#he does severely forget to mention that the women fuck too.

[boo-cool-robot]

"and i'll be clear, it is not simply a gay love story, it's a bisexual love story!"

In which Austin Walker derails his own podcast for 5 minutes straight to vehemently recommend NBC Hannibal

[clipped by @robotbytheriver]

[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!

[vergess]

Okay actually I would LOVE to hear your summary of what the Dresden Files like. actually is, as a series. Because every so often some guy will demand that I read it while insisting it's Superior Literature and the best fantasy series ever (unless maybe second to Lord of the Rings, but usually not even that)

They also like to insist that well of COURSE the main character is extra sexist and never improves but it's a FLAW, the AUTHOR knows it's wrong, therefore girls should LOVE reading his sexism. So like I was not buying this any degree to begin with, but I would love to know what's actually going on here

Bro, these books are Bad(tm). Do not fucking buy them. I cannot in good conscience suggest anyone read them, ever. But I especially, immensely cannot recommend purchasing them. This is "skulking around the library not making eye contact" material.

These are bodice rippers For Men(TM).

They're also, (and for obvious reasons they aren't advertised like this) High Camp Melodrama Fantasy Where Everyone Is Bisexual. But I repeat myself.

With that in mind, they are easily the best written urban fantasy fetish pornography I've ever seen outside AO3, and frankly better than most of that stuff too. It's just... you need to be aware going in that these are serialized porn mags. They happen to have exceptionally written combat and freakishly well considered fantasy elements, but they nonetheless use the same racial and sexual shorthands seen in the bulk of heteronormative, white gaze pornography.

Also, the main guy is an obnoxious asshole on purpose from second one and he does not ever let up on this, so if you don't immediately get along with his sense of humour walk away.

Now as for whatever dipshitted asshole is telling you they're superior literature.... mmmm.... no.

They're REALLY GOOD porn. I understand how really good porn is going to emotionally confuse the highly repressed (and oh BOY do these books appeal to the repressed) into a sort of pavlovian "this is the best thing ever" response.

But like, mmmmm no.

If you do elect to read these books, I suggest casting the main guy with a Black actor in your head. That change alone makes the immense amount of police presence and abuse more palatable.

OH THE COP SHIT

I FORGOT TO MENTION THE COP SHIT

Absolutely bonkers copaganda levels.

Also, the books were um.... progressive for 2005. They are not progressive for 2024. Let's put it like this; Supernatural (TV series) was a contemporaneous peer in the same genre. If you are damned set on subjecting yourself to one of these White Boy Monster Serials, pick this one at least it fucks.

Nevertheless, the writing is surprisingly charming, the Christian fantasy elements are genuinely competitive in a post-LOTR world, and the fetish shit is fucking immaculate.

I don't think Jim Butcher is aware he's written fetish porn, but whatever, he's REALLY good at it. I cannot recommend the sex scenes and the combat highly enough.

It's just unfortunate about the everything else.

Did I mention they're Christian fantasy elements? They are. They really really really aggressively are. These books are set in a Christian-centric universe and they do NOT let you forget that. There's like... so many Christian angels in this shit.

Anyway, if you choose to join me on this cursed journey (do not join me on this cursed journey), some other stuff to note:

Lots of underage and youth fetishism

Like, I cannot emphasize enough how hot and cool all The Youths think the Main Guy is and how aggressively the book lusts-and-guilts-in-turn over The Youths

So, so, SO much incest

Gay incest also

Mafia wedding guy is there, the guy from all the mafia wedding fics on wattpad, he's canonically the main guy's soulmate (no homo) (unless..?)

Main guy has too many soulmates btw, several are gay and some are blood relations, but most are muscular blonde women because he has a serious muscle fetish; fuckin gym gay behaviours

Undiagnosed bisexuality on the majority of the characters (I'm calling it; Jim Butcher thinks bisexuality is the normal POV and this is totally how Normal Guys talk about each other's dicks)

Exorbitant amounts of racism, some of which is "on purpose" and the most of which is horrifically unremarked upon; includes plenty of racial stereotypes. Nevertheless, the cast is diverse enough (outside the circle of main love interests) that these stereotypes can come up at all, so weigh that carefully

Special shoutout to the first major love interest, a Latina woman who dies spectacularly halfway through the series after having the main guy's secret baby

Extremely confusing relationship to psychosis as a mental illness

Melodrama that would make the desperate housewives sit back and stare

Fascinatingly good about homophobia actually, in that queerbaity 2005 way

*slaps the main guy like he's a car* You can fit so much dysphoria in this cis guy

In conclusion: I see why so many AMAB bisexuals of various genders who were part of the target demo latched the fuck on to this series so hard. I myself was fooled into believing these books were "for" Straight Men, and to be clear they are. But they're also Pulpy Gay Camp Bullshit that we the faggots of the world deserve to mutilate and recreate in our own image.

Together, I believe we could fix them.

Oh right, the plot:

The Main Guy, Harry Dresden, is a private detective Wizard Cop (serial plot is investigation based) who may also be the chosen one destined to defeat some elder gods (long term plot), and along the way starts several major supernatural wars and at least 2 arms races.

[unofficial-book-of-quotes-tm]

The first thing I want to say about series 6 is, it’s incredibly underrated in my opinion. I get why it’s not one of the great ones, but it’s far from bad and it has so much awesome banter and studio stuff in addition to giving us two pivotal moments in the show’s history (the kiss and Alex sitting on a cake bare-arsed), but we’ll get to that. When I watched series 6 for the first time, the only contestant I knew was Russell Howard, so let’s begin with him, shall we? I don’t have much to say on Russell other than I enjoyed his overall performance and his forte seemed to be tasks where he could show off his physical prowess, which — and I have no qualms admitting that — he’s a decent sportsman and watching him do keepy-ups will stay on my mind for a while.

Also, I always think it’s funny when one of Greg’s mates is on ‘cos they have absolutely zero respect for the Taskmaster whereas everyone else seems a little apprehensive at first usually. I feel similarly about Asim Chaudhry; He was fun to watch, though what he lacks in physical abilities and competence he makes more than up for in charm and cheek. Just like Russell, he had his moments and I think he managed to make Alex (the assistant) jealous once or twice. I mean, look at Alex’s face when Greg invites Asim to sit on his lap. I think this moment also highlights how Greg’s and Alex’s on-screen relationship changed in series 6, though more on that in a bit. Now, Liza Tarbuck. One might assume that I should be prepared for women like Liza Tarbuck and Sally Phillips at this point who are utter nutcases (affectionately) and absolutely not above doing the most insane shit imaginable. I mean, I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy them. What I remember about Liza’s attempts (and maybe I’m misremembering / misinterpreting) is that she didn’t appear to be ‘needing’ to win, instead she seemed more interested in having a good time and being creative. And who can forget:

Tim Vine is an entirely different beast and I’m not sure how I feel about him, though with every rewatch of series 6 I grow fonder of him (I’m calling that the Paul Chowdhry Effect). The thing is, I appreciate Tim going for the pun, ‘cos I’m a sucker for bad puns. But contrary to Liza, Tim gave me the impression he wanted to win and on occasion it felt like he was trying a bit too hard. Nevertheless, his big announcement and the hook disaster still crack me up only by thinking about them and the solo task he was made to do with putting together an outfit was perfect for him. I don’t really know what to make of Alice Levine, and it seems to become a habit that I’ll save contestants who baffle me for last in this sort of review. I think she’s incredibly charming and sweet, and she had a strong pet name game going on with Alex, which was quite adorable. I actually assumed she was given the solo task and had to come up with different pet names for Alex whenever she began a task, but nope. On the other hand, I kept asking myself whether Alice wanted to do Taskmaster or if she was told to do it, because in my opinion, she appears to half-ass a lot of tasks and does minimal effort, but I don’t know. Now, before I get to Greg and Alex, I just like to mention that I think the tasks in this series were actually quite strong and there are several of which I’d like to have a go myself (e.g. the bedtime story, find the link, parachute for the wooden spoon, the egg live task of episode 7, and many more). On my mainblog I made a post a couple of months ago about the shift in Greg’s and Alex’s on-screen dynamic between series 5, champion of champions 1 and series 6, ‘cos what the fuck was that? It went from something pretty one-sided (as in Alex being the besotted one) to them going for a full on snog.

I’m not complaining, just pointing out that they went from 0 to 100 pretty fast in that series — and it was only the sixth series! Speaking from series 17, I think we’re due another kiss, guys (yes, I’m absolutely shamelessly shipping the Taskmaster and the assistant). Overall I really enjoy this series, it’s got so many great and iconic moments that it baffles me how people don’t like it. I’m not here to invalidate anyone’s opinion, believe me, I have a great one coming up soon-ish, and with that, I’ll see you all in series 7! Thank you so much for sticking around!

