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peachdues · 4 months ago

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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!

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinazugawa #kny #kny x reader #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kny fanfic #kny smut #demon slayer smut #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x y/n #sanemi fanfic #sanemi smut

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zae-heeyyy · 5 months ago

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Boisterous

Summary: Arthur takes you to The Loft. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,095 Warnings: 18+ MDNI Tags: rough sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, biting

a/n: I somehow ended up spending literal hours trying to perfect this drawing. I traced a lot and freehanded a lot too, but overall, I'm happy with the final product. TYSM for taking the time to read, like, reply, and reblog; I appreciate every interaction!

Boisterous: behavior that is loud, energetic, and often unruly. It describes a person or situation that is full of noisy enthusiasm.

When Arthur found "The Loft" two nights ago, he was grateful to sleep in a bed surrounded by four sturdy walls. The accommodation would've been perfect, but you were missing from it all. Lewd images of your past escapades together infiltrated his mind as he tried to sleep, and he made his best efforts to push them aside. Your pretty face lit up his brain, and he wrapped his hand around his cock, trying his best to imitate the ecstasy only you could make him feel. No grip was as delectable as yours, though, and despite a quick release, he was more pent-up than ever. He needed you there with him and planned to sweep you up and bring you back as soon as the sun rose.

The cowboy's sonorous voice roused you from your dreams about him, the early morning sun casting a golden glow on his face as he leaned over you. His beard had grown since the few days you'd last seen him.

"Get dressed. M'taking you somewhere."

Without a second thought, you joined him on the back of his horse within the hour. Arthur spared the details of this urgent impromptu trip, keeping you in suspense for the duration of the ride.

In a few hours, you'd passed through Valentine, went by Fort Wallace, and climbed up into the mountains of the Grizzlies East. As you rode on, the clouds grew thick and gray, and the smell of petrichor filled your nostrils. Arthur caressed a hand you had wrapped around his waist, reassuring you.

"Almost there."

But you weren't close enough; the atmosphere released a torrential downpour in the last fifteen minutes of your journey, leaving you drenched. A little after noon, you reached a towering outpost that Arthur coined, The Loft. Arthur ushered you inside, futilely shielding you from the rain and promising the heat of a fireplace as he closed the door behind you.

While you stood, rubbing your arms for warmth, Arthur checked for signs of other people, climbing a ladder and peaking over the top for a second before sliding down.

You two were all alone, finally.

When he got a good look at you, he realized just how soaked you were, the layers of your clothes sticking to you and showing every curve of your body. Arthur swallowed, mouth salivating from the view of your hard nipples peeking through your blouse.

All the blood left his head and traveled south, damn near making him dizzy. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he was just a man, and you were the most alluring thing ever.

Two large steps were all it took to get to you. One hand found the back of your head, and the other rested on your hip as he drew your lips to his, practically swallowing you in a scalding kiss.

You could feel the groan rumbling in his chest, and you giggled against his lips. The noise crescendoed as his lips separated from yours to find your jaw and neck. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, inhaling your scent while the hand on the back of your head traveled to the small of your back.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "I missed y'so much."

And he had you all alone, truly alone, for the first time in your relationship. He'd been waiting to make love to you the way he really wanted. Your previous rendezvous were hushed, whispered, and sneaky, your moans muffled by Arthur's lips or hand. Even when he whisked you away to a hotel, he was keenly aware of everybody else around who could hear the two of you. Turning you into a whimpering mess filled him with fervent pride, but he wanted those parts of you, especially the sounds you made, all to himself.

The thought of finally hearing all those pretty little noises at full volume was enough to rile him up, and his hand groped your breast, kneading with a force he hadn't used on you before. You shivered against him; some of it was from your arousal, but the other part was the cold.

"The fire, Arthur," you said, shoving him off playfully. Grunting, he tore away from you, grateful for a log near the stove.

While his back was turned, you peeled the wet clothes off your body and dropped your blouse on the floor. Arthur spun back around right as you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you clad in your bloomers and nothing else. His breath hitched in his throat as if it were the first time your body had been bestowed upon him.

"Straight outta my dreams," he declared, his blue eyes shining with pure avidity. And just like that, Arthur strode across the room, dragging a chair with him and putting it against the door nob, just in case. You were back in his arms in an instant, his kisses emphasized with unadulterated sounds of pleasure. A rough hand slid into the waistband of your bloomers and grabbed a fistful of your ass, squeezing, letting go, and repeating.

You sigh breathlessly as he feels you up, leaning into his touch. Then without warning, he tastes you hungrily, tongue fucking your mouth.

His chest vibrates with titillation again, and you're hoisted up into his arms just a beat later, his hands cupping your rear. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on tight as he carries you across the room and dumps you on blue cotton blankets. Breathing heavily, you watch under eyes saturated with desire as he promptly removes his own damp clothes.

You were just as taken aback by his body as he was with yours. Brown curls adorned his chest and stomach and gathered in a carnal wreath around his manhood. Touching him was like running your hands over a textured map: his scars, old and new, like rivers and valleys, while his muscles, firm and hot, were mountains and volcanoes. You could spend eternity exploring that map. Arthur would never get used to you ogling him in such a way, but now your hungry eyes lured him to you.

He climbed on top of you, pinning you under his weight. Usually, he'd ask if you were okay, but you answered the question before he'd even asked by tangling your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles to bring him closer.

His hard-on brushed against your leg, making him shudder. You helped him remove the last garment of clothes between the two of you, lifting your hips to help him pull the bloomers down your legs and off your feet.

Arthur normally took his time meticulously exploring you, leaving kisses in his wake, but damn it, the thought of the sweet grip of your pussy had been on his mind for days, and he needed it now.

His forehead leaned against yours, and he clutched your jaw, holding your face still to gawk at it. If someone saw him this way, they'd think he'd just completed a full sprint, every exhale coming out in a loud pant. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, turning him animalistic. He couldn't wait any longer.

The gunslinger dipped his head to look between you, a guttural utterance escaping him as you spread your legs, exposing your needy cunt. He held his cock, nearly discolored from being so hard, and rubbed it up and down your center, coating himself in your juices.

"Need you, woman," he bellows. The bass in his voice sends goosebumps spreading down your arms, and you nod, mouth agape, eyes staring into his. His jaw also hinges as he watches himself disappear inside you. Once wholly sheathed, he moans long and loud, a stark contrast to his regular subduedness.

You'd never seen him like this, so desperate and uninhibited. Your body responds to the unexpected but welcomed change, your pussy clenching around him, making both of you jolt. Holding himself up on his forearms, he rocks his hips into you at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Shy and coy Arthur had left the building, replaced by wolfish Arthur, willing to howl and snarl for what he wanted. And in the moment, he wanted to brand you with his mouth. Bruising you was defacing a masterpiece, but it was a crime he was happy to commit. He was an outlaw, after all. He nipped at your neck with his teeth, leaving a mark before moving on to another spot to do the same.

You cried out, the first orgasm of the night building within you. He knew your body well and adjusted to give you what you needed, straightening his back, digging his thumbs into your ribs, and pistoning in and out, his hand going to rub your clit. Head tipped back, he moaned, no, roared, with every thrust.

You knew this was rare: Arthur Morgan losing complete control of himself. He was lost in you, lost in your wetness, lost in your tightness, and lost in those sounds. His head snapped down, and he stared right through you, eyes wild.

"Let me hear you," he demanded, slowing his strokes to get your attention. Head spinning, you gasped, too cock drunk to pay attention to what he was saying.

Grumbling, he pulled out of you to switch positions, now standing on the side of the bed. He guided you back to him, aligning your backside with his crotch. He hugged you to his chest, your back pressed into him. Your hands instantly went to his forearm, holding onto him as he practically held you in the air.

"I said let me hear you," he growled in your ear, accenting each word of his demand with an electrifying pulse of his hips. You arched your back into him, his name coming off your lips like thunder.

"That's it, darlin’."

Perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together and boisterous cries filled the cabin.

You were starting to see stars, your vision blurring as you focused on the pressure building in your insides, wanting so desperately for it to boil over. Your toes dug into the buckskin rug at your feet, trying to keep the rest of your body upright.

Arthur was a machine, pounding into you with the goal of bringing both of you to the edge. He didn't relent—didn't show any mercy for the mess you'd become under him. It was overstimulating in the best way possible.

You just needed a second, just one, to get your barrings. Attempting to scoot forward for that break was futile. Arthur moved with you, his length plunging deeper than ever.

"C'mere," he growled as his cock grazed against that sweet spot in the depths of your core, making you holler out and lose the little balance you had left. It didn't matter, though; he held you taught against him, pinning your body between him and the bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around you, the other touched you right where you craved.

"Now," he groaned into your ear, fingers circling your clit antagonizingly slow. A chuckle exited him as you melted to his touch. "Want you to come undone right here. Can you do that for me?"

Droplets of sweat fell from his head onto your back, and you moaned out, "Y-yes, Arthur."

You didn't take long then; a wave of warmth crashed over you as your velvet walls contracted around him, making the man curse into the now-hot cabin air. His hips kept their steady rhythm as you came, Arthur chasing his own climax now.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl," He moaned with every thrust as you clenched around him. He folded himself in half, once again putting his full weight on you, his heart pounding against your back like a drum. More erratic now, his rhythm lost its steady cadence as his balls tightened, his orgasm coursing through his veins.

He pulled out of you, one hand still gripping your side as the other one pumped furiously at his cock. Moaning, whimpering, and whining, Arthur threw his head back as hot spurts of his lust splattered across your back.

Hand falling from your hip, his breath slowed as clarity flowed back into his eyes. Using his discarded bandana, he wiped his sins away from your back before gently rolling you over. He scratched the back of his neck, a sly grin making home on his face as he watched you splayed out and spent. Arthur had gotten everything he'd ever wanted: a bed, four walls, and you.

#zae tries not to say “the gunslinger” challenge: failed #all banners journal entires and photos taken/made by me #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 photography #read dead redemption 2 photography #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #I think I've been doing tags wrong until today #oops.#zaefic #amje

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moonydustx · 1 year ago

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The night cook.

masterlist | requests here

Summary: Insomnia has struck one of the crew and Sanji is willing to find out. Meanwhile, you try to deal with your fear as best you can.

Warnings: I don't know, mention of clowns maybe (yes, exactly what you're thinking).

Word count: 1.4k

Pairing: OPLA!Sanji x F!Reader.

A/N: I have a new obsession and I need to write more and more. I watched the series in one day and now I'm racing against time to catch up with the anime (and soon move on to the manga). It has not been proofread so I apologize for possible errors.

Part 2 here

Sanji was starting to get stressed.

Despite the short time he had been part of the crew, he already knew where he belonged: the kitchen. He could spend hours there and felt comfortable. But something bothered him. Every morning, some fruit always appeared cut, food scraps in the trash, his knives disorganized. He wouldn't look for trouble right away, but he was aware of every move.

Your steps dragged to the kitchen, after another bad night's sleep. The dark circles under his eyes were visible from afar, as was his bad mood.

"Good morning madame! Glad you joined us today for coffee." Sanji caught your attention, placing your plate in front of you.

"Good morning sunshine, your mood seems to brighten the day." Zoro teased you, only earning an eye roll.

You stared at the food in front of you. They looked appetizing, but hunger seemed to be nowhere in your body. You rolled them from one side to the other, without removing any pieces, while heard the others talking in the distance.

"Everything is fine?" The cook's voice caught your attention, a quick glance was enough to realize that the others had already eaten their meals. "Sorry to say ma'am, but you look tired."

"It's okay Ji. I'm just discouraged." You stand up, handing the plate back to him. "They look delicious, but I'm out of food, I'm sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, my sweet. I heard that if you eat with a full stomach, or in your case without hunger, you can't enjoy the food and the last thing I want is for you to not like one of my dishes ." He leaned on the table, watching you.

"That's impossible. I could eat anything you make, as long as it's you making it."

It had been a while since the two of you exchanged small gestures, small flirtations. Unlike most other women, you weren't bothered by what he said. You felt seen, admired like never before, even though you knew he would say that to a thousand others. Plus, it was fun to see him shy with your answers.

"So... What can I do special for you today. Choose and I'll do it."

"Surprise me!"

You left it in the kitchen and if you looked back, you could see it lost in your image. None of the other beauties would be like that beauty, her beauty. Even though he was still lost, Sanji tried to regain his thoughts, thinking about the perfect lunch.

You got caught up in the tasks on the boat, all to keep the tiredness out of your body. Despite having heard the call for lunch you decided to postpone it, as well as dinner.

When you returned to bathe, you could see that everyone had retired to their rooms. Even with the most comfortable clothes, the coziest sheet and the cool sea breeze coming through the window, it only took a few minutes of sleep for you to wake up sweating, scared.

You were tired of it would be another wasted night. You got up and went towards the kitchen, since sleep didn't decide to appear that night, hunger had already taken its place and a salad would go well at that moment.

You gathered some radishes to cut and a few slices later, you felt the knife against your skin and was scared.

"So you're the cook for the night!" Sanji spoke suddenly.

Before you could curse him for his fright you had to hold back a scream due to the inconvenience of the pain.

"Shit, let me see." in a matter of seconds, he was already in front of you , holding your injured hand.

"It was nothing, you can rest."

"That, young lady, I will decide later." he gently placed a cloth in your hand, pressing it. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"I couldn't sleep, I decided to prepare something."

"Honey, what's been going on?" He took your hand again, removing the cloth. "Okay, I have the solution to mine and your problem."

He took you by the hand to the bench, placing you in a sitting position, returned to the kitchen, placing a small container to heat and disappeared from sight for a few seconds, returning with a small box in his hands. It brought everything in front of you, allowing you to see what it was really about. A small box with bandage and a small plate with lasagna.

"I saved it from lunch for you, I think you'll like it."

