#get a loan using car as collateral

[badjokesbyjeff]

A blonde walks in a bank to get a loan. “I need to borrow $100 for a month,” she says. 

The banker frowns, but takes her information anyway. He runs her credit but can’t find a report. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but in the absence of a credit record, we’ll have to charge 20% interest on the loan, and you’ll need to put up collateral.

“What does that mean?” the blonde says.

“It means,” the banker says, “you’ll have to repay us $120, and you’ll need to give us something more valuable to hold onto until you pay us back.”

“Something more valuable?” The blonde says. “How about my Ferrari?”

The banker nearly snorts his coffee all over his desk, but he prides himself on customer service so he soldiers on. He runs the title on the Ferrari and what do you know, the blonde owns it free and clear. “Okay, he says, “I’ll print out the papers.”

“Just so I understand,” the blonde says, “I give you my Ferrari and you give me a hundred dollars, right? And then in a month, I give you $120 and you give me my Ferrari back?”

“Yes,” the banker says, “that’s the deal.”

She signs the paperwork and hands him the keys. He counts out $100 for her and watches her saunter out the door.

A month to the day later, he’s sitting at his desk when the blonde saunters back in. She hands him $120 and says “I get my car back, right?”

“Yep, he says as he hands her the keys. She turns to go but he stops her. “Miss, I really have to ask, why did you use a $140,000 car as collateral on a $100 loan?”

“Oh!” The blonde says. “I got called out of town unexpectedly on business. How else can I park a Ferrari for a month in Manhattan for only $20?”

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

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

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

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

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

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

MASTERLIST HERE

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

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

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

Life debts.

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

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

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

He will never be able to wash them clean.

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

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

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

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

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

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

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

They were late.

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

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

The stupid, greasy fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

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

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

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

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

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

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

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

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

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

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

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

But you owed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

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

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

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

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

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

Take your trouble somewhere else.

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

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

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

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

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

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

The Kizuki.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

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

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

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

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

Or so he tells himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

Step.

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

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“This can’t be your dream life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Read that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“You look like shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

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

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

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

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

“Dunno. Curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As long as it was more than this.

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

———

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

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

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

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

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

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

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

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

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

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

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

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

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

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

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

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

A cop-out, is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True love.

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

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

He wants out.

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

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he turns and leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in love with Sanemi.

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

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

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

You won’t.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe; you were safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter how much he wanted to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will rot you from the inside, out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, you just did.

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

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

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

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

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

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

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

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

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

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

“You don’t owe me anything —“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want more, and he needs you, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More. He needs more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am ready -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he needs to see you, first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

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

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

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

But he can try.

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

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

When private equity destroys your hospital

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW in PHOENIX (Changing Hands, Feb 29) then Tucson (Mar 9-10), San Francisco (Mar 13), and more!

As someone who writes a lot of fiction about corporate crime, I naturally end up spending a lot of time being angry about corporate crime. It's pretty goddamned enraging. But the fiction writer in me is especially upset at how cartoonishly evil the perps are – routinely doing things that I couldn't ever get away with putting in a novel.

Beyond a doubt, the most cartoonishly evil characters are the private equity looters. And the most cartoonishly evil private equity looters are the ones who get involved in health care.

(Buckle up.)

Writing for The American Prospect, Maureen Tcacik details a national scandal: the collapse of PE-backed hospital chain Steward Health, a company that bought and looted hospitals up and down the country, starving them of everything from heart valves to prescription paper, ripping off suppliers, doctors and nurses, and callously exposing patients to deadly risk:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-02-27-scenes-from-bat-cave-steward-health-florida/

Steward occupies a very special place in the private equity looting cycle. Private equity companies arrange themselves on a continuum of indiscriminate depravity. At the start of the continuum are PE funds that buy productive and useful firms (everything from hospitals to car-washes) using "leveraged buyouts." That means that they borrow money to buy the company and use the company itself as collateral: it's like you getting a bank-loan to buy your neighbor's mortgage out from under them, and using your neighbor's house as collateral for that loan.

Once the buyout is done, the PE fund pays itself a "special dividend" (stealing money the business needs to survive) and then starts charging the business a "management fee" for the PE fund's expertise. To pay for all this, the PE bosses start to hack away at the company. Quality declines. So do wages. Prices go up. The company changes suppliers, opting for cheaper alternatives, often stiffing the old company. There are mass layoffs. The remaining employees end up doing three peoples' jobs, for lower wages, with fewer materials of lower quality.

Eventually, that top-feeding PE company finds a more desperate, more ham-fisted PE company to unload the business onto. That middle-feeding company also does a leveraged buyout, pays itself another special dividend, cuts wages, staffing and quality even further. They switch to even worse suppliers and stiff the last batch. Prices go up even higher.

Then – you guessed it – the middle-feeding PE company finds an even more awful PE bottom-feeder to unload the company onto. That bottom feeder does it all again, without even pretending to leave the business in condition to do its job. The company is a shambling zombie at this point, often producing literal garbage in place of the products that made its reputation. Employees' paychecks bounce, or don't show up at all. The company stops bothering to pay the lawyers that have been fending off its creditors. Those lawyers sue the company, too.

That's the kind of PE company Steward Health was, and, as the name suggests, Steward Health is in the business of stripping away the very last residue of value from community hospitals. As you might imagine, this gets pretty fucking ugly.

Steward owns 32 hospitals up and down the country, though its holdings are dwindling as the company walks away from its debt-burdened holdings, after years of neglect that have rendered them unfit for use as health facilities – or for any other purpose. Tcacik's piece offers a snapshot of one such hospital: Florida's Rockledge Regional Medical Center, just eight miles from Cape Canaveral.

Rockledge is a disaster. The fifth floor was, at one point, home to 5,000 bats.

Five.

Thousand.

Bats.

(Rockledge stiffed the exterminators.)

The bats were just the beginning. One of the internal sewage pipes ruptured. Whole sections of the hospital were literally full of shit, oozing out of the walls and ceiling, slopping over medical equipment.

That's an urgent situation for any hospital, but for Rockledge, it's catastrophic, because Rockledge is a hospital without any hospital supplies. Steward has stiffed the companies that supply "heart valves, urology lasers, Impella catheters, cardiac catheterization balloons, slings for lifting heavier patients, blood and urine test reagents, and most recently, prescription paper." Key medical equipment has been repossessed. So have the Pepsi machines. The hospital cafeteria had its supply of cold cuts repossessed:

https://www.reddit.com/r/massachusetts/comments/1agc1j4/comment/kolicqo/

It's not just Steward's nonpayments that reek of impending doom. Its payments also bear the hallmarks of a scam artist on the brink of blowing off the con. The company recently paid off a vendor with five separate checks for $1m, each drawn on "a random hospital in Utah" (Steward recently walked away from its Utah hospitals; its partners there are suing it for stealing $18m on their way out the door).

This company – which owns 32 hospitals! – has resorted to gambits like sending photos of fake checks to doctors it hasn't paid in months as "proof" that the money was coming (the checks arrived 22 days later).

Steward owes so much money to its employees – $1.66m to just one doctors' group. But the medical staff keep doing their jobs, and are reluctant to speak on the record, thanks to Steward's reputation for vicious retaliation. Those health workers keep showing up to take care of patients, even as the hospital crumbles around them. One clinician told Tcacik: "I watched a bed collapse underneath a [patient] who had just undergone hip surgery."

Rockledge has nine elevators, but only five of them work – the other four have been broken for a year. The hospital's fourth floor has been converted to "a graveyard of broken beds." The sinks are clogged, or filled with foul gunk. There's black mold. Nurses have noted on the maintenance tags that the repair service refuses to attend the hospital until their overdue bills are paid. The fifteen-person on-site maintenance team was cut to just two workers.

Steward is just the latest looting owner of Rockledge. After the Great Financial Crisis, private equity consultants helped sell it to Health Management Associates. The hospital's CEO took home a $10m bonus for that sale and exited; Health Management Associates then quickly became embroiled in a Medicare fraud and kickback scandal. Soon after, Rockledge was passed on to Community Health Systems, who then sold it on to Rockledge.

Steward, meanwhile, was at that time owned by an even bigger private equity giant, Cerberus, which then sold Steward off. That deal was performatively complex and hid all kinds of mischief. Prior to Cerberus's sell-off of Steward, they sold off Steward's real-estate. The buyer was Medical Properties Trust, who gave Cerberus $1.25b for the real-estate: three hospitals in Florida and three more in Ohio. Steward then contracted to operate these hospitals on MPT's behalf, and pay MPT rent for the real-estate.

This complex arrangement was key to siphoning value out of the hospital and to keeping angry creditors at bay – if you can't figure out who owes you money, it's a lot harder to collect on the debt. The scheme was masterminded by Steward founder/CEO Ralph de la Torre. De la Torre is notorious for taking a massive dividend out of the company while it owed $1.4b to its creditors. He bought a $40m yacht with the money.

De la Torre was once feted as a business genius who would "disrupt" healthcare. But as Steward's private jet hops around "Corfu, Santorini, St. Maarten and Antigua" as its hospitals literally crumble, he's becoming less popular. In Massachusetts, politicians have railed against Steward and de la Torre (Governor Healey wants the company to leave the state "as soon as possible").