[mugiwara-lucy]

Now some may be wondering why I’ve been so gung ho on Early Voting/Mail In Voting? The reason is because as we’ve seen in the last couple of weeks Trump and his cult are going to no doubt try and steal the election as evidenced by them trying by to make Nebraska a “winner take all state”, having Georgia do hand ballots, keeping Kamala’s name off the ballots in Montana (while miraculously leaving on RFK Jr’s 🙄) and trying to pass that “Save Act nonsense” along with Trump shit talking our troops that vote overseas.

All of what I mentioned is ACTUAL election interference. Thankfully all of them except the Georgia hand ballot thing have been shoved to the side although even that is being contested next week so hopefully that gets scrapped too. The reason this is actual election interference is because counting hand ballots by hand is no doubt mentally exhausting but you’re bound to make an error (and you can believe MAGA will make an “error” 😒) and you’d know this if you’ve ever done inventory at work, you’d know this. The Save Act screws married women since youzmd have to have the same name you were born with and making Nebraska a “winner take all” state would have NO DOUBT been an unfair advantage for Trump and as for leaving off Kamala’s name in Montana, there is NO excuse for that. Funny how the party of “law and order” is involved with all this untrustworthy nonsense. 🥴

But yeah sorry to segue in all that, I just wanted to let you know the shit MAGA is putting on is and how we can best combat them and I feel mail in ballots and early voting is a GREAT counter to that! Also I feel it worth noting that Trump said if he gets in office, he’s putting Elon Musk in charge of the government and both say they will do away with both mail in ballots and early voting. Gee I wonder why 😒

But yeah anyways, here are the Early Voting Dates:

And here’s your link to request a mail in ballot! Though please keep in mind when you get your mail in ballot, like I say, make sure to deposit it AT the USPS office! That way you can avoid MAGA mail fuckery! Here’s the link to sign up!

And well if you just wanna be old fashioned like me, here are the dates which list the deadlines and when it’s the last day to sign up to vote on November 5th as well as the link to register to vote itself.

Guys we’ve done so well and because of our hard work; Kamala has a lead in Arizona, Michigan, Nevada, Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Wisconsin. (Which is why MAGA is even more unhinged with their fuckery eye roll) but we can NOT stop here. We can NOT afford to take our feet off the breaks UNTIL Kamala wins and is in the White House. And even then this is NOT the end of Project 2025/Agenda 47/180 Transition Plan (new name same shit), it will only be delayed.

In short, PLEASE PLEASE VOTE in ANY way you can. Either Mail In (with the tip I shared), Early or ACTUAL IN DAY VOTING of November 5th!

If we fail and we get Trump….we can DEFINITELY say goodbye to voting since don’t forget two months ago he said and I quote “you won’t ever have to worry about voting again. It’ll all be fixed.” We all know what that means when he says “fixed”.

And we also enjoyed several events like Pride Month this year. With all his talk about “Christianity and going after Anti-Christians”, if he gets in, this could legitimately have been our LAST pride month.

And like I’ve always said if he gets in, he’s not leaving until he croaks and if that happens we get someone like JD Vance or Elon Musk as president.

I’m sure I don’t have to explain how HORRIFIC that would be. And keep in mind, our economy STILL hasn’t fully recovered from how bad Trump fucked us over even FOUR YEARS LATER.

So in short let’s NOT blow this. Thank You 🙏

[somethings-monstrous]

If you can't handle topics revolving around menstruation, block me, then grow the fuck up, please and thank you! 🤗

Trigger Warning: Bible, Bible verse, blood mention, trans exclusive language use mention.

So, I bought a new menstrual cup. Mine vanished during a move. Got the new cup in today and was inspecting it while waiting for the water to boil to sterilize it and...

Is that a fucking Bible verse?!

[35] I have shewed you all things, how that so labouring ye ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.

Yup.

So, the company, Pixie Cup, does a 1 to 1 system, donating one menstrual cup to a person in need for every cup purchased (love that so much! These things are so cheap to make it's offensive). So, the Bible verse is about them donating menstrual products to those in need. The paperwork with the cup specifically says "a woman in need" and "for women," which honestly wasn't suss until I noticed the Christian bent and then it kinda stood out more as exclusionary. It may not be, but I feel it is good to mention that they use very gendered language in the leaflets and such. But, still, I appreciate the donation they make.

My first instinct was to be pissed. Like, that's some sneaky dogma shit. Trying to convert me, p*ssy first I guess. But, after a second we realized..that's going inside our vagina to be filled with blood.

And just...yeah I can't honestly be pissed about that. Like, that's fucking hilarious. You snuck a Bible verse into my menstrual cup, and my sacrilegious ass is about to literally put it in my vagina and bleed doom upon it. Makes me wish we still practiced witchery.

If there are any Abrahamic witches with a menstrual cycle reading this: Blood sacrifice and witchery cup right here.

Anyway, this amused us and seemed like the kinda shit one is required to post to Tumblr.

Also, figured some out there might appreciate the notice that this is a thing to avoid if, like us, you have religious trauma and would prefer to keep associations far, far away.

Anyway, bullshit aside, it's a good cup with multiple sizes. We have a low cervix and standard sized cups are too big. The xsmall fits perfect, can't feel it and the vacuum seal it forms doesn't make our cramps worse, which larger cups do. The cup came with a pack of lubricant, several cup wipes, a draw string pouch, and a zip carrying case that it all fits into, as well as a section divided off with a water proof layer for reusable pads or the unsteralized cup. It was $20USD on Amazon and I'm happy with it, even with the bloody verse 🥁😃

If you menstruate, seriously look into getting a cup. It's $20 or so, and will last a minimum of five years. I've seen people who had the same one over 15 years. Especially if you have insecure finances and living situations, get a cup. Being homeless on your period sucks. Being poor on your period sucks. If you can, get a cup. It's insanely cheap compared to disposable products, better for your body, better for the environment, and not as scary or gross as it seems.

Ransom aside, our housemate's dad is staying with us and he is very Christian (but not a dick about it, which I respect), and it's so weird having someone say "and I thank the lord for xyz." Like, my brain has a "the fuck is he on about? Oh right." I legitimately forget Christians exist 😅 Though, now my menstrual cup will remind me so...hurray -_-

[ruumirmir]

Object permanence is a real pain in the ass bc TRUE I too forget stuff unless it's literally in front of my face . also i need to start putting dividers amidst every other paragraph changing the topic of conversation 💀

omg bonus House of Wolves AU:

what do you think Loverboy's role would be in this AU? from what my little brain could understand from the animatic,, pantalone went to some kinda mora treasury vault? Alone? Arlecchino either followed him to ambush him,, or bc shes after a part of that wealth too.

omg what if Loverboy was dispatched to be on the other side, laying waste to the House of Hearth 👁👁 Gasp what if Arle stationed the magician siblings lyney lynette and freminny to protect the house. Gasp . idk im reaching at straws but this AU is anyways saur fascinating. 😭😭‼

AHAGAGHASJEJSS so far I'm noticing a pattern that dottore has found himself the number 1 targetted opp from roughly every harbinger ever 😭 in the same breath I think loverboy's prime target of harbinger murder would be Dottore as well. Saying this with the context of reader spending enough time in the Fatui to get to Know the other harbingers.

I mean theres only so much i can say about it with the minimal canon lore about unreleased harbingers + the mass delusion of headcanons ive seen everywhere. I might revise it again another time,, but as of now loverboy's opinion on the other harbingers should be something like:

Pierro - Big scary ancient fossilized man. Not a stick, he has the whole tree up his ass. 4/10

Capitano - Big scary eldritch horror. He's chill tho. Nods head in agreement when overhearing someone thirst over him. 6/10

Dottore - Explodes him with mind. Stay away from pantalone thats MY dysfunctional workplace situationship /jealousy. I hope your clones cannibalize you. 1/10

Columbina - So far so good. Let's keep it that way. Maintains approx distance of 20 meters whenever in vicinity. 3/10

Arlecchino - Threatning in the lowkey way. Not a fake bitch. Respectable single father of fifty kids. 7/10

Scaramouche - Something is so deeply wrong with this rat. I'd rather you were a fake smiley bitch than an upfront sadistic egomaniac. 2/10

Signora - There's worse women out there I'm sure. Having pretty priviledge is like god's saving grace if you were to interact with her. 4/10

Childe - He should be at the club. Relatively the sanest man to hold a conversation with. No i do not want to fight you- do you want me to inform Regrator that you're here to visit? He'd like to reach you about your car's extended warran- 9/10

Pantalone - His roman empire. ?/10

Sandrone - (As arlecchino mentioned that several fatuus have even yet to SEE her,, i think loverboy hasnt met Sandrone at all.)

Pulcinella - Pantalone was right actually. A mere 12 hours for the passing of a long-reigning Harbinger??? Even HE was weirded tf out. Hopefully the next coffin will be yours. 2/10

ok im actually laughing. "over time he's become a better guy :) <3" "-when it comes to hiding his emotions >:)"

plus one for character development ig 😭 his morals may be skewed but his pristine mask of porcelain sure ISNT.

