he tucks into his mug as he forces himself to drink the watery tea.  

Only when he can’t avoid his brother’s discerning look any longer does Sanemi set his cup down. “Shit, Gen,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to do about her at this point.” 

The boy turns his fork over again and again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “You want to be with her though, don’t you? Like, date and stuff?”

Sanemi scowls. “I don’t know. I’ve never really dated anyone. You know how shit is. The risks. I can’t even be a normal brother to you, so I sure as shit ain’t boyfriend material.” 

Genya chews on his lip and then shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission, I guess.” He glances up and this time, he doesn’t cower under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. “Are you?” 

But Sanemi doesn’t know the answer to his brother’s question, and if he did, he supposes he wouldn’t still be stuck in this limbo.

“You’re allowed to be selfish, Aniki.” Genya’s voice softens to something almost gentle. “You’re allowed to do things that’ll make you happy. I wish you would.” 

Sanemi doesn’t have many memories of their mother, but he does remember how she spoke to him. Always kind, always loving in a way that made him feel a flutter of happiness; a warmth, even when the lights at home had been cut off, and they were slowly freezing half to death. 

That’s exactly how Genya speaks to him now, and it makes him want to squirm. He’s already feeling too emotionally exposed thanks to his feelings for you; he doesn’t need to turn to mush in front of his baby brother simply because Genya managed to inherit all the good of a woman he’d never known. 

Gruffly, Sanemi clears his throat. “I’m tellin’ you all this for a reason. You know how I’ve got stuff for you, if somethin’ happens to me?”

His little brother scans anxiously behind him, before answering in a hushed voice, “The accounts?”

“Jesus, be more obvious, why don’t you?” Sanemi rolls his eyes and brings his mug to his lips. He tips his head back and swallows the rest of the cup’s watery contents in a single gulp. “Yeah. Those. You still got that lockbox with all that shit in it?” 

The one Sanemi had brought to his brother’s dorm in the dead of night and had him shove beneath his bed. Genya nods. 

“Good,” Sanemi reaches into his jacket and pulls free a small envelope folded twice. “Put this in there, too. It’s for her. You know the drill. I wrote down all her info on the cover sheet. If anything happens, give her a call and have her meet you outside the City. I don’t want you going near it, understand?” 

Genya nods and accepts the parcel Sanemi slides across the table, tucking it safely into his own jacket lining.

A waitress brings them their check and Sanemi tosses a few bills onto the table. They wait for Genya to chug the rest of his drink and then the two set off, the bell above the door chiming as it swings shut behind them.

It sounds just like the one that dangles above your store door. 

—-

The walk back to Genya’s campus takes considerably longer than it should, though the diner is only about four blocks away. Not that Sanemi minds; in fact, he’s purposefully walking slower, wanting to stretch out the minutes until he has to bid his brother goodbye as long as he can. Whether Genya knows, or whether he’s simply acting on his own hesitancy, he can’t say, but his brother seems not to be in any more of a hurry than he is. God knows the next time Sanemi will get to see him. 

If he’ll see him again at all. This single day of pretend away from the Corps hasn’t changed shit about his life expectancy, and Sanemi wants to savor every moment he can. 

All of it is for him, after all. 

Soon, far too soon, the iron and stone gates of the school come into view, and Sanemi steels himself against the impending goodbye. His brother never failed to look at him with the same, wide-eyed trepidation he’d had the very first time Sanemi had brought him here; a child-like fear of the unknown, even though Genya was all-too aware of his brother’s likely future. It was an anxiety that never failed to make Genya hug him harder, cling on longer than he should, until Sanemi was forced to push him away.

It killed him, every time.

He won’t get choked up in front of Genya – he won’t. He’ll swallow his heartache, choke it back until only a tear or two escapes down his cheek as he drives away, the school and his brother safely in his rearview mirror.

Sanemi turns to his brother, dread curdling in his stomach. He parts his lips, ready to give him the gruff, guess I’ll be headin’ out, that always precipitates this most dreaded goodbye, but his brother speaks up first.

“I think,” Genya hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before his lips press into a firm line. “I think you should decide what you want. Our whole life, you’ve been making decisions to survive, y’know?” And he shakes his head. “You’ve never done what you wanted. I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me but —“ 

Genya trails off for a moment and looks out to the proud, stately campus quad sprawling before them. “I think it’s time to be selfish for once, Aniki. You’ve earned it. You can’t survive on your own.” He turns back to his elder brother with a wan smile. “You know that better than anyone. Used to tell me all the time.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting Genya to say, but it sure as shit wasn’t that. It isn’t often that he’s caught off guard; even less than he’s left at a loss for words, and for once, Sanemi finds it difficult to meet his brother’s eyes. “It’s not that simple. Me bein’ selfish has consequences.”

“But — I mean, you’ve already made a choice in a way, right?” Sanemi’s gaze snaps to him as Genya’s hand pats his jacket, right over where the envelope bearing your name sits. “You might as well enjoy it.”

He stares at his brother for a long moment until Genya’s cheeks turn pink. “When the fuck did you get so grown?”

“Yeah, well,” his brother shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a stray pebble. “Maybe you just needed to hear you’re allowed to be a little happy.” 

“You sayin’ I’m a grouch?” 

“Yeah,” Genya admits with a toothy grin. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, y’know? Maybe she can make you nicer.”

Sanemi mirrors his shit-eating smirk. “An asshole, huh?” With a viper-like swiftness, he locks an arm around his brother’s neck and yanks him down, mashing his knuckles into Genya’s head. “Still an asshole when I let you eat a hole through my wallet?” 

“Ani — Sanemi —!“ Genya wrestles with Sanemi’s arm, helpless against his elder brother’s playful assault on his carefully-styled mohawk.

Sanemi lets himself indulge in this brief moment of rough-housing and for a second, he imagines this is what it would’ve been like had life dealt them a less-shitty hand. Just two brothers, wrestling on the lawn, laughing with a freeness neither one of them had ever known. 

Just two boys. 

But like all good things in his life, the moment ends, and Sanemi straightens, his grin sliding from his face. Genya sorts himself out, too, though his eyes turn sad. 

“Guess you gotta hit the road, right?” 

Sanemi swallows around the lump growing in his throat and nods. “I’ll text ya when I’m back.”

As tall and brawny as his little brother is, Genya looks every bit a kicked puppy as he stares hard at the ground, his lips mashing together in an effort Sanemi knows is meant to keep himself from crying. 

“Stay safe, Aniki.” His voice is small. 

A hand reaches out and clasps the boy around the shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll try,” Sanemi says roughly, clearing his throat. His brother’s arm squeezes tightly around his neck, and Sanemi closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that they are kids again. 

He claps Genya on the back and pulls away. “Go on,” he juts his chin toward the dorms. “Not having you gettin’ your ass chapped over missing curfew on my account.” 

The boy rubs at his eyes and fakes a yawn to cover how they water. “I know. Thanks, Aniki. For visiting.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi waves him off, flashing him a crooked grin. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Get back to your studies.” 

With that, Genya turns and shuffles back toward his dorm, periodically looking over his shoulder. Sanemi holds his arm up in farewell, and stays there until his brother is safely inside and out of his sight.

And only then does he lower his hand to wipe at the tears misting in his eyes. 

–

The entirety of the more than three-hour drive back to the City is completed in total silence. 

It’s done out of preference, more than anything. Sanemi is too used to his bike’s lack of a radio, the rumbling purr of its motor, the only noise that accompanies him on his rides. The radio carries too much potential for distraction, and Sanemi won’t impair his senses if he can help it. 

Besides, after Genya’s too-shrewd observations of the shitshow that is his lovelife, Sanemi needs the hours to think. 

The day he’d been initiated as a Hashira was the day Sanemi’s future had ended. The moment he’d been pushed to his knees, his shirt stripped from his back, he understood that his life began and ended with the Corps. As he’d searched the faces of the other Hashira, noting the youth in each of their features, he’d known that his expiration date was likely sooner rather than later. It was only logical; to rise up to the level of Hashira meant you had skills that painted a target on your back. To claim a kill on one of them meant solidifying your own status within whatever fringe group you belonged to. When the Kizuki came along, they’d only upped the ante, offering exorbitant payouts to even non-affiliates who could deliver on a Hashira’s head.

So yeah, Sanemi had known his chances of making it out of his twenties were slim to none. He thought he’d given up any idea of growing old the moment Uzui placed that searing hot iron between his shoulders, every trace of a future untainted by blood sizzling away under the pop and crackle of his burning skin. 

Until you. 

Your simple existence had been a seed that was cultivated the longer he’d gotten to know you, one that blossomed into a portrait of what his life might be, rather than what it is. And once he’d seen it, he’d not been able to look away. It was a life of happiness; unshackled and unburdened by the Corps, the stains of his misdeeds finally washed from his skin. One that ends not in a spray of gunfire and an unmarked grave, but when he’s old and gray, surrounded by kids and grandkids, tangible proof of a life long-well lived.

A life created out of his love for you. With you.

It was one thing for him to keep these reveries locked tightly in his heart, only to be taken out under the dark cover of solitude and handled carefully, a fairytale like those in that book with the story of the beauty and the beast. To keep them confined to a secret sanctuary for him to retreat into whenever he needed to pull himself out of that gaping numb chasm that always opened in his chest after a particularly bad job. He’d never need to seek comfort or distraction in the arms of another again, not as long as he had this small dream of what could’ve been to keep him warm. There would’ve been no need to get you involved at all, save the permanent place you’d hold in his heart.

You would be safe and he would’ve been alone, as intended. As needed.

But he’d gotten greedy; and when you’d looked up at him, sweaty and naked and vulnerable, and told him you loved him, Sanemi had seen how that small, glowing dream of his was more than what could have been. It was what still could be. 

Sanemi rests his hand on his fist, his left arm propped on the ledge of the driver’s window as his other guides the steering wheel. Never before has he felt so torn between two paths. Then again, he’s never been presented with a choice; he has only ever been forced to adapt to the shit life hurled his way. 

And it had thrown one hell of a wrench at his head through you. 

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Sanemi sits up, eyes widening in thought. His brother’s question packs more punch than he’d initially realized, settling over him like a weight as he drives. 

Is there any choice left to be made at all? 

Perhaps the part of him that has screamed and cursed his stupidity for doing the one thing he’d sworn not to do hadn’t been his own conscience at all. Perhaps it had been the Corps’, and Sanemi, too accustomed to being an extension of its will, had simply been unable to know the difference. After all, wasn’t that the entire reason he’d let himself be forced to his knees all those years ago to be branded – in order to forsake his own identity so he might be re-forged into a weapon through burning hot iron? Had he not whored himself out, allowed himself to be bent and molded and beaten into the perfect shape of a soldier in exchange for the promise of a filled belly and the chance that Genya might be free of the cage they’d been born into? 

That had all been before; he’d lost himself somewhere between the stench of his burning flesh and the black, twisted underbelly of the Corps. And it wasn’t until you appeared that Sanemi had dared to wonder whether he might find his way back to himself. 

You were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky; the light in the dark whose fire revealed the beauty in the shadows of his small world that he hadn’t known existed. Was it selfish of him to want to pluck you from the horizon and tuck you into his pocket, for keeps? Perhaps. But Sanemi had spent so much time alone in the dark that he hadn’t been able to help wanting to cling to what little brilliance had been brought into his life.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Genya had hit the nail right on the fucking head. All this time, he has been agonizing over what he should do without any consideration as to what it is he wants. After a life of having to make decisions to survive, he really shouldn’t have expected anything less — he simply didn’t know how to do anything different. But he’d made a choice the moment he’d laid you back against your blankets, drunk on your lips and ensorcelled by the feel of your skin sliding with his.

So what does he want? 

The answer is easy; so easy, in fact, even his kid brother could see it.

He wants you. Only you.

Don't worry, he's gonna go get her.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[millersfinest]

can u make some like generic dating ellie headcannons? (tlou universe preferably)

i love ur writing sm!!

dating ellie williams ◡̈

cw: usual fluff, mentioned love languages, mention of joel’s death (i wanted to be as canon as possible), a little nsfw but nothing too crazy.

note: here are some semi-ooc ellie hc’s!! i feel like im so bad at headcanons, but here you go. thank you for enjoying my work, i hope you like this too pookie!

ellie! is a total introvert to her core, so no matter how she found out about you taking interest in her… she’d probably need some time to think about it.

ellie! would have you freaking tf out over it too. but she means well, she’s just a really bad over-thinker—never wanting to say the wrong thing. but she’d come around and never stop apologizing to you.

ellie! would take a little while to open up to you, if you weren’t friends first. she’s been through a lot in her life, and she fears that her trauma could scare people away.

now, if you were already friends (specifically close friends), you probably would’ve already known her deepest darkest secrets and feelings by the time you started dating. every traumatic event and every fixation she’s had since she was a child.

ellie! thoroughly believes in physical touch and quality time as a love language.

for physical touch: it doesn’t always have to be sexual (she doesn’t complain either way), she just likes to touch you—knowing you’re right there next to her. you could be doing the dishes and she’d come up behind you, leaning her head on your shoulder, with her hands delicately placed on your hips. or standing by the bar at the tipsy bison, with her fingers dipped into any of the pockets of your jeans. keeping you close.

for quality time: she does love her moments alone, but they’re always better with you somewhere near by. sometimes, when she would spend hours painting or drawing in her art room, she’d ask if you could come sit in. so you’d bring your book, or whatever you were doing, and read silently in the same room as her. while a smooth record played in the background. but sometimes, she doesn’t even ask. you could be doing the most boring thing ever, and she’d float around you like a curious bumblebee.

ellie! love, love, loves being babied—even though she’d never admit it. she has a reputation to uphold, of course. during the spring, due to the patrols and supply runs, her allergies would wreck havoc on her. that’s where you come in to nurture her back to health. she’d have tissue stuck up her nose, with her head lying in your lap on the couch. you rubbing your hand over her hair, soothingly.

“if you kiss me right now, i think my sinuses will re-open.”

“ellie, you just sneezed two minutes ago.”

“baby, pleaseeeee! i need it!” and she’d give the craziest puppy dog eyes known to man. and, of course, you’d give in. giving her the sweetest smooch ever. it didn’t open her sinuses, but she knew that. just know… she’s gonna convince you to give her another to be sure.

another scenario would be coming home after a long day at work (idk i feel like doing patrols would be like her main thing). she probably had a rough day with the lingering infected, and came back with a few injuries. the moment she stepped through the door, she’d be calling for you. wrapped in your arms, smelling like the outdoors, you’d slowly undress her and then run a bath. she loved when you’d cater to her in that way—cleaning her cuts, washing her skin from dried blood and dirt. after all that, you’d cuddle in bed, pillow-talking until her eyes shut before yours.