Florida, by contrast, is much more friendly to Steward. The state Health and Human Services Committee chair Randy Fine is an ardent admirer of hospital privatization and is currently campaigning to sell off the last community hospital in Brevard County. The state inspectors are likewise remarkably tolerant of Steward's little peccadillos. The quasi-governmental agency that inspects hospitals has awarded this shit-and-bat-filled, elevator-free, understaffed rotting hulk "A" grades for quality.

These inspectors jointly represent a mismatched assortment of private and public agencies, dominated by a nonprofit called Leapfrog, the brainchild of Harvard public-health prof Lucian Leape, who founded it in 2000. Leapfrog likes to tout its "transparent" assessment criteria, and Steward are experts at hitting those criteria, spending the exact minimum to tick every box that Leapfrog inspectors use as proxies for overall quality and safety.

This is a pretty great example of Goodhart's Law: "every measurement eventually becomes a target, whereupon it ceases to be a good measurement":

https://xkcd.com/2899/

But despite Steward's increasingly furious creditors and its decaying facilities, the company remains bullish on its ability to continue operations. Medical Properties Trust – the real estate investment trust that is nominally a separate company from Steward – recently hosted a conference call to reassure Wall Street investors that it would be a going concern. When a Bank of America analyst asked MPT's CFO how this could possibly be, given the facility's dire condition and Steward's degraded state, the CFO blithely assured him that the company would get bailouts: "We own hospitals no one wants to see closed."

That's the thing about PE and health-care. The looters who buy out every health-care facility in a region understand that this makes them too big to fail: no matter how dangerous the companies they drain become, local governments will continue to prop them up. Look at dialysis, a market that's been cornered by private equity rollups. Today, if you need this lifesaving therapy, there's a good chance that every accessible facility is owned by a private equity fund that has fired all its qualified staff and ceased sterilizing its needles. Otherwise healthy people who visit these clinics sometimes die due to operator error. But they chug along, because no dialysis clinics is worse that "dialysis clinics where unqualified sadists sometimes kill you with dirty needles":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-dirty-business-of-clean-blood

The bad news is that private equity has thoroughly colonized the entire medical system. They took hospitals, fired the doctors, then took over the doctors' groups that provided outsource staff to the hospital:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/04/a-mind-forever-voyaging/#prop-bets

It's illegal for private equity companies to own doctors' practices (doctors have to own these), but they obfuscated the crime with a paper-thin pretext that they got away with despite its obvious bullshittery:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/21/profitable-butchers/#looted

The financier who decides whether you live or die depends on an algorithm that literally sets a tolerable level of preventable deaths for the patients trapped in the practice:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/05/any-metric-becomes-a-target/#hca

Private equity also took over emergency rooms and boobytrapped them with "surprise billing" – junk fees that ran to thousands of dollars that you had to pay even if the hospital was in network with your insurer. They made billions from this, and spent a many millions from that booty keeping the scam alive with scare ads:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/21/all-in-it-together/#doctor-patient-unity

The whole health stack is colonized by private equity-backed monopolies. Even your hospital bed!

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/05/hillrom/#baxter-international

Then there's residential care. Private equity cornered many regional markets on nursing homes and turned them into slaughterhouses, places where you go to die, not live:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/23/acceptable-losses/#disposable-olds

The palliative care sector is also captured by private equity. PE bosses hire vast teams of fast-talking salespeople who con vulnerable older people into entering an end-of-life system before they are ready to die. Thanks to loose regulation, the nation is filled with fake hospices that can rake in millions from Medicare while denying all care to their patients (hospice patients don't get life-extending medication or procedures, by definition):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/26/death-panels/#what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-CMS

If you survive this long enough, Medicare eventually tells the hospice that you're clearly not dying and you get kicked off their rolls. Now you have to go through the lengthy bureaucratic nightmare of convincing the system – which was previously informed that you were at death's door – that you are actually viable and need to start getting care again (good luck with that).

If that kills you, guess what? Private equity has rolled up funeral homes up and down the country, and they will scam your survivors just as hard as the medical system that killed you did:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/09/high-cost-of-dying/#memento-mori

The PE sector spent more than a trillion dollars over the past decade buying up healthcare companies, and it has trillions more in "dry powder" allocated for further medical acquisitions. Why not? As the CFO of Medical Properties Trust told that Bank of America analyst last week, when you "own hospitals no one wants to see closed." you literally can't fail, no matter how many people you murder.

The PE sector is a reminder that the crimes people commit for money far outstrip the crimes they commit for ideology. Even the most ideological killers are horrified by the murders their profit-motivated colleagues commit.

Last year, Tkacic wrote about the history of IG Farben, the German company that built Monowitz, a private slave-labor camp up the road from Auschwitz to make the materiel it was gouging Hitler's Wehrmacht on:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

Farben bought the cheapest possible slaves from Auschwitz, preferentially sourcing women and children. These slaves were worked to death at a rate that put Auschwitz's wholesale murder in the shade. Farben's slaves died an average of just three months after starting work at Monowitz. The situation was so abominable, so unconscionable, that the SS officers who provided outsource guard-labor to Monowitz actually wrote to Berlin to complain about the cruelty.

The Nuremberg trials are famous for the Nazi officers who insisted that they were "just following order" but were nonetheless executed for their crimes. 24 Farben executives were also tried at Nuremberg, where they offered a very different defense: "We had a fiduciary duty to our shareholders to maximize our profits." 19 of the 24 were acquitted on that basis.

PE is committed to an ideology that is far worse than any form of racial animus or other bias. As a sector, it is committed to profit above all other values. As a result, its brutality knows no bounds, no decency, no compassion. Even the worst crimes we commit for hate are nothing compared to the crimes we commit for greed.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/retaliation#charnel-house

[nerdieforpedro]

Sure inside, but will you stay for more after we’re done?

Chapter 5 of Weddings 101 with Dieter

This fic and my blog overall is for readers 18+ MDNI

Dieter Bravo x Maya (plus size AFAB OFC)

Word Count: about 4.7k (We’re back! Sort of! 😆)

Summary: Oscar comes up with another plot for Dieter. He’s fine with collateral damage. Maya and Dieter finally make good on their constant flirting but there will be ramifications beyond just the villa. Enter Vanessa joins the fray!

Warnings: plots, angst, unprotected p in v (wrap it up people), oral sex (male and female receiving), fingering, Spanish (because Nerdie wanted it), overstimulation, birth control mention, paparazzi

Notes: I did not realize I had not updated this since last December! 😑 I am so sorry. I wanted to really dig into what Dieter and Maya’s mindsets are and focus heavily on events that transpire. I totally have a plan for this fic. (Narrator: Nerdie believes she does but she really doesn’t. But you gotta believe first right? It’s 50% of the equation.)

Main Masterlist / Dieter Bravo Masterlist / Weddings 101 with Dieter Series

The rest of dinner settles down and the couple can eat their food, happy that Oscar was gone. Dieter and Maya enjoyed their evening, soon blocking Oscar out of their minds. They shared drinks, food and more laughs. Walking to the car, Maya kissed the small heart in Dieter’s beard and told him “corázon.” Bravo told her to be careful with what she says, many words in Spanish aren’t just direct translations. They also have different meanings, though he wouldn’t tell her how strong of a word it was. It could mean a lover or your soulmate and not just an anatomical heart. He wasn’t sure if he could say it because that might mean he’d need to confront feelings he’s been having the last few days for the woman he wants to keep smiling and laughing. Dieter made a joke instead about placing his hand over her heart, touching the swell of her breast. She pinched his cheek as they got in the car to go back to the villa.

Dieter Bravo might be confronted with an issue he hadn’t had since Cliff Beasts 2: The return of the Primordial Terrors. Has he fallen this fast?

The guitar player had found something he could use though. He wasn’t aware that Bravo had anyone significant in his life - no mention of this Maya woman. He asked his people to look into it, he needed more information. “Talk about my ass Bravo? I got yours.” Oscar squinted at a picture taken of the two of them. His assistant chimed in that maybe that line wasn’t as menacing as he thought, but Oscar waved him off. He’s Oscar Isaac, he always knows what to say. Stupid Dieter. Stupid goat. He wouldn’t call the woman stupid, just likely misguided by who she thinks is someone cool. Dieter isn’t cool at all, he’s a washed up actor who’s making some money with his splashes of oil on a canvas for some pretentious douches. That shaggy bastard does make money from his art though, he couldn’t dispute that.

He may be able to use this Maya woman to get to Dieter. Oscar knew about the optics of Dieter having a woman by his side who doesn’t look like any of the women the actor had been seen with previously. He could leak their photos, he had another assistant snap pictures of them together. Had Oscar liked Dieter at all, he’d be happy for they guy in that he looks giddy with the Maya woman, but revenge is best served cold and she’s going to be collateral damage.

“Now that I think about it, Hanri. Send the pictures Alexis took over to TMZ, Entertainment Tonight and everyone. Dieter Bravo has taken his lady love on a trip to Hawaii. Who is she? Why is she? How is she?”