"You know you're my favorite. Shit!" you immediately regretted trying to use your injured hand to eat.

"Now, we'll fix this." The cut was small but uncomfortable and felt a little deep.

You watched him bend down to your height and tend to the small wound like something precious while you ate. The silence between you didn't last long, against your will.

"When are you going to tell me what's been going on? You know, we're friends." Sanji charged, finishing applying the last strip. "Something is wrong with you and I can't figure it out. Besides, you've been destroying my onions in your nightly escapes."

"I'm having some trouble sleeping..." you tried to leave the explanation superficial, but the look in his eyes made it very clear that he wouldn't just buy that.

"You could have told me, you could have made me some tea or something that would help."

"It's not that." You pushed the plate away and straightened up, trying to look away from Sanji. Shame already dominated your body at that time. "It's a stupid thing."

"No mon amour, it's not. I'm here, talk to me."

"There's only one thing in the world that I'm afraid of: clowns. Be they the cute ones or the psychopaths alike..."

"Buggy. Has he been a problem?" Sanji tried to understand, although it didn't make sense since the crew hadn't seen him in days.

"First we were trapped in his circus and it was horrible. Then we had his head on board and I was sure that at any moment he was going to appear. Now, I can't stop having vivid nightmares about it." you confessed, feeling your face burn with embarrassment. "I can't sleep, so I come here at night and I always cook something. I usually watch you cook and it seems like something so relaxing, so good. It hasn't helped me much with my sleep, but at least I've been eating some of the inedible things I make ."

"I bet they're as good as the ones I make and if you don't mind, I'd love to cook with you one of these nights." he winked, eliciting a smile from you. "But for tonight, we need to sleep, finish your plate and I'll be right back with something."

A few minutes and mouthfuls later, Sanji appeared with two mugs, with some hot liquid inside them.

"Herbal tea. It'll help you fall asleep."

"I have my doubts, but…" you took a sip of the sweet drink. "It doesn't hurt to try. Are you sleep deprived too?"

"Not really, I just couldn't leave a lady drinking alone."

"If this works, I promise to buy you the next drink at a bar."

"Wait. This a date?" he asked and if it were possible, you would see hearts instead of his eyes.

"We have the drink." you pointed to the two mugs. "We had dinner." You pointed to the lasagna. "Sounds like a date."

"That miserable clown at least did one good thing"

"Don't ruin the moment, Ji."

The two of you finished your drinks in silence, a few glances exchanged were enough to get comfortable together. Sanji picked up the dishes on the table and you followed him with slower steps.

"Thank you for helping me."

"Who said our date is over?" he turned around, grasping his arm for you to intertwine. "I would never let a lady go alone to her chambers."

"You are a gentleman."

"Only for you amour." He stopped in front of your door. "It's delivered and safe."

You stood on your toes, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, really." You opened the door and before you could enter, you turned around. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Whatever madam wants."

"You can stay here for a while, just until I sleep."

"Of course sweetheart" He walked you into the room.

You straightened the bed and lay down on one end, watching him just stare at you, waiting for some sign that he could sit down.

"Please be my guest."

He lay down and almost automatically gave way for you to snuggle against his chest. Your laughter was suppressed when you saw him smiling widely at the contact.

"A few drinks, a dinner..."

"And you ended up in my bed." your voice was already sleepy. Maybe because of the tea, but something said it was more because of the company.

"And I ended up in the perfect place." reciprocating your gesture just now, in the little conscience you had left, you felt his lips touch your forehead. "Sleep missus. I promise not to let any harm come."

#one piece #fiction #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #reader insert #opla!sanji x reader #opla #op live action #one piece sanji #op imagines #sanji x you #sanji imagine

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ultimate-chickennougat · 9 months ago

Text

| Shut up for me, love, | (part 2)

Part 1 (finding out you're pregnant w/Megumi)

Toji Fushiguro x Wife!Reader

Toji can't help but love you and your baby bump!

Word Count: 1.6k

CW: SFW, domestic fluff, Toji has a job, slightly suggestive, lots of pregnancy (mentions symptoms)

A/n: This has generated so many pregnancy fic ideas...

Your husband, Toji, had been a great help through the first trimester of your pregnancy. He was always giving you massages, bringing you water and snacks, and spending lots of quality time with you, among other things, and you were very grateful for it all.

Many changes were going on throughout your pregnancy, as to be expected now in your second trimester. While the morning sickness was now gone, there was a number of new troubles you could note. Most importantly, the bump.

For the most part it was a blessing, even when it caused a number of effects, such as walking differently and feeling a rather strange weight on your hips, something you hadn’t dealt with beforehand. It was proof of a growing baby, and both you and Toji couldn’t be more happy about it. Instead, the effects it had on your husband were the real concerns.

When you were starting to show, your husband couldn’t stop taking pictures of you. It was quite out of the ordinary for Toji, who rarely ever customized anything on his phone or computer, when he finally took it upon himself to learn such things, pasting your image everywhere he could. His new favorite pastime during breaks at work was scrolling through his pictures of you (some of which were taken in the last 5 hours), saving them in a special folder and smiling to himself.

Your pregnancy in general made him clingy. Along with the pictures, he cut his hours at work and stayed home to assist you, which was appreciated but put a hindrance in your housework. Toji would stand around watching you do everything from unloading the dishwasher to changing the sheets on the bed, leaning against the wall as he tried to lock eyes much to your dismay.

Fully confident in your ability to do such things, he still found himself keeping a much closer eye on you, only comforted when he was in the same house and could hear, if not see, you. Toji had already began to realize this himself, that it wasn’t an increase in safety concern that caused his behavior. While he always wanted to have eyes on you, to make sure you were out of harm’s way regardless of your pregnancy, there was something he missed so much when he was away from you.

Watching you cover your swollen tummy with a nightgown, one he picked out specially for you on a shopping trip. It sinched in high, right above the bump that was evident and growing larger each day. Seeing the light apprehension you had when bending down to pick things up, and hearing the compliments your friends gave you whenever they saw you, asking how the baby was coming along. Little things were a constant, and appreciated reminder for him that the two of you were building your family together. Something he loved more than anything.

Because of this, your husband stopped doing his regular outings all together. Usually he would go out to watch sports and drink with his friends at least once a week or so. Him being gone gave you more time without him interrupting your chores, and he was careful with you in mind. But this new Toji, that was a soon-to-be father, figured he could just watch the game on the TV and didn’t need to go out anymore despite your protests.

“It would save us money, we should be saving up for the nursery,” Toji argued, sitting down on the couch. “I know, honey, but…,” you tried to explain to him, just how annoying he had been. Staring at you all the time, offering you a hand for every minuscule task the moment you had any difficulty with it. Reaching up ahead of you to the top cabinet and grabbing the bowl you were trying to get, when there was a stepping stool right next to you.

It made you embarrassed, really. His eyes always so sharp, the way he looked at you every time you mistakenly fell into his trap, breaking your three minute personal best at ignoring him properly. Your cheeks heated up each time, scoffing a little as you turned back to the dirty dishes in the sink. It was truly bothersome (in some ways more than others).

And so, it led to his great discovery of at-home sports streaming. Toji was sprawled out on the loveseat everyday, after he got home from work. Carefully using up his extra home hours, after you persistently told him to give you some space.

While Toji enjoyed his free time, you, on the other hand, were doing laundry. The warmth of a fresh dry load, coupled with the absence of breathing down your neck, allowed you to relax for a brief moment. You piled all the clothes into a large basket, making your way down the hallway to the living room, where you usually folded it.

Except… Toji was there. You turned around, hearing the voice of a dull commentator surely explaining something interesting, though what it was you didn’t know. Your house didn’t have too many rooms, and usually the bedroom or even the laundry room would work just fine for folding… if you could bend down well enough. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, your feet barely touched the floor from how high up it was. Bending down over the bump was impossible to do comfortably, and the task could only be done at all if you leaned down to the side and awkwardly grabbed at the basket below while maintaining your balance.

After a few more attempts, you figured out that there wasn’t enough room on the floor and sitting like that wasn’t very comfortable for long periods of time either. You were reminded why the living room had been your favorite for doing this task, the couch was low enough and comfortable to sit on, with space for folded clothes on the side.

Holding the basket with two hands, you stood in the hallway watching around the corner to observe your husband’s movements. Toji was lounging comfortably, with one arm laid across the top of the couch. His legs were spread wide, covering most of the seating area. If the game was almost over, there would be no reason to ask him to move… or so you thought.

The two of you were in reverse positions, your eyes almost trying to lock with his as you admired them from afar, your original mission forgotten as he stared intently at the screen and rubbed the tiredness from his face. Now unlike you, he found your gaze to be rather relaxing, enjoying it before you would inevitably make your move. His chuckle didn’t come from the commercial on the screen, but from you, who was still standing there after 10 minutes, greatly struggling to hold the basket which was feeling extremely heavy.

Setting it down would make a noise, so you finally decided to give up on finding some kind of good time to interject. “Is the game almost over?” You asked meekly, setting the basket down in the middle of the floor. “10 minutes, about,” he replied, still staring at the screen. You huffed under your breath, unsure of what to say. To that, Toji smirked to himself. He knew exactly what you wanted, and was very much prepared to give it to you… but why not have some fun with it?

“Need a little help?” He asked while you walked a bit closer in curiosity. “My wife doesn’t know what she wants, it’s my duty to give her some guidance…” he finally tilted his head towards you, though he had been ignoring the screen since you arrived. “C’mere… lil’ closer…” he motioned at you, as you looked at him confused.

It only took him a second to stand up and move behind you, throwing his arms underneath your legs and back, carrying you to the couch with him. He settled you down between his legs, his body back how it was before like nothing had even happened.

“It’s more comfortable with that bump, hmm?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “I still have to have room to do the laundry, Toji…” he chuckled, moving his legs closer together so you could feel them squishing your thighs. “That better?” you turned your head to blushing smile on your face.

Toji grabbed the remote while you dragged the basket closer with your foot, still trapped between him. “But there’s only 10 minutes,” you watched as he changed the channel to a show you liked. “I’m gonna lose anyway, what does it matter,” he muttered. “I thought you said you stopped doing that!” you scoffed, looking back at your husband who rolled his eyes. “It’s five bucks, a work thing people are doing,” you shook your head in disapproval.

As you relaxed into his lap, you got to folding. Part of the enjoyment you felt was due to your husband, softly rubbing your back and occasionally playing with your hair as you got to work. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to kiss me,” you frowned facing the TV, though Toji could still sense your disappointment. “That’s your reward for getting this done - I’m gettin’ pretty hungry…” he continued his massage, but wrapped his arms around your waist to hold your belly. You would make dinner after you finished.

“It feels good Toji, thank you,” you sunk back enjoying the feeling. “You deserve it, you’re doin’ so good, my wife,” a blush crept onto your face again from his words. “Was gonna ask you for a date night sometime anyway,” he mentioned, “and there’s no time like the present.” Toji gave you a quick kiss on the cheek. “So just stay nice… and… still…” he smirked. “Once you’re done, we have the whole night ahead of us.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro #toji zenin #jjk toji #toji fushiguro x reader #toji zenin x reader #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fluff #toji fushiguro x you #jujutsu kaisen toji #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader

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thinkinonsense · 5 months ago

Text

Magnetic ──★ Logan Howlett x fem!oc: Chapter Three

╰┈➤Summary: After years of torture, Daphne decides how she wants to spend the rest of her life; at the bottom of a lake. Out of nowhere, Logan pulls Daphne from the water and finds her help. Now they must navigate how to live with their decisions.

╰┈➤C/W: mentions of death, suicide, cursing, age gap, mild violence, issues with infertility, slight sexual themes, description of a starved body

ᯓ★ mdni.ᐟ

ᯓ★word count: 1.9k+

ᯓ★ spotify playlist here

ᯓ★ last chapter here

ᯓ★next chapter here

✮⋆˙ In the early morning hours Logan found Charles heading to the subbasement to use Cerebro. He didn't even pretend to not be following the man in the wheelchair. When the doors finally close, Charles acknowledges him.

"Are you sure you want to be in here?" Charles asks. Logan ignores his question entirely.

"What are you doin'?"

"You'll see."

As Charles places the helmet on his head, Logan wonders if he wants to be in here too. Soon enough, images begin to flood the space around them. There is a glass cage with someone inside of it. A woman in a lab coat approaches the glass, squatting down, and tapping carefully.

"Mister Bellinor wants to see you." The woman says.

The person in the cage comes into view; it's Daphne.

There are lavender circles around her eyes from lack of sleep. Her hair is long and unkept, almost hitting her lower back. She looks so tiny; underfed with her bones visible through the skin. Her face barely had any color to it. It made Logan feel sick to his stomach.

Daphne's shackled at her hands and ankles as she and the woman walk down a long hallway. A guard at the door gives Daphne a look of sympathy as he opens the door for them. The two women enter and see a swarm of men talking and drinking among themselves.

"There she is, gentlemen!" A dark-haired man smiles when his eyes land on Daphne. He must be Mister Bellinor, Logan thought.

She stares blankly at him as he wraps one arm around her waist while his other hand grips her chin; squeezing her cheeks into a pout. "That's my pretty weapon."

The men around them nod their heads, gawking at her despite how sickly she looked. Bellinor wraps an arm around Daphne, forcing her to sit in his lap. A few minutes of chatter continues before one of the men says a pretty girl like her couldn't be that scary. Bellinor laughs and then pats her behind so she stands up.

"Oh, you'll regret that one, buddy," Bellinor says, leaning back in his chair, cockily. "Go on, Siren. Give 'em hell."

Daphne's eyes glow darker than Logan had seen before. They looked blood red as she settled her gaze on the target. Within seconds, the man clutches his chest, yelling out in pain.

"She's a w-w-witch!" He struggles to get out as he falls to his knees in front of her. "M-Make her... s-stop!"