“goodnight, els.” smooch.

ellie! was a little iffy when it came to holidays, but when it came to your birthday it was a special affair. jackson was a healthy and happy little bubble, but because the idea of loss wasn’t foreign to her—celebrating her loved ones was very important to her.

if you didn’t like grand gestures, she’d keep it lowkey. maybe throwing a little surprise for the two of you at home; cooking you dinner, having a movie night, and giving you little trinkets she found on the road. or painting something for you in secret, then giving it to you as a gift.

speaking of cooking…

ellie! has thing for making good food. a part of me feels like joel put her on when she was young, and after he died (yeah, i’m sorry) she made an effort to keep it up. playing guitar was much harder for her since she only had two fingers and a thumb on her left hand—so she decided to pick up something else to stay close to him.

so every chance she can get, she cooks for you or both of you. when you would go on patrols, you’d make sure to pick up cook books from before the outbreak since she found them so fascinating. and you loved being her little food guinea pig. spoiler: she was a fast learner so her cooking skills were pretty good.

ellie! 100% taught you to play the song (that we all know and love) that joel taught her on the guitar. and whenever you knew she needed to hear it, you’d play it for her. and, i swear on everything, there’d be tears in her eyes every time.

and for some freaky stuff… (i won’t get into crazy detail but i just wanna be thorough ;D)

ellie! just loves loving you… making love to you—doing everything that she can to almost prove that you’re everything to her (not that she needs to but she does it anyway).

meaning: at the very best, she’s a service!top. however, i can get behind her being a switch/verse (or maybe i’m bias lmao).

ellie! probably wouldn’t strap as often as the fanfics show. especially being in this apocalyptic world—where would you get them?? if they weren’t hella old… and, i feel like she’d think they were a little silly (but if you wanted to try it, she’d oblige because what you say goes).

ellie! loves to watch the expressions of your features contort into visuals of pleasure. it’s how she knew she was being good for you—doing everything that you asked but better!

your first time: of course she was super awkward. not really knowing where to put her hands at first. but once the heat began to rise, and your bodies began to press together, her entire energy changed! she’s her most confident when she’s in service to someone (in some way)—so she makes it her prerogative to make you feel good and comfortable. you weren’t really expecting that from her, though. it only took one airy moan coming from your lips for her to completely flip the script.

her hands were firmly delicate, and she made sure to be very vocal in your ears and over your body.

overall, ellie williams is a very attentive lover. in many ways than just one.

[slushycoookie]

My Husband Has a Symbiote! Pt.1

Relationship: Symbiote! Miguel O'Hara x AFAB! Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Content: Smut, definitely smut, p in v, oral sex, overstimulation, belly bulge, breeding kink in FULL display, fertility issues, Minors DNI!!

Summary: You find out Miguel has a symbiote for the most unexpected reason.

A/N: I kept thinking about Symbiote! Miguel and I just had to do it. If yall saw that recent concept art of him, he looks fucking huge. So as a birthday present to myself, I wrote this. Something to get us by while I continue writing the Valentine's Day one.

Miguel had a symbiote.

You knew the first day he got it. He was acting strange. More aggressive, energetic, and driven to his Spider Society cause. Also rough. You knew it when he pulled you in for a passionate goodbye kiss.

Plus, he was huge. You didn't think it was possible for your husband to get a bigger size in his suit. It oozed a foreign entity. He was rougher with his enemies. Causing them to be bruised and bloody at the end of the battle. Your Miguel showed some restraint. You weren't sure what this Miguel was.

Jess told you at the end of the day, confirming your suspicions. “He has a symbiote.”

“I figured…” You played with the necklace that had your wedding band between your fingers. “How did he get it?”

“No clue. One day, he was his grouchy self. Next day, he was extra grouchy.”

“What can we do? We have ways to get rid of it.”

Jess gave you a knowing look, “You know it's not easy with symbiotes. The wearer has to get rid of it on their own. Part of the-”

“Canon event. I know…” You sighed. You weren't going to get scared. Be afraid for your husband's life. You would take the knowledge you knew now in stride, even if that meant dealing with the fact that your partner had an alien on his body.

You didn't confront him about the symbiote. You saw no need to. Ben and Jess were informed. You wanted them to watch him so he wouldn't go too far. But you didn’t like how he was acting. He never took it out on you, but everyone else was a different story. It was hard for you to sleep, knowing your husband was in control of an alien.

One night, he came home late. You were still awake, watching his hulking form linger throughout the house. If you were normal, you'd be terrified.

“Miguel?” You called from the hallway. He turned towards you. His mask was still up. The eyes were sharp, filled with an unknown emotion you couldn't grasp.

“Our wife.” His voice was deep, rumbling to your core. Sharp teeth and a long tongue caught your eye. He inched to you like a predator. You backed up, mind playing out hundreds of backup plans you had once you found out about his new form. You jumped when hitting a wall. Cornered as Miguel hovered above you. His head trailed up and down in fascination. “So pretty. To eat.”

“I said we're not eating her.” Half of Miguel's face appeared, causing you to relax a little. He was still in there. To a certain extent.

“Not the type of eating we were talking about.” The symbiote sized you up even more. You didn't know how to take that. Miguel entirely took over, his face in view.

“I'm sorry. I'm still getting the hang of this.”

“Why did you do this?” You motioned to all of him, “For a man who doesn't play when it comes to canon events, you go ahead and play around with an alien.”

Miguel sucked his teeth, “I had a good reason, baby.” You blinked, waiting for him to come up with a good explanation. He shifted, his large form shaking the photos on the wall. You couldn't see any reason for him to form with a symbiote.

“I thought…it would help in our process of trying to have a baby.”

You froze. The extensive trials you and Miguel went through in trying for a baby were unsuccessful. He knew about your fertility issues. He knew before you got married. You didn’t expect him to go and fuse with a symbiote to boost the rate of being able to have a baby.

“The symbiote enhances my body.” Miguel explained, “Maybe we could try to use it to help us conceive.”

“Won’t the symbiotes…genes get in…?” You placed a hand on your stomach, not believing that you were considering it.

“No. It won’t affect any of our genes. It just increases the output.”

You scoffed, “So you would have super sperm?”

“In a way.” Miguel shrugged, hovering over you. You noticed how small you were compared to him. Your thighs squeezed together at the sight. “We should try it. See what happens.”

Common sense was starting to leave the window. Just having Miguel’s hulking frame above you, his eyes lowered in lust, was not helping. You were curious yourself. Would the symbiote help you finally be able to conceive? So your family can get bigger?

“You want me to have sex with the symbiote?”

Miguel chuckled, face down to your neck, taking in your delicate scent. “It’s still me. I promise.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders. His suit was sticky and you felt restraint when tried to remove your hands. You had no idea what you were doing. But it was your husband. You trusted him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you. So you had to take a leap. Literally. Miguel was so large you had to jump to even kiss him.

Your body flushed against his own as his tongue dove into your mouth. You were so caught up in kissing him, absorbed in how his hands groped and felt you, to realize you were in your bedroom.

You yelped when landing on the bed. Miguel's form hit the ceiling, standing at the edge. Waiting.

“Strip.” The voice was back again. Low, deep, and commanding. You blushed at how much that turned you on. Even with the monstrous teeth and all. You weren't wearing much besides a t-shirt and shorts, tossing them into darkness. Only remaining in your panties.

Miguel cupped himself, eyes trained on the prize between your legs. “All of it.”

You slid down your underwear at a slow pace. Even if you were about to get bred by a symbiote, you knew Miguel would still go crazy over your teasing. Pride swelled in your chest as his breathing became ragged. Every ounce of resistance he had in fucking you into the ground was waning. It wasn't until your panties were thrown aside that he pounced on you.

The bed creaked at the extra size. Miguel's symbiote used its long tongue over your neck, tasting the slight sweat. Your breasts, twirling at one nipple while his fingers pinched the other. Before going down to your stomach and over what he wanted most.

“We deserve to know how you taste…”

If you could squeeze your thighs together right now, you would. But your partner kept them separated. Spread wide enough for him to get a full view of your dripping sex. The tongue was back as it was his turn to tease you. Gliding along your inner thighs, not touching an inch of your cunt. You whined at how close he was. You tried to move your thighs to get him where you wanted but to no avail.

“Please…” You swallowed, heaving at the lack of touch. “Don’t tease…”

A guttural growl resonated in the room, which made you quiver even more. “You're so pretty when you beg.”

His tongue was heaven. Taking turns licking at your sensitive bud, thrusting in and out of your hole. Slurping sounds letting you know how much he loved tasting your cunt. You weren't sure if digging your hands into his covered head was a good idea so your hands fisted the pillows. Head back and unable to control your sounds of pleasure.

“Miguel…oh my…” You felt that familiar sensation rise in your stomach. Not stopping as he continued to please you. And you accepted it, climaxing for him. This was different from your normal Miguel. While he did make you see stars, this one was determined to make you see God. The way he didn’t stop after you came for him, eating your pussy like a starved man. When you tried to have the strength to pull away, his hand placed flat on your stomach. Overstimulation crept in as you shook under his hold. Thank goodness he pulled away, showing you his mouth glistening in the moonlight.

“We need you. Now.”

Your eyes widened when seeing his cock on full display. Miguel was big. Very big. Cock enlarged, veiny, pre cum beading around the tip. He was going to kill you if he put that thing inside.

“Where?” You gulped, pushing back your rising fear.

Miguel sat back against the headboard and settled you into his lap. Your back lay against his chest, staring at the gigantic cock. He grabbed a hold of your thighs, lifting and spreading you as wide as he could. You bit your lip as his dick slid against your sex, coating himself in your arousal. You couldn't do much in this position. Besides lie back and take it.

You shook as he entered you. Arms around his neck and digging into them as you sank down. Your mouth gaped, but nothing came out.

“Come on.” Miguel pushed, his own voice coming out a little tense. “You can take more…”

You clawed at his neck, sinking down further. It was to the point where there was a slight bulge in your belly. Which has never happened before. Once he bottomed out, he gave you time to adjust. You knew Miguel was being gentle, his arm muscles tense as he didn’t want to hurt you. You nodded when you were ready and he took control. He slid you all the way up, only leaving the tip of his cock inside before thrusting up into you.

He was massive. Easily filling you up while he pumped inside. Tears brimmed in your eyes. There was no coherent thought in your mind. With each intoxicating thrust, you couldn’t think. All you wanted was for him to keep going. To use you like this as long as he wanted.

Your eyes rolled back when his cock hit a perfect spot. Not feeling any of your lower body. “M-Mig…”

“We have you. Pretty little thing…” His face snuggled against your head, still maintaining the hard and sharp thrusts. Miguel’s suit made a tendril, slithering over to you to give more attention to your aching clit. You gasped at the sudden sensation. The familiar burning of your release was quickly rising again into something more. You struggled in Miguel’s hold, wanting to move away and escape your impending doom.

“Don’t…You’re gonna make me…” You whined, frantic breaths escaping.

“We want you to do it.”

There was no room for negotiation. Between the exhilarating way his cock stretched you and the advance on your clit, you were going to explode. You cried for your husband while soaking his cock with your fluids. Tightening around him for his seed. Aching to have him breed you. Miguel’s grunts turned into growls. Grating noises that shook the entire room. His thrusts were rough as now he was chasing his original goal. To pump his cum into you.

You didn’t move, watching your husband desperately paint you inside. There were one, two, three more thrusts before he let out a roar. His seed filled you up perfectly. It was so much that it was leaking out, even as Miguel tried to thrust more in. You didn't know what else to do if you didn’t get pregnant by this.

Once Miguel had his fill, he slipped out, placing you to the side. His face was back as he peppered your own with soft kisses.

“You okay?” You hummed, your throat a little sore. He held you close in a protective way, not wanting to let go for a moment. “Hopefully this works.”

“If it doesn’t…” You struggled to say with your raspy voice, “you’re getting rid of that thing.”

[yourmidnightlover]

the sun

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: after the events of the snap, you find out news that's both heart wrenching and warming. what happens five years later when bucky's back?

warnings: death, mourning, pregnancy, childbirth, canon-typical violence (not much but just adding to cover all the bases), loosely based on end game and infinity war (as in ignore my mistakes lmaooo), if i failed to mention any warnings PLEASE LET ME KNOW!

wc: 2.6k

a/n: dude idk why i've had an urge to write such heart wrenching angst lately. i'm actually in a decent place rn. i tried to cut this fic down bc originally it was SOOOO long i felt like a lot of it was just filler and i feel like shorter fics of mine tend to do better... ANYWHO! this does have a happy/hopeful ending so no worries! also picturing this beefcake for this story is AGHHHHHHH!

you never thought two lines on a stick could ever break your heart the way they did.

tears clouded your vision as you gripped the counter, trying not to crumble or succumb to your grief.

6 weeks ago, the avengers lost. everything.

half of the world, gone in a moment.

in one moment, your world collapsed. seeing bucky fade to dust right in front of you...

sobs wracked through your body as you crumbled to the ground.

this was supposed to be a happy moment. there should be tears of joy, not sobs of sorrow. your heart should feel full of love, not like there's a super-soldier sized hole in it.

"y/n," nat's voice rang outside the door, giving you a moment to yourself.

"just-," you tried to level your breathing before she opened the door, knowing but not understanding the grief you were feeling.

she wrapped her arms around your body, tucking your head into her neck as she gently rubbed your back soothingly. steve leaned against the bathroom door, glancing on the counter to see what they had all expected.

a positive pregnancy test.

you were having bucky's baby.

without bucky.

you gripped his dog tags that you had been wearing since the funeral. they were the only thing that could truly ground you.

they brought back happy memories of cuddling in bed, the cool metal shocking your skin for only a moment before realizing that it was only bucky and smiling at the memory.

god, it hadn't even been two months.

how were you supposed to do this alone?

"we're here for you," steve's voice called from the doorway, as if he could hear your thoughts. "you'll never be alone. not in this... not ever." he shook his head, his brows furrowed in a serious, straight line.

eventually, your sobs subsided. you stood with nat from your seat on the ground, wiping your own eyes mustering up a pathetic smile before she left you and steve to work out your grief together.

"we didn't even know it was possible," you shrugged. "it's like he sent me them..." you placed your hand on an invisible bump before facing steve, his teary eyes reminding you that he had lost his best friend, too. "he sent us this baby."

you reached your hand out for steve to hold. he took it gratefully and pulled you into his arms, hugging you tight and letting only a few tears slip his waterline before pulling back.

"if you'll let me, i want to be there for you for everything," his chin wobbled. "buck would kick my ass if i let you go through this alone." a genuine laugh left your lips for the first time in nearly two months.

"i would be so grateful for that," you nodded as you let go of his arms. "part of me still can't believe that it's real. it's like part of me still expects him to walk into the compound from a long mission or something..." you shook your head. "i know that sounds so stupid."

"it's not," he shook his head with a smile. "it's what i wish was true, maybe it's your subconscious trying to preserve your mind?"

"maybe," you shrugged before continuing, "i should probably talk to tony and bruce, huh?"