MOVING ON- i fear you may be right it IS the sexy glasses with the metal chains. I like my men a little blind <3 Side note: if we're sticking with the delusion headcanon of Pantalone being a Gunsperson,, I think he's farsighted. You'll see him squinty eyed trying to count mora without his glasses, but he'll snipe a dude 20 blocks over.

Speaking of voices omg I had the most delicious thought ever: After reader leaves his Fatuu service, finally thinking hes free and that the worst and most hectic part of his life is OVER- (Spoiler: It isn't) What was that saying,, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder?". Ok what if I took that and adjusted it to be a little more fucked up. Having killed a man, and being complicit in killing several others, One does not Simply Escape The Harrowing Change that comes with it. I think it REALLY starts to set in after he's removed from the environment where death is so normalized. What if over time, Loverboy noticed the voice inside his head was slowly starting to sound like Pantalone. What then.

"You're very good at what you do."

okay. what if the next time it was a whisper telling him to snap a man's wrist in two because he was clearly trying to scam loverboy in broad daylight.

Rightt although its not in your rules list,, I'm guessing you don't write any sexual nsfw- STILL WANTED TO CONFIRM beforehand if you're cool with rambling about anything sexually explicit. because WELL lets just say my collection of twitter bookmarks would kill a catholic nun. I'll thoroughly indulge your vulgar way of speaking girl 👍💗

Pathetic sobby men will never not ignite SEVERAL sinful thoughts. Pantalone a stronger man than me bc i'd be pivoting that workplace situationship twink towards the bedroom immediately. anyways-

OKAY ABOUT THE FATUI MANPOWER BEING SO VAST,, I was thinking about the overall genshin public's prejudices and reaction to the Fatui,, or just Snezhnayans in general.

"Most of Snezhnaya's foreign relations are handled by the Fatui, though their aggressive negotiation style and constant political and economic encroachment have given them a negative reputation."

I wouldn't say that it made life HORRIBLE for loverboy to have connections to the fatui. But i'd say theres little scope for a satisfactory life outside Snezhnaya when you'll always be thrown a look of distrust every other day. Better to stick with your village, isnt it? Plus:

There also seems to be a large emphasis on familial relations, as the Snezhnayans who have mentioned their family have been shown to be very close to them. Camaraderie, cooperation and straightforwardness generally appear to be valued in Snezhnaya.

From reader's dad point of view, I'd assume he was a patriotic man + working under the man who might take over the economy in the future,, the salary would be Nothing to Scoff at.

simping for your own OC/ Reader/ Character is a different form of embarassing indulgence because theres a person in my head that I MADE UP and theyre ruining my life /affectionate. You can't even doomscroll content of them cause you have to make it yourself. 😩😔 At the rate this is going,, I might start to self-insert with PANTALONE cause lord help me I need to kabedon Loverboy so bad.

OMG LOVERBOY PISSING OFF PANTALON E i didnt even think about that But now that you metnion it youre so Right ( •̀ .̫ •́ )✧ I wouldnt be surprised if for a split second he had a passing thought to put a bullet in reader's skull too, but one deep breath later he had to compose himself. (Almost killing the other count: WHat is this? atleast the 4th time now?)

LMAO BUT WORRY NOT GOOD SIR your loverboy is infact going to develop a spine of Steel with SO MUCH survivcal instinct that Years down the line he's going to get you in Hot Shit with the Knave on pressumed account of him BETRAYING YOU (Gasp Gasp). For the sole reason of wanting to survive No Matter The Cost . Would you look at that. We've come full circle now.

Im imagining pantalone,, Now regrator,, looking at loverboy after a good 3-4 ish years and not recognizing the man for about a minute,, before he makes that mental connection that Ah. Its the soggy mop boy from years ago.

and his eyes dilate like a cat and he goes ‼‼‼‼ And oh no!!! THats where the obsession starts to snowball Like "holy shit babyboy that post-character development clarity looks positively Enchanting on you. I need you in ways that are So concerning to business ethics"

Like finding the most perfect diamond after leaving behind the same coal to crystalize under pressure.

wow this loverboy business is no joke ive never been this insane over Just a Guy. and to think it all started bc i accidentally sent the same req to two different writers 🥺

Ok lets go SImply reblogging your oneshot for my req isn't enough i need to analyze and annotate the entire thing like a literature professor and tell you Everything. (✿◡‿◡)

pantalone might be ooc

He's not!!!!!! by which i think this is fairly a Really Good portrayal of the guy considering the 5 sentences we know about him. He's strict!!! frankly a little scary!! And also chill and positive about loverboy!! But it felt Just Right!!!! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

descriptions of blood

description so good i might as well have killed that man myself

...pretend that his lore has a spot where this fits perfectly

I think i can make it fit!! would you be cool with making minor changes if so?

"You're very good at what you do."

Imagining the same voice as sebastian michaelis saying this with the sexiest buttersmooth voice is eviscerating me. Very self-indulgent but praise kinks will always slay so hard.

...on the verge of stabbing him a moment ago. 

This,, and the small thing i wrote about loverboy launching them both out the window to escape an onslaught of assassins in my other req. get you a ship where one of them has completely normal knee-jerk reactions to kill the other <3

...as he crushes their hand beneath his shoe without mercy

Fatui Harbingers - House of Wolves - KIERU 0:15

...Instead, Pantalone looks unfazed by it all, stopping as he reaches the other side of you, free of most of the blood. He greets you with a knowing smile as he usually does.

hey ririto this is so ominous and eerie for some reason not known to me. Just the backdrop of grey and snow and probably a gruesome corpse right next to loverboy and Pantalone has a silent smile through everything. Delicious sentence 10/10.

"I knew making you a banker was a good idea,"

THIS IS SO. The confidence and quite calm assurance that pantalone says this with is SO. You'd never be sure whether to lean into it and let out a sigh of relief,, o r back up further becuase it sounds so good but all in the wrong ways.

...thumb brushing across your bottom lip slicked with blood.

fellas is it professional to feed double edged words of honey to your young inexperienced subordinate while kneeling in front of his battered and bruised self who killed someone for you,, and run a gloved thumb across his blood soaked lip. ( ͡• ͜ʖ ͡• )

"Who knew you had so many other talents,"

you are infusing these dialouges with crack cocaine giggling kicking my feet while being slightly concerned because Sir. What do you mean by that.

"Ah ah," he says, a harshness seeping into even just that sound. "Stay."  You stay put,

thank you for making loverboy so Ouppy.

"Lord Harbinger," you try to say

yes,, this could be a minor thing to adjust: i think we could actually fit this oneshot somewhere AFTER he gets his vision,, and BEFORE Pantalone becomes the Harbinger Regrator. Can be a valid reason for Pantalone to see that reader failed to kill the assassin from their shitty negotiation meeting,, and wanting to newly test him again after he had his vision + ambitions awakened to see if he can get past the fear of killing NOW. (Even then,, maybe due to inexperience/unfamiliarity of using visions, reader didn't think to raise his advantage of supernatural powers against another visionless man in this scenario.)

I'd think his first kill was one of the factors that caused him to leave after his 3year duty, not sticking around for Pantalone's promotion to Regrator.

"You are much like your father."

Top 10 things Not to say to someone with daddy issues-

...they're as wet behind the ears as you are.

Dear diary, Today i learned a new speech of expression

...Pantalone's hand that rests on your chin moves... "Now, try again. Dear banker, whatever do you mean?" 

this whole paragraph. What on earth do you mean 'ooc pantalone'. This is the MOST pantalone thing you could've written. Strict and intimidating about improving reader's meek attitude. a Push in the right direction.

"Is this a test?" you manage, words muffled by the way he squishes your face like putty beneath his fingers.

(thank you for making loverboy so Ouppy) x2

...and you know who, regardless of how 'anonymous' that source may have been in his words.

I MAY BE STUPID. （；´д｀）ゞ I CANT TELL. who you are hinting towards 😭😭

"Hold this," he adds, an unnervingly tender instruction for the way he was just behaving. 

There he is. its reminding me of: the same pantalone that washed reader with a clock in my very first req to you.

...looking probably about as pathetic as you think you do.

POV: You're Pantalone looking down at Loverboy.

I forgot how much of a bug-eyed wet dog loverboy is before his time-skip "character development" so to say. Thanks i love him.

"next time someone approaches you from behind, don't wait to stab them. Don't reach for your wet knife with your wet hands, either. Both of those things will get you killed."

I think pantalone is entirely having too much fun with observing Loverboy try climbing the ropes to how REAL fatuus run business.

"Come now. You want to go home and back to Liyue, don't you? I'm tired of this cold." 

Σ(っ °Д °;)っ back to liyue??? Loverboy is Liyuean??? pantalone stays in liyue??? I ALWAYS THOUGHT arlecchino called pantalone a bitch in Signora's funeral for "never leaving the comfort of his homeland?" Whuh-?