Bellinor laughs and lets it continue for another few seconds to get the point across. Everyone else in the room was dead silent, terrified. Eventually, Bellinor tells Daphne to stop; but she doesn't. She isn't moving; it's like she's in a trance.

"Stop it, Daphne!" Bellinor yells repeatedly, getting up to stop her; but it's too late.

Without warning, the other man's heart breaks out of his chest, flying into Daphne's open palm. It snaps her back into reality. She looks down at the bloody organ in her hand and then at the dead man hunched over on the ground with his eyes rolled back into his head. Her hands begin to shake in terror of her own actions; dropping the heart quickly, letting it splat on the ground at her feet.

"Take her back to her cell!" Bellinor yells at the guards. "Use the electroshock!"

"I'm s-sorry!" She cries. "Please! Don't!"

Her loud sobs echo in Logan's head, making him want to turn away. Tears roll down Daphne's cheeks while her bloody hands attempt to put up a fight with the two men who roughly pulled her back into the cell.

The woman returns and hooks Daphne into a chair; shocking her until she's slumped over unconscious. One of the guards pulls her out of the chair and lays her body down on the concrete floor. Alone.

The image fades out, leaving Charles and Logan in silence.

"Why didn't she kill Bellinor?" Logan immediately asks while Charles removes the helmet.

"She didn't know was able to kill a person," Charles says, wheeling around to look at Logan. "Let alone two."

Logan's thoughts ran wild with all this new information. Charles felt his headache while trying to catch up with Logan's thoughts.

Who was Bellinor?

How was he connected to Daphne?

Where was he currently?

Because right now, Logan wanted nothing more than to watch the life leave his eyes as one of his claws stabbed through his throat.

"Don't bother, Logan," Charles comments, rolling past him. "Not even I can find him. He's somewhere hiding from her now that she's free."

"Just not looking hard enough." Logan snarls.

Charles can see what Logan is plotting in his mind.

"Logan, trying to find him won't make her feel better."

"Maybe not... but it sure as hell will make me feel better."

──★

11:00 am

Long showers were a luxury to Daphne. Private showers were even more so. She knew she had to take advantage of it while she was here. Her forehead rested on the wall under the shower head; allowing the warm water to run down her back.

Daphne didn't mind being left alone. Actually, she preferred it. Not because she didn't enjoy having company but because not all company was good to be around.

It was almost noon when she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a gray towel around herself. Jean gave her a pair of faded blue jeans and a forest green long-sleeve shirt. Daphne figured today was the best day to get her belongings from the cabin.

"Where are you headed, dear?" Charles asks.

Daphne spins around and spots the man following her to the main doors.

"I was going to go collect my belongings from my cabin." She said.

"Hm..." He hummed, thinking for a second. "I'm sure Storm wouldn't mind joining you. It's a dangerous time to be alone as a mutant."

On queue, Storm walks by them. She smiled, hearing the professor's invitation.

"I would love to join you," Storm said, grabbing her jacket off the hook.

Daphne wasn't upset with the sudden intrusion on her plans. She knew they wouldn't let her return to the area alone. Honestly, she's not sure she would even trust herself there alone.

The two women take one of the cars into the woods. Storm offers to drive while Daphne gives her directions. The ride was forty-five minutes out, it gave Storm plenty of time to get to know Daphne.

"When did you move out here?" Storm asks, attempting to make small talk.

"Couple months ago," Daphne answers. "A woman in town sold it to me shortly after I escaped."

"Jean mentioned the laboratory..." Storm's words drifted off while trying to figure out how to approach the subject. "You were so young."

"I didn't mean the lab," Daphne says. "But yes, they raised me there until seventeen."

"Where did you go after that?"

"Another cell, different captore."

Daphne's never told anyone what she has been through; mostly because she didn't know many people.

"Do you know who they were?" Storm asks.

"His name was Mister Bellinor," The words tasted like metal in her mouth. "He broke me out of the lab and trained me. Taught me how to be a monster."

Before Storm could say something back to Daphne, they had arrived. It was small; one bedroom, a bath, and a connected kitchen and living room. Storm didn't see much for Daphne to pack. There wasn't much of anything. She had four shirts and two pairs of jeans. Storm didn't know why she needed to come back for it. That was before she felt a black cat rub itself against her ankles.

"Who is this cutie?" Storm asks, bending down to pet it.

"That's Juna," Daphne calls from the bedroom. "She's a stray. I hope there isn't a no-pets policy in the mansion."

Storm picks up the cat and walks into the bedroom. Daphne was using her powers to bring her toiletries into the room too.

"I don't think Charles has ever turned away a stray." Storm smiles.

──★

Jean and Scott were sitting in the kitchen when Logan entered the room. He spots Jean immediately and goes over to her.

"Hey, I need a favor," Logan says to her.

Jean's eyes widen slightly at his request. Scott inches closer to her and interrupts them.

"With what?"

Logan turns to him, glaring, "I wasn't asking for your help."

Jean steps in to say, "Of course, Logan. What do you need?"

"I need help tracking someone down."

Scott scoffs dramatically. "Can't you ask someone else? Preferably the woman you just fished out of the lake a few days ago?"

Logan's claws extended, breaking the skin of his knuckles at the way Scott refers to Daphne.

"Logan!" Jean scolds when she sees the adamantium claws. "How about we talk outside?"

Logan nods but Scott beats them both to the door.

"No, allow me!" He says before turning away.

Jean pinches the bridge of her nose at their immaturity. Logan's claws retract back into his body as he apologizes under his breath.

"Who are you trying to find?"

"Not quite sure. All I know is that his last name is Bellinor and that he held Daphne captive. Charles won't tell me anything more."

Jean thinks for a moment then looks up at Logan.

"What exactly do you want me to do...?"

"Besides Charles, you are the only person that can use Cerebro-"

"This doesn't sound like a good idea, Logan," Jean says, shaking her head. "Her past is her past."

"I know," He huffs. "But you didn't see her past. I did, and God, it was... it was fucking brutal."

Logan allows Jean to invade his mind, to let her see what he saw. He watches Jean's face contort uncomfortably at the visions. When she sees the heart fly into Daphne's hand, Jean flinches away from Logan; trying to escape his thoughts. He gives her a moment before softly reaching for her wrists.

"Please, Jean..." Logan says in a tone that she's never heard from him. He must really care, Jean thinks to herself.

"I'll do it."

──★

"I hope it's okay, that I brought Juna back with me," Daphne says to Charles, assuming that's the reason why he called her into his office.

He chuckles at the image of her and the black cat clinging to her, "I don't mind, Daphne."

"Oh okay," She squints at him, confused. "Can I ask why you called me in here exactly?"

"I wanted to ask you something."

"And that would be?"

"Would you join the X-Men?"

The question catches her off guard; making her hesitant to answer him.

"I believe you have the power to be a vital part of the team," Charles says, warming her up to the idea.

"I-I um, I don't think you need someone like me."

"Someone like...?"

"A monster," Daphne explains, eyes leveled with the floor. "I don't want to be the monster that they made me."

"Daphne," Charles says rather slowly so she fully grasps what he means. "You're only what you believe you are; not what they told you to be."

Those words strike her like a bullet ricocheting through her chest. Life wasn't getting easier for mutants. Perhaps this was what she was meant to do with her gifts; but did she deserve a second chance? What if her curse spreads? What if she can't control herself? Did they really want her of all people? Could she afford to start over again? Only time could tell.

"It would be an honor."

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

tags: @bethexo07 @borapsycho @thatonegirlwiththebeanie367 @aylawylie @marcybug

if you want to be tagged for future chapters of Magnetic, reply and let me know <3

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urdreamydoodles · 30 days ago

Note

Can you write bat villains x someone who use to be a psychologist? And gn please

Bat-Villains x Reader

You used to be a psychologist

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, Two-Face, The Riddler & The Penguin

I hope I did what you hoped. Love you guys, bye ♡

The Joker

- You’ve always known that your choice to leave psychology behind wasn’t entirely your own. It became evident the moment you met him, the infamous Joker, during your stint at Arkham. You were initially his psychologist, drawn into his world by the challenge of untangling his chaotic psyche. But instead of understanding him, you found yourself caught in his web. Your analytical mind fascinated him—your attempts to “fix” him became his favorite game, one that always ended with him flipping the script and dissecting you instead.

- Your former training as a psychologist now feels like a double-edged sword in your relationship. On one hand, it’s the reason he respects you. You’re the one person who can spar with him intellectually, who can try (and sometimes fail) to keep up with the labyrinthine way his mind works. On the other hand, he sees your past profession as an ongoing joke. He’ll mockingly call you “Doc” or ask if you’d like to analyze him, knowing full well that any attempt would end in him exposing your own vulnerabilities instead.

- The Joker revels in pushing your boundaries. He’ll leave Rorschach test cards lying around the hideout, asking for your “professional opinion” with a maniacal grin. He’ll turn every fight or disagreement into a warped therapy session, making you question your own motives and sanity. Yet, there’s a twisted tenderness in the way he values your insight. When he’s planning his next big scheme, he’ll ask for your input—not because he needs it, but because he enjoys the way your mind works.

- You often catch yourself analyzing him even now, despite knowing it’s a futile exercise. But every once in a while, you’ll hit a nerve. When you call out the cracks in his façade, when you pinpoint the rare moments where his chaos feels less calculated and more personal, he’ll grow uncharacteristically quiet. Those are the moments when you see the man beneath the madness, even if only for a fleeting second.

- He loves reminding you that you’ve crossed a line no ethical psychologist ever should. “Falling for your patient, Doc? That’s against the rules,” he’ll say with mock horror. But there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes because you didn’t just fall for anyone—you fell for him, the one person no one else could ever hope to understand. And in his own twisted way, that makes you his perfect match.

Harleen Quinzel aka. Harley Quinn

- Meeting Harley was like meeting a mirror image of yourself—if the mirror had cracks and glitter smeared all over it. You’d both been psychologists, both lured into the world of Gotham’s rogues by the thrill of understanding the incomprehensible. She was fascinated by the fact that you shared her background, though she couldn’t resist teasing you about being the “goody-goody” version of her.

- Your shared history in psychology becomes a cornerstone of your relationship. You’ll spend hours debating therapeutic techniques, discussing old case studies, or laughing over the absurdity of Freudian theories. Harley loves hearing about your time as a psychologist, often joking that you’re her “normal” counterpart—but deep down, she’s proud that you chose her world over your old one.

- Despite her playful nature, Harley respects your insights in ways few others do. When her insecurities bubble to the surface—whether it’s about her past with the Joker or her struggle to define herself outside of it—she’ll come to you for advice. She values your ability to articulate what she’s feeling when she can’t find the words herself. And while she doesn’t always follow your advice, the fact that she listens at all is a testament to how much she trusts you.

- You sometimes find yourself slipping into “therapist mode” when Harley spirals, but she’s quick to call you out if she feels you’re treating her like a patient instead of a partner. “I’m not sittin’ on your couch, doc,” she’ll say with a pout, before pulling you into a playful wrestling match to lighten the mood. Still, she appreciates your ability to ground her when things get too overwhelming.

- Harley loves that you chose her, knowing full well the risks involved. “You coulda stayed all boring and normal, but you jumped into the deep end with me,” she’ll say with a proud grin. And while your past as a psychologist may have shaped you, she loves that you’ve embraced the chaos of her world without losing the core of who you are.

Pamela Isley aka. Poison Ivy

- Ivy found your past as a psychologist both intriguing and amusing. “A former mind doctor falling for a plant lady,” she’d tease with a sly smirk. “I suppose it’s only natural—plants are easier to understand than people.” But beneath her teasing lies a deep respect for your intelligence and your ability to see the world in ways others can’t.

- Your psychological background often comes into play in your relationship with Ivy. She values your insight when it comes to understanding human nature, a realm she’s often detached from. You help her navigate her complex feelings about humanity—her disdain for their destructive tendencies versus her occasional, begrudging hope that they might change.

- Ivy’s cool, analytical nature contrasts with your warmth, creating a balance that neither of you expected. She’ll often challenge you to apply your psychological theories to her world of plants and ecosystems, delighting in your attempts to bridge the gap between the two. You’ve become her sounding board for her plans, helping her refine her ideas and temper her more extreme impulses.

- There are moments when Ivy grows frustrated with your attempts to analyze her, particularly when you delve into her trauma or question her motives. “Not everything needs a diagnosis,” she’ll snap, her walls going up. But over time, she’s come to appreciate your perspective, even if she doesn’t always show it.

- Ivy loves that you see her as more than just a villain or a force of nature. You see the layers of Pamela Isley beneath Poison Ivy, and that makes her feel truly understood. Your shared bond is rooted in a mutual respect for each other’s intellect and a deep, unspoken trust that neither of you takes for granted.

Bane

- Your relationship with Bane began with mutual curiosity. He was fascinated by your background as a psychologist, viewing your profession as a form of intellectual strength. You, in turn, were drawn to his disciplined mind and the way he combined brute force with strategic brilliance. “You dissect minds; I conquer them,” he’d say with a rare, genuine smile.

- Bane respects your intellect in a way that few others do. He sees your psychological expertise as a weapon, one that complements his physical prowess. He’ll often ask for your insights when planning his strategies, valuing your ability to predict human behavior and anticipate his enemies’ moves.

- Your past as a psychologist also gives you a unique perspective on Bane’s struggles. You understand the toll his dependency on Venom takes on him, both physically and mentally. While he rarely lets his vulnerabilities show, he appreciates your ability to see past his armor and offer support without judgment.

- Bane occasionally challenges you to analyze him, though it’s always on his terms. “Tell me, doctor,” he’ll say with a smirk, “what drives a man to seek strength at all costs?” These moments often turn into deep, philosophical discussions that leave you both with a greater understanding of each other—and yourselves.