-

you knew you were around eight weeks along.

according to the doctors' tony had enlisted, however, you were already 12 weeks along, which was impossible.

bucky had been gone on a mission at that time... but it's whatever. you got to hear the heartbeat. steve went with you, too. you both bawled together. you kept three copies of the ultrasound and he kept two.

banner had already offered to do some testing on the dna of the baby, noting that the serum would likely affect the pregnancy (as it probably already has).

you had talked to tony about retiring from the whole superhero gig for the time being. you needed to mourn and prepare for a new life simultaneously. tony had promised to provide anything you needed at the drop of a hat, and he sure as hell delivered.

within no time, your pregnancy was being measured at 20 weeks while only being pregnant for 12. banner was concerned for your body's ability to keep up with the rapid rate of growth of the baby. he had you on a strict, hefty diet with two different prenatal vitamins in attempt to help your nutrition.

in spite of your best efforts, you were always exhausted and in pain. but you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. this was bucky's baby. you didn't care how much pain you went through when you had half of him growing inside of you.

you couldn't walk for long without feeling like passing out, which banner chalked up to low iron. steve had grown progressively more worried for you and the baby the longer the pregnancy went on.

as a result, he had moved into the spare room that was in your and bucky's house. truly, it just made it easier for him to help you finish up the nursery anyway.

he was very handy about it all, painting, building furniture from scratch, the whole deal.

"i've been thinking... and if it's a girl, i want to name her evangeline james barnes," you informed steve as you ate the steak he had been making for the past few weeks of your pregnancy, as ordered by dr. banner. that with carrots, broccoli, potatoes, and for dessert strawberries, blueberries and raspberries over ice cream. "and if it's a boy, cyrus james barnes. evangeline means good news, and cyrus means sun."

steve placed his hand over yours, "i think buck would've loved them." he smiled warmly as you downed the food in a few minutes.

you had begun showing soon after you found out you were pregnant, but now, it felt like it was impossible to hide. nat had been wonderful about helping you keep up with the changes your body was going through, getting you new maternity clothes every week.

she even made sure to get you every single craving that wasn't in accordance to banner's hefty diet. not that he didn't want you to eat more, he thought it was best you did! but he also wanted to make sure that with all that you did eat, your body got as many nutrients as possible.

just to be safe, he kept you on other vitamin supplements anyway.

you couldn't help but imagine what bucky would say or do about everything now.

he would hold your body closely, pressing firm kisses to your bump every chance he could get while whispering some sickly sweet sayings to your unborn child, words that would melt the winter soldier's cold exterior.

he would whisper words of encouragement any moment you felt worried about your abilities to be a mom. he would say how beautiful you were, in spite of being bloated in places you didn't know could bloat.

he would be wonderful, and in your mind, he was still alive and vibrant. well, as vibrant as bucky ever was, at least.

truthfully, that's the only way you were able to keep going on like this. steve was wonderful, but you couldn't help but want the love of your life by your side as you tried to navigate this new chapter.

in a couple more weeks, you were projected to be at 32 weeks. bruce and tony were talking with your doctors about the safety of inducing so early, both for you and the baby.

oh, and you wanted the gender to be a surprise.

and within the week, you were having your baby.

steve and nat were by your side during the birth, whispering encouraging words and compliments of your strength.

"i need him!" you screamed in pain as you held one of each of their hands, sobbing in agony. "i need james! i need my bucky! i can't do this alone, i can't-i can't!"

"you can," nat reminded you. "this baby needs you," she held your face to look at hers. "bucky is a part of this baby." you swore you could see tears in her eyes before turning to face steve.

"remember what you told me when you found out you were pregnant?" he didn't bother wiping the tears from his face. "bucky sent you-sent us this baby. he knows you can do it." you sniffled before nodding at your two best friends, pushing with one last scream and a second later, you had...

"cyrus james barnes," the nurse called to you. "it's a boy, congratulations mom."

-

the next few years went by quicker than you could've ever imagined.

crawling, first words, first steps...

you missed bucky. not a day passed where you didn't miss him.

but, having cy helped a lot. he looked just like his father. dark brown hair, icy blue eyes, a cute little nose... not to mention his father's stubbornness.

you made sure he knew who his father was. you took him to the museum often, showing him the statue of his father and his background in the world war, him saving the world so much. you told him how you fell in love with him.

how you fell for the quiet man before ever really talking to him. how you were partners on a long-term, undercover mission and that's where your love ignited from the sparks.

not that cy understood any of what you told him. you just felt it was important to know that his parents loved him, and each other dearly.

you never took off his dog tags, either.

steve was a huge help the whole time. he kept working for the avengers, so he was gone often, but he provided a good male role model for cyrus. after all, he was his uncle steve. he already taught him how to throw a ball, albeit a little softball, but it counts!

you made sure to document everything that went on in yours and cyrus's life.

banner had said that cyrus was growing at an exceeding rate, but nothing to be concerned about. in fact, cyrus was turning five in almost half a year, meaning the anniversary of bucky's death, or disappearance or whatever you called it, was coming up.

then, you got a call from tony and banner.

it all happened so quickly, from testing to planning to the execution. pepper watched cyrus for you while you went back with steve, scott, and tony to get the tesseract.

of course, the men being men had to come upon a few hiccups, but eventually, after going as far back as the 70s, you brought back the tesseract.

the only thing is that nat never came back...

next thing you know, bruce is snapping his fingers and clint is getting a call from his supposedly deceased wife. your eyes fill with tears, hands searching in your pockets for your phone to see if you've gotten anything yet.

is it possible he wasn't brought back? he was the first to... disintegrate. die. maybe that meant something in the eyes of the stones?

then, you felt a buzz in your hand.

although, you didn't have any time to try to grasp what that meant, because more aliens came to earth.

shocker.

after yet another war, one that you weren't even prepared for, after losing more people, again. after losing tony...

but amidst the chaos of the aftermath of the fight, with screams of joy and shock and grief surrounding you, tears streaming down your face, your eyes met the blue ones you only saw in your son.

he slowly walked towards you as the tears sped up. you didn't even realize when your feet began running towards him.

when his arms wrapped around your waist, you finally felt the home you thought you had come to terms with never feeling again. your arms wrapped around his neck, your face buried in his shoulder as you breathed in the scent of gunmetal that had overtaken him in the battle.

"oh my god," you cried into the leather of his jacket. he lifted you off the ground, your legs wrapping around his waist as you felt his smile on your cheek. "i can't believe you're really here."

"i'm here, doll," his hands cradled your head so tenderly. "i'm not ever leaving again. never."

you pulled back before your eyes widened in realization. "you've gotta meet someone, jamie."

his brows furrowed in confusion, just smiling and nodding along with whatever you said.

within the next few hours, simply being held by bucky before steve stole him away with a hug, you finally brought him home.

"so, steve moved in," you started as you pulled your car into the driveway, turning to see bucky looking at you with an incredulous look. "you'll see why." you reached to hold his hand before he brought yours to his lips, pressing a kiss there.

you told him to wait in the car as you went inside to relieve the babysitter for cyrus. after giving him some cash, he went outside, knocking on your car window to let bucky know he should make his way inside.

upon entering, he saw you sitting on the floor with a little boy with striking blue eyes that seemed so familiar to him. his nose, too. his lips though, they were all yours. he had a slight grin plastered on his lips, one that matched yours to a t.

"daddy?" suddenly, it all clicked.

his heart, his mind, his fucking soul, everything made sense now. the pain, hydra, the mind washing, the torture.

meeting you. falling in love. dying?

his son.

he started walking closer to bucky before the steady walk turned into a run. bucky knelt down, wrapping the boy in his arms, cradling his tiny frame in his arms protectively. his son.

"cyrus james barnes," you said with a teary smile on your face. bucky, without breaking the hug with his son, looked up at you with a smile that matched yours. "cyrus means 'sun', and i thought it was fitting. he brought me so much light and hope after you..." you choked up before he stood up with cy in his arms, walking towards you before wrapping you in the big, family hug.

"i love you so much, both of you."

[toruskiii]

MR. TELEPHONE MAN!

"𝘔𝘳. 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦! 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺'𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦!"

Synopsis: Pick up, pick up, pick up— still no answer. Desperately trying to reach you after your argument, Boothill finds himself repeatedly directed to the operator's automated voicemail. 'Please hang up and try again, baby.' Genre: Comfort, fluff Character: Boothill x gn!reader Warnings: Established relationship, mentions of Dan Heng, a little strayed from canon events maybe, slightly ooc, mentions of prior argument, slight angst if you squint, half of the fic is just Boothill and Dan Heng having a heart to heart bro talk lol [masterlist] [about me]

Boothill cursed himself silently, though as vigorously as he could manage since his synesthesia beacon was malfunctioning. Walking briskly around the Parlor car, phone gripped tightly in hand, he couldn't escape the relentless sound of the dial tone on repeat. Meanwhile, Dan Heng observed him with a quizzical expression, one brow arched in curiosity.

Witnessing Boothill in such evident distress was a rare sight for Dan Heng. The ranger typically exuded an aura of nonchalant confidence, often adopting a "fudge it, we ball" attitude towards life's challenges. Consequences were either dealt with head-on or circumvented through sheer audacity.

Reckless. Yes, that word seemed to define him perfectly. And perhaps that's why he was so visibly agitated now. Boothill's thumb hovered over the name 'sweetcheeks' on his phone, a term that made Dan Heng cringe inwardly, yet he dismissed it knowing it was a manifestation of love.

"May I inquire as to your purpose for boarding the Astral Express today? If your intention is merely to cause a disturbance, I suggest you reconsider," Dan Heng stated firmly, crossing his arms and adopting his usual stoic expression, his brow arching slightly. While he and the other nameless welcomed all aboard the Express with open arms, Boothill remained a figure of caution, especially given recent events, despite the significant assistance he had provided.

"What? Ain't you the one who said I could drop by anytime?" Boothill retorted, his frown deepening as he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. His attention flickered momentarily to his vibrating phone before returning with disappointment when he heard the all-too-familiar phrase that had been echoing for the past half-hour. "Sorry, please hang up and call again."

"I never made such a claim," Dan Heng countered, a faint hint of amusement dancing in his narrowed eyes as he observed the disgruntled expression on Boothill's face. "Apart from the conductor, Pom Pom, none of my colleagues have had the pleasure of meeting you. It would be prudent for you to acquaint yourself with them before boarding."

Boothill let out a derisive snort, his thumb instinctively jabbing at the 'dial again' button as he locked eyes with Dan Heng. "Aw, come on now. The conductor already gave me the green light. Ain't that sufficient? And you, you actin' like a youngster. Do I gotta meet your folks before I can come over and play?"

Instantly, Boothill regretted his words, his lips forming a tight line as he realized he had overstepped. "Well, shoot. My apologies," he conceded, his voice softened with regret as he retrieved his hat and made his way to the nearest couch, slumping down with a heavy sigh. This was his perpetual dilemma— he was too forthright, too bold with his language. His words spilled out before he could filter them.

Boothill was baffled by his own behavior. Apologizing to strangers or mere acquaintances came naturally to him, the words slipping out effortlessly, whether they were genuine or not. But when it came to you, it was as if his internal wiring malfunctioned. His mechanical body buzzed with static, sparks dancing erratically, and his words emerged in a tangled mess. The simple phrases— "I love you" or "I'm sorry"— seemed trapped behind a barricade, struggling to find their way past his lips.

"Forget it," Dan Heng sighed, striding over to the dejected figure slumped on the couch. "But do enlighten me as to why you're here just to make a phone call, presumably to your significant other? Is it a must to reach them while aboard the Express?"

Boothill simply shrugged, emitting a grunt of frustration before pulling his hat down over his face, a gesture of defeat. "There ain't no signal anywhere else, I reckon. Figured your train might lend me a hand, even just a tad."

As the number continued to ring with no response from you, Boothill finally opened up, his voice softening as he admitted, "Got into a spat with my partner."

With those words, he began to dismantle the barriers surrounding his emotions, allowing them to spill forth within the confines of the Express. Dan Heng listened attentively, offering a supportive presence to the troubled man.

Boothill couldn't shake the feeling of remorse gnawing at him. He knew he had deeply upset you this time, and he had no one to blame but himself. Who wouldn't be hurt if their own partner hurled insults at them, especially when all they wanted was to show care and concern? Boothill couldn't help but imagine how he would feel if the roles were reversed, and the mere thought made his stomach churn.

"I think I really got under their skin— no doubt about it," he muttered to himself, replaying the scene in his mind where you were left with a furrowed brow and glistening tears threatening to spill. In that moment of frustration, he couldn't fathom why you would bother caring about him. After all, he was no longer flesh and blood; he was encased in metal, his heart silent, and his tear ducts dry.

He couldn't feel pain or sorrow like he used to. So why should you waste your concern on someone who couldn't be harmed or hurt? He couldn't feel anything beyond his face. There was no need for you to worry about him getting into trouble or getting hurt, because he wouldn't feel it.

It was a selfish thought, he admitted, yet at the same time, it wasn't. After all, you were human— a fragile being whose existence could be snuffed out in an instant— while he remained invulnerable. So why waste your energy worrying about him, when he should be the one worrying about you?

As Boothill drowned in his sorrows, his metal hand tapping incessantly on his phone in a desperate attempt to reach you, Dan Heng listened intently, a somber hum escaping his lips as he nodded along.

'Sorry, please hang up and call again.'

Well, fork me.

"Have you apologized?"

"I want to," Boothill admitted, his brows furrowing with guilt. He mulled over various ways he could make it up to you without actually uttering those two crucial words—an apology. Perhaps he could buy you your favorite cake, shower you with affectionate kisses until you couldn't help but giggle, and lavish you with words of admiration.

"That sounds more like a birthday celebration, Boothill. It would be selfish and ignorant of you to avoid apologizing," Dan Heng interjected, cutting through Boothill's thoughts with a firm reminder.

"But— But it's dang near impossible to say those words!" Boothill groaned, frustration evident in his voice as he sat upright on the couch, dialing your number once more, silently pleading for you to answer. "It's like pulling teeth."

"And that's precisely the issue you need to address," Dan Heng replied firmly, his gaze unwavering.

The Ranger slumped back, averting his eyes and releasing a heavy sigh of defeat. "…What do you suggest I do, then?"

"Apologize."

"…you—alright. Fine."

"But apologize like you actually mean it, not just because you have to."

As Dan Heng's words sank in, Boothill felt a sudden jolt of realization. Apologize like he meant it— not just because it was expected of him. The gravity of those words hit him like a ton of bricks, causing him to freeze in place, his wide eyes meeting Dan Heng's steady gaze.

With a nod and an encouraging thumbs up from Dan Heng, Boothill was left to ponder his next move in solitude. Did he truly mean it, this apology? Absolutely. It shouldn't be so difficult to utter those words, right?

His thoughts were interrupted by the familiar automated message playing once more: "Sorry, please hang up and call again, baby."

A small gasp escaped Boothill's lips as he jolted upright, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his phone. Could it be? Was it really you on the other end? "W-wait—! Darlin'? Sweetcheeks? Is that really you?" he stammered, lifting the phone to his ear and pacing in circles, heart pounding with anticipation.

"Forgot my voice already?" Your retort hit Boothill like a punch to the gut, and he could almost see the frown forming on your face. He let out a noise of frustration, his head bowed as he nervously fiddled with the hem of his jacket, rendered momentarily speechless. "Erm— nah. How could I?"

If he still possessed skin and flesh, Boothill was certain his palms would be sweating profusely right now. A man who had faced countless bounties on his head, vanquishing his enemies with a flick of his gun, and executing daring escapes from perilous heights— now reduced to a speechless fool at the mere sound of his lover's voice.

"I, uh… I wanted to talk to you," he finally managed to breathe out, his voice laced with uncertainty. He could almost hear the slight scoff on the other end of the line, a sound that made his heart ache with regret.