ALL IN ALL,, CLOSING THOGUHTS,, GOOD FOOD RIRITO DINNER HAS BEEN SERVED, ATE, AND LICKED CLEAN 10/10 ILY

I GOTT THIS JUST BEFORE I WENT TO SLEEP AND ONLY JUST GOT THE TIME TO ANSWER IT BUT I KNEWWW YOU WOULD GET THE HOUSE OF WOLVES REFERENCE

That is true actually and I realised after I posted it that like, wtf is in character for him?? 😭 he's said like two things and while I have memorised those things they're not a lot to go off but I'm glad you enjoy him (ﾉ´▽｀)ﾉ♪

Also if you can make it fit, feel free ☆(≧∀≦*)ﾉ I sorta only had a vague idea of where it might go, but at that point in time, loverboy works abroad in the Northland Bank. I'll also throw in that he travelled there for that job and unfortunately does not come from Liyue 😔 (unless he's supposed to?? I got the impression he was from Snezhnaya) it was more a "I bet you'd love to be back at a desk job rn" or something to that effect, loverboy is going back to the bank once things are settled where he belongs but Pantalone isn't going with him (hence why they're in Snezhnaya when this happenscause I also interpret at as him not liking to leave Liyue)

I'm so glad the J Michael Tatum love never stops but also you're so right praise kinks absolutely do. I also noticed that them trying to kill each other is like, a repeated theme so far 😭⁉️ LIKE WHEN PANTALONE WENT TO FIND HIM LAST ONESHOT HE WAS GONNA KILL THAT FUCKER

Confident possibly mildly degrading Pantalone is literally my favourite thing, like I chew on him. I chew on him being unnervingly calm because what would he have in the eyes of a wet mop boy besides an unwavering poker face. Get yourself a man who uses the blood of your enemies like your lipstick and knows he made good choices stationing you at his shady probably money laundering black hole of debt he calls a bank

Yk I agree actually I was trying to figure the timeline out in my head and realised it would've made more sense to happen before he was a Harbinger so I agree with this revision that actually makes it fit the lore and if I ever decide to make it a longer multichapter fic I'll definitely fix that 💀 t'was a victim of laziness

YES YES THIS Pantalone basically shaping him up so he doesn't literally die and being strict with it get so him. He'll prompt him to say it again but won't let it slide because that behaviour isn't going to be beneficial, especially not with someone who may be working under him long-term

I went back to read the part about the anonymous source line came from, and I think I figured out what happened here, so allow me to explain  (;ﾟдﾟ)   Ok so, it has a bit to do with the weird way I wrote this because when I said I wrote this on the train that was half a lie. I wrote some of it on the train and the rest at the library where I also edited what I already had because the spelling mistakes were atrocious. I did write down who it was but cut it when I decided it cluttered the story a bit which retrospectively was also a mistake because I didn't think about the fact it would seem like I was hinting at something at the time (ﾟ▽ﾟ*) the shorter, boring answer is that there's no one Ririto did a big silly and cut context in the chaotic editing this suffered

LMAO NOT THE CLOCK AGAIN

I love him the wet mop boy. I was like I want him to be at least a lil pathetic rn because his concerns are completely different. He's thinking about how to not die, and how much he misses his mom and his much fatui dick his dad must've been riding before death to think this career path was worth it (slash JOKING but he is still wondering why his father would have done this job willingly) that and I think men who whimper are cute thanks for coming to my Ted talk

HE IS ENJOYING IT and I love it sm

Hehe I am glad to know you haven't gone hungry today (^o^) and such high ratings for the banker and loverboy

[austarus]

Frost X Reader - FWB Headcanons (Smut)

*A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me. It belongs to its rightful owner.

**Please don’t forget to comment, like, and reblog. It means a lot to content creators of all kinds!

***I’d also like to thank @grimtamlain-writes​ for being my beta reader.

****Minors do not interact, this is a smut fic.

Word Count: 1715

MASTERLIST

Disclaimer: Trigger Warning – mentions of rape and sexual assault from court cases

The number of times she’s fucked you, unlike any man you’ve ever been with

Frost: Mm, you got to be louder than that snowball

You: Jesus fucking Christ, Frost - right there, please

Frost: Someone’s got a pouty mouth

It really makes a fire ignite in the pit of your stomach all over again

You two have a running tally on who cums the most whenever a sex section happens

Currently you keep leading because Frost is merciless with you and your body keeps betraying you

Makes your toes curl and something ache in desire inside of you  

Ugh, all the positions she’s put you in

All the toys she’s used on you

Straps, vibrators, butt plugs, blindfolds, etc…

Since that one night, things actually haven’t gotten weirder between you and Frost

If anything, you and the frosty meta seem to have gotten closer

Frost is still as vulgar and inappropriate as ever – which you’ve been enabling her tendencies and mood, especially around the team

Literally a dynamic duo – you thought you were nasty, she was hella kinky and it made you eager to be under her or have her underneath you

Spamming Cisco’s phone with memes and texts just to piss him off throughout the day

Cisco: You guys are being too much at 1 pm

Frost: Sucks bitch

You: Cowabummer dude

Frost is the type to watch movies just to make fun of them, especially horror movies

Not your thing really, but you’ll sit with her and scroll on Tik Tok

Frost: Only stupid people would explore an unsuspecting noise… Why the fuck is she on the ground? Get up! You didn’t sprain your ankle. Damn people are stupid

You: It is a horror movie, the characters tend to do irrational things like lay on the ground after tripping and falling and just screaming for help

When Frost gets bored, her hands will wander to your boobs – most of the time unwarranted

Frost: What? They’re perky and soft, just like stress balls

You: What the hell are you stressed about?

Frost: Does it matter???

You let her play with your boobs, your slut side getting hornier with each touch and Frost knows it especially when she’s rolling your nipples between her fingers

Will also slip her hands into your panties for slapping her hands away from your boobs

She’ll be in a hella mood if you’re already wet

Couch sex literally every other day, that piece of furniture has seen things

Cisco doesn’t want to touch anything when he comes over, especially the couch he accidentally vibed

Truth be told, when Frost is bored, her hands get a bit fidgety

If not your boobs, she’ll be doing something with your hair – like trying out a new braid she saw on Tik Tok

Yes, Frost is on Tik Tok

She doesn’t post anything because she believes she’ll “break the app with her Dom Lesbian Energy”

You just roll your eyes at her gloating

She definitely picks your house lock more often to chill

That or she’ll come in through the windows (a habit she picked up from Nash)

Frost and you definitely go back to her old stomping grounds to terrorize some poor souls

It all fun and games pissing off drunk entitled men until the cops show up

To which Barry has to be the one to tell you guys to stop antagonizing people at bars

You *raises and eyebrow*: Are you fucking kidding me? Those dipshits were coming onto girls unwarranted. I’m not just going to sit there and do nothing

Barry: Do something is one thing, breaking their arms and giving them severe frostbite while threatening to tear their heads off is another

Frost: A lesson to respect women and men when they say ‘no’

Iris and Caitlin are actually silently agreeing with you and Frost because no person needs to have their night ruined by an entitled asshole

Consecutive sleepovers since she’ll piss off Caitlin at home so she’ll kick Frost out on some nights

Caitlin is the first to know about you and her FWB

Caitlin: So, are you two a thing?

Frost: Nope

Caitlin: But you’re friends?

Frost: With benefits. two people have a platonic connection and use each other for sex. There's no romance, there are no dates, and there is no commitment. We just chill most of the time and fuck when we want to.

Caitlin: …

Frost *smirks and wiggles eyebrows*: Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Unless you want to join?!

She accidentally walked into her shared apartment with Frost to hear you moaning from Frost’s room (which was the guest room)

Frost was fucking you with the new strap-on she bought (7 inches and goodness was it delicious for you to take in)

You were sore for a full day before wanting some more

She made you promise to fuck her with it too and you did

Frost taught you how to use the strap-on – an interesting few attempts before you got the hang of it and fucked her into the bed with muffled moans falling out of her blue lips

Exploring so many kinks, but also discussing what is on and off the table – like being a rope bunny for all of Frost’s knots

You both love using a doubled ended dildo – moving together in sync which drives the dildo deeper inside you both

Consent is sexy btw

For your birthday, Frost got you a stuffed dildo plushy… a cursed gift lol

You: The fuck is this???

Frost: A new dildo, you better cuddle with it every night now

You: Hell no!

For her birthday, you got her some chains and studded earrings

Ok, but getting matching tattoos and a piercing or two (like on your stomach or something)

Frost will humor you and teach you how to make different blends of alcoholic drinks from her times as a bartender with Caitlin

Antagonizing ‘Karens’ at stores is also a thing you two do – especially at Jitters

Yes, the two of you will go throughout the city looking for trouble

Just not when Godspeed or a new meta was running rampant

You took Frost axe-throwing in Keystone, an activity the both of you thoroughly enjoyed… until you both got kicked out for almost beheading a guy that was coming onto you guys

He was not taking the hint that the two of you weren’t available and didn’t want to be available for him

You: Fucking ass

Frost: I could have just frozen his arm off

You: I don’t think anyone from Team Flash wants you in a courthouse any time soon

Frost: I can take it

Intellectual conversations about politics and societal flaws

Frost: Did you hear about the case where the judge let go a male defendant who plead guilty for 4 accounts of rape and sexual assault?