Hanri hesitated, staring at his boss with concern, him having his pissing match with Dieter was one thing, but never had he gotten other people involved. This was a new low, if the pay wasn’t so high, he’d quit but those student loans for the Arts Institute weren’t going to pay themselves. “Sir, are you sure? This seems…”

“Let the vultures cook Hanri.”

Hanri sent the pictures of Maya and Dieter like Oscar wanted. Soon there would be all the buzz from the press and hopefully no one would find out the source.

Dieter and Maya arrived at the villa, giddy from the night aside from the ‘half-ass’ incident. Watching as she kicked off her shoes, Bravo wondered if this was the right time, she spun around her champagne dress in front of the couch. They had been pawing at each other in the car the entire time, Dieter had been nipping at Maya’s neck, giving her more tastes of his lips. He wanted to have his hands in more places on her but they weren’t back at the villa yet.

Upon arrival, she noticed his soft gaze on her, “Dieter you look like you’re thinking way too hard. Come on.” Maya didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t need to, she’s in paradise with a man she’d never meet otherwise. It’s not wrong at all to want him and if the car ride was any indication, Dieter was more than fine with what she planned tonight. For once she wouldn’t worry or put herself into knots about what might happen, she’d accept the flow. Tugging on his hand, she led him upstairs, “Which room should we go into Dee?” Her hands cupped his face while pulling him close outside of her own room. Dieter’s hands went to her waist, he’d never questioned if he should sleep with someone before, if now wasn’t the right time, then when? Would Maya want to if they didn’t now? But why was he really hesitating?

I want to fucking savor her, but I don’t have time. How can I have more time?

“We’ll start in your room then move to mine Almond Joy. If you’re able to, that is.”

I’ll just have to make it count. So she’ll want more like I want more. I’m good at that.

“That’s quite a promise, Dieter. My sweet fluffy man. Come inside here with me.” Dieter followed Maya into her bedroom and placed his hands on her shoulders facing her toward the floor length mirror that had been on the wall next to the walk-in closet.

“Maya, you’re welcome to tell me no at any time and I’ll stop. You want to continue right?” His hands skimmed her arms and settled back on her hips. Maya nodded.

“Yes, but why am I facing the mirror? We should be on the-”

“We don’t need to be the entire time and I want you to see what I see, especially when I take this dress off of you. We’re going to do it my way.” Bravo smirked, his lips nibbled on her earlobe and she sighed, placing her palms flat on her thighs to have them ground her, she’s never watched herself like this.

“Didn’t realize you could be so bossy. Dieter. Alright, show me what you see then.” She was able to keep her voice even, but her eyes betrayed her anxiety. Dieter would continue because even if this might only happen once, he told himself he’d be the one to show her how she should be viewed.

“Gladly.” The parting of a zipper and cool air tickling Maya back made her shiver before Dieter’s fingers were lifting the thin straps of her dress off her shoulders. He didn’t drop them, his lips pecked each shoulder where they had been sitting before lowering slowly exposing her breasts. Almond Joy was able to see how wide his eyes became, felt him speak a soft “Eres muy bonita (You’re very beautiful) Maya,” he let the straps fall and told her to keep her hands on her thighs to hold the dress up over the bottom half of her body. His hands traced up her arms and cupped her heavy breasts grasping them lightly as he felt Maya lean back against him, a deep groan releasing from her chest. He used his nose to trace a circle on her neck, his eyes looked up at the mirror. Maya’s eyes were closed and her legs widened to accommodate his bulge. “Mira (look) hermosa.” He told her, his hips were grinding into her, but he reminded himself to slow down, he can’t just bend her over. His mind is screaming for it but savoring is what he’s doing tonight.

Opening her eyes, she viewed their bodies in the mirror in a slow loop, with them flush against each other. He was solely focused on her, making her watch as she became louder from the pads of his fingers on her nipples. Her knees buckled and one of Dieter’ hands dropped from her breasts crossed her torso to brace her as he licked the back of her neck. “Estas bien (Are you alright)?” He asked despite knowing the answer, she smiled and reached up and behind his head to grab a hand full of his hair.

“You know damn well I’m not. Dieter, can we move to the bed now?” Feeling the rumble both in his chest and against her skin as he released a purr from her touch, she gasped.

“Give me one more thing.” He whispered as he tugged her dress down and moved the both of them forward toward the mirror only a few feet away, “Well, two things.” Dieter crouched down and slowly peeled her panties down.

“D-Dieter wait!”

“This happens before we move to the bed Maya. Just let me do this.” He looked straight in the mirror as she watched him continue to move them down and then had her step out of them. She stood before him and herself in this mirror naked. Everything, all the rolls, stretchmarks, scars on display, she wanted a sheet, towel, shirt, anything to cover up. But Bravo wouldn’t allow it and had his hands rubbing circles into her thighs. “You’re beautiful Maya. I knew what I was looking at in that airport. I wanted you to know Toblerone.” Covering her face with her hands, Maya took a deep breath and exhaled. He’s making this so difficult. I’m not supposed to be thinking. I just wanted a romp or two. Why does he have to be so…What am I gonna do? Standing back up, Dieter took her hands in his and turned them both to the side in the mirror. “Considering I got you naked, it’s only fair you do the same right?” He had that same crooked grin when they’d met near the customer service counter as he held Daisy in his arms and she thought he was insane then. Maya was considering she might be the crazy one here for entertaining any possibility of seeing him after this wedding.

“Agonizingly kind and fucking sexy jerk.” Maya quickly had Dieter out of his shirt and her hands tickled the scant hair on his chest, Dieter attempted to make a joke about a bad wax job decades ago but she placed a finger to his lips. “You’re gorgeous, Dieter. Let me feel you too.” He let her continue. Hooking his pants in her hands, she flopped them down and squatted, but couldn’t quite hold it so she flattened his pants out to place beneath her knees. Dieter held her hands as she steadied herself and kneeled eye to tip with the source of his swollen bulge.

“Maya don’t feel you have to-”

“I want to, and we’re supposed to be appreciating each other aren’t we?” Releasing one of her hands allowed her to place it on his shaft, warm in her hand, she grinned, now seeing Dieter unravel a bit. Pecking the tip, her tongue claimed the precum that had gathered before making a trail down to the base, having her hand cup his balls. Dieter moaned loudly, trying to hold himself still. Making her way slowly from the base of his cock, her teeth nibbled briefly on the wrinkled skin. She kissed the head again before opening her mouth wide and taking him in her mouth a third of the way. Just watching her, Dieter felt himself twitching inside of her mouth as she sucked, he held her hand tighter before moving his hips forward in a small thrust. Knowing he wouldn’t last like this, he deemed this safer than where he really wanted to come. Maya took him deeper, now half way as her cheeks were hollowing out.

“Just a bit more…” Dieter began moving his hips faster, feeling himself so close. Maya could tell and kept going, she wanted to drink him in. The thought of it, his moans and the heat in her mouth was going right to her core as she rubbed her thighs together for any friction. His hand cupped the side of her face as he gave her some irregular thrusts and groaned as he climaxed. Hearing her gulp had him repeating small ‘fucks’ until he finished. He drew back and pulled her up by the hand that he never let go to him. Maya was a bit dazed, getting her air back and turned her face away to which Dieter cupped hers with both hands. “Maya you’re perfect.” Tasting himself on her lips had him push her back toward the bed, where she wanted to be in the first place. “It’s your turn now cariño (sweetheart).” Dieter slunk halfway down her body before she grabbed his shoulders.

“You don’t have to. Your fingers might be a bit much..” He frowned, what sort of request was that?

“If you can’t handle my fingers, how are you planning to have me inside of you?” In protest, two of his fingers part her wet folds and he watched her hold in a moan.

“I don’t do well with fingers other than my own so we can just wait.” Dieter could tell she was serious which made him even more confused until it clicked. He nodded, but had one finger stroke her entrance, not pushing in yet. He needed to prove another point, though this one might be more out of anger at those before than just focused on just her pleasure.

“Let me just try one and if you don’t like it, then I’ll stop, okay?” He gave her the pitiful ‘baby cow’ eyes, holding contact with her honey ones as his finger entered her slowly. He felt her tense and he paused until she relaxed again. “How is it so far?”

“O-Okay. You can go further.” Maya is completely unsure why he’s focusing so much on this. Her body was one thing and she’d never held a man's hand while she went down on them. All of it felt so much more intimate and not helping her state of mind she felt. It also wasn’t helping that Dieter was moving back toward her breast and taking once in his mouth while looking right at her. She was starting to wonder if they teach that in some acting class - eye contact like that or if that’s just Dieter’s skill. His finger began moving back and forth slowly, it was quiet but he could hear the sounds of her accepting his finger and her whimpers after he added another one. They grew louder, his lips moving toward her collarbone above her breast, “Dee that’s too many…”

“It’s not Almond Joy and you’re going to need at least another one.” Dieter captured her neck again and continued working on a hickey he had started in the car. Adding one more finger stretched her further so he slowed down and curled them upward, making her hips lift off the bed toward his hand. He smiled into her neck as she squeezed his fingers and her hips moved slowly, she was trying to keep still as he had previously, but it was clear her control was worse than his. Placing his mouth next to her ear, “You’re so responsive Maya and you were already wet from taking care of me. It’s just me and you. Come.” With a loud scream, Maya drenched Dieter’s fingers and he kept moving them slowly until her body fully settled.