"About what? I don't think there's much to talk about after the tantrum you threw at me," your voice came through, laced with a hint of bitterness. Were you being immature? Perhaps. But you had every right to be upset, every right to be salty.

Boothill swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper as he stumbled over his words, the apology he wanted to offer caught in his throat. "I- uh, um…" He cursed inwardly, his free hand nervously tugging at a few strands of his hair in a panic.

Darn it, why didn't he ask Dan Heng when the Express would reach the planet where you resided?

"I wanted to say that I…I'm so—" He groaned in frustration, slapping his hand against his face as he gritted his teeth in irritation. Why was it so blasted difficult to express himself? "I-I'm sorry, darlin'. Truly, I am."

The silence from your end only intensified Boothill's nerves, sending a wave of panic coursing through him. Was this it? Were you going to leave him, leaving him to wander aimlessly without a home once more? "Please, sweetheart. I'm pourin' my heart out here," he pleaded softly, his voice trembling with genuine sincerity.

He listened intently, straining to hear any sign of your response. From the muffled sounds of sheets rustling, he could only guess that you might be on the verge of tears again, and it tore at his nonexistent heart. "I'm sorry for…for yellin' and such. I was actin' selfish and ignorant, and I know that was wrong of me," he confessed, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and guilt as he cast his gaze downward.

Desperation clawed at him, the longing for your touch, the warmth of your presence beside him each morning, the comfort of your embrace— it all flooded his senses. He yearned for a home to return to, a sanctuary where he could find solace in your love once more.

"I'll make it up to you, I swear," Boothill vowed earnestly, feeling a spark of hope ignite within him.

He heard a quiet sigh escape your lips, and he squirmed with anticipation, eagerly awaiting your response.

"You've got 10 minutes to get your ass back into our home, right this instant," you blurted out, attempting to inject a joking tone into your words, but Boothill could detect the slight tremor in your voice.

His heart soared with relief and joy at your words. "Alright— okay, I'll be there. Just let me ask Dan Heng when we'll be arriving, alright?" he replied eagerly, his demeanor brightening considerably. This was his chance to make things right, to rebuild what he had almost shattered. He wasn't about to let it slip through his fingers.

As Boothill's metal boots echoed through the halls of the Express, his heart lightened at the sound of your voice. "I miss you," you confessed, the sniffle in your tone tugging at his wired heartstrings.

A chuckle escaped him, his hand reaching for the doorknob that led to Dan Heng's room. "I missed you too, sweetcheeks. I'll make it up to you, I swear on my bounty," he promised, determination lacing his words.

He could sense the relief in your giggle as you bid him goodbye and hung up, prompting him to knock on Dan Heng's door. "Yo, bro! When we makin' a stop at my planet?"

"We're not," Dan Heng's muffled voice responded, causing Boothill to freeze in his tracks. "We're stopping at Penacony to go to The Reverie to pick up my colleagues."

"…We're what."

[animeshotsh]

Not the baby!! | Various x Kid!Reader |

Summary: You manage to enter Alastor's shield and now the Angels wants to attack you.

Warnings: off canon events - canon violence - our kid!reader its not a fighter TwT - Part of the family series - grammar mistakes

You managed to enter Alastor's shield just when it almost closed up. You knew you should not be in here, but you wanted to help you new big sister and help your Uncle and Friends!!

Of course it ended badly.

The first to notice you was Angel who got you using one hand then shooting the Angels.

"What are you doing here (Y/N)?" Angel asked desesperated getting a curious look from Husk.

"Why its Lucifer's kid here?" He shelled this getting the attention of other Angels now.

"(Y/N)?" Charlie called over with a worried tone seeing you.

"Hi Sis!!" You waved completly ignoring the upcoming Angels.

~☆~☆~☆~

Lucifer was losing his cool. He knew he should have been more careful when he told you about what was going to happen at the Hotel. He should had tought better, now you were there, trapped.

"Dont worry (Y/N) im going" he silently said wings flying quickly for you

~☆~☆~☆~

Once Adam broke down the shield Alastor was down there ready to fight him off. The problem was, you were there too. Because Angel tought the best protector for you would be him.

"(Y/N) you should move away form here" Alastor said softly making his shadow tentacle reach you to pull you away from him and Adam. "But Uncle I wanna help"

~☆~☆~☆~☆

Saddly Alastor had lost against Adam who now had you by the leg taunting you.

"Is this the failure we missed? You seem to have made some shit Friends in here, who lets a kid fight?" He asked himself only to get a bite from you as you jerked your body.

"Fuck you"

"You are going to die you little bitch" Adam responded letting you go from the high air. Tears fell down your eyes as you saw him also destroying Sir.Pentious's ship.

"I got you!!" You were suddendly in Vaggies arms who held you protective in the air.

"Vaggie watch out!!" You tried to warn her seeing another Angel coming towards her.

~☆~☆~☆~☆

Everything seemed lost. Charlie had tried to fight off Adam but could not do it. She was now hugging you, keeping you behind her with angry eyes towards the first Man.

"And now-"

A single punch was all it needed to send him flying away.

"DAD!!" Charlie and you screamed seeing the flying form of Lucifer.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~

"Oh my precious kids!!" Lucifer said once the battle ended, Adam being killed by Nifty at the end. "Never do something like that again" your dad said to you hugging you and almost crushing you.

"Im sorry dad, I wanted to help"

"Let the adults do the work kid"

~☆~☆~☆~☆

As the hotel was re made you wondered where Alastor was. Sure he could not be dead, right?

Right?

"Did you miss me little one?" A very distinct voice asked

"UNCLE!!" In a flash you were in his arms, your own tiny ones around his neck. "I thought you were dead"

Alastor eye twitched for a moment then smiled softly "it takes more than that to kill me, my kid"

"PUT MY KID DOWN, ALASTOR" a very jealous Lucifer screamed looking at him.

"Can we go to Rosie's restaurant later?"

"Yes"

"NO, you are grounded"

~☆~☆~☆~☆

"Ahh.....fuck" you cursed getting a suprised look from everyone.

"What?....im a Demon too" You said getting a laught from Angel

[venmondiese]

A PRINCE’S FAREWELL

masterlist ✧works in procress ✧ AO3

-ˋˏsummary: As Prince Aemond prepares to fight at Rook Rest, you accompany him before he departs.

✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Female Reader.

✧word count: 2.3k

✧Warnings: : MDNI 18+, oral (f), aemond being a pussy champ (canon), and he lowkey gets hard from his own arrogance.

✧NOTE: i saved these from drafts, this was supposed to come out after episode 4, so all the events are from ep 4.

AEGON'S PARALLEL ONE SHOT: A king's farewell

“He is an imbecile” Aemond states, as he places the eyepatch carefully on his head. He has finished putting on his riding clothes, and after coming from the council, he seems more than upset.

“He is the King” you say to your husband, sitting on the bed as you watch him get ready. Your right leg was above the other, bouncing your feet softly in amusement, your skirts moving with the motion. “Imbecile or not”

“We made him the King.” Aemond remarks sharply, clearly upset. You could see it in how he moves. How his jaw clenches and he sighs, almost growling in annoyance. “He doesn’t appreciate it”

You hum, looking at him get ready. He was meticulous, getting every detail good. Making sure his riding clothes were well clasped, and would support the movements of the wind. 

“Are you sure some of Rhaenyra’s dragons will go there? I mean… it sounds risky”

“Blacks are stupid like that” he murmurs. “Predictable” he says softly. “Lord Staunton sent a cry for help to his whorish pretender of a Queen” 

You look at him; he speaks as if he was an omniscient god, who knew exactly everyone’s steps in a war. It was kind of arousing.

 “It isn’t too hard to guess. Dragonstone will be trapped, an isle among loyalists of the True King. Only threat is Meleys, Caraxes is far… at Harrenhal. And the rest of them? Spoiled little dragons that never had seen any war. A very good food for Vhagar” He says confidently. “And yet that so-called Queen has to find allies.” He says, almost in amusement.

You watch him move, taking the gloves as he stands before you, putting the gloves on.

“He froze, like a stupid deer in a hunt” he says, the slight smirk on his lips are a sight of his amusement of the whole deal. “He doesn’t recall the last time he took a High Valyrian class from the Maesters…” 

“Aemond” you say, smiling and tilting your head as that humiliation gave him a sense of smugness. 

“It is true. He just babbled some words. Our little son can speak better and he is just babe” 

You nod, appreciating the fact. Your son was probably the thing that Aemond was most proud of. He doted on Aerion always, and you kept thanking the gods that when the murderers of prince Jaehaerys were in the castle, you had been with the maesters, as your baby was sickly, and he didn't manage to be healthy for long. 

“He is two, and he's starting to make some sense in common tongue” you remind him. “He babbles some Valyrian words”

“He is still better than that… idiot” Aemond murmurs. “It was… he deserved it. After he has done” he murmurs, turning away as he fetches the scabbard, and his own sword. 

“You mean…?” you ask, moving your legs to place both feet on the ground, witting more straight up.

Aemond stops a bit on his tracks. Imbecile, you imbecile. He thinks, as he turns to you. Your eyes look at him with curiosity, following his every movement and you didn’t miss a thing he spoke. It was as refreshing as frustrating. 

It wasn’t that he isn’t fond of you. It’s just that there are things that you are better without knowing, and after all, he was not above the temptations of the flesh and the need of being vulnerable. He couldn’t be that with you. 

“What did he do to deserve this cruelty?” you ask softly, standing up.

“What hasn’t he done…?” He murmurs, trying to not make obvious his coldness. 

“You mean… when he teased you as kids?” You ask, as it was the only occasion you recalled.

“Hm” he hums, not really wanting a reminder of that. Less the night at the brothel, when Aegon found him with the Madame. He tried to play it cool, but he walked rather quickly to the castle, and to your shared chambers, instead of his personal one, slipping in his side of the bed, and leaving his sword near. If Aegon tried anything with you near, Aemond would have cut his head. And his drunkard King’s guard would have not been able to stop him.

And he smirks at that. Who would stop him now? Cole was away. His mother didn’t speak to him. His grandsire away. Aegon could barely rule the Kingdom, and his King’s guard was useless. More and more with idiotic people like him.

If Aemond was on his place– 

He would have done things differently. Would have not underestimated traditions, and would have not changed something as vital as white cloaks. He has to do, instead, all of the work to get castles and strategic support on war. All by himself. 

“Let's say Aegon will not underestimate me” he says, as you take the leathery scabbard from his hands, moving the strap to place it on his shoulder, moving delicately to help him put it on.

“He is your brother. He is… hurt. His son just died” Aemond sighs, as he had confided in you the knowledge of how Blood and Cheese were meant for him.

“Yes. I know” he murmurs.

“And he called you the best sword and his closest blood” you remind him.

“Those are not compliments” he murmurs. 

You look at him, and smirk, knowing what he thought “Are facts, as you say.” you finish for him. “Still, my love, you are serving him in the greatest of ways” you say making sure the scabbard won’t fall or isn’t well secured.

He hums; you are praising him and encouraging him to follow his own strategies for war, instead of asking the whole council. You nuzzle his cheek, kissing softly there.

“Hm.” He says, a bit delighted by your presence. Soothes his need for destruction. 

“Just like I like to serve you in the greatest of ways as a wife” you murmur, pressing soft kisses on his jaw.

His hum comes up is raspy, as he places a hand on your lower back, gripping softly there as he enjoys your pampering.

“Stop delighting yourself in the memory of humiliating Aegon” you say, as if you could read his mind. He was not thinking of that, but the smirk on his lips was one of amusement.

As you turn back to sit on the edge of the bed, he takes his sword, moving closer to you, as he stands in front of you on the bed, leaving the sword on the table nearby. 

“You should have seen it.” he murmurs, smiling. “Poor idiot” he says. “You speak High Valyrian better than he does”

You, of no Valyrian heritage as Targaryen’s, knew some words, but only thanks to him. He insisted, for you to know a bit. You could speak it, but read it in its raw form? Horrible. You could understand some books, only if High Valyrian was romanized. 

“Sepār mirrī” (just a little) you say, a bit messy, but he smiles at your words. 

He was much more fluent at High Valyrian than anyone else you knew. You had heard Princess Rhaenyra or Prince Daemon, rawer. Aemond took it in the time to learn it more fluently. You thought that perhaps it was the difference of teachers. Still, it sounded delightful.

To have him whisper in High Valyrian was a taste of heaven. 

“Iēdrosa, sȳrkta. Issa iā mittys” (Still, Better. He is a fool) he murmurs, as he knelt in front of you, his hands on your thighs as he accommodates.

His hands move down, as you look at him, his face at the height of your clavicle. His eyes are deep, looking at you with calculating moves. That has been your husband since the war started. He was always looking with careful and almost cold eyes, slightly smug and drunk on the excitement and promise of war. 

“Ao'll ūndegon.  Kesan ērinagon bisa vīlībāzma, syt kesan daor sagon iā mittys dombo.  Gaoman bisa syt īlva lentor.” He murmurs, sweetly, as he moves his hands under the skirt of your dress, smiling a bit. 

You raise your eyebrows, a bit in confusion. He was obviously advanced in High Valyrian, probably fluent as the natives back in the day. You didn’t understand much, barely the words war and win. 

“What are you doing?” You ask curiously as his hands slide up under your skirts, and he looks at you, as his lips curl into the faintest smirk. 

“I think I need luck before going and killing a dragon” He murmurs. “If this plan is to work.”

You indulge him, as he moves your skirts all the way up, he is quick to accommodate between your open legs, and he moves your underclothes rather quickly, and much more when you are wearing so many cloth layers. 

“That is so silly….” You say, as he eagerly pulls down your underclothes “This will not make you win–”

“It will. A proper farewell too” he says, his only eye feasting on your glistening folds, seeing how you made no attempts to refuse him. “Hm.” He hums before pressing his mouth to your cunt.

His tongue snaked out, moving it up all the way in your folds as he heard your satisfied sigh. He loved all the little sounds you let out while he pleasures you. Aemond was a lustful man, not openly, but rather a subtle yet passionate lover. 

His tongue laps on your cunt, relishing on the taste that he has neglected as of late. He used to do it often, making you cum two or three times, depending on his mood. He would stay hours, if permitted, eating you out. 

He closes his one eye, pure bliss on his expression as his hands wrap around your thighs to scoop you closer and he also presses his face closer to your cunt. 

The whimpers you leave, feeling the tip of his nose tease on your folds, drives him insane. He is rock hard on his pants, his tongue moving more at the idea of fucking you. His nose slightly presses more into your cunt, searching a bit blindly to where is your clit, just to hear the loud moan you leave, and how your hands grip the edge of the bed as you do so.

“Valzȳrys…”  you whimper, legs moving a bit more open as he has to groan. Fucking tease, he thinks, with your perfect Valyrian that turns him on so much.

His tongue works double after that, as if it was a little incentive for his own delight. The jaw moves, tensing a bit as his tongue keeps on working, delving deeper into her dripping pussy. He feels the slickness of your arousal, as his face is buried and he can only feel the heat and wetness of it all. 