You: Are you fucking kidding me??? Why?

Frost: For one, they were both white, so white privilege is right there. Secondly, the judge “prayed on the defendant” and decided that “jail time would be too harsh on him”. But if this were to happen to any POC male, the judge would immediately seal their fate

You: I hate fucking people like that

Frost: You and me both sis

You: I’m so tired of men like them making rape ok when it 100% isn’t. This literally shows that guys can and should get away with rape

Definitely shitting on the top 1% and the corporations that bend the law to their will via dark money powers

Also discussing climate change and healthcare (because apparently governments won’t be doing shit to solve those issues as they claim their trying to)

Riding Frost’s face when she breaks into your apartment all pissed off and then 69ing right after because why not

Frost: How is it that you get so wet??

You: Shut up and put that mouth to use

Frost: Alright, geez. I’m just saying it’s pretty fucking hot

You: Thanks XP I try

Cue Frost rolling her eyes and making you cry 

Black Friday shopping which ends up with you eating her out in the changing rooms when she tries out some new lingerie and edgy clothes

You totally didn’t get into a fight with some chick who called security on you for taking her wallet

When you had actually picked it up and handed to the check since she’s the one that dropped it

Frost flicked here off when the security guard reviews the cameras

Ok, but Frost definitely picked up on baking to which you’d steal the dough and eat it raw (just because it’s so goddamn tasty)

Also pulling Tiktok trend pranks on each other because why the fuck not

You: Oh no, my bestie, she’s broken

Frost: Bitch

You: Slut

Frost: Shank

You: Whore

Frost: Hoe

Caitlin tells you guys’ multiple times not to fuck each other at STAR labs and that “it’s gross” but like Barry and Iris get hot in heavy at the labs too

#exposedbychester

Iris already knew of your FWB (she’s got the skills to pick up all the cues) but doesn’t really say anything about it

Barry is the one that acts all confused and visibly shocked that no one told him and like…

“bruh you’re a forensics CSI and a hero, how do you not pick up on these things”

Barry remains oblivious to things most of the time

You and Frost just chill and vibe most of the time, especially when you’re reading your books (recommended novels from booktok) or playing your video games

Playing Among us with Frost and Cisco, only for Frost to kill you and Cisco first all the time when she’s the imposter

Cisco: Oh come on!

You: This is like the third time

Frost: You guys should have learned your lesson after the second time. I’m disappointed.

[angry-geese]

Alien Blues

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Warnings: none! sfw. romantic/platonic(interpretable). mainly fluff. mentions of overworking and death, but nothing graphic. gn!reader

Notes: touch-starved Gojo

Word Count: 2.3k

Gojo doesn't get a lot of downtime in his line of work.

It comes with the job. Sorcerers don't exactly work a 9 to 5. This line of work is far from a normal one. Curses don't exorcise themselves, nor do they pick convenient times to show up. He usually has his hands full; be it taking down curses, or dealing with his students. A guy like him really can't take a vacation.

Despite going to the same school—and being only a year younger than him—you didn't meet Gojo until well into your adult life. After graduating, you went off on your own. The typical way of life for sorcerers wasn’t for you. You really didn't want to work with—or under—any of the major clans. At that point, you just wanted to do your own thing. To hell with the school; you’d be fine on your own. And you were.

You spent much of your time exorcising curses across the world, traveling from place to place, not staying in a single town for very long. A lot of it was freelance work. Such jobs were typically frowned upon, or at least looked at strangely. But it really didn't bother you. On your own you were powerful, and an impressive fighter, but you were working in a world that didn't accept you.

So you said to hell with fitting in.

Doing your own thing was the best decision you’d ever made. To this day you’ll stand by that. The jujutsu world is meant for people like Gojo. It demands so much more from you, and in return gives a whole lot less. It demands perfection from you—maybe even more—while he’s the set standard for this perfection. You hold no ill will towards him for it. He didn't make things this way. But it's hard not to envy him at times.

When you came back to the school, you were first assigned a teaching job.

Although you were a talented sorcerer, it was clear from the beginning you weren't meant to be a teacher. Your teaching style was viewed as a bit harsh, as you tended to just throw your students into a situation and let them figure things out for themselves, correcting them where needed. Overall you weren't a bad teacher, but your students got sent to the infirmary often. And by often, it was nearly every day. You just wanted them to be capable. You wanted your students to be prepared. To be the best of the best. How are they supposed to improve if they don't have experience?

To be fair, your students were some of the best in their grade.

For the most part you substitute if needed.

Upon first meeting, he was too eccentric for your tastes. Really, you found him annoying. Your first impression of Gojo was that he was full of himself and out of touch with the world around him. His first impression of you was that you were stuck up and a bit of a bitch.

There wasn't one thing that changed. Maybe he wore you down to the point where you tolerated him. He likes to think it was because of his charming personality. You know otherwise. His charms rarely work on you; if ever. Over time you found yourself less and less repulsed by him. The two of you bonded over harassing Nanami. On your own you weren't much trouble, but when paired with Gojo, Nanami learned to stay out of your way. If you let him. Usually you tracked him down. Your sweet tooth was just as insatiable as his. When you first took up baking, he was always nearby, wanting a taste. You’d drag him along to see new movies or shows or anything you’d think he’d like. He likes co-existing with you. The two of you don't have to even be doing anything. He can sit for hours with you by his side, doing absolutely nothing.

You've gotten to the point in your relationship where you show up unannounced. It's payback for all the times he’s come to your apartment, claiming he has some work for you, only to stay and raid your fridge, conveniently forgetting what he had to tell you. Yes you have scared the absolute hell out of Megumi on several occasions. In Gojo’s defense, he likes your cooking.

He’s not used to having you stay in one place for so long. You’re not used to it either. It feels strange sticking around Tokyo for so long. You hate feeling trapped more than anything. Maybe that’s why you moved around so much. Maybe you’re getting sentimental the older you get. For the first time in years, you feel truly at home. Gojo is one of your closest—if not your closest—friends, and there’s not much you wouldn't do for him.

You guess this is home. The end of the line, or whatever. You don't see yourself leaving for a while.

It's well after dark by the time he gets home.

The place was empty when you got here. Megumi must be out with friends. He's a strange kid. Strange circumstances lead to strange adults—or almost adults in his case. You try not to judge him too hard. You don't have a whole lot to say on his… situation.

He notices your form curled up on the couch, your face illuminated by your phone screen. The tv plays some horror movie you’ve long stopped paying attention to. Your face lights up when you see him.

His hand briefly touches your head, messing up your hair. He looks tired. There's dark circles under his eyes. He was gone for a while this time.

“I brought takeout,” you say, gesturing to the fridge, “I wasn't sure when you’d get home so I put it in there.”

“Did you eat already?” He asks. He makes a note to pay you back for the food later.

“No, I wanted to wait for you.” You say.

A bit of guilt hits him. You really didn't have to wait for him. You know his habit of being chronically late. He says he’s fashionably late, to which you reason he is never fashionable ever. He actually seemed a bit bothered by that one, which only made you tease him more.

Momentarily he disappears into the kitchen, returning with your food. You have his order memorized. There's only a handful of things he’d get anyway. He’s not a picky eater, and usually gets what you get. Pick one of about three things and he’ll probably eat it.

The food is still good even while cold. Gojo talks about his recent job while you eat. He says it was nothing special. But he called Nanami for backup, so you know that’s a lie. He hardly touches his food. Since when doesn't he want to eat? The guy has a pretty impressive appetite at times. Seriously, he could eat you out of house and home.

“Are you done?” He asks.

You nod.

He clears away the empty takeout containers from in front of you, returning the leftovers to the fridge.

When he returns, he sits next to you, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. The leather is an ugly shade. You’re sure if it weren't for Megumi, he would have bought something much worse. His taste—in everything, really—can be tacky. You make sure he knows this. Always have to keep him on his toes. Nanami is right about some things. You never take Gojo’s side for too long.

“You were gone for a while this time.” You say.

A smug looking grin spreads across his face. It's almost enough to make you roll your eyes and groan. “Sounds like you were worried about me.”

Really, you could worry yourself sick thinking about him. It's hard not to. Everyone has their limits, and you constantly wonder when he’ll hit his. Strongest or not; he’s human after all.

“Of course I worry.” As much as you hate to admit it, you care about him. You won't say it. It feels like bad luck to say it out loud.

He knows. He feels the same way. Over time he’s grown jaded and angry with the way things are. He tries not to worry too much about you. This life isn't an easy one, but you can handle yourself. He knows that. Years on your own have proven you're not only a capable sorcerer, but a talented one. The strongest doesn't need to worry about himself, so much as the people around him.

In a weird way he’s proud of you.

You open your arms, instinctively he goes into them.