- Your relationship with Bane is built on mutual respect and an unshakable trust. He admires your strength, not just as a psychologist but as a person who chose to stand by his side despite the risks. And while he may be the one known for breaking Batman, you’re the one who’s managed to break through his emotional walls, earning a place in his heart that no one else ever could.

Jonathan Crane aka. Scarecrow

- Jonathan Crane was both intrigued and suspicious when he learned of your past as a psychologist. “Another mind eager to probe into fear,” he’d remark, his tone dripping with both mockery and fascination. You, however, weren’t interested in analyzing him, at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, you saw through his bravado to the wounded man behind the Scarecrow.

- Your shared background creates a dynamic of intellectual sparring. Jonathan delights in challenging your understanding of fear, throwing hypothetical scenarios at you to see if you can unravel them. He respects your insights, though he’s quick to remind you that fear, in his eyes, is an art—something that transcends mere psychology.

- Despite his attempts to maintain dominance in your relationship, there are times when Jonathan allows himself to be vulnerable. You’re the only one he trusts to see the cracks in his armor, to hear the stories of his childhood torment without judgment. Your empathetic yet clinical approach soothes him, though he’d never admit it aloud.

- Jonathan often tests your limits, pushing you into scenarios meant to evoke fear. At first, it frustrated you, but over time you came to understand it as his way of sharing his world with you. When you show resilience or even appreciation for his experiments, he’s secretly proud, though his compliments are always wrapped in veiled insults like, “I suppose you’re not as naive as I thought.”

- Your past as a psychologist doesn’t just make you his partner—it makes you his equal. Jonathan loves that you don’t cower before his intellect or his fascination with fear. Instead, you challenge him, forcing him to confront his own insecurities and vulnerabilities, something no one else has dared to do. And though he thrives on fear, you’ve become the one person who doesn’t fear him at all.

Harvey Dent aka. Two-Face

- Harvey Dent was initially wary of your background as a psychologist, fearing you’d see him as just another case study. But your approach was different—you didn’t try to fix him or push him toward integration. Instead, you accepted both sides of him, recognizing the war within and respecting it as part of who he was.

- Your ability to navigate Harvey’s duality sets you apart. You’ve learned to address both Harvey and Two-Face as separate entities, treating them with equal respect. This earns you a rare level of trust from both sides of his fractured psyche. Harvey appreciates your kindness and understanding, while Two-Face values your refusal to dismiss him as the “bad” half.

- Your past profession comes in handy during Harvey’s darker moments. When he spirals, you use your skills to help him regain balance, though it’s always a delicate dance. You never push too hard, knowing that forcing him to confront his trauma could drive him further into chaos. Instead, you offer guidance when he’s ready to hear it, a patience he’s deeply grateful for.

- Two-Face often tests your loyalty, flipping his coin to decide whether you’ve earned his trust. At first, it unnerved you, but over time you came to see it as his way of coping with uncertainty. You’ve even convinced him to let you flip the coin once or twice, a rare display of vulnerability that leaves Harvey quietly amazed.

- Harvey loves that you don’t pity him or try to change him. You see the man he was, the villain he’s become, and everything in between, and you accept it all. Your background as a psychologist gives you the tools to navigate his complexities, but it’s your unwavering loyalty that makes you indispensable to him.

Edward Nygma aka. The Riddler

- Edward Nygma couldn’t resist testing you when he learned of your background as a psychologist. “A mind-reader, are we?” he’d sneer, throwing riddles your way to see if you were as clever as he hoped. When you solved his puzzles with ease, his skepticism turned to fascination. You were a challenge, and he loved every second of it.

- Your relationship with Edward revolves around intellect. He thrives on your ability to keep up with him, often dragging you into his elaborate schemes just to see how you’ll react. Your psychological training gives you a unique edge in solving his riddles, something he alternately admires and resents.

- Edward often uses your past profession as fodder for his own ego. He’ll mockingly ask if you’re trying to analyze him, only to turn the tables and psychoanalyze you instead. Yet, there are moments when he lets his guard down, asking for your insight on his compulsions and insecurities. He values your honesty, even if it stings.

- Your shared love of puzzles and problem-solving creates a bond unlike any other. Edward delights in creating challenges specifically for you, riddles designed to test your wit and emotional intelligence. When you solve them, he’s genuinely impressed, though he’ll grumble about needing to “up his game.”

- Edward loves that you don’t see him as just a criminal or a narcissist. Your past as a psychologist allows you to see the layers beneath his arrogance—the insecurities, the need for validation, the brilliance he feels the world constantly underestimates. And in return, he gives you his loyalty, a rare gift from a man who trusts so few.

Oswald Cobblepot aka. The Penguin

- Oswald Cobblepot was immediately intrigued by your background as a psychologist. To him, it was a sign of power—not physical strength, but the ability to control and manipulate others with your mind. He saw your potential as an asset, but what he didn’t expect was how deeply he’d come to care for you.

- Your relationship with Oswald is built on mutual respect. He admires your intellect and your ability to read people, often seeking your advice on how to handle rivals or navigate the treacherous waters of Gotham’s criminal underworld. You, in turn, appreciate his cunning and his ability to turn every disadvantage into an opportunity.

- Oswald occasionally uses your past as a psychologist to his advantage, asking you to “profile” his enemies or predict their moves. While you’re happy to help, you’ve set boundaries, refusing to let your skills be used for outright manipulation. Surprisingly, he respects this, though he’ll grumble about it being “bad for business.”

- Despite his tough exterior, Oswald has moments of vulnerability that only you get to see. He trusts you to understand the pain and rejection that shaped him, the insecurities he hides behind his bravado. Your psychological insight helps you navigate these moments, offering comfort without making him feel weak.

- Oswald loves that you see him as more than just the Penguin. Your past as a psychologist allows you to understand his complexities in ways no one else does, but it’s your unwavering loyalty that truly wins his heart. With you by his side, he feels invincible—both as a crime lord and as the man he is underneath.

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padfootagain · 7 months ago

Text

Only an Almost (XVIII)

Chapter 18: Work Song

Hi! Here comes a new chapter!

We’re starting to escape the angst here!

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

*************************************

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 3806

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Andrew was getting a little better every day.

He was getting up without too much difficulty these days. His sleep schedule was a mess, but he was getting some work done. He went to see his parents three times a week, saw his brother often too. He went for a swim every morning and a long walk every afternoon. Sometimes he watched a good movie, spent some time reading. He made sure to avoid being in the same room as you, and had declined some friendly gatherings because of it, but he couldn’t claim to regret this decision.

He was getting better. You were still the first thing in his thoughts when he woke up, the last image printed on his eyelids when he fell asleep, but it was a torturing routine he had grown accustomed to by now.

It was like living with your ghost. The memories of you spending time with him in all his most familiar spaces. His house, his favourite spot to swim, his favourite walks, the pub you and your friends always went to… All familiar, but with an empty space constantly by his side.

Today, Andrew was hurrying out of his house. It was still early in the morning, too early for him if he were to be honest, but his best friend could not be waiting for him on his wedding day.

Despite the sadness that usually tainted his days since that night, Andrew was excited today. Happy and excited. He secured his guitar case at the back of his car, and drove to Sam’s house. He wasn’t surprised to find your car already parked there, but it was alright. Of course, you would be there, it was planned, and known. Andrew had sent you a text the previous night, the first form of communication since your ‘talk’ at your house, asking for both of you to keep the interaction to a minimum so that the wedding would go smoothly. Sam and Daphne were the most important today, and you and Andrew could go your separate ways for good after today.

It took you an hour to answer with a short and polite message agreeing with him and promising to remain ‘professional’, as you had put it.

Andrew was both relieved and pained by that answer…

He knocked, and Sam opened the door in the span of mere seconds.

“Jesus fucking Christ, thank God! You’re here!”

Before Andrew could say a thing, Sam was grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Rings?”

“In my pocket.”

“Spare shirts?”

“In the trunk.”

“Your suit?”

“In the car. And yours too.”

“Guitar.”

“Yep, that too!”

“Your weird drinks for your throat? I swear to God, I will skin you alive if you lose your voice before singing for our first dance.”

Andrew rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders as well.

“Sam, I have everything. Don’t worry.”

“You double-checked?”

“Triple-checked. I have everything. It’s going to be just fine.”

Sam started to giggle, tears shining in his eyes.

“I’m getting married today.”

“Today,” Andrew nodded.

“Fuck’s sake…”

“You’d better let me in so I can help you get ready and you aren’t late to church.”

“Right, you’re right.”

They hugged before Andrew would come in, tight and emotional and full of happiness and excitement.

He was moving towards Sam’s bedroom when you appeared. You were walking out of the room, a bag in your hand. You were still wearing casual clothes, planning to change before the ceremony. You froze, but quickly recovered, offering him a polite smile.

“Hi, Andy!”

“Hi,” he answered with the same neutral smile.

“I’m getting out of both your and Sam’s way! I was picking up a few things for Daphne.”

“Of course. Is she alright?”

“Excited. Terrified. In pure bliss.”

“Same as Sam, then?” Andrew chuckled, and you nodded.

“I’m afraid so.”

You nodded in silence, and Andrew bit his tongue before he could ask you how you were, or tell you how beautiful you looked today…

“See you at church, then,” he smiled and you nodded, taking it as your cue to leave.

He stared as you disappeared through the door.

But then Sam was reappearing, babbling about some stressful detail that was insignificant. Andrew smiled, and patted his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get you ready. Or she’ll never say yes to such an ugly mug.”

Sam and Daphne were married.

It was official. They had both cried, had said yes (Sam was too excited and answered I do before the priest was done with the question), had exchanged rings (that Andrew did carry all morning and for which he checked approximately 2982 times if they were indeed in his pocket), had kissed, had walked out of the church, and finally it was time for the big party.

The eating and the partying were planned outside, under tents that were set in the parc of a large property the couple had rented for the occasion. It was spring, and unusually warm. A clear blue sky with only a few cotton clouds drifting by, and the weather remained that way through the beginning of the evening, as the sun was setting and the moon was slowly appearing in its crescent rise.

The speeches were spoken by a very nervous Andrew and then by you; and you both managed to perfectly balance emotion with humour and embarrassing anecdotes.

The dreaded caterers did an amazing job, that was complimented by the two mothers, and Sam threw a thumbs up at Andrew before starting to eat.

Andrew was sitting next to Sam, and you were next to Daphne, as best man and maid of honour. And Andrew was grateful for it. He wasn’t sitting next to you, and he managed to splendidly avoid talking to you during the day. Still, he could hear your laughter above the loud cacophony of the guests. He couldn’t help but steal glances in your direction every once in a while too, you looked too beautiful in your emerald dress for that.

Andrew pushed the thought away, focusing on the happy conversation that was unfolding around him, forcing a smile.

He hated himself for still wanting you this way…

But Sam and Daphne were happier than ever, and it was all that mattered, truly. They were ecstatic, laughing and smiling constantly, and stealing kisses whenever they could. And it was almost bearable then, the knowledge that you were sitting right over there, and that if he stood up and took but a step, he could hold you close once again.

Pathetic…

When Sam got up to invite everyone to gather outside for a dance, it was Andrew’s and Alex’s cue to get ready. There was a little wooden stage outside the tent as well as a wooden dancefloor, with lights hanging above the space, lightbulbs turning the atmosphere into something magical, cliché and terribly romantic. White flowers were decorating the stage, and hanging from the poles supporting the lights too. With the sky full of stars and the crescent moon above the trees, it was a sight worthy of a magical wedding.

Andrew was soon ready, all plugged in, guitar in hand, with the mic high enough to reach his lips. Alex was right by his side, sitting at the tiny electric piano. He gave Andrew a nod when he was ready, who cleared his throat to announce the first dance of the married couple.

“Daphne and Sam have done me the absolute honour to ask me to sing for their first dance. Erm… thank you again, to both of you, this is genuinely the most important event I’ve ever had to perform for, so… get ready while I try to get rid of most of the stage fright.”

Chuckles shook the crowd that had gathered in circle, right at the edge of the wooden dancefloor. Andrew tried to slow down his heart, take a couple of deep breaths, focusing on the moment, on the task at hand.

“Erm… if you guys are ready, erm… this is Work Song.”

He looked over at Sam, who offered him a nod in return. He had tears in his eyes, and Andrew had to look away, feeling his throat tighten with emotions. And he couldn’t have that now, not when he needed to sing. The first claps were played while Sam and Daphne were moving to the centre of the dancefloor, and they were both a sight to see, under the quiet lights.

Andrew was getting emotional again right before singing, and he looked for a distraction in the crowd as he started the first verse.

He noticed that many were mouthing the words, but not daring to sing. There were too many fond smiles for that, while Sam and Daphne twirled and swayed together, sometimes a little clumsily but with grins making their cheeks ache in the best way.

Andrew allowed himself to look at his friends again for the first chorus, and he kept his gaze on them despite the tears he had to blink away, and the depth that settled in his voice. By his side, Alex was being perfect, as per usual, they didn’t need to look at each other to be in rhythm. They had played this song too many times for that. Muscle memories perfectly combined.

He had to look away again, though, we he caught Sam whispering an ‘I love you’ in Daphne’s ear…

The second chorus was soon gone, and Andrew was trying to calm his nerves, to stay focused on the present, when he caught a silhouette dressed in emerald…

He almost missed a word when his gaze touched yours. And then it was impossible to look away. He blinked, but couldn’t do a thing about it.

You were so beautiful under those lights, under the moon, in this dress that suited you perfectly, for that song of love and devotion that spoke of feelings you sparked within him. He meant the words as he sang them to you. Despite how much you had made him suffer, despite all that you had done… he meant the worship he put in his words when he aimed them at you.

When I was kissing on my baby

And she put her love down soft and sweet

In the low lamplight I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me

He saw your lips quiver, the way you blinked and how your eyes shone a little brighter. He wondered if you were struggling against tears too, the way he was.