You feel how his hand grabs yours, interlocking your fingers together as he keeps on feasting on your cunt. It was driving you mad. Each little stroke with his tongue made you roll your eyes and re accommodate your hips closer to his head, almost grinding to ride his face, needing the comfort and pleasure that only he brings you.

“Fuck, Aemond…” you moan, and she gives a small slap on your thigh with his other hand, as you curse. 

Aemond groans as he feels one of your legs, which were above his shoulder, pressing down on his back as your feet seem to push him closer and closer, trying anyhow to keep him eating you out until you cum. That's his wish as well, as he hears your pretty moans and feels your legs quivering a bit. 

“I could eat you…” he is obscene as he slurps, on purpose, trying to be as lewd and loud. “For hours… for years” 

“Don’t tease” the way the weight on your feet on his back gets more evident, he knows you are desperate. 

“Not teasing” he says, moving your skirts, better said, crushing them down so he can look at your face, his lips, chin and even his nose are shiny from your arousal, and the image is obscene. “I’m dead serious. Once I come back-, as a winner, you’ll sit on my face for hours.”

He is a man possessed, as he just keeps going and going, occasionally spitting over your cunt and moving his nose over it, as if he was nuzzling like a cat. His hands are firm, he was not making any effort to allow you to move away, just to remain there and allow him to have his own delight before going to battle. 

He nips at your clit, making the filthiest sounds fall from your mouth, almost making him go insane. His jaw goes slack, lapping at your cunt as he can feel the flesh clenching greedily at something that isn’t there. He just knows you crave to be fucked.

His fingers, with some of your own dripping arousal, move to caress your clit as his tongue is busy with your hole. You feel the circular movements around your little clit, and you moan loudly.

“Fuck, Aem-!” You cry out loud “I’mgonnacum” your words come slurred, as your legs try to squeeze his head, yet he isn’t one to coward. 

He allows you to cum on his face, soaking his mouth and skin, as he relishes the taste of your cum. He is greedy, and he intends to swallow every bit that he can. 

The aftermath is a bit dizzy as he accommodates your dress, and he watches your face as you reincorporate on your seat, trying for your lungs to remember how to breathe properly, as you pant from exhaustion.

“Come back” you say softly, looking at him. “Please.”

Aemond hums, standing up, moving to accommodate his clothes and eye patch, along with his hair. He was not one of much affection; they were always strange to him yet he did his best to please you with little kisses and such. 

“I promise you.” He says simply, grabbing his sword with a determined expression. “I will come back alive, and all of them coward traitors to my kin will die. The throne and the victory shall be ours, and for good.”

thank you for reading!! reblogs, likes and comments are not necessary but well appreciated ♡

[insomniac-needs-a-fucking-nap]

This has-been consuming me for over a day so I'm foisting it upon you. Suffer as I do.

Anyway the au idea!

Tim is stuck in a life loop.

What is a life loop? What it says on the tin! Ok better explination: it's basically a time loop but the end point of the loop is finicky which means everytime the looper dies they returns to the age they start(think baby or little little kid age).

Back to the au idea-

Tim is stuck in a life loop due to one reason or another Gotham taking pitty or some cursed relic his parents brought home whatever. Bottom line Tim is stuck in a life loop, and he resets to 6-8 (basically, sometime before he started stalking the batfa, which fannon puts at like 9, I think?)

Anyway some changes that happen in this au!

1) while Tim is still smart he's not as genius as fannon and maybe canon puts him as. Instead his smarts all come from having lived the same timeline like 80 different times.

2) he mostly doesn't abuse this power (sometimes he will memorize the stock prices of lexcorp and then steal it from lex and gifts it to kon in a "Please date me" gesture. It only works some of the time.... look after so long he forgets if he's made a bond with kon this "run" so sometimes kon just gets lexcorp gift packaged to him from a stranger. Now if he still gives the stranger a chance and end up actually dating him....that's not your buisness.)

Anyway sometimes he joins the batfam, sometimes he doesn't, sometimes he forgets to and hacks into the system then forgets he's not a part of them yet so the fam just has to deal with this random vigilante that they can't get off their comms, or out of their system...

When Tim sounds like a sarcastic cynical old man it's because he basically is. By "run" like 40 he's also pretty sure he's older than Ra's. Still calls him a geriatric fuck but hey who really blames him.

He's still a disaster bby no matter how many runs he goes through. Constantly forgets the "life changing" events... aka jason's petty Titans Tower attack, Bruce's timeline adventures, his parents' deaths, Damian's existence like 90% of the time, etc. So he does still get blindsighted sometimes

It's also super important to me in this that no one else is in a life loop. Yes Constantine, or raven, or Dr fate could all get him out of it but mehhhhh it's fine, he wants to die if old age at least once before he even starts contemplating that. Also whenever the batfam discovers his a "timetraveler" or stuck in a time loop, to avoid the Conversation™️ He just offs himself and starts a new run full on fuck that shit I'm out style

@brucewaynehater101 , here's that au!

:D

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 5 | stanley pines x f!reader 

summary: the second year of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly concerning traditions 

warnings (TW): swearing, gambling, illegal activities, illusions of past abuse 

tags: fluff, affection, mutual-pining

notes: canonically no one knows anything about shermie really, which would be hilarious if I didn’t have to write about it \\ also i feel like there not too much fluff in this (could be really fucking wrong lol) but the next part i have drafted is sickingly sweet so just give me some time 

Also (again) i’ll begin linking a legit masterlist below with all the parts! I thought of renaming each era but the naming part of things is where im legit the leassst creative for some reason? maybe later idk? but anyway! so much love from everyone! thank you so much! you don’t know how much i appreciate the love and the comments, thats why i continue writing this ahhhhhhh! thank you!!!

word count: 4.4k 

| masterlist | part vi |

March, 1984 

It had taken her several months to come to terms with what had to be done for the sake of their identities. 

He had been more open with her concerning his past in that one two-hour conversation than he had in the past year in its entirety. Something that would shake a normal woman, but she had become so oddly attached to her new partner she almost didn’t care about the picture he painted of what he used to be - something he insisted he still was. Bad. He had said to her that night. That he wasn’t any good. 

The painting only flooded with more color, in those following months after said heart-to-heart. His conversation with his mother spoke of it. It also spoke of a man who truly honestly couldn’t be the picture he had painted. 

It’s something they had both tiptoed around, conversations of their parentage. Of course, because of Ford, she knew that they grew up in the typical American nuclear family home, with a mother who lingered in doorways and a father who raised his hands as frequently as his voice. But she didn’t know how intertwined Stanley had been with his mother in particular. 

Which was hard, considering he was now legally dead. 

That first frantic conversation they had had over the phone had shaken him, had him reconsidering. But watching Doc’ wait in anticipation and disbelief in the next room over quickly made him change his mind. It was so they would be safe, he reasoned. 

His mother had called believing she was calling Ford after she received the shattering news that her baby boy was presumed to be dead. Baby being used here loosely, seeing as Ford was only truly older by a mere fifteen minutes. 

His mother hadn’t been shocked Ford hadn’t contacted her in that past year, something he had shook off every time he passed the landline. He thought to call her. But she was quite hung up on not having heard from Stanley that past year, insisting in her ways that surely he would have called, her free-spirited boy was always much more inclined to call her, something she had never blamed Stanford for of course. Just a flippant difference between her two boys. One called and the other lingered in doorways, like her. 

Stanley had reasoned with her over the landline. Insisting that he, unfortunately, would not be able to make it to his own brother's funeral, something she had tisked at, raising her voice to who she assumed was Stanford. This is your brother! She had insisted. You loved your brother, don’t say you didn’t. Everyone makes mistakes, you need to forgive him now. 

It was not until after the event that she called again, telling him not to worry. That she had attended for him, but that his father was just as busy as him. Something unspoken between them, just as stubborn. She had meant to say. Just as ignorant. 

His mother spoke with him in a different tone over the phone, a difference in how she held cadence when she was talking to Stanford rather than Stanley, something he wondered if Poindexter ever noticed. 

His Doc’ knew the conversations drained an odd part of him, so she did her best to work around him when his mother did ring their landline. Something she did semi-frequently now that Stanley was officially dead. 

In the beginning, she had lingered in the next room, then drifted through doorways, and eventually made it until she sat at the kitchen table with him, playing with his fingers in hopes of baiting him away from the phone. If the conversation was shorter then surely he wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t for too long. 

She later realized this was a mistake, no matter how his impression of his brother gnawed at an odd part of her psyche. So she moved from him, doing dishes and cooking. But still oddly near him. 

It was easier to lean into domesticity when she played it so well around him, and it made the phone calls less nerve-wracking to take. Pretending his wife was doting on him, that his long-distance mother was calling to check in, and pretending he wasn’t a fraud and a failure. So he usually insisted on her presence. And he pretended that she played a role in it all and that his mother didn’t sound different over the phone. One big lie to make him breathe better. 

It’s after one of these phone calls that he slumps deep in his kitchen seat one day, and she turns from the dishes in the sink to ask what’s wrong. 

“We’re gonna have to tell her one day.” 

“What?” 

“That we’re married, doll.” He crossed his arms, a contemplative look overtaking him. The first time he’d said the word since that conversation in the car. “I don’t know how long until we have ta’, but I know we gotta.” 

“Okay.” She hums, hands still sudsy from the sink. “Is there any other family we may have to tell?” 

“My older brother, Shermie. But he’s in Cali not Jersey like my ma.” He hums. “Older than me, don’t know him as well. But he is closer.” 

“And will he be able to tell?” She asks. “That you’re not Stanford?” 

“Nah.” He sighs. “He’s got a wife though, and a kid from what I remember. A baby girl, probably about ten now.” 

“Oh my god, so you’re an uncle?” She laughs, a smile splitting her face once more. 

“Ya doll, have been since I was 18. Remember meeting her, but pretty soon after I hit the road.” 

He had been fond of her, from what he could remember. The baby girl had rarely left the crook of his doting mother’s arms, but when it came to be his turn to hold her he enjoyed the warmth and weight of her. And her gummy smile at his continued insistence. He still remembers her tiny hands, fisted around one of his fingers. She had been small, smaller than he had imagined babies could be. He bet she was still small, it felt hard to imagine her as more than a swaddle in the swell of his arms now. 

Silence breaks between them again. “Well for what it’s worth I think you’d be a great uncle, if you could have been closer to her that is.” She hums, moving back to the sink to wash some more dishes. Her hair curved around her soft face, beautiful in her usual careless way.

Maybe he would have been. 

June, 1984

They had started a tradition in their home. A young tradition, but she figured it still was one since they had promised to go about their day the same way as they had the previous year. Except this time they had thought to prepare. 

The town they resided in was odd for sure and had an affinity for the unexplained and perhaps more creepy pursuits. The town had a tradition of its own in which they held a Halloween event twice a year, Summerween they called it. 

Not that they had known of it their first year residing in the shack, but it was quite the surprise to open the door to trick-or-treaters in mid-June. The children had unknowingly interrupted Stan's attempt to teach her how to play poker. Unfortunately for the children, they didn’t have any candy on hand for them that year. Without anything to give them, the kids retaliated by tee-peeing their yard that same night. 

She had found it only slightly annoying, having to clean it up the next morning. But it quickly fell into amusement, watching Stan stomp and curse while pulling toilet paper from bushes and trees. He didn’t enjoy a prank that was not his own. And he wouldn’t be caught unaware the next year. 

Which was why they had wandered around town that last week, looking for supplies to decorate their porch and getting last-minute off-brand candy. She had scoffed at the shitty candy they had bought but figured it was more or less all they could afford. She had eyed up the bigger bags of nicer candy, chocolate had always been a weakness of hers. 

Stan had also bought what he called “Scary Stan” supplies. Silly string, odd meats, and fake blood found its way into their shopping cart. Along with supplies for caramel apples upon her insistence. 

They had made a night of it, decorating their porch with fake spider webs and the town's traditional carved watermelon jack-o-lanterns. She had gone ahead in making caramel apples also, bagging them up as she went for the children. Perhaps it would make up for the shitty candy. 

In keeping with tradition, Stan thought to continue their poker night as they had been doing the previous Summerween. So their night was spent in an identical fashion almost, with detailed explanations of correct poker etiquette from Stan with interrupted rushing to and from the door to give awaiting kids off-brand chocolate and homemade caramel apples. Except they sat across from each other in costume now. She had been amused when he had insisted on them being matching, he had flushed in embarrassment in the store that week, pleading his case after his initial insistence. Like it was only natural that they would match. She barely fought it, something odd aching in her chest at his rather sweet insistence.

“Come on! It’s a good idea!” 

“What are we Stan, twelve?” 

“No, we're married. Just as embarrassing.” He had said flippantly, his ears red in a flush as he shoved two capes into the shopping cart along with everything else. 

Which is how they ended up here tonight, sitting across from each other in the dim kitchen light, both dressed as a gaudy vampire couple while Stan explained for the fourth time the probability of getting a royal flush. Her feet propped up on his lap, like always. He had bent down to grab them, folding them into the curve of him. 

He had tried not to stare too long when she came down the stairs earlier, her matching velvet red cape and shitty plastic vampire teeth sat oddly in her mouth. But it was one of the first times she had done her makeup like that, all dark and creased around her enchanting eyes. And the first time he had ever seen that black shirt, which had a surprisingly low cut. All the more distracting. 

This is why he was stumbling through explaining what a royal flush was for the fourth time, and probably why she was looking all confused at him like that also. 

“Okay doll, let’s run through this a couple of times, then we’ll put in some real steaks here.” 

“Stan we are dead broke we are not gambling money tonight. You’d rob me blind!” 

“Shush!” He insisted, smiling across from her. “Just a couple rounds, I’ll show you some good hands and we’ll go from there, okay?” 

They were interrupted interspersedly from time to time during their practice rounds, Stan usually being the one to race out to the porch first, in hopes of scaring whatever little kid dared knock on their porch door. 

Of course, if the child was too young he’d call for her. She had put up a fight with him about scaring kids that were younger than ten tonight. Which he had been glum about until he watched her with them. 

She’d gush at the doorway, complimenting costumes and handing out her caramel apples she had slaved away over. She had this certain smile too, and silently in the back of his mind he thanked any little kid who knocked on their door that night because she looked particularly enchanting when she was kneeling down talking to them. Like she was always meant to be doing that. 

Anyone over ten was free for the taking though, and he took particular pride in scaring any poor sap who was old enough in her eyes. The fake blood in particular came in handy, and she would laugh when he’d routinely come back from the porch door slathered in it. She silently thanked those kids tonight, because he seemed to be particularly enchanting when he laughed like that. Like he was always meant to be this carefree. 

The poker games practice rounds were over though. And he had a particular surprise just for her. 

“Ta-Da!” He said, while pulling out a bag of candy from the very top cabinet she could never reach in the kitchen. 

“Oh my god, is that chocolate!” She gasped again, reaching for the bag. “Name-brand chocolate! Awe, you shouldn’t have Stan.” She encased it in her arms, hugging it like a stuffy. It was the bag she had been eyeing up in the grocery store not even a week ago.

“Ah-ah!” He moved to grab the bag back. “This is what we are betting with tonight, doll.” Candy back in his hands, he moved back to his seat. Opening the bag to evenly disperse the individually wrapped candy between the two of them. 