You pull his head to your chest. He does little to fight against you. Hell, he practically leans into your touch. You take his glasses, setting them on the table beside you. His eyes close when your hands move to his hair, gently pulling it out of his eyes. He’s not quite sure what to do with his arms. Eventually he settles on resting them at his sides. One snakes around your stomach, coming to rest on the fleshy part of your hip. You're awfully comfortable to lay on, he notes.

Your movements are familiar, and oddly comforting. He makes note of the way your heartbeat suddenly drops off, before picking up in pace. From the smell of your shampoo, to the sound of your breathing. He can only describe it as home.

Lots of people will die in this line of work, but he has faith you’ll always be around. You’re too stubborn to die.

Touch in a sense like this is almost foreign to him. Touch in a non fighting context is just bizarre. He never de-activates infinity long enough to get hit. He's had his fair share of one night stands. Hell, he could have anyone he wants. He’s had everything and anything in between. Men and women across the world either want to be him, or be with him. But this—intimacy like this—is strange. The others get kicked out the morning after. But you’ll always be around. He likes to think he’ll be around for you too.

Maybe he’s more touch starved than he thought.

He’s Satoru-fucking-Gojou, a man like him doesn't get touched starved. He feels a wave of shame at his reaction. His face burns. His pride won't allow him to admit how much he enjoys this.

It's the first time you’ve held him close like this. The action is so oddly intimate and it’s not even in a sexual way. Your movements are familiar. He fits so nicely against your chest, he notes.

He practically purrs in delight as your fingers brush a sensitive spot towards the back of his head—where his neck and shoulders meet—sighing softly. Goosebumps rise along his exposed flesh. You take note of his reaction, and focus on that spot more, dragging your fingers across his skin. Your nails are getting long, and feel nice against his scalp. His eyes close as he leans into the crook of your neck.

"Do you want to watch something different?" You ask.

His heart nearly stops when your hand moves to cup his cheek. His face is warm. He's a wimp when it comes to horror movies. He says they don't scare him. They do. You’ve spent plenty of night sitting next to him, watching his body tense with terror.

He wasn't paying attention to the tv until now. He shakes his head, but his eyes remain fixed on the ground and not the screen.

"This is fine." He says.

"You sure?"

He nods.

He fights sleep as long as possible, but eventually he'll have to give in to it. You’ll be there long after he’s fallen asleep. Maybe even after he wakes up. His head nods, his eyes struggling to stay open. His breaths even out, his chest rising slowly.

You're not really sure what to do once he falls asleep on you. Your position isn't the most comfortable, but you suffer through it so as to not wake him up. If he’s fallen asleep on you, then he definitely needs the rest. He’s a light sleeper anyway. Any movement would be sure to wake him up.

It’s not long after that his body heat—and the sound of his steady breathing—lulls you to sleep.

You wake up to a blanket haphazardly tossed over the two of you. The tv is off. Two glasses of water are set out on the coffee table, condensation collecting on the outside. Megumi must have come home. Gojo's drool collects in a small pool on your collarbone, which is a bit gross. You use the corner of the blanket to wipe it away. It’s a bit odd seeing him so at-peace. It's rare he even lets his guard down. You rest your chin on the top of his head. His hair is soft, and tickles your neck. The sight of him makes your chest swell with affection. The intimacy of it all is enough to overwhelm you. It's been a while since you’ve cared so much about someone.

It's nice having him home.

He stirs, stretching out a bit like a cat. You card a hand through his hair. He grumbles something in response. Probably a weak “what?” Your joints are a bit stiff from staying in the same position for so long.

“Do you want coffee?” You ask.

He sleepily mumbles an answer—one which you don't understand. It's just as legible as the first. His eyes don't even open. You take it to mean he wants to go back to sleep. You pull the blanket up around his shoulders, tucking it under his chin. The sun is still barely up. You’re not in a rush to get up. You don't have anything to do today anyway, work can wait. If Nanami calls, you’ll just ignore him. You could stay in all morning if you wanted.

And you just might.

Come hell or high water, you’re staying on this couch.

In a bit you should get up and start breakfast. Most of the food in the house is for Megumi, but there should be enough to make something small. Pancakes sound nice.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love Pt. 2 (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T? Maybe? Almost the exact opposite of the first one. Language, minor violence Genre: Fluff, mainly, with admittedly a little bit of humor? I blame my lack of sleep. And my adhd. Warnings: Implied cannibalism adjacent activities because guess what honey, this is a fucked up family, what do you expect of me??? Sure, they have breakfast in this, there's cute stuff, but c'mon, they don't eat flowers and oatmeal! Notes: Doubt it needs to be said, but this is a sequel to the good ending of part one. Also Cass has one line in this that might be OOC, or seem oddly placed, but admittedly this chapter is also loosely based on a dream I had, and I couldn't not include the few direct quotations I remembered, and she seemed the most likely to say the line. And yes, there will be a part 3, because I am weak and also kind of maybe made this one less plot-moving than intended.

{Wounded Love: The re-woundening}

Every step ached more than the last, even with Alcina supporting you. She had wanted to carry you down the stairs, of course, but you had insisted that you would be fine. Now you were just determined not to complain out loud. One yelp or cry and you’d be scooped up in her arms, surely to be carried for the rest of the day. As much as you appreciated your girlfriend’s assistance, you hated feeling useless, and hated putting a burden on others. So here you were, one arm wrapped around Alcina’s waist, limping ever-so-slowly towards the dining room.

Further ahead (unburdened by your injury) the three Dimitrescu daughters talk among themselves, voices hushed as they too headed for breakfast. It was odd to see them all awake, and socializing, as there was usually at least one who came to meals late. You couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with your condition… or the circumstances that had caused it.

Less than eighteen hours had passed since your fight with a stray lycan, and tension had been high since. While you hadn’t yet spoken to the sisters, you had spoken to Alcina, who had briefly mentioned their concern for you. Whether they actually cared about you as a person or just cared because you are dating their mother is unclear. Based on how they had acted while treating your wounds, though, you were inclined to think that they were fond of you. And seeing as Alcina had already vowed to get revenge on your behalf… well, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that her daughters intended to assist.

“Careful on the last step, dear,” Alcina says, positioned as to catch you if you fell. It takes a little willpower to resist the urge to hop down the rest of the way. As long as you landed on your uninjured leg, it wouldn’t even be that bad. Still, irritating your girlfriend first thing in the morning felt like a pretty stupid thing to do. Instead you just nodded, slowing down even more, and took visible care not to trip. “Good girl.”

Well, you certainly couldn’t say that being careful didn’t have its rewards.

“I have my moments,” you replied, blush rising to your cheeks. Suddenly your pain didn’t feel so bad (at least until you took another step and winced). “Damn, who woulda thought that cutting a chunk out of my leg would make it hurt more?” The leg in question throbbed in pain, as if to prove your point, protesting the weight you put on it. Changing the angle at which you stood helped some, allowing the lower half of the limb to bear more of the burden.

“Dearest…” Alcina starts to say, looking like she was going to readdress her desire to carry you. For a moment you try to avoid her gaze, but she moves in front of you, making sure that you could still hold onto her for support. “I know how you feel, how you want, desperately, to be independent. When I was first… granted this gift, it took a long time to adjust. There was so much I had to relearn how to do, so much that I suddenly needed done for me.” A pause, a deep breath. At last you look up at your girlfriend, warmth in your heart, reaching out to hold her hand. “You have time, my dear, and plenty of it. More than that… this will not last forever. The more you push yourself, the longer your recovery will take. Now, please, allow me to assist. You have already proven how strong you are.”

“Oh, you drive a hard bargain… but if you insist, who am I to decline? Or, well, who am I to decline twice in a row?” You answer, somewhat begrudgingly. It wasn’t much farther to the dining room, you figured, so it wouldn’t be much of a loss to accept help. Or at least that was what you told yourself. Even with Alcina’s encouragement it was so hard for you to accept her help. After all, you were the one that worked for her. Never mind the fact that she was somewhat responsible for your injury- really, you were actively avoiding thinking about that.

It’s much easier to forget once Alcina carefully picks you up. One arm goes under your legs, the other under your chest, lifting you without any effort. You might as well have been a kitten or a child’s toy. The movement does, however, shift your injured leg in such a way that it aches. At this point you can hardly move the limb at all without it hurting, and even the slightest friction against the bandage makes your eyes water.

Apparently someone would be delivering some painkillers later in the day. You assumed it would be The Duke (whose name is apparently not Doug, as you had thought), seeing as he knew some special way to get to and fro without risking the same fate that had befallen you. Which, of course, made you feel a lot better. Getting someone else hurt would weigh on your mind forever.

Regardless, you were safe now, as was your strange, bloody little family. Before long you would even be enjoying a pleasant meal together. Certainly that would help get your mind off of your wound? For now, though, you were met with an unexpected impasse. The sort of impasse that really, really should have been expected.