And he meant it. And it was fucking killing him, and he wasn’t sure you deserved it after breaking his heart, and he wasn’t sure he deserved you at all… but he meant it. He meant it and he was ready to cry at how much he still loved you. Over a month of trying to get better at functioning on his own, and you were shattering his whole world in just a glance…

That didn’t sound fair at all…

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her

He saw the tear rolling down your cheeks, he struggled to hold back his own. Still, he sang the same words again, like a promise, like a prayer, like he was begging for you to see that he meant it, that if you gave him another chance, he would probably take it.

Would he? Anyway, you wouldn’t offer it to him. You had been clear. That’s what the voice in his head kept on repeating, and yet there you were… standing and crying and staring at him with pain in your eyes, a feeling he wished he could have banished forever from your life.

Christ, he loved you still… and he would have done anything, even conquer death, for you…

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her

The song died out, Andrew’s fingers knew when to stop playing. He was shaken back to earth by the loud cheering of the crowd, and by your form disappearing as you walked back to the tent in a hurry.

He turned to Sam and Daphne, who were kissing and beaming and glowing while the dancefloor was being flooded with their loved ones. Alex and Andrew gave a small bow, before leaving the stage, the guests cheering for them.

Andrew needed to see you. He needed to find you…

There you were… you were walking out of the tent again, aiming for the grass that stretched beyond the tent and towards some trees, further down the small park. You had something in your hand, he didn’t know what it was.

He wanted to follow, but he was almost tackled over by Sam instead, as he hugged his friend too tightly.

“Thanks Andy! That was perfect! Thank you!”

Andrew couldn’t refrain a chuckle, while Daphne was hugging Alex too.

“No need to thank us for that. It was an honour, truly,” Andrew smiled.

“Come on, let’s dance!”

“No, no, no…”

“Andrew, it’s my fucking wedding! I want everyone dancing!”

“I hate dancing. I don’t do dancing.”

“Tonight, you do. Come on.”

Andrew looked in your direction, but you were gone.

He heaved a sigh.

“One dance. I do one dance, and that’s it.”

“Yes, yes! Perfect, come on!”

Andrew played along, dancing with Daphne for a song. His friend tried to hold him back when he moved away, but then Alex popped out of nowhere.

“As any of you seen Y/N? I wanted to borrow her charger for my phone, she said she’d give it to me after the first dance but… can’t find her anywhere.”

Andrew’s face fell, worry making him frown.

“Have you called her?”

“Tried to, but her phone is in the tent, and she isn’t.”

“I’ll go look for her.”

“Maybe she’s inside…”

“No, I saw her hurry towards the thicket over there,” Andrew shook his head, pointing at the bundle of small trees and bushes, barely visible in the distance.

There was no light in that area. Without your phone as a torchlight, you might have fallen, hurt yourself, fell right into the arms of a complete psychopath… and you had no way to call for help. Not with the loud music that was being played.

“I’ll go look for her. Alex, can you check inside the house?”

“Andrew, she’s been gone for five minutes…”

But when she looked up at the worry on his face, Daphne fell silent.

“Alright, you go, both of you.”

“Text me if you find her,” Andrew told his friend, who merely nodded and hurried towards the mansion.

Andrew bolted in the opposite direction, his long legs devouring distance in the blink of an eye. He jogged across the grass, passed the trees, turned on the light on his phone.

He looked around but couldn’t see you.

Panic was starting to rise in his chest, get a grip on his heart and make his lungs ache for air.

“Y/N!” he called.

No response, he called again, louder this time.

“Andrew?”

He spun around, and there you were…

On the other side of some hawthorn tree. He heaved a relieved sigh.

“For fuck’s sake! Y/N, what are you doing here?!”

“I… what are you doing here?”

He texted Alex quickly, before approaching you. His tone sounded angry, even though he was simply scared.

“I was looking for you, obviously! What the fuck were you thinking, huh? Going off like that, on your own, in the dark, without your phone! Anything could have happened to you!”

“Andrew, I’m right next to the party, at my best friends’ wedding. I’m safe, it’s alright.”

He groaned in annoyance, or perhaps it was simply relief.

“You can go back to the party, I’m alright.”

“You can’t stay here on your own…”

“Why not? I’m alright.”

But Andrew stubbornly sat next to you.

“I can’t let you stay here on your own.”

“Andrew…”

You heaved a tired sigh, while he was setting his phone so that both of you were enlightened by its light.

“You’re alright? What’s going on?”

He finally noticed the way the light was getting caught in the glass of a bottle of champagne.

“Y/N?”

“I want to be alone…”

“Then come back to the tent.”

You looked up at the sky to hold some tears back.

“Hey… why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

You merely shrugged, but you were properly crying by now.

“Hey… hey, stop crying… please, Y/N…”

He didn’t think. When Andrew wrapped his arms around your shaking frame, when he cradled the back of your head in his large hand to pull you close to his chest, when he shushed you softly… he didn’t think. You were crying, you looked so upset… he had never seen you so upset before. You spent several minutes sobbing in his arms, shaking, despite the way he soothingly stroked your back.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, calm down… Christ, Y/N, calm down…”

Slowly, the tears subsided. You were holding onto his vest like your life depended on it.

“My head is spinning,” you blurted out.

Andrew took a look at the bottle. It was half-empty, and he had no doubt it wasn’t your first drink of the night.

“Champagne will do that to you.”

He kept you close even if you were calmer now. You sniffed, buried your face deeper into his chest. He merely tightened his hold on you.

“You’re okay? Feeling better?”

You slowly nodded.

“You want to tell me what happened? Why you’re so upset?”

He was surprised as you laughed.

“Not really, no.”

“Alright… We should get back there.”

But despite his own words, he didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he closed his eyes, tried to precisely carve in his memory how it felt to hold you: the sound of your breathing, the softness of your hair, the silk of your dress, the warmth of your body against his, how your frame fitted so perfectly into his embrace…

“I’m sorry you were worried. I just wanted to be on my own,” you apologized in a quiet voice, it still sounded a little hoarser than usual because of your sorrow.

“I panicked a little bit. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.”

“I think… I might throw up…”

“Right… let’s get you inside, then. Come on…”

“No… no, stay. Please, stay…”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No! No… please, Andy. Just another minute…”

“If you throw up on me, I will get my revenge.”

“Turning me into a vampire?”

“I’ll haunt you after I’m turned into a ghost.”

“Stalk me, you mean.”

“Haven’t you noticed how much of a creep I am already?”

You sniffed once more, and he tried to look at your face to see if you were crying again, but you were hidden in his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Andy… I’m so sorry about everything,” you whispered against his heart, but he caught your words loud and clear, despite the music coming from the party.

“Let’s not talk about this now,” he whispered back, bending to press his lips to the side of your head. “We should go back. Your plus-one must be looking for you.”

“A plus-one? You have a plus-one?”

“Me? No… no, I came alone. I’m talking about you.”

“You didn’t see that I was alone?”

Your words were slurred with alcohol, but they sounded genuine, vulnerable too.

“Erm… no… I… I like… tried to avoid you all day, in case you haven’t noticed. That includes not looking in your direction.”

You let got of his vest completely. He expected you to move away, but you didn’t. It felt like you had gone limp in his arms.

“You can’t even look at me anymore…”

You started crying again, and Andrew cursed at his clumsy words.

“No, I mean… you… We’ve agreed to stay out of each other’s way, and that’s what I’ve tried to do.”

“I didn’t come with anyone.”

“Okay.”

“I fucked up… I fucked up, Andy, I’m so sorry…”

“Hey, look… let’s just…”

He looked up at the night sky, in an attempt to hold back his tears. His throat had tightened, he let out a long exhale, trying to focus on the shape of the incomplete moon, the stars that shone brightly, the happy song that was being played, he couldn’t remember the name of it. Anything to try and not crumble in your arms there and then. He had to keep it together.

“Let’s… let’s not talk about this now, okay?” his voice was soft, mainly because emotions were making it hard for him to speak. “We’ve already spoken about what happened. We just… like… We just need to move on now, yeah?”

But you shook your head.

“I fucked up. I fucked up because I was terrified. I was so fucking scared of letting myself have feelings for you… I was so scared of being too lonely when you’re away, of not being able to cope with your absence, with how much I fucking miss you every time you leave. And I was scared you could meet someone better, someone who could follow your lifestyle in a way I couldn’t and then you would have dumped me and…”

You heaved an exhausted sigh, while Andrew was remaining motionless, trying to process what you were saying.

“I should have never thought about this arrangement. I should have never accepted that stupid date. I should have never pushed you away.”

You spoke again after a short silence. Your next phrase knocked out all the air from his lungs.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you… God, I’m so sorry, Andy…”

He couldn’t answer to that. He couldn’t react to it either. He couldn’t process what your words meant…

Besides you were drunk… very drunk… this… this was a mistake…

“Let’s get you inside, Y/N, okay? Come on, now.”

At long last, you let him help you to your feet, and with his help you were able to walk back to the tent. Some members of Sam’s and Daphne’s families were staying at the mansion for the night, and there were still a few empty rooms available. Andrew got a key, and safely helped you to a bed. He took off your shoes, made you lie down, tucked you in. The time it took him to come back with a glass of water to put on your bedside table, you were fast asleep.

He took a moment to watch you like this, hair a mess of locks stranded on the pillow, looking peaceful, even if your crying was still visible. He gently brushed your cheek, dropped a gentle kiss to your forehead, and then he was gone.

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier x fem!reader #hozier fanfiction #hozier series #hozier imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #series

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perfectsunlight · 6 months ago

Text

[02] ARE YOU PROUD OF ME?

warnings: none

the soft makeup sponge gently tapped against jennie’s skin. her eyes remained shut, doing her best to stay awake at this hour of the morning. two other stylists worked on her hair while the makeup artist shuffled around her face, applying the final touches before her own busy day began.

vogue photoshoot at noon, elle interview at 3:00, and then her flight to paris at 6:00.

she mentally went over her itinerary for the day, her mind focused on the professional obligations ahead, each task meticulously planned to maintain her public persona. despite the flurry of activity around her, jennie's thoughts kept returning to the great idea of her simply canceling on everyone and spending her entire day in bed with her dogs.

the soft hum of the television in the background barely registered for her until she heard a sound she’d never imagined hearing from a tv.

“i’m ivory!”

her eyes snapped open just in time to see her daughter’s face flash across the screen through the reflection in the vanity mirror in front of her.

the makeup artist paused, sensing the shift in jennie's demeanor, but said nothing, allowing her a moment of privacy amidst the bustling preparation.

jane ivory. my ivory.

jennie whispered her daughter’s name over and over again in her mind. it was only a few seconds of an advertisement for their group’s debut, but all she could do was replay the moments of ivory’s face in her mind. as the segment on le sserafim ended, her emotions swirled—a mixture of pride, regret, and an overwhelming sense of loss.

her daughter’s radiant smile on the screen pierced through the layers of professional composure that jennie kim had carefully cultivated over the years. she blinked back tears, unable to tear her gaze away from the mirror in front of her.

the little girl she left behind was now an adult.

“did something get in your eye?” her makeup artist asked gently, trying not to dig too deep into the idols emotions.

she took a deep breath, trying to compose herself as she wrestled with the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. the makeup artist's gentle inquiry broke through the silence, but jennie couldn't bring herself to respond immediately.

“just a moment,” she managed to say, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. she reached for a tissue, dabbing at her eyes discreetly as she fought to regain her composure. the weight of years of absence bore down on her shoulders, a burden she had carried silently for too long.

as she looked at her own reflection, the woman saw traces of the person she had become—a successful idol, a fashion icon, and a global star.

but beneath the carefully curated image lay the ache of a mother who had missed out on so much.

the television continued to play in the background, the sound of a local pizza ad replacing the sweet tone of her daughter’s voice just moments ago. jennie closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to stay strong. she had grown accustomed to wearing masks—both on stage and in her personal life—but at this moment, those masks threatened to crumble.

“it was just an eyelash,” she finally replied, her voice steadier as she met the makeup artist's gaze. “please continue.” with a subtle nod, she signaled for the preparations to continue, silently resolving to confront the emotions that had been stirred awake.

throughout the rest of the day—through the photoshoot, the interviews, and the flight to paris—jennie couldn't shake the memory of her baby girl’s smile. the emptiness of the private cabin offered her a rare moment of solitude, where she allowed herself to feel the weight of regret and longing.

she scrolled through her jane’s debut photos, her heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow as she scrolled through ivory's debut photos on her phone. each image captured her daughter's radiant presence, the same smile jennie had seen earlier on the screen. tears blurred her vision as she traced the familiar contours of the young girl’s face with her fingertip.

alone with her thoughts and the distant city lights below, jennie wept for the daughter she had been absent from, and for the years lost to ambition and fame.

previous | masterlist | next

TAGLIST ⸺ ✶ @silantryoo

OPEN! COMMENT BELOW THE MASTERLIST TO BE ADDED.

#jennie kim #blackpink #lesserafim #angst #kpop angst #original series #jisoo kim #roseanne park #lalisa manoban #kim chaewon #ivory #perfectsunlight

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13keithxpidge13 · 2 years ago

Text

I wanna write an AU where Rhaenyra chooses Harwin to marry and their marriage is solidified in the eyes of the Realm.

Immediately, Rhaenyra becomes pregnant. The couple are overjoyed and the kingdom celebrates, excited at the prospect of introducing a brand new prince or princess to the world.

When Prince Jacaerys Targaryen is born, Harwin is absolutely /flooded/ with joy and pride. Jace is his precious boy, his /beautiful/ firstborn son. He looks so much like himself but with Rhaenyra's violet eyes and her gorgeous smile. It doesn't matter to him that his hair isn't white (he doesn't care /what/ the Queen says). Jacaerys is his perfect, special boy.