“How’d you even get that bag, Stan, we can barely afford everything else we bought.” 

“You don’t wanna know, hun.” He said, shuffling her candy pile in front of her. Okay, so he had stolen it, so what? He hadn’t called her “hun” in a while though. Distracting. 

He almost never called her that sickeningly sweet name now, something she thought about far too often for her good. She missed that term of endearment in particular for some reason. But perhaps Stan found it to be too domestic, too personal for what both resided between them now. Perhaps it reminded him of her mistake, of her tying herself to him for the foreseeable future. Her heart did something odd though, when he would call her that. She usually made note of it when he did call her “hun” now. Because it was so rare to hear it, and she hesitated to ask why. It would slip out of him in odd moments, moments he would catch himself unaware and relaxed around her. But it always made him flush now, too. 

The game followed similarly, his flushing smirk distracting her from her hand on more than one occasion. He was so charmingly confident when he was playing games, so competitive. She tried to shake it off, the way he looked like this. She wanted to play with him, too. 

“You’re full of shit doll.” 

“No!” She gasps, suddenly a good actress. “My hand is just that good bucko! I raised it by too cluster bars, are you gonna meet or fold sir?” She hummed, smiling at him over her hand of cards. 

This was probably the only time she was damn good at lying, he conceded. She liked to play it up, waving her hands and laughing everything off. She was pretty good at playing off a hand that had absolutely nothing in it. But he had memorized her tell long ago, memorized her face just the same. She looked the same every night, teasing him across this kitchen table over dinner. Her brow upturned just a little, her cheeks flushed. That was the look, her look. She had nothing in her hand. 

But he was wiping the floor with her. 

He hums, hand over his lips. “I guess I fold then.” He sets his cards down, pushing his stack of candy back towards her.  

“Yes!” She jumps up, reaching across to swipe his candy into her pile. An elated smile on her face as she dances in her seat. The kitchen light making shadows on her face, the sun having finally gone down to alleviate some of the June heat. She stops mid-dance, a realization blooming over her face. “Wait a minute.” 

“Hmmmm?” He says, munching on one of his candies. 

“I know for a fact you can count cards, Stan!” Her finger pointed accusingly at her. “That’s why they won’t let you back in Nashville. You should legitimately win every round, and I know that for a fact!” 

He leans back in his kitchen chair, laughing in his low gravelly voice. “Perhaps?” He questions, hands held up in guilt. 

“Gahh!” She yells, reaching across the table and the stacks of candy to throw a fist at his shoulder. “I’ll get you for real one day.” 

“You’re smart hun, I know you will.” That flush across his face. 

“You’re smart too though.” She says, stating what she knows to be true. He is smart, he proves it to her every day. He just would never actually take the compliment, something he figured was a lie. He’d never been called smart in his life before her. He’d let her lie about this one thing though. His head hung off the back of his chair. His Doc’ was a terrible liar, though. 

“Nah!” He says flippantly, hand waving away her truth. “Let’s watch a movie!” Jumping from his seat, scooping up her pile and his pile of chocolates, and racing to the T.V. They’d play again the next year, and he’d let her win again in hopes it would make her just as happy as she just was. And maybe then she’d believed she’d won and he’d believe he was smart enough to be out-witted by the likes of her. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” She inquires, head popping back into the living room. 

“No no, come here!” Waving her in, so she can plop down next to him on the floor. Candy piled high in between the both of them. A mischievous grin sneaks up on his face, hand already reaching for the movie she’d hate. She was terrified of zombies, for some reason. Something he takes advantage of routinely. Anything to have her curled up next to him, her heat seeping into his side as his hand made a home on the back of her neck. Like usual, like always. Something that still made him feel sickly sweet, her flippant affection for him. It must be nothing for her, to be this close to him.

“Scary movie?” 

She nods, mouth full of chocolate and shirt dangerously low. Her cape piled around her, and her eyes dark as she grins at him. Distracting. 

October, 1984

They had hit a metaphorical dead end when it came to the portal. Something they both feared voicing between the two of them. 

It was hard, almost impossible, to reverse engineer the plans drawn out in the one journal they had on hand. She knew there had to be two more out there, hidden in the woods. A homage to the three corners of the portal that she stared at day in and out. Stanford was like that in a way, flippantly sentimental about the oddest thing. 

Her old friend more than likely buried the other two journals somewhere on the property. Unfortunately for them both they did not know where the property line began and ended, but she more or less figured it was a lot of land to cover. Stan had backed up this claim, explaining to her that first night that Stanford had wanted him to take this first journal, take it with him to the ends of the earth. In hopes that the portal his brother had created couldn’t be replicated. Something they had both dared to do now and something they did not discuss in great lengths either. 

He had put them away in his haste, she figured. He was never one to half-ass anything really, but with the way Stan had described his brother that night he disappeared into the portal, she figured he was not necessarily himself. Not himself, actually at all. She had contemplated it a lot, the fear of otherworldly possession. But had a hard time believing Stanford would let anything into something as sacred as he believed his mind to be. He didn’t even let her up there. 

But the way he described his odd relationship with an entity that happened to be a shape was… distracting. It constantly had her flipping back and forth in the journal, looking for clues as to what Ford was doing in relation to an otherworldly being. He couldn’t help his own curiosity she figured, something she had never blamed him for except for now. Something she cursed him for, now. 

So they had both agreed to move in silence when it came to passing into the tree line of the property. She had more than hinted at their need for caution in communicating with whatever the hell Ford had previously encountered. Stan and Ford both considered themselves adventurers in their own right, which would be admirable if one of them wasn't missing from their current plane of existence. 

They had headed out together one October day, bundled up, and hoping to find signs of Ford on their property line. Hoping to find one of the journals, and nothing else. 

His red coat with a new patch was swung over his shoulders, as she had whined in the doorway that morning. She much preferred his things to her own nowadays. Much preferred to be swallowed by his shirts and jackets, not that he would ever comment. There was just more warmth to his things than her own now, and she preferred the imprint he left on the couch to her own in these colder months. Stealing his spot when he would up and leave for a new drink, laughing when he would come back to claim it. Stealing that imprint of him was her only joy, because it made him laugh and flush differently when she got close now. The closest he had allowed in months, the imprints and loose shirts he’d leave behind. Made something behind her chest ache thinking about it.

Felt slightly disjointed in their trek through the forest now, the thought of the unknown just beyond them both. And no warmth of his jacket to cool the part of her that achingly worried for him now.

But of course, they both had weighed the probability of them encountering some creatures that Ford had sighted in his journal, but she feared encountering something that was not listed in the specific one they had in their possession. Something out in the borders of their home, that they had no knowledge of. 

He was swearing with every step through the underbrush ahead of her, his hand held behind him in case she would need it when trekking through the uneven forest floor. His head held down as he stomped a path into the fallen leaves for her. Her head held up, looking for signs of their long-gone friend somewhere between the trees. 

“Fuck!” She swears, tripping over fallen branches. He reaches back, catching her with the length of his outstretched arm. The first time he had reached for her since he bent to fold her legs across his lap this morning. He felt far away. He was flushed though, worked up with the long trek they both had made. Some odd miles between them and their home now. 

He grunts, lifting her back to her feet with ease. Moving to wipe dead leaves and twigs from her hiking pants unconsciously.

“Should we map this out doll?” 

“Mhm.” She nods, as he reaches back into their shared backpack he had been carrying. Taking out a property map and a compass. He had thought to bring the map, commenting on how they could mark down when they would see odd things throughout the forest, and so they could track where they had already been. She had thought to bring the compass, simply to find their way home. 

She looks down at the unfolded map now held up in his hands, stepping to bend down under his arm, residing in front of his expansive chest and between his outstretched arms. He was warm, she noted, a part of her cooling. 

“Sooooo… I think I saw something around here.” She moved her pencil up, marking along their predetermined path where she thought she had seen tree carvings. She took a step back, running into his chest. Trying to get closer to him, before he would inevitably leave. “I believe we are about 1.5 to 2 miles out from the shack?” She questions, tilting her head back to look at him. 

He grunts, flushed by her proximity. Her back to his chest, he noted how warm she was when she was this close. Her eyes shining up at him in question. She shouldn’t be this close. 

“Mmm, feels like we’ve been walkin’ longer than that.” 

“You may be right.” She hums, her pencil held in her mouth now. “Should we retrace our steps? Get a better estimate? And look at that carving I saw?” 

“Whatever you say, boss.” He grunts, trying to move his eyes away from her. 

“Alright!” She steps back from him, suddenly cold. Ducking beneath his arm and stepping away from him as he begins to fold back up the map. She’d savor whatever he allowed. “Then we’ll be home in time for lunch.” She comments. 

“Can we have those fancy deli sammiches?” 

“Mmmm, sounds good to me.” She shrugs, letting him lead the way back to their home. Trying to find oddities in the tree line, but getting distracted by his shoulders the entirety of the way home. Missing that imprint of him along her back already.

[whytheylosttheirminds]

I Remember Everything - Rafe Cameron (Chapter 4)

Summary: You left the island two years ago, leaving the love of your life a shattered man in your wake. Now, when you return, you find the sweet boy you once loved has transformed into a monster of a man. How can you detangle the real Rafe from the terrible things he's done?

Timeline: begins toward the end of obx season 3 and is mostly canon.

Content: this story contains sexual content, alcohol and drug abuse, and brief mentions of violence. All chapters are 18+, minors do not interact!

⯎series masterlist⯎

Rafe had his head down on the rusting metal table. The sheriff’s deputies had all taken turns trying to interrogate him about the events of the day before, but none of them had succeeded in getting him to admit his father was on that plane. His hands were still bloody from the fight and he was exhausted, having been awake for nearly 48-hours.

The door creaked open again, but he didn’t bother lifting his head, anticipating another round of questions he wasn’t going to answer.

“Well,” Shoupe said with a sigh. “You’re free to go.”

Rafe raised his head with a smug smile. “What’s the matter, Shoupe? Couldn’t make anything stick?”

Shoupe rolled his eyes, “just stay on the island, alright? We’re not done with you yet.”

“Actually, sounds like you are,” Rafe stood and patted Shoupe’s shoulder condescendingly as he started walking towards the door.

“Funny, I didn’t think there was anyone left on this island who cared enough about you to wait in the station lobby all night, but apparently I was wrong,” Shoupe said as Rafe opened the door.

Keeping his back turned, Rafe stood in the doorway with his brow furrowed. He didn’t want to give Shoupe the satisfaction of knowing he also had no idea who could care enough about him to be there. 

As he passed the rest of the officers, standing there watching him in disgust and disbelief that he was getting away again, he gave them a smirk and a mocking salute, “a pleasure as always.”

You shifted in the uncomfortable lobby seat, continuously fidgeting both from discomfort and panic at the idea of seeing Rafe. When you had approached the front desk and told them you were here to post bail for Rafe Cameron, the woman behind the counter looked at you annoyed and informed you that you couldn’t, as Rafe hadn’t officially been charged yet.

“Charged with what?” You asked.

She rolled her eyes at your naivete and returned to the sudoku she had been working on.

“Okay, then,” you said as you took a seat in the empty waiting area. 

That was six hours ago, but you figured if he hadn’t been charged, they would have to release him eventually, and you’d be here waiting. You had no earthly idea what you would say to him when the time came, but you’d be here, and maybe that would be enough.

He strutted into the lobby like he owned the place, his cocky walk coming to an abrupt halt when he looked up and saw you sitting there. You rose to your feet, shocked at the sight of him even though it was all you had been thinking about since you ran out of the cemetery hours ago.

Rafe looked at you with an expression you hadn’t seen before. In his eyes, you could see his brain at work, like he was calculating. What choices he was weighing, you weren’t sure, but you certainly didn’t expect the move he made next.

“Hey, baby!” He called out, striding toward you quickly, pulling you into his arms. Just as you opened your mouth to respond, he kissed you. It was sloppy and crude, his tongue invading your mouth as hands grabbed your ass, lifting you into the air. Your face burned with shock and embarrassment, knowing all of the cops in the station could see you two. Then it clicked - that’s exactly why Rafe was doing it.

Before had a chance to decide if you were going to play along or slap him, he broke the kiss and threw his arm around your shoulders, walking you toward the front door.

“Later, Shoupe!” Rafe called over his shoulder, turning the two of you slightly, allowing you to get a quick look at Shoupe standing with his hands on his hips, red in the face. What the fuck did Rafe do to make Shoupe look at him like that?

You stayed silent as Rafe walked you through the door, leading you down the block and turning onto a side street. The second you were out of sight of the station, he pulled his arm away and took several long strides to create as much space between you as possible.

He looked at you for a long moment, once again calculating his next move. You froze in anticipation as he opened his mouth to say something, heart dropping when he changed his mind and closed it again. Silently, he turned and started walking away from you down the street.

“My car’s the other way,” you said, feeling stupid for saying such a mundane thing in such a heated moment.

“Have a nice walk then,” he called back sarcastically.

“Where are you going?” 

“Home,” he was almost too far for you to hear now. You started after him, needing to jog a bit to catch up with him.

“Let me give you a ride,” you panted once you had caught up to him, stepping in front of him to stop him from getting any further away.

“Think I’d rather walk,” he said dismissively. 

“It’s 10pm, and you’re gonna what? Walk through The Cut in the middle of the night? I know I’ve been gone for a while, but I don’t think they’ve changed their opinion on having Kooks in their territory,” you were pulling out any logic you could think of to get him into your car so you could finally talk to him.

Taking your point, he rolled his eyes and turned around, walking in the direction you had indicated your car was in.

You drove in silence for what felt like an hour, but couldn’t have been, as you knew the drive to Tannyhill was fifteen minutes tops. Rafe was looking out the window, hands anxiously rubbing up and down his thighs as he kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, like he was fighting against some invisible restraint. You were trying hard to keep your eyes on the road, but couldn’t control the way they kept drifting over to him, eyeing the blood on his battered hands. The remnants of what was clearly not a good forty-eight hours all over him.

You had so many things you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask him, that you almost couldn’t think straight. You were still reeling from the news that his father had died, and now the sight of him walking out of the sheriff’s station covered in blood. If so much could happen to him in just a few weeks, you didn’t even want to think about how much of his life you missed in the last two years.

After a while, the silence so tense it almost hurt, you decided to dip your toe in the water.

“Is it yours?” You asked, forcing your eyes to stay on the road.

“What?” He mumbled as he ran his hands over his buzzed head, still not looking at you.

“The blood,” you clarified.

“Some of it,” he answered honestly.

You nodded, as though this was all super normal. “And the rest of it?”

He threw his head back on the seat and let out a forceful sigh, pointedly not answering your question. You decided you’d tested the waters enough and remained silent the rest of the drive.

When you pulled up to the gate at Tannyhill, you rolled down the window so you could reach the box to put the code in, looking at Rafe expectedly. Your attempted nonchalance didn’t work, he rolled his eyes at you, pulling out his phone. As he typed the code into his app, he used his other hand to cover the numbers from your view. Long gone were the days he’d text you the code the second Ward changed it so you could sneak in and out to see him whenever you wanted. The days he’d hold you until you fell asleep, whispering to you about how someday he’d inherit this house and share it with you. As you watched the gates slowly open in the glow of your headlights, the future you once believed in so fiercely had never felt further away.