“You…Dieter…H-How…” She could only look at the ceiling. Just with his damn fingers and they felt wonderful. “How in the world…” Her chest rose and fall, she looked down to see Bravo licking his fingers clean and she felt herself clench around nothing. He’s insanely good at making her do that. Dieter was taking extra time to get in between each of his fingers, just to show off and to buy time. He was only half hard, not fully recovered yet. It would allow for one more thing. Grabbing her legs under the back of her knees, he parted her legs and placed them on his shoulders. “W-Wait! It’s too sensitive Dee…” She watched as his face inched closer to her mound kissing it before aiming lower and sniffing, exhaling purposefully blowing on her clit. “Haah…fuck it’s…dammit it Dee…” Maya’s legs shook, trying to get free from his grasp but he held tight. She also tried to wiggle her hips away from him but he bent her legs a bit further back spreading her further.

“Kit Kat, you’re not getting away. Maya you’ll remember what this feels like. What I give to my sweet girl when she lets me take care of her properly.” Her hands that had been gripping the sheets, released them. She closed her eyes. He wants me to remember? I already won’t forget any of this. This is orgasmic torture already and he hasn’t even….Fine. Just fine. Bending forward, she’s pressing her thighs down on Dieter’s shoulders. He held steady as her hands dug into his hair, tugging on his curls. He groans, biting into her thigh, “Jokes on you, I enjoy my hair being pulled. Manipulate me more Almond Joy.”

She can’t respond with anything other than a moan. The small circles his tongue is making around her clit has her babbling a mix of Dieter's name and curses. The more she pulls on his hair, the further he pushes his face into her core, moving his tongue from her clit to her entrance. He traces it gingerly at first before beginning to lap gently up her slit. Maya feels his groan vibrate within her, causing her hips to buck. It’s then that Bravo pauses to give her a short break. “D-Dieter…you…fuck..” Is all she’s able to pant before he returns to her wetness, this time using his tongue to explore the crevices she has within, feeling her tighten around his tongue already. For his part, he’s been grinding himself into the sheets, leaking pre-cum once more. Dieter’s ready, but he desires to see her gush for him. Have her slick so he’ll slide right in. With a cry and curving of her back, Maya finds her peak again with his tongue gliding over her clit to help her body through it. Once she starts to relax, Dieter pulls back and crawls up next to her, placing an arm around her.

“Maya, you sound heavenly when you’re enjoying yourself. Looks like you can handle fingers and tongue.” Despite being exhausted, she let out a snort. He would make a joke right now. She shook her head and ran her tongue over his lips before kissing him, his saliva mixed with her own gloss made her moan into his mouth. He pulled back as he had something to ask her before they continued, “I don’t have any-” Reaching down and taking hold of the base of his cock, Maya didn’t want any more questions. She needs one more thing from Dieter.

“Sugar lips, I’m on birth control pills. It’s going to be inside.” He thrusts a few times in her hand after she speaks, but she holds him a bit tighter.

“Shit…are you sure? Even if you are we could still-” Another kiss shuts his concern down as Bravo moves above her and she opens her legs for him to settle between. He lets his tip graze her folds and she whines. “Maya, I want to, but-”

Her hands cup his face and she kisses his chin. “I want to be dripping from you Dieter. It’s a horrible idea, but so was getting on a stranger’s jet. I’m not having any regrets. Not anymore. You told me I was worth it so I’m going to be greedy. Let me.”

“I’d be an idiot to say no to that.” Dieter takes hold of his shaft in his hand, pressing just his head inside of her core. With the stretch comes another whine from her and he feels himself twitch, advancing until he halfway in, “Cómo estás cariño (How are you doing sweetheart)?” Her walls quivered with his Spanish and he let out a soft chuckle. “You like that Maya?” Her hands pinched his cheeks before moving down to his shoulders.

“I’m more than fine, Dieter. Move.” Maya’s skin was covered in sweat and so was Dieter’s. Once his hips were flush with hers, she felt him take up even more space within her. Calling her name softly, he rolled into her wetness. It kept sucking him back in so he drew back further, slow pumps continued while he heard his name whispered from her lips. “Good Dieter…there Dee, spread me…hahh…Dieterrr…” Maya kept calling him and when her fingers ran through his hair, tugging it. Releasing a groan, Dieter took hold of one of her legs and pushed it upward, exposing a different angle. His speed increased and her nails scratched his scalp. Bravo felt his sac tightening, with his cock throbbing within her, moving his hand that was supporting his upper body from being pressed against hers, Dieter leaned forward to lick a stripe up her neck before sucking on it, Maya turned her head away from him to allow more access to her skin. His thumb pressed on her sensitive bud, flicking it while her walls vibrated around him.

Dieter’s teeth made a shallow impression on her neck with another lick, “You’re sure you want it inside mi amor?”

“Yes! Inside Dee!” Maya held one handful of his hair, and her other one scratched his back. Her cavern kept oscillating around his shaft while he spilled inside, filling her with slow thrusts, churning it inside of her. Placing a hand on the back of his neck, Maya pulled his head back, his chin pointed up. Her tongue ran over his lips first before claiming them again, Dieter rolled on his back and pulled her with him, Maya was on top. Her hair had become frizzy from the sweat, her lips swollen and a few tears were holding steady in her eyes.

“Mi mujer perfecta Maya (My perfect woman Maya).” Admiring from below, his hands roamed her hips. Will she want to see me after this wedding? If I said I wanted to visit her would she let me? This isn’t Anika again is it? No, I haven’t proposed and she hasn’t asked. Maya kissed his chest and attempted to move, but Dieter held her steady.

“Dieter, we should clean up.” Shaking his head, Bravo kissed her shoulder, his eyes were soft and Maya felt her lips part slightly. He’s probably worried, but I’ll let him go. I’ll never forget him. Dieter Bravo, that last woman was an idiot. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel this cared for again. I’m not going to be some crazy stalker. I have a job to go back to. If there was a reason to stalk him it would be making me come so many times…I’m horrible for thinking it.

“Just…alright. Move slow.” Maya raised slowly to allow Dieter to slide out and was able to roll to the side of the bed facing the bathroom. It was also facing the mirror from earlier. The bite mark on her neck and the drips from between her legs had her staging at herself. She saw her own tears, puffy cheeks and lips. Bravo slid next to her with his flaccid member covered in her slick and his own spend. “You look stunning and fucked Maya.” She pinched his nose while he helped her up and they waddled to the bathroom together cleaning up. The pair opted to sleep in her bed since they wouldn’t have to go far.

Dieter resolved to talk to Maya tomorrow morning about what had been on his mind. He’s scared though, what if she doesn’t want to? Thinks he’s too much of a hassle because of his status and fame? There’s nothing he can change about that. She fell asleep first in his arms, tracing circles on her back while he wondered what to do.

Elyssa keeps calling and texting Maya. Her sister in law is not answering. She’s looked up who Dieter Bravo is and why some of her bridesmaids were making a big deal about him being there. He’s a famous, Oscar winning actor…with her sister in law?!

“Honey, I need to know how this happened! What do you know about it Michael?” Maya’s youngest brother, the very reason she was in Hawaii looked at his soon to be wife and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know either. He and his sister don’t talk about relationships if they chat outside of family gatherings and him borrowing money occasionally. So far there hadn’t been any issues so he didn’t see the problem or why his fiance was yelling at him at eight in the morning. Elyssa pulled up instagram on her phone and Michael's eyes went wide.

Dieter and Maya in some swanky restaurant. Giggling and eating. Fine.

Dieter and Maya, in the same restaurant, snuggled up and a few shots of them kissing. Well, she did bring the guy to the wedding.

Maya getting out of an SUV followed by Dieter and they’re going into some fancy boutique. Eh…okay that’s more than a date.

Maya getting out of a limo and walking….wait that’s the hotel for the wedding party. Dieter’s in the limo and he comes back to pick her up. Damn that might be why Lyssa is pissed.

Dieter and some guy, maybe a driver or bodyguard carrying dresses followed by maya wearing the same dress from the restaurant pics. The story is unfolding or catching up, but clearly they’ve spent some time together.

Maya at the airport walking next to…well that looks to be Dieter, but he’s got on a robe, pijamas and is holding a goat. They’re getting on a jet? So…she came with this guy to Hawaii?! How long have they known each other?! Did mom know? Elyssa mentioned they seemed cozy at the hotel.

Micheal sighed and looked again at his fiance. “Honey I don’t know what to tell you, given who he is. It makes sense that they would keep it under wraps.”

“He better not mess up my wedding! I don’t want paparazzi sneaking in and distracting us from our day! It’s supposed to be about us Michael…” The soon to be bride whined to her fiance. He’s going to have to try calling his sister as well and his mother. They both turned on the news and saw an entertainment report about the new lady in Dieter’s life. There was someone else who had an issue with this:

Vanessa - Dieter’s publicist.