Not even two years later, Rhaenyra is announced to be pregnant with their second babe. Her stomach doesn't grow nearly as large as it did when she was in her later months carrying Jace which did worry the Maesters just a tad but, Harwin wasn't concerned at all. Rhaenyra was strong, stronger than anyone he knew, if anyone could pull through-it would be his beautiful wife.

And, he was right. Eight months into her pregnancy, albeit a little early, Rhaenyra gave birth to their second son; Lucerys Targaryen. Harwin's precious, sweet little second son. Tinier than most babes he is but as strong as can be nonetheless. He looks like the spitting image of Rhaenyra. Bright violet doe eyes, a button nose with freckles caked across his cheeks, and a sparkling happy smile. When Rhaenyra first laid eyes on him, she sobbed with joy and whispered how he looked so much like her mother; the late Queen Aemma. King Viserys agreed, holding his second grandson and weeping whilst gazing at his sweet face.

It was at this time that the rest of Viserys's children had begun to become more curious about their older sister and their nephews. Prince Aegon often dragged the young Prince Aemond down to sneak into his and Rhaenyra's chambers to get a peek at the two young boys when Luke and Jace were playing.

Harwin wouldn't say anything against the young princes when they sneak in, when they think no one could see them. If anything, it warms his heart to know that, despite Queen Alicent and her bitterness against his wife and their children, her boys nonetheless attempt to be close to their nephews even when their mother argues against it.

Harwin watches, amused as Prince Aegon rushes over to Jace and immediately plops down next to him from where Harwin's eldest boy is playing with his youngest. The two sit on the floor surrounded by tiny dragon wooden cut out toys and Jace squeals as Prince Aegon takes one of the toys and starts playing. Little Luke kicks his tiny four month old feet out and giggles loudly, clapping his hands together.

Prince Aemond takes a little more coaxing but, eventually, they all are playing together on the floor with the sound of happy laughter and childish giggles ringing throughout the room like church bells.

It isn't too long before Rhaenyra returns, entering their chambers and the group of children all whirl to meet her.

"Oh my," She gasps, but she's smiling and little Luke squeals, babbling nonsense and reaching towards his mother. "It seems I have a group of little hatchlings nesting in here. What are you doing away from your mother at this hour, brothers?"

"Playing!" Prince Aegon shouts and stands up, smiling wide as he raises his arms. "Mother forgot to put Aemond down for a nap so I brought him here!"

At that, his wife's smile falters just a tad. It was not secret that Queen Alicent often...neglected her children, leaving them to the servants and wet nurses instead of spending time with them herself.

But, that didn't seem to bother the two young princes as they would often sneak away to come find their nephews anyway.

"All by yourselves?" Rhaenyra asks, concerned and that's when Harwin speaks up from where he was situated beside one of the desks inside their bedroom, hidden from sight but able to keep an eye on the group.

"Don't worry, princess," Harwin spoke up and all heads turned to him. "I've been watching them."

Rhaenyra sighs with relief and stalks towards little Luke who was practically crawling over to her at this point, desperate to get to his mommy. He had always been more attached to her than Harwin but, Harwin supposed he didn't blame his son. He was quite attached to her too.

"Hello, little love," She whispers to her second son as she picks him up and cradles Luke against her chest. He coos and babbles, clutching onto her hair and nuzzling against her. "Yes, hello, my sweet boy. I've missed you too."

"Can we stay, sister? Please, please?" Prince Aegon begs, bouncing on his tip toes as he grabs at her black dress. His eldest sister chuckles and she gently runs a hand through his wavy white hair and he leans into it.

"Ah, well," She sighs in a teasing manner. "I /suppose/ you could stay for a bit while longer."

Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond cheer and Jace and Luke follow along, all of their giggles resounding and joining together.

Harwin and Rhaenyra smile at each other and he walks over to kiss his wife, his girl humming against his lips and he then plants another kiss upon her head and one on little Luke's.

It won't be for some time that they have another babe, many years but, Harwin cherishes each and every moment he has with his family. His perfect family.

#harwin strong #rhaenyra targaryen #lucerys valeryon #lucemond #jacegon #jacaerys targaryen #aegon targaryen #harwin x rhaenyra #aemond targaryen

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joocomics · 11 months ago

Text

LOSER(S)

read part two here

pairing: youtuber!theo x fem!reader

genre: smut — mdni! wc: 2.9k

summary: the charming guy running the youtube channel you enjoy watching mostly because of him, and not the games he’s playing, moves in the apartment across from yours, and turns out to be the biggest asshole you’ve encountered in years

contains: neighbours au, enemies to lovers trope, switch!reader, slight angry sex, unprotected sex, cussing, banter, dirty talk, choking (m!rec), oral sex (f!rec), orgasm denial (f!rec), name calling

[ p1harmony masterlist | general masterlist ]

“Wow, you’re an asshole in real life,” you keep talking bitterly with little flames in your eyes. “I’m actually impressed with your acting skills.”

A frustrated airy laugh slips through your lips while Taeyang’s, on the other hand, curl up at the corners, amused at how seriously you’re taking this whole situation.

“Sorry to ruin the little fantasy you had of me, sweetheart.”

“You should be glad that I prefer to spend my time doing anything else than dealing with you,” you turn to your front door and flip the key, “cause I can just call the cops.”

“Are you sure that’s what you really prefer?”

This is not the first time you’re fighting Choi Taeyang in the middle of the hallway, nor it’s the last unless you move buildings. His youtube channel is growing rapidly which calls for more content and less peace for you.

He's still leaning against the door frame with his headset hanging from his neck. The subtle mischievous spark in his eyes, the one you know so well from the multiple videos you’ve seen from him, is so different in real life - straight up mean, making you wonder how you used to find his channel fun and comforting despite the terrifying games he plays.

“You’re at my fucking door almost every single night,” he continues. “Maybe I should call them, you seem more of a stalker than a marketing manager.”

“Fuck off,” you spit out entering your apartment. “You’re a pathetic loser with no life.”

“Bitch.” Taeyang slams the door of his home the second you shut yours.

A month ago you couldn't wait to finish work and hop on the bus to head back home.

Now, you go home on foot so it can take you extra minutes to arrive.

The time you finish work is the time Taeyang comes back from the gym, and by the hour you're lounging in bed ready to relax with your new favorite show is the hour he turns on the usual scary games, and transforms your cozy time in a mirage. Today is going to be no different, because he has zero empathy for people’s feelings, so you take your time even with walking towards the elevator after you arrive at your apartment building.

“Wait!”

You make out the too familiar voice echoing in the hallway along with the stamping sound of his footsteps just when you press the button.

Taeyang runs through the open doors, and you walk in after him faking a smile. His ebony black hair is half wet and his outfit casual, consisting only of a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt under his unzipped hoodie. Judging by the bag with beer cans in his hand your guesses are correct - his workout is done and he's going to take his seat in front of the computer.

The unnerving silence fills the air the second the doors close in front of your eyes.

“Next time fill up your mouth with your panties or something,” Taeyang glances up at the changing neon numbers. “What if you accidentally scream my name? I don’t wanna hear that.”

He fakes a disgusted expression and shakes his shoulders as an attempt to get rid of the image in his head.

You knew putting your earphones in to blast music as you use your vibrator is risky since sometimes you tend to be more vocal than others, but what were you supposed to do when all of his exaggerated yelling and cussing comes through the wall exactly where your bed is?

You can’t touch yourself during the day because you’re at work, and now you can’t do it before sleep because of him.

Your fake chuckle rings hollow in the small space. You look away, but you cannot escape his face though. You both see each other in the reflecting glass that’s all around you; it’s a little blurry, but not enough to not be aware that you’re staring at each other.

“Good to know you take off that headset once in a while.” You raise your chin up. “Maybe I should touch myself more often if that’s gonna help a loser like you get a life.”

The doors slide open, and you walk out first, feeling Taeyang’s gaze all over your ass.

“Is your boring corporate job stressing you out, sweetheart?” He calls out behind you, as you walk down the corridor. “Is that why you’re taking your anger out on me since day one?”

“I love my job,” you say when he catches up your pace.

“And you hate mine.”

“Because of you,” you glare at him, stopping in front of your apartment. You don’t even realise when you started raising your voice. “It’s your lack of responsibility and consideration I have a problem with, not what you do.”

“Shh, you’re going to disturb the neighbours.” Taeyang puts a finger on his lips, and for the first time you feel the urge to slap a person.

He comes closer to you while staring at your cleavage. It’s flushed with a delicate reddish color that he could associate only with himself and the emotions he brings within you.

“Do you want me to help you out with that? I can help you relieve some of the pressure, doll… most of it.”

You breathe in once, looking in his eyes.

You breathe in twice… recognising the fresh earthy aroma coming from his skin and damp hair.

It’s not your voice that gives him an answer, but your lips that smash against his own.

That’s exactly what Taeyang hoped for, and his arms immediately go around your waist, pulling you close after he drops the bag of beer cans on the ground. His hands slide down to grip your ass cheeks through the linen fabric of your pants, that’s too thin and his cock already starts to gain pressure from how much it allows him to feel in his palms.

“My place or yours?” You pull back just to ask the question then kiss him again.

Taeyang’s hands go up, sneaking under your shirt.

“You already know what my room looks like, it’s time I see yours.”

“That’s fair.”

He doesn’t leave you out of sight as he gets rid of his clothes while you unbutton your shirt. Once you’re left in your lingerie he doesn’t give you a chance to remove it, because he pushes you onto the bed, covering your skin with wet kisses. You look gorgeous in it anyways, so he doesn’t mind if it stays on a little longer.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he mutters against the flesh of your tummy before grinding his tongue up to your bellybutton. His hands are squishing your breasts harshly making you gasp. “Fuck, drives me crazy.”

His teeth bite the hem of your lace panties, pull and let it drop with a smack.

When he moves up to lock lips with yours again they seem to move even more eagerly than minutes before. His tongue invades your mouth almost with a frustration, leaving you out of breath and panting for more.

But you rather get that yourself.

“What the—“ He stumbles around his words surprised from suddenly finding himself on his back.

You swiftly succeed in straddling his hips as he didn’t have the chance to react in time to prevent you from getting on top.

“Shut up,” you say, unclipping your bra and rubbing your clit on his stiffened length at the same time. You still have your panties on and you see his gaze darkening from wanting to rip them off. “Mm, your cock is so hard...”

“Take it in your greedy mouth then.” He grips your hips forcing them to move quicker. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Yeah, but that would be too easy.”

Taeyang laughs before grabbing your arms to bring your face down into his.

You gasp through a smile creeping up on your face. You can’t hide the enjoyment from his rough responses to every single thing you do.

“These tricks don’t work on me, doll. Be a good girl and do as I say from now on.”

“You’re not the only player here, pretty boy.” You pull his bottom lip with your teeth, and his erection twitches against your clit, both from the bite and your attitude. “I will suck your dick when I decide you’ve earned it.”

Before you realise a thing, Taeyang flips you over and strips you from your panties pushing them inside your mouth. His hands bend your knees with fingers digging into your skin finally spreading you apart. As his mouth waters from the seductive sight of what’s between your thighs, yours spit out the underwear.

“Tsk,” Taeyang picks it up, and muffles your irritated whines by returning them back where they were. “What an ungrateful doll. I’m doing you a favor and this is how you say thank you?”

He holds his palm over your lips to keep the fabric in place while his other one gives your right boob a slap followed by a few more after he catches you make a muffled pleasant sound.

Eventually the grumpy look on your face dissipates into a rapture as the pleasure from his tongue comes in waves, each more powerful than the other. He alternates between sucking and lapping on your juices while also playing with the pacing of his licks over your bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, you taste too sweet for such an angry girl,” he groans before gliding his tongue through your sloppy folds only to swirl the tip of it around your clit again.

And you eat pussy too well for such a loser.

Your chin begins to leak from your drooling, slipping down your neck as your panties get soaked with your moans and spit. The fact you’re not able to be loud as you need to makes your jaw clench with frustration, but your pussy even more aroused under Taeyang’s tongue.

His grip on your thighs tighten painfully limiting your shakiness as he buries his coarse mouth even deeper, grazing his teeth against your intimate lips; tongue tracing stripes from your dripping hole up to your most sensitive point over and over again. He makes out with your entire cunt the same way he kisses you - mean with a desire to control.

“I can make it feel even better if you promise not to empty your filthy mouth,” he glances at you, giving you a nice view of all the glistening fluids all over his face.

You nod too quickly, you realise, but most of the stubbornness left you the moment his tongue touched you for the first time.

You grip the sheets cause your fingers are already tempted to pull out the underwear the more his swollen tip levels with your entrance.

You’ve never taken such big size before and your heart starts racing excitedly at the thought of the appealing girth sinking inside you.

“Shit,” Taeyang’s brows knit together while his length fills you up bit by bit, tightening the knot of pleasure in his core. “You’re too fuckin’ small and tight for me.”

He inserts it all the way slowly, wanting you to feel the way you suck in with ease every inch of him; wanting you to know just how bad you needed him. However, once it’s in, his patience dies down giving his hips the freedom to move as quickly as possible.

Taeyang runs a hand through his dark hair, then moves it over your lower tummy, pressing against his cock that’s reaching the desired spot over and over again. His sharp gaze follows your eyes fluttering in bliss, as the rush he creates invades your body.

Once he leans in to hang your right leg over his shoulder for a deeper thrust, your repressed mewls rise even higher; erotic heavy growls just like in the videos he watches to jerk off.

“We get along so much better when you have your mouth shut, don’t you think?” He fans your face while holding himself up on his hands.

A groan escapes his puffy lips before he could catch it after you bury fingers in his hair and tug on the roots, pulling him closer.

With one tilt of his head Taeyang drops your panties down after stealing them from your mouth with his teeth.

“Mind if I keep those?” He asks and receives the sound of the first real raw moans of yours as an answer.