You drove slowly down the long drive toward the house, surprised to see it was completely dark.

“Where is everyone? Where’s Sarah?” You asked. 

“Just drop me here,” Rafe ignored your question.

You stopped the car a few yards from the front door, and Rafe immediately climbed out, closing the door loudly behind him and walking toward the house. You weren’t exactly expecting him to invite you in, but this non-goodbye was so abrupt you felt cheated. Your mind raced with all the things you still wanted to say as you watched Rafe walking toward the house, your chance to finally say them going with him.

You snapped out of your haze and threw open the car door, not bothering to close it behind you as you ran after him calling, “wait!”

He turned on you quickly, making you stop in your tracks a few feet from him. Suddenly, all the things you wanted to say disappeared from your mind and you swallowed hard.

“What do you want?” He prompted, looking annoyed at how long it was taking you to form a sentence. “Why the hell were you at the station?”

“I just…” you could feel him preparing to turn and keep walking back towards the house, you needed to say something, fast. “Your dad.”

Rafe clenched his jaw, he didn’t know what you had heard and wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“I’m…” you took one step towards him. “Rafe, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” He left the question open ended, forcing you to reveal exactly how much you knew.

“I saw his plot, at the cemetery,” you didn’t need to tell Rafe what you were doing at the cemetery, he had been there with you on multiple occasions, including the day they buried your own father.

Rafe just shrugged, looking at the ground to avoid your empathetic gaze.

“Rafe,” you said quietly, the sound of his name on your tongue sending chills through you both. When he still didn’t look up at you, you stepped closer. He tried to dodge your eyeline, but you reached up gently and placed your fingers under his jaw, looking him straight in the eye as you asked, “what’s going on?”

For a long moment, the two of you just stood there, chest to chest as you searched each other’s faces in the glow of the moon. If he’d let you, you would stand there for hours, just studying him, trying to read it all on his face. You used to know the meaning of every expression he made, every glint in his eye, every twitch of his lips. The two of you used to be able to have full conversations without saying a word. Now, your eyes searched every inch of his face, and you were coming up with nothing. 

He snapped his head back suddenly, ripping it away from your hand like you were burning him. He shook his head, and he wasn’t sure who he was saying no to- you or himself. 

“Just go home, y/n,” he said, arm outstretched, gesturing towards your car dismissively. 

“I can’t,” you spoke into the darkness. 

Rafe caught himself before asking you why, trying to preserve the image that he didn’t care. He assumed it had something to do with your mom. He had spent countless hours of his life listening to your stories of fights with your mother, even being present and involved in several of them, often being the source of the conflict. He swallowed the temptation to ask you what happened, pushing away the desire to have you laying with your head in his lap, gently playing with your hair as he let you rant as long as it took for you to feel better. He pushed the memory away, an action that was muscle memory to him at this point. 

“Well you can’t stay here,” he told you.

“But I just want to-”

“Just leave! We both know you know how to, you’re a fucking professional at it!” His booming voice echoed through the evening air and shot straight through you.

Tears sprang to your eyes, the sound of his raised voice so jarring. He had never screamed at you like this. Even in moments of frustration, just the thought of making you cry was enough to break him. 

You closed your eyes, letting the tears slip through and slide down your cheeks. You turned from him, but he’d already seen them. Guilt and fury battled in his chest, wanting to hold you and push you away at the same time. He hated the sight of your tears, but being able to release the hurt and anger he’d been feeling for two years felt somewhat satisfying, too. He felt like he was two completely different people, not sure he wanted to be either of them.

You sniffled and wiped your tears with the backs of your hands, gathering yourself before turning back to him.

“I know that I hurt you,” you said. “But I have my side of the story, too.”

“The story?” he scoffed. “You said you’d love me forever and then you didn’t. You said you wouldn’t disappear into the night and that’s exactly what you did. You’re a liar. That’s the story.”

Every day for two years, you had broken your own heart. You had never stopped trying to fight the demons of that night. You had devoted your life to trying to figure out what the hell had happened that could’ve ended with you on a train, riding off into the night against your will. For two years, you’d spent your nights praying to any God that would listen to let you go back in time, to undo this twisted fate. 

But none of those agonizing nights hurt quite like this. He really thought you had wanted to leave? That you just up and stopped loving him? You knew he had no way of knowing what really happened, but you were still clinging to some small shred of hope that he’d give you the benefit of the doubt. Clearly he hadn’t. 

“Is that what you think?” You asked in a small voice.

“That’s what I know,” he corrected. 

No words came to you as all of the tiny cracks in your heart you had worked so hard to fill ripped open again. Rafe only took your silence as confirmation.

“Let it go, y/n,” he said, turning to walk towards the house. “I have.”

With that, he closed the door firmly behind him, the lock clicking loudly.

So that was it then. Seven years of friendship, five years of wild love, two years of heartbreak. Fourteen years of him gone, the rest of your life without him a sprawling void ahead of you. The kiss you shared in the sheriff’s station would be your last. Your last kiss and it wasn’t even real, the agony of that thought pushed you ever the edge and the tears you’ve been trying to stifle flowed free. Shoulders shaking with your sobs, you forced yourself to walk back to the car, no idea where you’d go once you were in it.

The door was still open, but the light had gone out. Once inside, you turned the key and the engine sputtered meekly as you tried and failed to turn it over. 

“Shit!” You screamed, slamming your hands against the steering wheel. Leaving the door open must’ve killed the battery. You cursed your mom for insisting on still driving this piece of shit even though she could easily afford an upgrade.

A professional leaver, Rafe had called you. The irony that just minutes after he said that you were literally unable to leave made you chuckle humorlessly. All of the emotion of this week weighing on your shoulders, you sat and cry-laughed into the darkness, feeling completely unhinged. What was supposed to be a quick, uneventful trip to your hometown had turned into a complete shitshow, you don’t know why you expected anything less.

You sat in the dark, giving up on trying to start the car. What were you supposed to do here? You could either knock on the door and chance another verbal bruising from Rafe, or walk home in the dead of night and face your mother. You fell asleep trying to decide which was worse.

Seven Years Earlier…

There were so many people packed into your house, you assumed nobody would notice when you slipped out and hopped on your bike. You were wrong. Rafe saw your bike lying on its side on the path leading down toward the beach, you hadn’t even bothered to put up the kickstand. 

He followed your footsteps down to the water. It was chilly and raining, the beach completely clear of people. The rain was falling hard, washing your footsteps from the sand, but he managed to follow what was left of them to the abandoned lifeguard tower you used to climb on as kids. There you were, sitting underneath the wooden structure for shelter, feet digging into the sand as you hugged your knees to your chest. Rafe stopped short, he hated seeing you upset, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do to make you feel better. He had never been very good at feelings.

He decided he would approach you anyway, not saying anything in order to avoid saying the wrong thing. He ducked down and slid between the stilts of the tower, finding a space on the ground next to you.

You didn’t have to look over to know who it was, you could feel him. You were relieved when Rafe didn’t say anything, you were so overwhelmed by the chaos of the day, you couldn’t form words to explain it if you tried. After a few minutes, you couldn’t hold back the tears any longer and they began rolling down your face in big, fat drops. 

“Hey, hey,” Rafe said, startled by your sudden outburst. He put his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into him. You laid your head on his shoulder and he awkwardly rubbed his hand up and down your back. “It’s…it’s gonna be ok,” he said hesitantly, terrified he’d somehow make you feel worse.

The soft fabric of the black dress your mother had chosen for you to wear to your father’s wake felt nice under his fingertips. His hand grazing softly up and down your back felt nice as you let the tears fall. You let Rafe soothe you for a few minutes, before taking a deep breath and wiping your tears away with the back of your hands.

“Sorry,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” he assured with a sincerity that almost made you start crying again. 

You looked over at him for the first time, his hair messy and wet from walking all the way here from your house in the rain. His cheeks were pink from the chilly air and the bashfulness he was feeling from sharing such an intimate moment with you. You had always thought he was cute, but in this moment, you realized you absolutely adored him.

“I just didn’t want to be there anymore,” you explained. “I don’t even know half of those people and everyone just kept hugging me.”

“I wouldn’t want to be there either,” he reassured you.

You nodded, sniffling, and giving him a thankful smile. Without really thinking it through he reached out a shaky hand and wiped the remaining tears off your cheeks. His hand lingered, and you placed yours on top of it, squeezing gently with appreciation. The contact made both of you blush and you looked away from each other. You had been friends since you were both six-years-old, of course you had touched before, but something about this time felt different.

“I know how you feel,” he said in a voice so quiet that you could barely hear it over the pattering of rain on the wooden structure above you and the crashing of waves. 

That’s right. In the storm of your own grief you had almost forgotten that Rafe had once lost a parent, too. It was about a year after you got to the island, he had missed two weeks of school in the third grade. When he came back, he started his still-running reign of principal’s office MVP.  

“I know it feels like maybe you won’t ever be happy again,” he looked out at the ocean, afraid you would notice the water starting to collect in the corners of his eyes. “But you will be. You’ll find something that makes you happy, and soon it won’t hurt so bad.”

“Did you?” You asked.

“Did I what?”

“Find something that made you happy again?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

Rafe looked down at his feet shyly, his hand scratching the back of his neck in discomfort. You teasingly elbowed him, making him laugh. He swallowed hard before mumbling, “you.”

Your stomach flipped and your face went beat red, completely caught off guard by his answer. Once again, your heart ached with the affection you felt for him. You reached out and lightly tucked your fingers under his chin, pulling his face up to meet your gaze.

“You make me happy, too,” you confessed. 

You had never done it before, and you weren’t really sure how to, but you knew that you just had to kiss him. Rafe had the same idea, and met you half-way with his own lips puckered. 

It was quick and innocent, the first of a million kisses you’d share. You didn’t know how it was possible to feel so sad and so happy at the same time, but you felt as though you could face anything now that you knew you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Now…

TAP TAP TAP. Your eyes flew open as you lifted your head from the window and took in your surroundings, unsure of where you were. As your blurry surroundings came into focus, you were pulled down from your post-sleep haze by the looming figure of the man on the other side of the window. Rafe stood outside your car window, holding up a steaming mug of coffee. 

You rolled the window down, smiling shyly at Rafe as you blinked rapidly in the soft morning light. 

“Hi,” you said weakly.

“You sleep here?” He asked with neither amusement nor annoyance in his voice.

“The car wouldn’t start,” you explained. “I think the battery died.”

“You could’ve told me, I could’ve called Triple A,” he chided.

“I wasn’t sure you would’ve opened the door if I knocked,” you pointed out.

“That’s fair,” he agreed. The gentleness he was speaking to you with now was in such stark contrast to the tone he’d used last night. You didn’t want to say anything, scared to disturb the calm waters.

He handed the coffee to you, which you accepted gratefully. You took a sip, two creams and one sugar - he remembered. 

“Thank you,” you said softly.

“You can come inside while I call someone to come jump the car,” he offered.

You were so confused, but didn’t want to question it. You simply nodded as he opened the car door for you so you could climb out without spilling the coffee. 

After calling Triple A, Rafe joined you on the back porch, now with his own cup of coffee.

“Still take yours black?” You asked.

“The way coffee should be?” He teased. “Yes, yes I do.”

You smiled and you shook your head at him, clutching your coffee and looking out at the sun rising over the sea. The two of you sat in silence for a while on opposite sides of the wicker patio couch, sipping your coffees and avoiding each other’s eyes. 

You thought through the events of yesterday, remembering everything Rafe had said, and everything you wanted to say but hadn’t been able to. Rafe’s words were so cruel, but you got the sense he had fully believed everything he said. You thought you would never get the chance to respond to his accusations, but your car troubles had given you this extra time with him, and you didn’t want to waste the second chance. Should you make a joke? Try to tease him some more about his coffee preferences? Should you ask about his dad, or the reason he had been taken in to the sheriff’s office for questioning? Rafe clearly didn’t want to talk about his dad, and if this was your last chance to talk to him, you didn’t want to waste it on small talk. You decided your only option was to talk about yourself, about how you are feeling, and let him decide if he wanted to hear it or not.

“You’re wrong,” you said, sitting up to look at him. 

Your direct words startled him and he snapped his head to you, also sitting up straight.

“About what?” He says defensively. 

You look at him, hoping he can’t tell that your heartbeat is spiking and your throat is tight with anxiety. You need what you’re about to say to come out confidently, you need to say it with your chest or you may as well not say it at all.

“I never lied to you,” you told him. “And I never stopped loving you.”

Rafe’s face went pale, not at all expecting you to say that. He set his coffee down and got up from the couch, walking quickly back into the house and leaving you sitting alone, heart in hand. 

You followed him into the house, feet padding on the wooden floor behind him.

“Please just talk to me,” you pleaded.

He rounded on you, forcing you to step back.

“Don’t say shit like that!” He yelled.

“Don’t yell at me!” You matched his energy. “You never used to yell at me.”

“You left, y/n! What was I supposed to do, stay exactly the same and wait patiently for you to come back from God-knows-where like a good boy? No!” He jammed his finger into his chest, “I grew up! I became a fucking man! And now you wanna just waltz in like nothing fucking happened? It’s too late for that!”

You didn’t cower, but got closer to him with each proclamation he made. You found something in you that you hadn’t had last night, something like courage.

“You’re fucking right you changed! You know how I know? The old Rafe would’ve listened to me for two fucking seconds so I could explain!”

“I don’t wanna hear any fucking excuses-”

“I’m not making excuses! If you’d let me speak for two fucking seconds, you’d know that!” 

“There’s nothing you could say that would make me not pissed at you,” his voice was lowered but still filled with vitriol.

“You know what? Fine,” you shot back. “Be pissed at me. But I’ve had a long, unbelievably shitty two years and I’m not gonna stand here and let you scream at me as if you’ve never done anything wrong, ‘cause we both know that’s far from the truth.”

Rafe looked at you like you had smacked him, surprise flashing across his face. Of course, he knew you were referring to the accident and the things that happened before you left, right? His face smoothed over with recognition, maybe even relief.

“You’re talking about the accident,” he confirmed.

“Yes, I’m talking about the accident,” you crossed your arms over your chest. “What else would I be talking about?”

He shook his head, “nothing.”

“Unless there’s something you want to tell me?” Like maybe why you were held for questioning by the police for 24-hours, covered in someone else’s blood. 

Rafe studied you for any sign that you knew what had really been going on the past few months. You were looking at him so intensely, it was impossible to read your face. He couldn’t bear the thought that you knew what he’d done, what he’d become. And even though he was still pissed at you, still hurt, no matter your supposed explanation for leaving, he was desperate for you to remember him as the person he was before. He needed you to believe he was good. 

He drank you in for a long time, standing there with your arms crossed, looking up at him expectantly. Your hair was still messy from your night of tossing and turning in the car. You definitely looked older, but you were still so essentially you. He knew you wouldn’t let him stall much longer, that he would need to respond eventually. So he did.

Rafe stepped closer to you, his tall frame requiring you to tilt your head back to look up at him. He grabbed each of your forearms, pulling them apart, forcing you to uncross them and lose your defensive stance.

“There’s a lot of things I’ve wanted to tell you,” he whispered in a low voice, sending a shiver down your spine. “And things I’ve wanted to show you.”