Her issue wasn’t Maya. She doesn’t know the woman from Timbuktu, the problem is that Dieter didn’t say anything about this woman so she could spin things and get ahead of any possible crap storm. So far, she’s been able to figure out that Dieter has been taking this woman around eating and shopping. In her communications with Zack, he hadn’t mentioned her. Only that Dieter was enjoying his time in Hawaii and was staying sober. When she pressed the assistant, he said that ‘Ms. Maya’ is a lovely lady who’d been able to get Dieter on time to his event. He even took her shopping and they avoided too bad of a fight with Oscar.’

“Avoided him? More like pissed him off to the point where he released pictures of Dieter which meant he had someone following him, probably…” As she sat on a jet headed to Hawaii, she was concocting a plan to use her knowledge that Oscar’s camp was the one who released the pictures in case feedback was negative. In her searches of different media, it was leaning positive though there were of course some trolls commenting on how Maya looked and speculating why she was with Dieter in the first place. Vanessa was curious about that as well, but it would need to wait until around noon or one in the afternoon. Despite getting a red-eye, the flight to Hawaii was still extremely long from New York where she’d been wrapping up some things in Dieter's gallery there. He’d opened that one up after his Los Angeles one had been so successful. Vanessa la Roux would get to the bottom of whatever Dieter had gotten himself in now. She’d need to if she was doing her job right.

Oscar felt a chill down his spine while both ears itched. “I may need to do another cleanse or something. What was that? Ugh..”

The Trash Panda Possse 🦝: @morallyinept @pedritapascal @pascalsanctuary @nissaimmortal @grogusmum

@katw474 @readingiskeepingmegoing @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie

@megamindsecretlair @pamasaur @pedrodascal @marcus-is-my-muse @clawdee

@trulybetty @perotovar @joelslegalwhre @josephquinnswhore @secretelephanttattoo

@sin-djarin @maggiemayhemnj @rhoorl @sp00kymulderr @joelmillers-whore

@guelyury @laurfilijames @missladym1981 @magpiepills @alltheglitterandtheroar

@din-djarins-riduur @daddy-dins-girl @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @yorksgirl

@saturn-rings-writes @gwendibleywrites @pedroshotwifey @musings-of-a-rose @soft-persephone

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @handspunyarns @i-own-loki @tinytinymenace

Chapter Four

Chapter Six

[the-bjd-community-confess]

TW: discussion of finances, difficult/abusive friendships and relationships, ideation and attempts, mental health, physical health

(Mod: anon, my sympathies as this sounds like a very difficult/intense situation)

Mod, you might want to throw this under a cut. I got a bit rambly and off topic, and some content might be uncomfortable for some blog readers. People will want to skip this one.

I almost offered to buy a bjd from a friend and I'm so glad I didn't. Context- she's in a rough spot financially and was selling off what she could. I considered offering my best guess at market price, with the understanding that she'd be able to buy the doll back unmodified, maybe with a faceup with permission, probably with some new clothes for the naked boy, whenever she wished. Basically loan with collateral and some doll clothes.  She does nothing with him normally, so it would just be a graceful way give her some help. He's in pieces, so I'd even restring him for her. Straight loan isn't an option since she borrowed a substantial amount from me for rent, claimed she'd pay me back, then continued to complain she couldn't while buying random playline dolls. I forgave the loan in an attempt to keep the friendship (and I now regret it- that was some of my savings and more than a month of my low income. I will be fine and it'll make minimal difference longterm, but it hurts emotionally). I should have wasted it on more dolls or something less dishonest. At least a snappy joint doesn't hide that it turns red when it makes you bleed in a restringing...

Due to a variety of factors, I'm debating cutting contact with her. I don't want to lose her, since she can be an amazing friend when she wants to be, but this friendship is destroying me. She's willing to lie to, use, and manipulate me even when I express discomfort with what she's doing. She's guilt tripped me into a situation where I was concerned for my safety.  The next time she wanted me to be around that person, she just didn't tell me he was involved and invited me with no disclosure. She couldn't drive due to surgery, violently abusive ex wouldn't be around her without a witness to agree he didn't do anything, and I was the only one that might put up with their stupidity, so she pretended she was inviting me because she wanted me there. I had to leave my car behind so I had no way to get away for hours. This happened repeatedly, minus the car, and she would have blown up on me if I hadn't done it. I should have sent an invoice for my involuntary adult babysitting sidegig. That would have been a lot of doll money. She'll get on my case for being "prickly"- never mind that she lashed out at me for months at everything before I finally snapped. A chunk of it is in her own head. Text doesn't convey tone and she lashes out when she jumped to the worse conclusion possible, then gets mad when I'm confused and point out she jumped on me. I can be a jerk and lash out once in a while, but the real stuff she's mad about only started after MONTHS of being her emotional punching bag, the turning point being when I developed probable PTSD because of her. She flips out over the smallest things too- I once got yelled at for picking up a clump of dog fur off her floor. My therapist can't legally diagnose me, but we agree I meet minimum DSM-V PTSD criteria (and then some) as a direct result of her actions (I can't tell her- I saved her life when she attempted. She'd feel guilty and never ask for help the inevitable next time. I know I shouldn't blame her for attempting, but I can't tell if she even did it or faked it to guilt trip her ex back to her and out of anger at me. She did NOT care who it hurt if it had a chance of getting him back. She's never once apologized for what she yelled at me that night or how she's treated/used me since he left her.) I don't know if I can end the friendship without her trying again or trying to get back at me. She's the needs to be needed type and so knows a lot about me that could seriously impact my life if it got out. We met three years ago when she was in her mid thirties and I was a very anxious, lonely teenager (minor at the time) desperate for someone to understand me. She's got an alphabet soup mental health record, so it feels wrong to blame her for anything. Especially since she'll excuse any action anyone does to me if they have a diagnosis. Hypocrite. There's a chance she's got a terminal illness, but that's still up for determination and who knows if she's lying again. I don't want it to be true, but I can't help realizing that's my peaceful way out. 

I'm so sick of it. If I had tried to help her vy+ that stupid doll, I'd be trapped by a promise. I couldn't have even gotten rid of the thing without breaking my word. I'd have to go near her to dump it on her doorstep and I'd lose the money. I've met online doll people now. We're not friends and I'll likely never go to a meetup, but the void of squealing over a shared interest together feels filled. I'm for sure an outsider, but I've finally got a bit of a hobby community (and one sane long distance friend- the other local one wants occasional emotional support and ghosts most of the rest of the time. LD stays friends the whole time and appreciates my dolls even if he's not interested personally). Some of y'all can get crazy, but most of the people I've met are genuinely nice. Very opinonated on certain topics, sure, but chill if I don't rock the boats. 

Sorry for the rant. I'm exhausted and losing my filter. Plus you guys like drama, so eat some popcorn and please don't repeat my mistakes or do this to someone. 

~Anonymous

[conkreetmonkey]

Hey, sorry for the doomposting the other night. I usually save that stuff to drafts instead of posting it, just writing it out makes me feel better.

I'm not irreprably fucked, I just need to take a leap and make a change in my life instead of stagnating. I'm kind of torn on what to do, but I have a few ideas. I might go to college for business administration, or try moving to some other province where life is cheaper, like BC, Alberta or Newfie.

I often think about taking a loan and trying to found an ethical affordable housing thing like a co-op or trailer park, but it's just not the time to buy in this market, and the only way I could afford a down payment would be a year-long stint in the plastic plant, as I have no collateral rn. That's more of a long-term goal than something I can do before upping my education; don't want to put the cart before the horse.

I also need to get my G2 drivers liscence before February, which is when my G1 expires. That's probably a feasible goal. After that, I can save up for a used car, and maybe get a job delivering pizzas, Ubering, or doing some delivery app. I've always wanted to fix up an old camper van and go on some adventure with it.

idk, I go through cycles of doom and hope. It's just how I am. I imagine I'll continue to do so until I finally nut up and get some therapy. You know what, I'll look into therapy today.

I'll try to avoid posting my doom shit publicly in the future. I'm sorry if I wrecked anyone's mood. I should just get a damn diary, lol.

[paydayquid]

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[alwayzraven]

Kardeşlerim Ep 114

The police gave Suzan's belongings to Yaman and he gave them to Omer. Among her belongings was the usb that had sado's video about Ahmet's accident. Asiye found the usb but didn’t look at what’s in it. She put it in her bag and went to school. When Yasmin was looking for her usb, Asiye gave her that usb. Yasmin saw that it had a video but she didn’t get the chance to see it. However, Tolga watched the video when he went to Yasmin's house.

Sengul took out a loan for her brother before she died and used the house as collateral. If the Erens don't make a payment to the bank by the end of the week, the bank will seize the house and they will have nowhere else to go. Orhan doesn’t have a job so no bank will agree to give him a loan. Orhan suggested that they go back to his hometown and live there instead. Aybike and Oglucan said that they don’t want to go. Orhan told them they have no choice.