It would be a foolish lie if he says he won’t be thinking about them after this.

“A souvenir from my biggest fan…” He whispers in your ear and you can feel the intoxicating effect that his voice alone has on you.

His hips slow down for the first time, moving slowly in circles while he catches his breath.

“Shit, Tae… Faster.” You pull his hair like you’re holding on for dear life, as you sense every inch of him making you more dizzy with those slow massaging motions.

“Faster?” He repeats with a sudden powerful slam from his hips, that catches you off guard. “Are you close?” He pulls out almost all the way only to shove himself again, stabbing your g-spot. “Wanna cum… is that it?”

“Yeah…” Your whimper gets lost from the lewd noises when he proceeds to pound into you, but this time rapidly without stopping for a second. The skin on skin slapping merges with Taeyang’s hitched heavy breathing, but he still manages to catch the little broken yes-es coming from underneath him. “Fuck—“

Your mouth remains open, but not because your awaited climax arrives, but because Taeyang pulls out just before it does.

The burning dissatisfaction from what was about to be your most intense orgasm being stolen from you forces you to turn over and wail in your pillow.

“Shhh,” Taeyang turns you back around, slapping your inner thigh with his drenched cock. Your squirmy lips bring a devilish smirk on his face. “It’s not that bad, doll. You can take it.”

A moment later his eyes watch you suspiciously raising up.

You grab the base of his dick determined to take charge.

“I wanted to cum so bad from this pretty cock,” you coo moving your fist up and down, as he rests on his knees in front of you with his unbelievably captivating plump lips and cold gaze.

His face begins to scrunch up from your quickening hand, and the way your playful thumb keeps going over his red tip like it knows just when is the perfect time to do it.

“I’ve never had such a big one in my pussy before…” You add on to his arousal. “Feels nice.”

“Shit,” Taeyang throws his head back. His chest rises heavily while his abs clench from the stimulation. “Just nice?” He lifts up to look at you challengingly. It drives him nuts how you always lit up a fire in his chest by irritating him, and turning him on at the same time.

“Go on…” You provoke him, squeezing the leaky shape of his head. “You’ve called me worse than that.”

Taeyang gulps when you drop his erection only to grip it with your aroused walls instead. You both sigh in sync as you get in contact with the electrifying warmth once again, that now feels ten times more intense.

Although it’s subtle, you don’t miss the change in his expression when you begin to bounce just like you wanted to in the beginning.

“Don’t.” You command the second you sense the presence of his hands on your waist, desperate to regain control. “You’re going to let me do this.”

You quicken your movements, watching him chew on his mouth from the overwhelming rush he desperately tries to keep under control.

“Why…” Taeyang’s voice comes out too breathless to continue his question. The fact your hand wraps around his throat to put pressure on the sides of his neck doesn’t help either. This is the first time he allows something like this, and it makes his heart flutter from an unfamiliar thrill.

“Why what, pretty boy?” You slow down, curious to know what he’s thinking right now.

Taeyang only shakes his head, turning his knuckles white from gripping the sheets. He wants to push you on your back, to cuss at you and fuck you until you’re sore, and can’t mutter a single word to him… but he’s captivated. It’s like every time you touch him you secretly cast a spell on him that he’s unable to break through.

The only thing he could say is…

“Just… keep going.”

You smile, tilting his chin higher to meet his eyes.

The speed of your lower body picks up when you begin to ride him chasing your high - with the head of his cock kissing right where you need it, and the most arousing sounds slipping from his lips that begin to pout with every next move.

“Holy s-shit—“ Taeyang chokes on his moan moving his hands on your waist, but not interrupting your movements. “Y/N…”

“Not yet,” you say, feeling shivers down your spine from the way he pants your name. “Wait for me.” You release his throat, trying your best to keep the rapid pace going.

Taeyang cusses in the crook of your neck where he starts biting harshly to distract himself from how bad he needs to cum, not caring at all that you keep hissing from his sucking.

“Can’t…” he grunts against the wet skin under your earlobe. “Fuck, come on, cream my cock you slut.” He grabs a handful of your hair, and that turns out to be just enough to snap the overwhelming knot in your tummy.

You rock your hips back and forth more slowly, panting as the ecstatic rush passes through your veins when suddenly Taeyang’s weak husky voice surprises you.

“You’re amazingly hot.”

Your two fingers slip through his lips and he allows that too.

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise in advance for any mistakes i’ve might missed

#— writing: p1harmony #— loser(s)#p1harmony smut #p1h smut #p1harmony hard thoughts #p1harmony hard hours #p1h hard thoughts #taeyang hard thoughts #theo hard thoughts #taeyang smut #taeyang x reader #theo smut #theo x reader #piwon smut #piwon x reader

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cellophaine · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter V: BACKCOURT

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: Toxic family dynamic, toxic parents, mild abuse.

Author's Note: Woo this is a longer one (a little over 5k 😬). In this chapter, we dive deep into Reader's background to see how she became the way she is now. Art is not in this chapter much, but I promise he'll be back and his appearance will be delicious.

GIF Source: @/roranicuspond

2021. San Francisco.

4 AM. Two hours felt endless in your sleepless state. You sat up and, after a moment of contemplation, left the bed.

You settled on the couch with a glass of water and turned the TV on. Flipping through the channels, your eyes unfocused over the flashing images. A familiar face appeared for a brief second before vanishing. Your body went still, and your finger rested atop the forward button before reluctantly pressing backward. The image changed again, and Art's face filled your screen once more. His lips moved, but you didn't hear a thing. From the close-up, you could see the small changes in the face you had missed so much. His hair looked longer, and as he dipped his head slightly to hear the interviewer's question better, the movement pulled a strand of dirty blond out of the neat slicked back and drew it over his forehead. He looked much happier than you saw him last. You increased the volume to hear him better.

"I've been busy with the foundation. It's a lot of work, but I find it very fulfilling. I might be retired, but tennis is still an important part of my life, you know? And, of course, spending time with my family–"

The screen turned to black, leaving you to confront yourself. You stared at the empty screen, where Art was seconds ago, at your guilty conscience. After all that time, you were still stupefied at the mere sight of him. Your heart ached in your chest, and you felt a new kind of exhaustion taking over your body. Your loneliness crept along the edge of that guilt as you looked away from your own reflection. This empty apartment used to harbour the presence of another, but that was long gone. It took a while for this place to feel like it belonged to only you again.

A muffled sound of an incoming text came from the bedroom. You rose from the couch and went to retrieve it. The text was from your sister.

Call me when you can.

You opened her contact info and called. Two rings later, she picked up.

"Hey Soph. Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine. Isn't it early for you?"

"It is, but I wasn't sleeping anyway. What's up?"

There was a brief silence on her end. You had a feeling what her call was about before she said it.

"Dad called me. He asked about you, and if you were planning on coming home this Thanksgiving this year."

"And?"

You could hear your sister's soft sigh on the other end.

"He wants to follow up with you on his cut from your second book."

The Dollhouse was partly autobiographical. It took inspiration from your childhood, grew a solid root and allowed the fictional elements to take shape and become the story it was. It spent ten consecutive weeks as number one on the New York Times best sellers list, but the aftermath dulled the achievement. Your parents picked it up, and so did some people they knew, and for a while after that, they sent you texts doused in anger and emails with thinly veiled threats. Most of them came from your dad, all of them explicitly expressed indignation and wrath, and none of them received a response from you.

"He's not getting a penny. The Dollhouse was fictional."

"I told him that, but he wouldn't listen."

"He can take it up to my lawyer."

After a moment, you asked.

"Did mom say anything?"

Your sister fell silent again. Before the release of The Dollhouse, things were already strained between you and your mom, and after, the contact slowed until it ceased to exist. You hadn't talked in a few years, and to you, it was for the best.

2006. Your hometown.

Despite school ending on the 16th, you booked the train ticket home for the 22nd. The early train was quiet as most people in this cabin retreated to their own bubbles. Some read, some slept, and some listened to music with their earbuds. The nerves in your lower abdomen seized, and all of a sudden, the cookie Grace made two days ago became so sickeningly sweet that you had to put it back in the wrapper. You sighed as you looked out into the passing scenery. Home had always been a tough subject for you, and it involved complicated feelings that you couldn't put into words. How could you confide in someone that the idea of going home filled you with a sense of dread?

Standing in front of the door to your childhood home, you took a deep breath and straightened your posture. You rang the doorbell and listened for its muffled echo from the inside. You could see that the TV was on from the bay window with the curtain swept to the side. Your dad was in his usual seat, watching a game. After a moment, you rang again. You watched as your father took a sip of his beer and placed the bottle back on the small table before reclining further into the chair. You heard hurried footsteps making their way to you, and the door opened to reveal Sophie. She excitedly called out your name and pulled you into a tight hug.

"I'm so happy you're here! How was your trip?"

"It was fine. How are you doing?"

"Hanging in there."

Your sister looked relieved now that you were here.

"How are … Mom and Dad?"

You asked, and Sophie caught onto the underlying message.

"Mom is grumpy because Dad's not helping. She's stressed out about the Christmas dinner. She hasn't decided on what to make for dessert."

"Oh, no."

Usually, by this time of Christmas, she already had a detailed plan for the big family dinner on the 25th, from appetizers to desserts to finger food before the dinner started. She prided herself on the Christmas feast, which was hosted by your family every year.

"Yep. Also, the tree hasn't been decorated."

"It's… the 22nd."

"I know. That's why Mom has been in rare form the whole week."

You grimaced. Your sister ran her hands up and down your arms reassuringly.

"You've got this. I'll be here with you."

You nodded, and the two of you headed inside. You dragged your suitcase with you as Sophie announced your arrival, but you were only met with silence. You stopped at the door to the kitchen and took in the chaos. Not a lot of free counter space was spared from the various pots and pans and unfinished dishes. Your mom was standing with her back to you, chopping vegetables and dropping them into the big pot.

"Hi, Mom."

She didn't turn around to acknowledge you, but she addressed you as she took a break from the vegetables to stir a smaller pot.

"I thought your exams were done on the 13th?"

"They were, Mom."

"Then why didn't you come home earlier?"

"I had work."

"I highly doubt that they were so busy that they needed you there."

"But … they were. It's Christmas."

"Almost Christmas. I don't see why you couldn't come home earlier and help me with the housework."

The enunciation in her words was hard to miss. She went back to the cutting board, her movement more precise now, and riddled with more force.

"I booked the train as soon as I was able to."

"My life would have been so much easier if you were a little more thoughtful than that."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I–"

She finally turned to look at you.

"Why are you still standing there? Put your suitcase away before someone trips on it and help me."

Sophie gave you a look of sympathy. You obeyed your mother's dismissal and took your suitcase upstairs to your old bedroom. Your parents made you repaint and fill in the screw marks before you left, and now it had turned into a workspace of some sort. On one side, there was a computer setup with a wooden cabinet filled with files, paper and books. The other side was your bed, with a blue sheet covering the whole bed. You pulled it off and found your old bed sheet, just like how you left it a few months ago. You wheeled the suitcase over to the old dresser, your eyes roaming over the fine layer of dust on its surface. You lowered yourself to the bed, allowing yourself a moment of seclusion away from your parents. You wanted to lay down, to close your eyes, and to escape for a while. Being here for less than ten minutes had left you with a taste of dejection. It'd started to gather in your throat, but you didn't want it to win. You were stronger than this. So you swallowed it down and buried it deep, putting on a smile before heading downstairs to join Sophie and your mother.

Your effort and helping hand in the kitchen didn't improve your mom's mood. She complained about your hair, telling you how much it irritated her eyes and making you put it up with a hair tie. She was there to criticize the ratio of the marinade and the meat, the way you prepared the rolls of grilled beef, and the piping on the cupcakes. It was exhausting, but you kept the smile on your face and did as she said. About two hours later, the fridge was filled with food and prepared ingredients for Christmas day. You went to the washroom to catch a quick break from your mother's nagging and checked your phone. There was a missed call, along with a text from Art.

I hope your trip home was good :). I wanted to call to see how you were doing.

– I'm home now. Sorry I couldn't talk. Maybe later?

He responded within the minute.

Promise?

– Promise.

A short while after that, dinner was served. The preparation was paused for the day. During dinner, you told your parents about Stanford. Your dad was silent for the most part, only responding with a grumble here and there. Your mom, on the other hand, was very inquisitive in a way that made dread grow in the pit of your stomach.

"Did you know you could also take English here? At Lawrence?"

"Yes, I know, but the program is so much better in Stanford."

"So you're telling me Lawrence is not good enough for you? I went to Lawrence."

"I'm not saying that, Mom. At Stanford, the program is really detailed, and they have so much more to offer."

Your dad decided to chime in.

"It's a useless degree anyway. You were born and raised here with English as your first language."

"There's so much more than that, Dad."

He snorted.

"So much more of my money. It's a waste."

"I promised you I'll pay you back. Besides, your money is for the rent for my first year, not tuition."

If it wasn't for the scholarship, you would have never left this place.

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have a place to live."

Your father's friend from college owned the building, so you got the shared apartment at a much cheaper price. Your rent was covered by your dad since you didn't have a lot of money when you started college.

"No, I wouldn't have. I'm really grateful for your help."

"Thank you. Wasn't that so hard?"

Your sister tried to dissolve the tension in the air, and your parents went with it. The attention was taken off of your shoulders, and you were grateful for it.

You went to your sister's bedroom that night to catch up. You sat next to her on the bed while she lay down with her feet propped up against the wall. Grade 11 was proven to be dull and unexciting in the small town. The conversation eventually reared its head back to your parents.

"How do they treat you here?"

You asked, and Sophie sighed.

"They're not too awful most days."

She looked at you, and you could see the empathy in her eyes.

"I don't understand why they're so hard on you."

You shrugged, looking down at your socks.