You feel your new-found courage faltering, but try your best to maintain your confident facade as you respond, “like what?” The small amount of air between you is so tense, you’re being pulled to him like a magnet. You know, you know, you shouldn’t do this. There is so much you need to talk about, so many things left unresolved. But then he licks his lips, an action that used to mean I want you in your own secret language. And fuck if you don’t want him too.

(chapter five)

a/n: y'all. not me making myself cry with this one. your support has absolutely blown me away and made me so happy to be posting my writing again!!! Doing my best with this taglist but if you asked and I left you off please let me know!! ch 5 on it's way!

taglist: @maybankslover @dark1paradise @lmg-stilinski24 @idkdudsworld @mimipanini09 @patis643 @readingsmuts @nymphetkoo @xoxohoneymoongirl @hangmanscoming @azrielsgirll @laniirackssss @rubixgsworld @sweetienans @dasguccier @brain-palacee @ymnizuh @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesgiirl @thewalkingdeadsmut @themindofmoe @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @aerie717 @kickenkricken @st0rmyt @sage-burrow @adoreleeknw @mudisgranapat @sugarmelonwater @blue-greener-weiner @vilentia @sunny1616 @namelesslosers @groovycass @zizuras @lifeonawhim

[toxicanonymity]

raider masterlist

dark!Joel x f!reader | updated: August 29, 2024: calling him daddy

moodboard by @milla-frenchy 🖤 a rb will not stay up-to-date.

SUMMARY: He's a bad guy, and you're his good girl. Joel saves you from bad men, but claims you for himself. His persona starts to crack, but he gets even more possessive. You're his world, and he'll do anything to keep you. Emotional slow burn but smut the whole time. WARNINGS: 18+ canon-typical violence, noncon via implicit threat, evolving to enthusiastic dubious consent (stockholm syndrome), depraved use of praise and pet names (sweet pea, baby), unsafe P in V, exhibitionism, extreme possessiveness, dark fluff (🖤), angst, and more. NO USE of Y/N, No physical description of reader.

Spotify: raider, sweet pea (smut) Optional reference: trailer floor plan

Carter masterlist

main story

Note, non-bold links in this section were written out of order and may contain spoilers or references to future events. their placement in this list is based on timeline.

Raider: (Mar 24, 2023) - He "saves" you, then has his way with you but is kinda sweet about it. Joel POV (Oct 3, 1k)

Failed Rescue (Apr 8 - 1.9k) Your bf tries to save you. Joel makes him watch then keeps you.

Stash House (Apr 11 - 850)- Joel takes you to the stash house and shows everyone you're his. Wash Bin 🖤 (Aug 27, 1k) Shooting Practice Drabble(Jul 28, 1.6k)

Failed Escape (Apr 23, 4k)- Joel saves you from FEDRA, bathes you, amd edges you.

J. Miller (May 19, 2k) - Joel labels you with his switchblade and claims all your holes. dark. Can be skipped.

Home (May 29, 1.3k) - Joel makes dinner at home, cleans your chest, and tucks you in. 🖤

Company (Jun 9, 2.2k) - Joel brings home a girl to distract his men. dark. Extra Scene - angst.

Close (Jul 3, 2.7k) - close call with other raiders. You-almost-died sex, and later, tender sex 🖤

Gun Hug (Jul 31, 3.7k) - Joel traps 2 bad guys with some help and kills them while you. . .🖤 If you want him (1.5k) - he holds out to see🖤

Night Air (Aug 30, 3.5k) - Joel is brutal with a bad guy and his POV reveals some feelings. 🖤 Bonus blurb, wakeup pwp drabble

Hunger (Sep 29, 7k) - Joel takes you on a trek, comforts you, kills a guy, and gives you head. 🖤 He's only human (1.1k) - 👱‍♂️Carter POV, overlaps w/ hunger.

Bodies (Dec 3, 7.8k) - Strangers show up and cause a shitstorm, but Joel takes a big step. 🖤 Raider POV

No cliffhangers. Bulletin from Tox

more (drabbles, etc)

🔥 smut

Trying to use him (800) (riding) 🔥

House meeting drabble 🖤

You get sick at night drabble 🖤

He goes down on you (oral f) 🔥

If you touched his scar

if men had hurt you in the past

if you got your period 🖤

magazine and makeup 🖤

yoga pwp drabble piv 1k 🔥

boots drabble (oral f receiving) 🔥

graveyard blurb (spice)

if you bit his arm drabble (p in v) 🔥

If you snapped (emotional spice) 🖤

face sitting on sofa 🔥

being bad, looking good (2.8k, smut) 🔥

Van ride drabble (800) 🖤

sleeping beast (<1k), PWP 🔥

If Joel was sick 🖤

If you were annoying

cutting his hair 🖤

waking up on top 🔥

tired 🖤

waking up on top again 🔥

Sweet pea overhears Joel 🔥

Choking on his dick (600) 🔥

his birthday 🥺

if she called him daddy 🔥

Note: not all content is linked. Asks can lead to lore, snippets, and previews or hints of future plot points, etc. which are not added here.

Headcanons (not written like fic)

If another man has his way (Q&A)

dacryphilia - evolved update (Q&A)

if you had scars or tattoos (Q&A)

👱‍♂️raider carter Qs, face claim (Q&A)

sweet pea by herself

If you sketched Joel and Jack

Apple picking 🖤

Responding to a Nightmare

accidentally hurting her

Analysis (#raider!analysis)

why does he keep her

why did he snap (in Company extra scene)

his eye contact

his affection / feelings, trajectory 🖤

falling for sweet pea

his self hate and her feelings

the dog and joel's concern for you

awareness of growth / why keep her

Raider Tommy

Birds of prey (2.6k)

Art, etc.

Mattress by esquire magazine

Stitches by @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

collage by @milla-frenchy

lose control edit by @survivingandenduring

🌸 sweet pea mood boards by various

6 month collage by milla-frenchy

6 month cake by not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

🌸 sweet pea cosplay from night air

👱‍♂️carter mood board by @romana-after-dark

pts. 1-3 rb mood boards by @iamasaddie

night air gif by not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

raider/sweet pea collage by milla

sweet pea's pup by @dark-scape

want it that bad gif by @dark-scape

Bodies gif by not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

👱‍♂️carter mood board by milla-frenchy

Then and now drawing by @romana-after-dark

Raider/sweet pea drawings by @lumoverheaven

our stars moodboard by milla

raiding edits by gasolinerainbowpuddles

under the anger by iamasaddie

🎥 Trailer (video) by @carminepoison

birthday sketch by @lumoverheaven

In love w raider by @milla-frenchy

✨ checks that you're ok 🐺 by milla

If I've left yours off please lmk I prob tagged improperly

Back to Joel Masterlist

Fic recs: other raiders

🖤 If mine or another writer's work has inspired yours, it's always better late than never to share / shout-out 🖤

[aurorawritestoescape]

ALWAYS AND FOREVER || 1,6k

post-outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel comes home after a hard day on patrol and you comfort him.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, ANGST, m/f masturbation, mention of somno, mention of canon typical violence, mention of death. I chose not to include all the warnings so as not to spoil the fic.

A/n: written for @iamasaddie ‘s writing challenge 2.0. color: Joel’s denim shirt. genre: hurt/comfort. prompt: "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay." Aly, you creative genius, thank you for hosting such a fun event! Also sending you kisses and hugs for the gif in my mb! Love you, baby!♥️ Smooches to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing the fic💕

MASTERLIST

*****

Joel stomps through the bedroom door, growling and mumbling obscenities under his breath. He’s tense, every nerve is an open wire, every unexpected sound makes him flinch and grit his teeth. He’s tired, lack of sleep painted his skin gray and his beard is all patchy. He looks like shit.

“What is it, Joel?” You ask sitting on your favorite spot on the bed, the left side, which is closer to the window and to the sun that is a rare sight in autumn here. Joel often laughed at you calling you a cat for your love to lie there, basking in the sunshine or napping. And you loved taking naps so much. When Ellie, Joel and you came to Jackson and settled, you couldn’t get enough of that sweet afternoon sleep.

Sometimes Joel would snuggle up to you, spooning your sleeping body, enveloping you like a big warm cloud. Many times you’d wake up to his lips moaning in your ear and his cock sliding in and out of your wet pussy, your body already vibrating on the verge of climax. You loved it. You loved him and he loved you.

“What is it?” You sing the question, repeating it again. His frustration, annoyance, anger or whatever else that ruined his day is about to spill everywhere, staining every corner of this house, and you need to stop it, defuse the bomb that’s about to explode.

“Nothing,” he drops in your direction, not looking at you and you sigh. He untucks his flannel shirt and strides to the bathroom. He doesn’t wash his hands and face right away. His eyes are boring into his own reflection, hands gripping the sink until his knuckles whiten. Not being able to contain himself any longer, he roars and elbows the mirror, shattering it into pieces.

“You hurt?” You ask quietly, standing in the doorframe, hands clasped shyly in front of you. You’re wearing his denim shirt and panties, nothing else.

His head whips in your direction and there are tears in his beautiful brown eyes, bloodshot from his constant insomnia.

You furrow your brows and step into the little room. He raises his hands, trying to stop you from walking on the glass-littered floor but drops them, seeing your bare feet gracefully step between the remnants of the mirror.

When you’re close you look up into his pained face and put your palm on his elbow, the one he just jammed into the wall. He doesn’t flinch.

“Wash your hands and come to bed. Please,” you ask quietly and reach up kissing his lips.

He does what you’ve asked him. He always did. He trusted you like no one else in this goddamn world. Maybe only Ellie and Tommy.

Joel sits on the bed next to you and you make him lie down, your hands applying light pressure on his tired shoulders.

He exhales feeling the frustration and rage leave his body already, bit by bit. He wants to pull you to him, hug you, kiss you but like a ray of sun you slip away from his fingers. He watches you get up and walk to the window.

His gaze catches the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass peeking out from under his shirt and he already feels his jeans getting too restrictive for his stiffening cock.

“Pull it out,” you tell him, quiet dominance in your voice, after you turn around and perch your ass on the window sill. He looks at you with defiance at first, always ready to object, but your sweet smile makes his hands dart down to unzip his jeans. You pull down your panties and take them off.

The only thing you have on now is his old denim shirt, worn out and soft, the one you stole from him years ago. You’re unclasping it now, fingers quick and sure and he watches you, palming his throbbing cock through his boxers.

You leave the shirt open and he sees a valley between your breasts and your belly. He catches a glimpse of your pussy and takes a sharp breath.

“Pull it out, Joel,” you ask with a soft and sultry tone, the one that makes his cock twitch every time he hears it. His name on your lips is like a balm for his restless soul and he places it somewhere deep for later to use, to remember.

He finally pulls his boxers down and takes out his semi hard cock. You inhale deeply and give him a little smile.

“You’re so tense, Joel,” you purr, lifting on leg and placing your foot on the window pane, “Relax for me.”

Your pussy is exposed to him now and his hungry gaze latches on your blooming flower while he’s holding his breath.

“Play with yourself for me, sweetheart,” he pleads before spitting into his palm. He wraps it around his girthy cock and starts slowly moving it up and down.

Your hand resting on your inner thigh slides to your center and with two of your fingers you spread your folds to show him your glistening pussy.

“Hnggg,” Joel groans, bucking his hips and thrusting his cock into his own huge fist.

“Wanna taste you, baby,” he rasps, eyes pleading under the bushy eyebrows.

You shake your head lightly, giving him a warm smile and start rubbing your clit. Joel’s watching you and pumping his cock faster, the skin on his hand wet with precum, his moans accompanied by your soft whimpers. Your chest is heaving and the denim shirt opens up, exposing your breasts.

“Make yourself feel good, my love,” his voice is quiet and full of love.

The hand on your pussy gets busy, as you’re plunging your fingers into your crying hole and move them in and out with the rhythm of his cock fucking his tight fist.

The other hand kneads your breasts, tugs on your pebbled nipples.

His hungry gaze desperately darts between your face, tits, belly, pussy. The vision of you, weaved into the golden light from the window behind you, brings tears to his eyes. He wishes he could take a picture, draw you like this, capture this image and store it forever behind his eyelids. Joel grips his cock tighter at the base, delaying his release for a few moments. He’s getting drunk on the sight in front of him, insatiable and already thirsty for more.

Joel is happy to forget about everything for these few minutes, his mind occupied by your fingers being pushed deeper into your sweet cunt, your face twisted with pleasure, back arched and legs trembling. He can hear how wet your pussy is.

Soon a climax takes over you as you freeze for a second before waves of pleasure shake your body making you cry out his name only for his ears,

“Joel!”

He wishes you screamed it coming on his cock and his cum spurted deep inside your pussy instead of all over his belly and hand like his pulsating cock is doing now.

You sniff, eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and he smiles, recognizing your telltale sign of a satisfying orgasm.

“C’mere, crybaby,” he whispers with a tired smile, wiping his spilled cum with the hem of his shirt.

You’re next to him in a second, lying on your stomach, arms folded on his broad chest, your chin resting over them.

“My sweet girl.”

His gaze showers you with warmth and adoration, arms itching to hold you, lips - to kiss.

“What happened, Joel?” Your piercing eyes are searching for the answer in his face. He takes a deep breath looking up at the ceiling, trying to quiet the rage, rising from the pits of his stomach again.

“We were on patrol. Me and this new kid. Dumbass! I told him to be careful but the asshole didn’t wait for me… rushed into the house when I specifically told him to wait…Found him on the floor, fighting a clicker. Bastard was lucky I was there on time. Shot the damn thing just before it bit his fucking face off.”

“In that house?” You ask quietly and he nods.

You sigh and climb a little higher on the bed and plant a kiss on his weathered lips. He averts his eyes embarrassed by the smell of whiskey you must have noticed but you smile and cup his scruffy cheek.

“You saved him. I’m proud of you, Joel.”

He closes his eyes, comforted by the softness of your touch, by your praise and he feels his soul healing a little. But the memories flood his mind and a second later his serenity shutters again.

“Yeah, I did. I saved him,” he rasps looking deep into your eyes, “but I didn’t save you.”

A tear slides down his cheek and you kiss it away. You pepper kisses over his eyes, nose, lips and then search for his sad eyes and speak softly,

“You can’t save everyone, Joel.”

“I don’t give a shit about everyone,” he snaps, fire waking up behind his eyes again, “I care about you. And I fucking lost you.”

His eyes are pleading for a miracle, tracing your slightly blurry features, but you can’t make it happen.

“You didn’t lose me, Joel, I’m right here,” you purr against his cheek, before taking his face in your hands. Your love is so strong, Joel can swear he feels their warmth on his skin.

“It’s gonna be ok, Joel. You’re gonna be ok. You have people who love you. Ellie, Tommy. And you have me. Always will.”

Joel nods and wishes he could see you longer but the exhaustion takes over and soon he falls into deep relaxing sleep, lulled and comforted by the ghost of you.

*****

Thank you for reading!🌺

Please consider reblogging and commenting if you enjoyed the fic. Your feedback motivates me so much!♥️

Masterlist

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @survivingandenduring @missannfairy @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover

If you’d like to be tagged in my future fics, let me know!💕