Berk didn't tell Ayla that he sold his car and gave the money to his dad. He told her it was in the repair shop. Ayla told him that it’s been at the repair shop for a long time now and she told him to call the repair shop. He said he will. Elif asked him when he was planning on telling her. Berk said that he’ll think about it after his father opens his shop. Berk’s dad lost all the money Berk gave him to gambling. Gokhan told his friend to hit him. He then called Berk and Elif and told them that he was robbed by a group of men. Elif said that they should go to the police but ofc Gokhan will either lie to the police or will find an excuse not to go to the police.

Aybike and Asiye got a cleaning gig. The owner of the house was rich and knew Ayaz. She said that she was friends with his mom and knew him well. The owner of the house had a dog. Aybike found the dog’s collar when she was cleaning and gave it to her. The woman said that the collar was so expensive. The next day, the woman called Aybike and Asiye again. Aybike and Asiye were talking about going back to Orhan’s hometown. Aybike said that she doesn't want to leave. She said she grew up in that house and she has so many memories there. She also said that she can't leave Berk. Asiye told her that they don’t have a choice. Aybike saw the dog’s collar and she decided to steal it. Unfortunately, there were cameras around the house and Aybike was caught on camera stealing the collar. The woman called the police and gave them Aybike’s address. The police went there to arrest her. Aybike told Orhan that she did it for their family, so they can save their house.

[whumpster-fire]

I'm sick and tired of all these car repo videos on YouTube. Seems like internet users are all anticapitalist and pro ACAB until they see a video of a repo driver doing cheeky snatches and then are suddenly all "How dare that monstrous working class person steal that car from the poor innocent bank #justicepornlol!"

Listen I'm not opposed to the concept of collateral on loans and I'm sure there are some people out there who cause repossessions and evictions by being financially irresponsible but if you automatically take the side of the person whose literal entire job is seizing property that someone who likely needs it to get to work became unable to pay for on behalf of a notoriously predatory industry then you're kind of a (useful) idiot. ACAB should apply at least as much to any job that's also empowered to deprive members of the public of life, liberty or property but cuts out the middleman of the state by working for the corporations and rich people directly. Even if these jobs are necessary to keep society functioning they should be viewed with a healthy amount of suspicion, and at a bare minimum there's something incredibly fucked up about fetishizing them acting like cowboys. Yeah you need some sort of system to prevent people from just ignoring the terms of contracts but I think "some guy with a tow truck and a Letter of Marque to enforce the property rights of financial institutions against broke people" may in fact be a worse way of doing this than cops.

I swear to god some of you are going to be getting off to videos of bounty hunters dragging people off to literal debtor's prisons in 20 years or so.

(Yes I know most of the asshats keeping these channels afloat are probably some flavor of conservative but some of you need your leftist credentials repossessed.)

(disclaimer for the audience: all my shit is fully paid off, this rant is brought to you by me seeing a video of a tow truck driver trying to yoink a vehicle directly out of a car wash while employees were actively working on it which could've gotten them injured or killed, and half the comments still taking the side of the tow truck driver)

[lawbyrhys]

Top US Car Insurance Company is Being Sued For Allegedly Forcing Unnecessary Policies

Would you believe Allstate finds itself in yet another lawsuit? Let's break down the situation.

An Allstate-owned insurance company is under the proverbial boot of the DOJ as they crack down on aforementioned provider for allegedly forcing collateral protection insurance on hundreds of thousands already-ensured customers.

National General is the company in question, finding themselves in the midst of the lawsuit that alleges they partook in a scheme to defraud customers who financed their cars through Wells Fargo.

Allegedly, over an 11-year span between 2005-2016, National General schemed to obtain money from Wells Fargo by way of its practice of "force-placing" collateral protection insurance into millions of cars, even though they "knew or recklessly disregarded" these vehicles were already ensured. The lawsuit reads, in part:

"In fact, from 2008 to 2016, National General knew that it falsely force-placed insurance between 56 and 93% of the time. These improper force-placements harmed borrowers — causing borrowers to pay money they did not owe, borrowers to default on their loans, vehicle repossessions, and negative impacts to borrowers’ credit scores."

Those who utilized Wells Fargo to finance their vehicles were required to get comprehensive and collision insurance or collateral protection insurance. Wells Fargo contracted with National General to identify whether or not a customer had the insurance required for their vehicle.

"If National General did not obtain proof of such insurance, National General automatically issued a certificate of insurance for its CPI product. This was called 'force-placing' insurance because the cost of the CPI was subsequently added to a borrower’s loan, even though the customer did not affirmatively purchase the insurance from National General."

The DOJ alleges that National General failed to make phone calls to insurance carriers, agents, or borrowers to obtain outside insurance, despite a legal requirement to do so, as well as failing to "match insurance information in its possession to financed vehicles."

Wells Fargo customers paid approximately $1,100 per loan a year for National General’s collateral protection insurance—a rate which was more expensive and provided less protection than comprehensive and collision insurance.

"Sometimes National General realized its error before the borrower was billed, but, between 29 and 63% of the time, National General improperly invoiced Wells Fargo who then improperly billed the borrowers—forcing borrowers to pay premiums and other fees associated with the CPI that they did not owe."

According to the lawsuit, National General “falsely placed” 1.2 million and 2.1 million collateral protection insurance between 2005 and 2016. Despite approximately 600,000-700,000 of these policies being canceled before the borrower was charged for them, approximately 640,000-1.4 million were not.

Ultimately, National General earned ~$500M from these practices, according to the lawsuit.

"National General knew or at least recklessly disregarded that it was falsely placing CPI and charging for duplicative insurance, but it took no meaningful steps to reduce the rate of false placements. NGLS’s Wells Fargo Account Manager dismissed false placements as a 'function of the program.'"

The DOJ is seeking to have National General face the maximum penalty permitted under the Financial Institutions Reform, Recovery, and Enforcement Act "in an amount to be determined at trial."

Of course, National General denies these allegations; "These allegations are false, and we are committed to sharing the facts."

Personally, I'm not surprised by the allegations in this lawsuit; Allstate isn't exactly renowned for giving a shit. That being said, though, I think this will be an interesting suit to follow, and I will update you all accordingly as the case progresses.

What do you think of this lawsuit? Let me know!

[lunarsilkscreen]

I forgot Hypothecation when I "Hypothesis" yesterday

Hypothecation is the pledging of an asset as collateral for a loan, without transferring the property's title to the lender. In a mortgage, the property purchased is used to secure the loan, but the lender holds the title.

Hypothecation means "Hypothetically, I own this [thing]". But in the cases of mortgages and liens, the bank (or carpenter or automotive mechanic) can take ownership of the [thing] when they have evidence of inability to pay. (Or they feel like; if the local jurisdiction is particularly slothful or biased.)

This is a two way street. Hypothetically, the bank owns the asset, hypothetically the borrower owns the asset. And so the asset can be present in both the lender and borrowers financial portfolio. Because, hypothetically, they own it.

Hypothecation and "Hypothetical assets" aren't only Houses and Cars. Hypothecation, can include stocks, shorts, and Burts Beeswax Lip Balm.

They can include cash, loans, or any other tool known to man.

Re-Hypothecation is the tool where a financial entity uses a hypothetical asset as leverage in another dealing. "Hypothetically I own this asset, so Hypothetically, I can take a loan against it. (Mortgage/Lien) this is how an entity can get a pay day loan for an asset, they might not own.

This ties into CDOs because it's what most of them are made of. They sell their paychecks tomorrow, for a pay day loan today. But since financial institutions are selling them all to each other, nobody actually knows who owns what for how much.

And the individual can be held liable for a forgotten lien or mortgage they paid off a decade ago, when a financial institution needs money and reviews their books and sees an "asset" without being able to trace it completely through this financial web. Or, the individual can lose assets they're owed because the bank assumes them. (Like it assumes risk.)

These are hypothetical worst case scenarios that have not been addressed as of yet.