“Why… is the doorway… so small?” You asked, jokingly, as you stare into the mildly embarrassed face of your girlfriend. It’s already hard enough for her to crouch through the gap normally. When she’s carrying you? Impossible. “Can we ask Mother Miranda for bigger doors? She gave you eternal life and also three kids, she’s gotta be capable of making bigger doors. Put me down, I’ll go call her and-”

“That won’t be necessary, dear,” Alcina cuts you off, not fully appreciating this part of your humor. Or maybe she had already asked for bigger doors, only to be told no?... Okay, yeah, it was probably the first option. With a sigh she sets you down, as gently as she can manage. Ready and raring to go, you start to hobble forward, only to find all three of the daughters waiting for you, just beyond the door. They’re grinning as they watch you, and Bela extended her arm to offer her help. “What appears to be the matter?” Alcina asks from behind you. Accepting your fate and Bela’s arm, you let the sisters guide you to the table, Cassandra holding your other side, and Daniela pulls your chair out for you. Honestly it’s pretty adorable. Evidently your girlfriend agrees, from the way she smiles as she follows.

“Thank you,” you say, more out of reflex than genuine gratitude. Again, you weren’t thrilled about needing this assistance. If the girls notice they’re at least polite enough not to mention it. They simply move to their own seats at the large table, eager to dig in. It feels… strange, to be here, on this side of things. Stranger still to realize you’re the only one intending to eat actual food. There’s wine in your glass, but it’s a much fainter red than those you’ve previously served to your girlfriend. Thank goodness, you think, after how raw my throat was yesterday, I really don’t need to taste any more blood.

Once Lady Dimitrescu sits down, the meal formally begins, with several maidens appearing from the kitchen. Several seem relieved to see you, although surprised, and one even gave you a brief smile. The smile did not last, however. It wasn’t unexpected, considering the nature of her job, the pressures that it put upon her. No one smiled at mealtimes. Well, no maidens, that is. They simply moved around, wordlessly, faces blank, doing exactly as instructed. Only a few days ago you had been among them, fear keeping you in line. Was it wrong of you to care for Alcina, knowing what she was capable of doing to others? Knowing what she might have, in another life, done to you?

A maiden places a plate of warm food, as well as a bowl of fresh fruit, in front of you. For a moment your eyes meet, but she looks away instinctively. Your heart threatens to break.

“This looks wonderful, thank you for your hard work, all of you,” you speak up, glancing at each of the women working so hard. There’s more you want to say that dries in your throat; you are valued, you are deserving, someday I will join your ranks again.

“You don’t need to thank them, they’re just doing their jobs,” Cassandra chimes from the other side of the table. Hearing her say that damn near makes you drop your fork. It’s not an uncommon settlement, particularly among older generations and the rich, but one that irks you nonetheless.

“They’re doing my job. They are taking on extra work, for no pay, because I am injured. Why would I be so cruel as to ignore them? Have I not toiled alongside them enough to call them my kin?” You ask, struggling to keep your voice even. Next to you Alcina is slowly cutting into her meat, watching the scene unfold out of the corner of her eyes, perhaps considering when to step in. On the other end of the table, Bela looks increasingly uncomfortable, as if silently willing her sister into silence. None of the maidens have reacted to what you said, likely too afraid of Cassandra to even consider speaking.

“Ooooh, this is much more fun than our usual breakfasts,” Daniela says, stifling a giggle. “Do you have any other thoughts you’d like to share? Preferably ones that aren’t about me.” At this, Alcina sets her utensils down, clearly intending to put an end to the discussion. Unfortunately for her, you were a bit… impulsive, especially considering the previous night’s activities had left your mind struggling to cope.

“Dead lycans smell terrible. Literally the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, easily, no question about it,” you answer, shrugging a little as you do. It’s such a simple thought that you almost don’t realize how the others at the table react. Until the clatter of silverware on the table catches your attention, that is. All three sisters are eying you with different expressions (Bela is confused, Cass is impressed, and Daniela looks shocked). But it’s Alcina’s wide-eyed stare that gets you to elaborate. “Should I have said ‘a dead lycan’? I only got one, so I guess I shouldn’t say they all smell bad. C’mon, though, they have to all smell bad, right?”

Suddenly Daniela shifts from shock to pure amusement, a fit of giggles overtaking her. You’re still confused, not sure what the matter was, so you just sip your wine and hope someone asks the right questions.

“You… killed the lycan that attacked you?” Bela finally says, after a few moments of her sister laughing, expression still incredulous. When you nod she sort of shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “May I ask how you managed that?”

“Oh, you know, I just meh meh-” you mime a stabbing motion with your fork- “until the stupid thing stopped moving. I had to use a tree branch as a weapon, but then it broke after a few whacks, which actually helped because then I had two stabbing implements to, you know, stab with. That’s right around when it got my leg, and it tried to bite me. Thankfully it wasn’t very smart, so when it leapt at me I just hyah-” this time an upwards strike- “right into its neck. That didn’t kill it, but it was enough to slow it down, which allowed me to stab the other half of the branch into its skull. Made this horrible, horrible sound as it died. Seeing as we are eating, I will not imitate the sound. Not that I could, now that I think about it…”

Once again there’s silence. Even Daniela has quieted now, and is watching you with rapt interest, likely hoping that you’re hiding another story up your sleeves.

“So… did you guys actually think that I managed to run away from the lycan? Or were you under the impression that it simply got bored of me and left?” You ask, casually returning to your breakfast afterwards. No one says anything, at first, taking in your words as best as they can. A few moments later both Daniela and Bela resume their meal, as nonchalant as one could be in the current situation. Alcina, however, rests a gentle hand on your shoulder, meeting your gaze with a loving look.

“You will never cease to amaze me, my dear. But let us ensure you never have to… smell, or see, one of those wretched things again, yes?” She says, softly squeezing you as she does. You can’t help but agree, and nod eagerly, mouth too full of hashbrowns to speak. Still, there’s been a shift in the atmosphere of the room. It’s not that the family didn’t respect you before, as far as you can tell, but they evidently hadn’t expected you to prove as capable as you had. It brings a sense of pride to the forefront of your mind, making you completely forget about your injury for the remainder of the meal.

Unable to stop yourself, you insist on helping the other maidens clean up, and Alcina eventually agrees to let you wash a few dishes- as long as you stay sitting the entire time. The last thing you hear before you shuffle off to the kitchen is the start of a conversation between Cassandra and her mother.

“You picked quite a feisty one, didn’t you?”

“That I did, that I did…”

[beomcoups]

Bad Alive

𝐅𝐨𝐫 @𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 ‘𝐬 𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭: 𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐪𝐮é

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mafia!boss Kun (NCT) x mafia!boss reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, fluff, angst, mafia au, friends with benefits au, childhood 

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: R (18+)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), rough missionary, nail digging, squirting, mentions of violence, guns, swearing

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.6k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The rival boss is a bad kind of player, with thousand dollar shoes. He's the final obstacle in your three year journey to the top of your group. It would be a piece of cake - if he wasn't your ex-lover.

𝐀𝐍: A massive thank you to @darknytemare​, @sunshinekims​ and @lovey-simone for beta reading for me 🖤

You first spotted him surrounded by his crew and women in the VIP, leaning over the rail. His eyes watching the club like a hawk, the scene unraveling before him. His honey blonde hair cut short into an undercut, well-tailored suit, and nice smile caught you off guard, as you usually don’t see these kinds of men in this club.

“Who is that?” You ask the bartender, pointing in his direction.

“Oh, that’s Qian Kun; he is the owner of this club,” the bartender says matter-of-factly.

“Do you mean Qian, as in Qian mafia?!” your voice unexpectedly rises, earning a few looks from the people around you.

You turn around and sneak another look at him, watching the ladies laugh at his every word, clearly loving the attention. Rumors spread quickly about the club being owned by a mafia Don.

“Shh! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” He whispers, working on a drink for a customer. Naive was your best ploy and to get where you needed to be you had to be coy. “But yes, it has the affiliation. So be careful.”

You nod and take a swig of your drink, finishing it completely before making your way to the dance floor. You already knew who Kun was. His reputation exceeding him, just from his looks alone he wouldn’t be expected. His looks made him look innocent almost, knowing the things his mafia did to people who weren’t needed anymore, you knew you had to proceed with caution before you went into action.

 Kun wasn’t an ordinary guy; he is the Qian mafia head after inheriting it from his father a year ago. Being the daughter of the rival mafia, the Zodiacs, had its perks. He’s not a total stranger to you, as you grew up to be childhood friends and eventually lovers, losing your virginities to each other as you both became adults. You wanted a relationship, but he didn’t want anything serious; he just wanted your friendship and to fuck you ravishingly whenever he could.

 You were okay with that for a while until you moved out of town and stayed away for three years. Since then, your families became enemies over a bad drug deal. The severity growing by the minute. Moving back recently brought on memories but that’s what you intended on keeping them as. Your father knew you were ready to take over the family business. So forth your here now attending to some routine affairs, before everything could be complete you had to cut down the biggest threat:

Kun

This was the final task, one you planned on exploiting until the last minute.You find a spot dancing with the strangers, the EDM sounds booming through the place. You get lost in the moment, allowing your body to move however you wanted it to, almost forgetting your task at hand. Your hair covers your face, but you can see your surroundings, and you notice one of his men and another childhood friend, Hendery, approaching you with his hand for you to shake.