"I do. Mom has said it so many times. I'm stubborn; I don't listen to them; I wasn't a good kid growing up …"

"So what? It doesn't mean they get to treat you like this."

"Maybe they do. They just want what's best for me."

"The way they show it is not okay. It shouldn't be like that."

A part of you wanted to agree. You wanted, so badly, to believe that you were a good person. Because a good person deserved good things. And if you were the person your parents had made you think you were, then you deserved nothing at all. You gave your sister a reassuring smile despite the doubt in your head.

"I know."

"I'm sorry. It's unfair."

You brushed it off.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault that they prefer you to me. One of us has to be the favourite."

Sophie gave you an incredulous look, and you shared a laugh. You missed this, talking to your sister about anything. She turned to the side, facing you, and braced herself on her elbow.

"So, tell me about Stanford."

By the arch of her eyebrow, you could tell the conversation was going in the direction you weren't exactly thrilled about.

"It's … good. The campus looks nice, but the course work is a lot."

She rolled her eyes.

"That's not what I'm talking about. Has anyone caught your eye yet?"

Your mind went to Art, and you felt a gentle warmth that felt like a ray of sunshine enveloped your heart. You looked away from your sister briefly before uttering one single word.

"No."

Sophie sat up, pushing into your space.

"I can see right through you. You're such a terrible liar."

You kept your lips sealed.

"Come on, tell me."

There truly was no way of denying Sophie's pleading eyes, so you ended up telling her about Art after a few moments of resistance. You watched her expression change as you wrapped up the story.

"Is he your boyfriend now?"

You realized you had never had that talk.

"We … haven't talked about that yet."

"You obviously like him. Why haven't you asked?"

You shrugged noncomittally.

"I don't know. I think a label is unnecessary."

"What if someone swoops in and takes him from you?"

Sophie snapped her fingers, demonstrating the snatching of Art. You held out a hand.

"Okay, first of all, he's not an object that anyone can take. He doesn't belong to me and vice versa. Second of all, if he is so easily … taken away like that, then he never really likes me to begin with, and I'll be better off without him."

It was an upsetting thought, allowing a tendril of doubt to slither in. Sophie shook her head.

"I don't understand you."

"I just feel like we're not there yet, you know? Whenever I'm with him, I feel … seen. There's no expectation that I have to meet. That's enough for me."

"He'd better appreciate you. You're amazing."

You hugged your sister. She had always seen the best in you despite the doubts you had. You weren't entirely sure you were this amazing person your sister seemed to think you were. Breaking away from the hug, you said.

"Speaking of Art, I promised that I would call him earlier."

"Call him here."

"No."

You shook your head vehemently.

"I want to hear his voice at the very least. You don't even have a picture of him."

"No."

You jumped down from her bed, your finger pressed call on his number. Sophie blocked the door while the phone rang. To your luck, Art picked up after the third ring.

"Hey. I thought you wouldn't call."

Your sister squealed, and you had to put a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"Who was that?"

You harshly whispered, asking Sophie to shut up. She enjoyed teasing you so much that she left an opening to the door. You slipped past her, but not before she sneaked the last words in.

"He sounds hot."

"Shush."

You held your phone against your chest as you went back to your room.

"Hey, sorry. That was my sister."

"Ahh. How many siblings do you have?"

"Just the one."

Art sounded sleepy on the other end.

"You sound tired."

"It's– uh … 2 AM here."

You remembered the time difference.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry. It's only 11 PM where I am right now."

"That's okay. I like hearing your voice."

The honest confession sounded like a dream in the slow drawl of his words. Warmth dusted your cheeks, and at that moment, you wanted to ask Art to be exclusive with you. But it was a question better asked in person, you thought. So you held your tongue.

"I like hearing yours too."

His soft, drowsy sighs caressed your ear, and you couldn't contain your smile.

"But seriously, though, you should go to bed."

Art exhaled again, slow and languid, as if he didn't want the call to end. At last, he said with resignation.

"Alright, I'll talk to you later."

"Later. Good night, Art."

The next two days went by so quickly, with even more preparations and decorations for the 25th. Christmas Day finally came, burdened with anticipation. Uncle Eddie arrived with his wife, and Aunt Donna came by herself. The day was long, but it went by smoothly, and you hoped that it would stay like this for the rest of your time here.

Dinner came, everyone settled down, and the twenty questions game began with your uncle leading it.

"How's Stanford?"

"It's good. I'm really enjoying it."

"What is it that you're studying again?"

"English."

Aunt Donna chimed in.

"Oh. Aren't we all speaking English? Why are you taking it?"

"It's so much more than that. I'm learning the history of American literature, how it'll be shaped, and the cultural intersectionality in liberal arts. Uhm, to name a few."

Your dad decided to weigh in with his opinion.

"In other words, fancy school for useless things."

Uncle Eddie picked up from where he left off.

"What do you want to do after school?"

"I want to be a published author."

Your dad sneered.

"Great, another jobless career."

You were taken aback by your dad's downright brash statement, but you maintained the pleasant attitude you'd practiced.

"It'll be hard, but I want to do it. Or give it a try, at least."

"Writing books is not going to pay your bills. When you fail, you're going to run back here and ask me for more money."

"I'm not there yet, so we shall see, huh?"

Your father fixed his angry gaze on you. His nostrils flared, and you knew you had really pissed him off.

"You went to Stanford for one semester, and you already think you can talk back to your own father? You've forgotten your place. You can be ignorant now, but you'll see that I'm right. You'll regret not studying something that's actually useful."

"I'm not talking back to you. I just want to say that it's my life, and I should be able to live it the way I want to. And I'm very grateful that you even gave me the money for rent."

Your mom cut in.

"Grateful? You sure don't show it. And who do you think gave you that life? I did. I gave birth to you. You wouldn't be here arguing with the very people who care about you if it wasn't for me."

You had heard this argument before. Your mother continued.

"The least you can do is listen to me and take my goddamn advice so you won't end up a useless brat."

Sophie's timid voice pulled at the tension.

"Can we just get back–"

But your mother didn't allow her to finish.

"Do you know how much you cost? How much did we spend on your tutors? Private dance and piano lessons so you would have at least some skills for your future self, just for you to skip classes?"

You tried to defend yourself.

"I was 11. I didn't ask for any of it."

Your mom pressed on.

"Everything we've done is for you. But you never showed us gratitude, not even a thank you. And now, you're off to California on the way to a useless job. You will fail, and when you do, don't come to me or your father, for support."

"I will not ask you."

Your quick remark came with the bitterness that could burst at any moment, and you weren't sure if you could contain it.

"I will not take responsibilities for your failure."

At that, you lost it. Your composure, your calmness, your pleasant attitude. All were sucked out of your body, and the only thing left inside was the aggravated animosity. Its rot was spreading through you like wildfire, and you unleashed your anger. Your voice was booming, reverberating through the dining room.

"I'm not asking you to. I've never asked for any of this!"

"Shut up!"

Your dad roared. You barely dodged the gravy boat he threw at you. The ceramic bowl hit your shoulder, splashing what was left of the gravy onto your arm. The sauce wasn't as hot as it was ten minutes ago, only left a dull burn on your skin, soaking through the holes in your sweater. You sat still, not daring to move, as your body became paralyzed by what had just happened. Your sister immediately got up, only to be shut down by your dad.

"Sit down, Sophie! It's what she gets for being disrespectful."

Your mom added.

"Eat your food, Sophie. Let her think about what she's done. She's ruined dinner. She just had to make everything about her."

Aunt Donna patted your hand where the gravy didn't reach, a patronizing tone dripped in her voice.

"We're just very concerned about your future, dear. No need to yell."

Your mom and dad's voices started to blend together as they continued.

"When you crawl back from California because your dream doesn't work out, don't expect a penny from us."

"How is it that you find our life so beneath you?"

You stared at your plate, willing your tears not to fall. The conversation around you continued in apprehension, with everyone ignoring you. Your sister grabbed your hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. But you didn't have the strength to squeeze back.

You half listened to your surroundings as everything your parents said kept regurgitating like a fire alarm that wouldn't stop screeching long after the fire was gone. Your body went numb, and exhaustion draped over you like a weighted blanket. You only stood up after the adults had left the dining room with their dishes on the table, understandably for you to clean up. Sophie helped you with the task.

"Are you okay? Does it burn?"

You shook your head.

"I'll be fine. It's not that bad."

"It doesn't look fine."

You stopped dead in your movement, and without looking at your sister, you said.

"Sophie. I just want to do the dishes, and then head upstairs. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"You don't deserve it."

But what if you did? You received exactly what you needed, a punishment that reminded you of the facts: you were worthless, and your future was bleak and aimless. You avoided answering Sophie, instead directing all of your attention to the dirty dishes.

Later on that evening, after your aunt and uncle had left, you headed to the living room, where your parents were, with an envelope in hand. You held it out to them.

"Here's my actual gift for you."

Your dad reached for it without a word. He opened and counted the bills. Your mom got up and retrieved a familiar notebook before settling down next to your dad.

"$1,227."

Your mom wrote the number into the accounting book. After setting it aside, she stared at you for a long time before finally breaking the silence.

"You embarrassed us today."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For … talking back, and disrespecting you in front of aunt Donna and uncle Eddie."

Your mom thought about it for a moment. You hated this feeling. You knew she knew that she had the advantage, and she was making this as painful as possible.

"Hm. Have you learned nothing?"

"No, I have–"

"Do you know remember what I told you in high school? About our method of discipline?"

"Yes, I do."

"Remind me again?"

You swallowed thickly.

"You said– you said you stopped hitting me because … I was old enough to know better."

"Right. But it seems like you haven't learned anything. You still don't know better. You've always done whatever you want, you don't care about anyone, not even your own parents. Who took care of you whenever you were sick, huh? Who worked tirelessly so that you could have a roof over your head, clothes on your body, food in your stomach? And this is how you repay us?"

Your head dipped in shame.

"I'm sorry. I will do better. What can I do to show you that?"

Your dad hadn't said a word, but the disapproving glare he gave you said everything you already knew.

"You always say that you're sorry but nothing has ever changed. Get out of my sight. You're making my eyes itch."

You retreated to your room, and a moment later, Sophie knocked on your door. Her comforting presence was much needed as you drew into yourself on the bed and tried your hardest not to cry.

"I can't stay here."

"I can ask Shelly–"

You shook your head.

"No, they'll know. I can't stay here. I don't want to. I want to leave."

Sophie slid in next to you and pulled you into her arms.

"Okay, okay. I'll take you to the train station tomorrow."

After putting your clothes back into the suitcase, you sat there in your childhood bedroom, not knowing what else to do. You felt hollow, as if your insides were carved and gutted empty, and you were left with only this shell of a body. The skin where the gravy touched didn't throb as much anymore, leaving only a dull pain. Your heart was aching as if someone had taken hold and crushed it in between their palm. You wanted this feeling to go away, to disappear, so you could forget about it, so it would stop hurting. Overcame with the thought of needing some comfort, you didn't stop to think twice as you reached for your phone and dialled Art's number. You needed to hear his voice, to be reminded of what would be waiting for you when the next semester started. The ring went on and on, and when you thought he wouldn't pick up, he did. You sat up straighter.

"Art. Hi. Merry … Christmas."

The background on his end was noisy. You could hear his name being called.

"Merry Christmas."

It seemed like you had called him at the wrong time.

"Are you … are you at a party?"

"It's not really a party, just a get-together at my house. Patrick is here, and we're drinking this thing that we stole from my dad's liquor cabinet …"

He trailed off as a hiccup filled in the gap.

"It's making my head spin a little, I'm not gonna lie."

"Oh. I'm glad you're having fun."

Your voice dropped, and Art caught onto it even in his inebriated state.

"Are you okay? You sound … sad."

You didn't even realize how obvious it was, so you cleared your throat and responded in a more cheerful tone.

"I'm okay."

Art called your name softly.

"You don't sound okay. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry for bothering you. Bye."

You hung up the phone. Seconds later, Art's call came by, and you watched as it rang and ended. Then, a text message came through.

I'm sorry, I'm a little tipsy to talk right now. I'll call you tomorrow.

You tucked your phone under the pillow, not wanting to look at it anymore. You tried to clear your head and think about something else. Still, your mind insisted on reliving the mistakes after mistakes you had made today. Exhaustion eventually took over, easing you into a fitful sleep.

You left without saying goodbye to your parents the next day. Sophie gave you a ride to the station, and by 5 PM, you were on the train back to Palo Alto. You received a call from Art. Just the sight of his name raised a storm of conflicting emotions in you, but the side that craved his affection overturned the other. You picked up after several rings.

"Hey. Sorry about last night. I didn't know my limit."

"That's okay. I shouldn't have called anyway."

"No, no, I'm glad you called. How was your Christmas?"

"It was fine. Are you preparing to go to the ski resort?"

You kept your voice level, hoping that you didn't give away anything like you did last night.

"Yep. We're heading there tomorrow."

The crackle of the announcement system broke out over your head, notifying you of your final stop. You were about to wish him a good trip, but Art spoke before you could get it out.

"Wait, where are you right now?"

You couldn't bring yourself to answer, but Art was determined to get it from you.

"Are you going back to Stanford?"

"Sorry, I have to go."

You ended the call. Almost immediately, Art's name appeared on the screen. You declined. Seconds later, he sent you a text.

Pick up. Please.

After shutting down his third call, you turned off your device. You went back to your apartment. It was empty. Your roommates wouldn't be here until school started, so you'd have the whole place to yourself. You felt an immense relief as you finally got to be alone, and you would be for at least another week. You didn't bother unpacking; instead, you headed for your room. After changing into something more comfortable, you crawled under the cover and pulled it to cover your head. Only then you allowed yourself to cry until you couldn't anymore, until the sobs that came out of you were reduced to soundless whimpers. Sleep came easier this time.

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