[ellieellieoxenfree]

52 weeks, 52 movies: march

LAUGHS NERVOUSLY

yeah this is super-late i know i know. i'll try to be more timely with april. :E

no rewatches this month; faves, as always, in bold.

new countries added to the cinematic world map: morocco, chad, and the philippines. i still have a pretty heavy reliance on american/uk films, but did fit 18 countries in. so i guess i kept a decent amount of variety in the diet.

the whaler boy (russia) — leshka (vladimir onokhov), a teenage boy in the remote village of chukchi, becomes enamored with a camgirl (kristina asmus) from detroit and plans to journey to america to meet her.

longtime mutuals know how much the movie nói albinói means to me — it’s my icon and has been for years, and was a livejournal fixture long before i joined tumblr. this movie recaptured the magic of watching that for the first time. they’re spiritual cousins of movies, both set in bleak, isolated landscapes stripped of all color; their teenage protagonists both ache with impossible want for the world beyond their small towns. their lives are monotonous and grim, livened only by the promise of women just out of reach. the black, deadpan comedy runs strong. leshka’s grandfather (nikolay tatato) speaks frankly of his plans for his own demise with the same energy one would use to discuss the weather, and i thought back to the bark of laughter i let out at nói’s dispassionate blood-splash scene.

it’s both violent — during a whale hunt, the men stand in a tide foaming with blood and viscera as they pull a carcass to shore — and hauntingly beautiful, such as in a scene where leshka and his friend (vladimir lyubimtsev) take a motorcycle ride through the endless, empty landscape. we see moments of gentle humanity juxtaposed with brutality. a power failure leads to some families bonding in soft candlelight, but sends leshka into a frenzy when he loses access to the girl who lives inside his computer screen. the dialogue goes from wryly funny (‘i’m busy today. i’ll definitely die tomorrow,’ muses leshka’s grandfather) to agonizingly painful, as during the retelling of a story about a chukchi resident who crossed the bering strait over to alaska and met a bad end as a result.

leshka is a tour de force performance from vladimir onokhov, relying less on dialogue and more on onokhov’s subtly expressive face. he conveys the universal yearning of frustrated adolescence without a word, while saving much of his speech for hushed one-way conversations with his dream girl in detroit. he has a quietly powerful magnetism that draws your attention whenever he appears.

it’s a strange, hazy film, rich with metaphor and dreamscape. lovely, profound, and absolutely one of the finest films i’ve seen all year.

millie lies low (new zealand) — thanks to an anxiety attack, architecture student millie (ana scotney) misses her flight from wellington to new york for her internship, but decides to pretend to her family and friends that she’s there and thriving.

there’s something particularly special about a movie that you forget as you’re watching. i struggled to stay focused on this, and had to rewind several times because i kept losing interest.

the problem is that the movie never quite commits to itself. it shies from letting its emotional beats land; nothing seems to carry much consequence. when millie learns she doesn’t have the cash to replace her ticket, it dips into farcical schemes — trying to take out a personal loan and stealing her own car as collateral; skulking in sweatshirt and sunglasses around family and friends’ usual haunts; camping in a tent she uses as the backdrop for crudely photoshopped images for social media. (how any adult with a functioning set of eyes would fall for millie’s low-effort ipad creations is beyond me, but i digress.) it makes half-hearted attempts at addressing things like massive time differences, but skirts the question of ‘wouldn’t the firm hosting the internship just get in touch with millie’s family when she failed to show up?’

there are tantalizing ideas that could be coaxed out of the material in the hands of a more focused director. it’s clear that millie is hamstrung by others’ expectations and her lack of faith in her own potential, but when her ruse is exposed, the landing is so soft that it renders all of millie’s hysterical schemes rather ridiculous. there was so little shock or betrayal or anger that the side characters ended up feeling like unfinished caricatures. even the great jillian nguyen, as millie’s best friend, is wasted — the movie nudges itself into something resembling energy when it exposes nguyen’s carolyn in flagrante delicto with millie’s boyfriend, but then fizzles out again. i found it impossible to care about anyone because the movie found it possible to try to make me care. i’d say it ends with a whimper, but i think a whimper would have taken more effort than this was willing to put in.

benny’s bathtub (denmark) — a bored little boy named benny (bo jakobsen) follows his pet tadpole down the drain of his bathtub and into a magical world of adventure.

danish kids in the ‘70s lucked out with this bite-sized animated gem, a lush, multi-media riot of bright color, jazzy music, and quirky characters. a pair of skeletons argue and end as piles of mismatched bones, while a mischievous color-changing octopus interferes with a nattily-dressed shrimp’s romantic designs on a trio of mermaids. a furious crab and his smaller underlings try to deal out despotic, but ultimately impotent, justice. it understands the blithe logic of childhood and merrily dips from vibrant set piece to vibrant set piece at a lively pace without ever overthinking or overexplaining. thick acrylic strokes pop against delicate watercolor backgrounds, and some of its more psychedelic moments, such as the rapid-fire color change benny’s octopus friend undergoes during his solo number, bring to mind the dizzying spectacle of the ‘lucy in the sky with diamonds’ scene in yellow submarine.

much of the pleasure of this movie is experiencing it for yourself, because it can’t quite adequately be explained. it’s such a wondrous feast for the eyes that descriptions can’t quite do it justice. it’s lovingly rendered in every frame. powerhouse danish jazz acts provided the score and a wealth of musical numbers — the squabbling skeletons argue about the virtues of their respective mothers, terrifying pirate queens. (‘she screamed with joy when she saw blood,’ one fondly notes.) a particularly inventive scene in the middle makes use of photorealistic silhouettes that splash in and out of frame like squirted ink.

it’s a beloved classic even now in denmark, and for good reason. it’s one of the most stunningly unique films i’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. i treasured every moment.

the tune (usa) — threatened with the loss of both his job and his girlfriend if he doesn’t deliver a pop hit by day’s end, a struggling songwriter (daniel neiden) finds himself journeying to the off-kilter world of flooby nooby, whose odd residents might help him find the perfect line.

i made this a double feature for a movie night pick, alongside benny’s bathtub. they make a good pair, as they each carry their own wacky, anarchic energies. rather than the jewel tones of benny’s, the tune opts for delicate colored pencil, which gives a fuzzy, twitchy energy to the proceedings — a perfect match for del’s frazzled mental state. the animation is utterly elastic — people, possessions, and places all distort with reckless abandon, twisting and contorting and folding in on themselves. alongside the dominant colored-pencil artwork, director bill plympton dabbles in a variety of styles, including thick-lined matte animation, pastels, and scratchy rotoscoped realism, so that each new scene carries with it endless, playful possibility. a man’s head transforms into a hand sprouting from his shoulders and fish swim out of his palm; a hot dog and bun have a romantic rendezvous in a field of flowers; a dog crooning elvis tunes wobbles under the weight of his massive pompadour. in an extended gag, two businessmen constantly up the ante of comical punishments for each other, such as one of them pouring plant feed on the other’s head, causing his head to turn to grass.

the storyline is admittedly secondary to plympton’s whimsical sensibilities. del does try to keep pushing forward in his mission to get to his boss’ (marty nelson) office, but his journey mostly exists to facilitate as many madcap escapades can fit into 69 minutes. composer maureen mcelheron (also the voice of del’s girlfriend, didi) packs the proceedings with a musical cornucopia of styles — the aforementioned elvis, tango, wistful country, rumbling blues, show tunes, and surf rock among them, on top of del’s jingly pop tune attempts. i still find myself humming ‘my love for you / is equal to…’ from time to time.

it’s something of a polarizing film, relying as heavily as it does on its music and its cheerful refusal to stick to its own stated narrative. much like its noodling animation, it meanders in and out of ideas, and either you submit to its chaos and let it lead you along, or you find the entire affair a bit insufferable and self-satisfied. i fell firmly into the former camp. i’m not familiar with plympton’s name offhand, but the whole affair felt so cozy and familiar to me — it came out in 1992 and somehow reminded me of every piece of oddball animation i saw as a child — that not being charmed by it was never an option.

march viewing: other titles

sequin in a blue room (australia)

this is me…now (usa)

lingui (france/chad)

a day at the races (usa)

fireworks (2018) (japan)

friends and strangers (australia)

butterflies are free (usa)

not of this earth (1988) (usa)

never steal anything small (usa)

return to oz (usa)

juha (finland)

the runner stumbles (usa)

taxi! (usa)

my year without sex (australia)

her highness and the bellboy (usa)

ellen is leaving (new zealand)

paris is burning (usa)

shin kamen rider (japan)

bed friend (thailand)

change of life (portugal)

beach rats (usa)

young rock s1 (usa)

police story (hong kong)

young rock s2 (usa)

you never know women (usa)

no direction home (2023) (japan)

leonor will never die (philippines)

young rock s3 (usa)

the county (iceland)

beautiful thing (uk)

the short history of the long road (usa)

quiet on set: the dark history of kids’ tv (usa)

did you wonder who fired the gun? (usa)

the big country (usa)

drunken birds (canada)

blue velvet (usa)

i hired a contract killer (finland)

ham on rye (usa)

my name is lisa (usa)

salvation army (morocco)

batman and robin (usa)

children of the mist (vietnam)

[williamcampbell]

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[paydayquid]

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[athinveil]

saw you in the notes of some post saying you work in finance. like, no pressure, and i'm not expecting any depth from a tumblr ask, but... do you have any advice for people living paycheck to paycheck other than the classic "make a budget"? (i have already discovered that getting a credit card does not help.)

just wondering if there's anything you've learned from your profession that you wish was better known to the public

https://undebt.it/ is a big help to help pay off debt efficiently undebt it - google search if you don’t like hitting links - I don’t hitting links. I have a super hard time with budgets myself. And credit cards are rough - I get manic and then my budget friendly self can’t keep up with manic me.

Apologies in advance if some of this is like bro - I don’t live a place w these stores - just mentally replace store names with what’s around you.

If your debt has an interest rate under 7%, pay the minimums because a lot of investments will grow at 7% or better (common examples - car loans, most student loans, mortgages, etc.). Typically it’s better to focus on the higher interest loans/debt first. If it’s above 7%, prioritize that. A lot of minimum payments will also never pay off your debt - designed to keep you in it.

If you have a Roth option in your work retirement account, do that. It’s taxed now instead of in retirement - taxes only go up over time. However if you need to reduce your taxable income, then pretax dollars will do that. Only contribute up to the match if it’s not Roth. If it’s pretax, then you usually only want do up to the match. Maximize the free money you can get from your employer.

Always opt into long term disability insurance at work. When you can afford some extra coverage check out supplemental (most employers offer 60% in the US - if you only were paid 60% of your income it would be rough), life insurance is cheap - 200k is a small policy. The company you go with matters. A company like mass mutual or northwestern mutual (I’m at northwestern) gives higher dividends- basically a good chunk of profit goes back to policy holders instead of stockholders. Most companies can run company comparisons. Insurance pays for financial security. It’s not a scam - which is genuinely what I thought of it before I got into the field and understood it better.

Whole life insurance costs more - but it’s worth it. It’s like buying your insurance instead of renting. Again company matters - example: northwestern mutual cash value grows historically at 5% on average, give or take, usually give. It’s money you can use to collateralize a loan or take a loan out against your own policy and “be your own bank” - downside, if finances are unstable, it’s a policy with regular premiums. Unlike a Roth you can stop contributing to any time, you’re paying for coverage and it’s monthly or whatever interval without much for exceptions. Probably not a good fit for you right now with being paycheck to paycheck - but something to keep in mind for the future.

Some of my hacks for my own life and my tight budget - I get most of my stuff off of Facebook marketplace for free or cheap - if you search something for a week or two and save the cheap items eventually they’ll appear for free or less and less. You just gotta be quick to ask and pick up. I picked up a stand alone pantry cabinet yesterday for free so now I have more storage space for non-perishables. Also if you just always keep free and “curb alert” as a regular search item you’ll find good stuff. I’ve picked up some things that I know have value near me - like fish tanks with stands only to resell them later at market value which is higher because I’m in a city/suburban outskirts - I only deal in cash on Facebook because they wanna start tracking and people can’t rescind a $20 electronically.

There are food shelves that don’t require minimums. There’s also no shame in seeing if you can get assistance from the government. If you can boost yourself to live better, do it.

The dollar tree (and some other dollar stores) - while most food at the dollar tree isn’t a good deal - I’ve also found shelf stable tofu, pesto, mustard (1.25 vs $5 for pesto). I also have pets - my cats get their toys on a stick with the dangly strings from the dollar tree. I get all of my cleaning products at the dollar tree. You can also make your own - one super simple one is lemon juice (from bottle), white vinegar, and water.

I shop at specific places for specific items. I get carbon litter box filters at my hardware store because they’re a dollar there instead of $5-7 elsewhere.

I order my groceries online - it’s convenient but it also eliminates a lot of impulse shopping. I pay $10/month for it, but I save more than $10 in not impulse buying.

I mostly avoid target - target has done research on how to get you to buy more - it works. So I avoid it. Not that other stores don’t do similarly, but I know that I will fail myself at target - sort of a figure out your vices.

I shop at discount grocery stores. I got to Asian grocery stores for tea because I get way more tea for way less. I go to Aldi for most of my vegetarian foods and also their chicken. Most of their stuff is a fair bit cheaper and I’ve figured out which off brand or Aldi brand stuff I like.

I work in a super fancy office - think of a building with literal halls with marble tile. I get 99% of my clothes from thrift stores. I’m picky - I try to buy only things that I feel good in (not I feel okay, but I feel good) and I have a hard time pushing myself over $10 for almost anything. I dress with a classic style because then I don’t have to chase trends. I mostly just wear black pants and a shirt that looks business casual.

Garage sale - I spent a Saturday driving around the town I grew up in going to garage sales. Saturdays are usually the last day sales are open - they want stuff gone as the reality sets in that whatever isn’t sold is being donated. I filled a paper grocery bag full of clothing for my spouse and paid $1. I’ve hit sales where the person just wanted to be done and said just take everything you want, free. I haggle. I ask if they’d do a deal for a bunch of stuff if it’s a good sale. If there’s something I’m looking for or need - I know the value of the item before I go shopping and I know the value of it to me. I wanted a giant bean bag chair. I valued that at a maximum of $20. The going Facebook marketplace was $50-150. I held out and got one for $7 at a thrift store.

Sign up for VIP stuff at thrift stores and reward programs (assuming it’s free). Don’t buy most holiday decor new - thrift stores can barely sell a christmas tree.

Home Depot and many hardware stores offer free how-to classes - you want to learn how to lay tile? Sign up for a class. Learn to diy what you’re comfortable doing. Some labor and know how is worth paying for. Example: I will not lay tile because I can live with a crooked tile if someone else did it. I can’t if I did it. For my sanity, I would pay for that. Minding - I need that done currently and can’t afford it so it’s just not on the reality list.

Grow some of your own food if you can. Grow lights can be cheap and seeds are cheap. Sometimes you can split a pack with a friend. You can also get free pots and gardening materials online easily. Maybe not the seeds tho. If you hate gardening then don’t bother. What you want matters too.

When you buy stuff - make sure you love it when you can. Stuff you love, you will keep and use. Stuff you feel so-so about might end up being donated next year.

Utilize libraries! They have e-books also and there are so many free apps you can download to read them on. If I’m only gonna read a book once, then I shouldn’t own it. Reality is - I don’t reread that many books. Too many more books to read.

If you’re into cold brew coffee - dark roast Walmart makes just as good as a fancy brand that costs more. Try off brand stuff - it’s often way better or exactly the same. Walmart chips ahoy offbrand is better than chips ahoy. ALDIs version of coconut caramel Girl Scout chocolate cookies taste the same as Girl Scout ones but cost under $2.

Find hobbies that don’t cost you money or cost you very little money. Aquarium fish are not that hobby as I’ve learned the hard way. But I have a beautiful dr who tank so at least there’s that. I volunteered for a while with shelter cats - the ones that are in pet stores. I got kitty snuggles and got to put it on my resume. Can’t afford a pet but want one? Foster - the shelter pays for everything. One of my new hobbies is literally finding free things on Facebook marketplace. It’s great.

If you’re on meds and insurance isn’t covering everything - check out goodrx. Also - check different pharmacies and keep checking. CVS wanted $300 for 1 month of my depression meds. I walked away w/o meds. I went to Costco a week later (no membership needed for specifically their pharmacy) and got those same meds for maybe $10 without insurance.

YouTube can also teach you neat skills. Tumblr can too - I got really into tiny homes - still love them but I can’t ethically keep a Great Dane mix and all my cats in a tiny space - a big part of tiny homes is making sure you have what you need but you have it smart. I gleaned a lot from that obsession. How to have a full wardrobe w 30 pieces of clothing but still variety? It showed it. Most tiny home people are about financial freedom - a lot of them perhaps don’t have a financial background, but it’s about gathering info that works for you.

If you have kids - I do not - but I have a niece. So much free stuff from other people. I think I gave my sister in law about the first years worth of clothing for her kid and it mostly cost me some laundry soap and time with marketplace and stopping for bags of free kids clothes on the side of the road (that I then picked through, washed, and donated the iffy ones). I even got a bouncer thingy that I took apart and cleaned and gave her. Plus a stroller for my mother in law - one of those $300 ones that someone just wanted gone at no cost.

I’ve got home owner savings tricks too if you need them - but let’s be honest, few of us can afford homes. I have one in a super sketchy area that has shot spotter tech to help police respond faster to gunfire. But honestly just lucked out and fell into the job I have now.

Buy quality when you can - I got clearance Clark’s brand shoes for my job - I think they cost me $40? They’ve lasted years. I got thrift store shoes and they are falling apart in less than a year. Those same thrift store shoes during the 5 years that I’ve had my clearance Clark’s would have cost more to replace that 5x over.

Make sure you’re taking care of yourself - eat enough, sleep enough. Your health will affect how you work and live - you matter. I do premier protein shakes in the morning so I get enough protein and also account for my inability to wake up with enough time to make food. I try to bring my lunch to work. Peanut butter sandwiches are a big go-to for me. I’m rather sick of them, but for now, it helps me to save a bit and prioritize things that are more important to me.

I’m trying to think of other stuff. I mean maybe you’re already doing a big load of this or have even cut some of these expenses out. I’ve got more pet saving tricks - pets are something in life that bring me so much joy and happiness so I have them and I try to be responsible and smart with spending on them - but maybe you don’t have pets or don’t want them. I love video games so I have a few systems - mainly PC. I wait for sales for games. I still buy things that are discretionary. I buy “what I want” when I can but I try to make sure it really is something that I want. I wait for game reviews to come out.

I try to find easy recipes online with a focus on budget friendly and quick to make. Preferably with leftovers to avoid a peanut butter sandwich for a day or two. I’m in a Facebook group called “what broke vegans eat.” I go to a butcher to get ground beef because it costs the same but has less gristle and they can give me tips on making different things. Plus I can occasionally splurge on something simple - they have the best in house take home and bake lasagna which last me at least 4-5 days between my spouse and I.

What field are you job-wise? What field or kind of work would you want to be in if you could choose? What kind of hours would you prefer to work? Education level? Are you in the US? Might have some tips around that too. Is there an area you want advice on - like X costs so much, what tips do you have for cost savings with that, etc.

So happy to help. Sorry for the novel.

[imperiumallaboveall]

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