“Come on, Hendery, we’re not strangers,” you forgo his hand and give him a hug. “How have you been? How’s your mom?”

“She’s good. Stubborn as ever,” he adjusts his tie, trying to hide his goofy grin. “Kun wanted me to bring you up to him.”

“I know,” you say, cocking an eyebrow at him. You look up in his direction, and Kun is smirking at you, holding a glass and lifting it up in your direction.

“If he wants me, he’ll have to come down here and fetch me himself,” you shrug, going back to the music. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Hendery nods and goes back to Kun, who gazes at you once more before removing the women’s hands touching his shoulders and making his way towards you. You liked this cat and mouse game, making him chase you around until he finally caught up and had his way. It’s unfortunate that you have to end his life in order to be the boss, but you’re not looking for love; you just want his body one last time.

Kun approaches you, and oddly the wind almost gets knocked out of you; he’s more handsome than the last time you saw him, and you can tell his very expensive suit was tailored just for him.

“Y/N… It’s been a while,” he greets me, kissing my left cheek.

“Yes, yes it has,” you agree, fluffing your hair off your shoulder.

“You look good,” his eyes wander all over your dress, biting his bottom lip.

“I know I do,” you grin seductively, pulling him to the crowd. “Dance with me.”

You take his hand and guide him to a spot on the dance floor, seducing him as you grind your body on his, allowing his hands to grace your hips. His cologne is strong enough to fill your senses of him, but you can still keep aware of what’s going on around you. His men are entertained by the women in their view; the security is placed at each exit door, making it harder for you to sneak off without being seen.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” Kun questions you, your heart skipping a beat.

“I’m dancing, “ you respond coyly, turning around to face him. 

“You don’t miss me?”

He scoffs and pulls you closer to him, his hands firmly on your ass.

“It’s been three years, and you just show up here? I don’t buy it,” he challenges you, matching your rhythm to the beat.

You look deep into his eyes, and you know he means business, but you keep your poker face focused on the mission at hand.

“What if I was here to see you?” You whisper into his ear. 

“How would that make you feel?”

“You’d have to show me that you wanted to see me,” he buffers.

 “How are you going to do that?”

You lean in and kiss him, slightly tugging on his suit, pulling him closer and under your spell. Your tongue makes magic with his, your body burning up from the sexual tension you have been harboring.

“Does that answer your question?” You tease him, nibbling the bottom of his lip.

“Maybe…” Kun trails off, motioning to his right-hand man, Ten. “I’ll need more convincing at my place. Meet me in the back alley; there is already a car there.”

You watch him say something to Ten before grabbing his coat, and you make your way to the back entrance, a black car already heated and ready to go. Kun has never been a man of a lot of words, but you know the steamy dance session has him wanting you, and you would be a liar if you didn’t admit you wanted him too. You might be holding some small feelings for him, being an old lover and someone you grew up with, but the family business comes first, no matter the cost… right?

“Are you ready?” Kun’s hand brushes your back, chills taking over your body.

You nod as our feet touched the cold ground, his home was calling.

“Your place is nice,” you observe as you walk into Kun’s penthouse.

You take off your heels and set them on the hardwood floor, walking into the spacious living room with a grand view of the city. The kitchen isn’t too far with a built-in bar attached and just based on what’s in front of you, you know this place isn’t cheap. Kun is rummaging through his wine rack and comes with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Thank you. Are you thirsty?” Kun asks, pouring some in his glass.

“Yeah. I’ll take a little sip,” you grab and sit on one of the stools.

He pours some wine in a gold-trimmed glass, and you thank him, taking a small sip like you promised. You don’t like wine much, but you need something to calm your nerves and the heat brewing in your core. 

“So, are you finally going to be honest with me?” Kun interrogates you, almost catching you off guard.

You stay composed and take another sip, finishing it entirely and setting it down on the island bar. 

“What makes you think I’m not being honest with you?” You counter, slowly walking towards him. 

“Come on, Y/N,” he scoffs, brushing his hair back with his hands. “It’s been years, and I haven’t heard from you. Let alone a goodbye, and now you just show up here and flirt with me? I know you better than that.”

You know he’s making sense, and you think of a quick lie to cover your tracks. You taking over the family business is on the line, and despite the small feelings you still hold for him, you cannot fuck this up. 

“I promise I came to see you,” you swear, waving your hands dramatically. It is the truth after all.

“Do you still have feelings for me?” Kun starts, loosening his tie. “I told you years ago I’m not the relationship type. That hasn’t changed.”

It is your turn to scoff, letting out a hearty laugh from the pit of your soul. 

“I’m in town because I have some family stuff to attend to. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, and I wanted to see what’s been up with you,” you wave him off. “But obviously, this is a lot for you, so I’m going to go.”

You make your way to the door and grab your shoes, willing to walk outside in the cold barefooted until your ride came. That didn’t happen, however, as Kun grabs your arm, backing you into the wall. 

“You’re still dramatic as ever,” Kun states before bringing his lips to yours.

You kiss him back, tearing open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere as your hands rub across his chest. His big hands lift you up, carrying you to his massive bedroom and setting you down on the bed, 

“Strip,” Kun demands, unbuckling his belt. 

You get up, slowly lowering each strap on your dress, pulling your dress down until your breasts and thong were exposed. Kun pulls you to him, kissing you once more, leaning you back onto the bed. His lips trail to your stomach, leaving soft marks while he lowers your panties with his other hand. 

“You’re the same way I remembered you years ago,” he whispers. “You are still as beautiful as ever.”

“Yeah yeah,” you brush off his words, your breath hitching as his lips meet your sweet spot. 

Kun smirks and leaves a sensual kiss, your back arching as he is tasting your sweet nectar. Your hands are grasping for his hair; the rapturous way he makes your body feel is astral projecting you into paradise. His tongue takes a long swipe on your sweet pussy, his ravenous lust coming out of his pores as he tongue fucks you.

“My god-” you choke on air, your stomach coiling under pressure at your release. His nails dig into your ass, and you come undone, your honeyed essence dripping down his chin as he drinks you in. You beg him to stop, but he continues his onslaught, causing you to cum again shortly after. 

“You are going to suck me dry,” you rasp, out of breath. 

He finally pulls away, licking his lips, a sly grin plastered on his face as he lifts your leg up, slowly rubbing his shaft.

“Wait,” you attempt to sit up. “You don’t want me to do it?”

“No,” he eases himself inside of you. “I don’t have time for that. I need to feel you.”

You know you should have asked him to put on a condom, but the moment he climbed over and plowed into you, your sense of reasoning went out the door. He fucks you likes he missed you, rapaciously pounding into you like a street whore, and you return his aggression with your nails dug deep into his back. He cups your mouth with his big hands, kissing you and taking your energy away as you reach your peak once more. 

“Go ahead,” Kun grits his teeth. “I want to feel you all over me.”

No second later, you splash everywhere, squirting all over him and his sheets, surprising yourself as you have never done that with anyone before. He finishes shortly after, releasing his hot load on your stomach, kissing you tenderly until he was well spent. 

“Phew!” You collapse on the bed, your vision blurry, and your energy depleted. You hear him chuckle, and you roll your eyes, slightly annoyed at his arrogance. He’s obviously picked up a thing or two while you were gone, and you wouldn’t mind doing this with him again if only you didn’t have to kill him. You hear him leave and go into the bathroom, and you sit up, looking around for what you can find on him before he gets out. You notice a planner on the nightstand, and you rummage through it, finding his schedule of the week, and you make mental notes. You hear the sink water come on, and you quickly put it back and get back into the position before he comes out.

“Are you tired?” He comes out with a hand towel, taking care to wipe his semen off of my stomach.

“A little,” you admit, your body sinking comfortably into the bed. 

“Well, stay the night,” he suggests, disposing of the hand towel and coming back into bed.

“Eh,” you sound unsure. “I’m not trying to put you out of your bed, and I don’t want you getting ideas.”

Kun shakes his head, pulls you closer to him, and you lay back down. “I’m not the one who was in love years ago. As long as you know this isn’t going to be more than this, you can stay as many nights as you want.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say sarcastically, nuzzling into the pillow. “I’m not the same girl you grew up with. You’ll see.”

It’s been five months since that night, and things started to change. He was still the Kun you grew up with, but softer. He was still a shrewd mafia boss and ran his business with an iron fist, but with you, he was sweet. His eyes shined when you walked into the room; he continued to fuck you mercilessly and doted on you like a princess after. It became more than fuck sessions, the calls wanting to know about your day and randomly showing up with dinner. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was falling in love with you.

You would be a liar if you didn’t admit to yourself that you started to have some feelings for him and you enjoyed his company, but as much as you want that companionship, the mafia comes first, and he has to go. You’ve been getting heat from your family, who wants this charade to end so you can finally take your place at the head of the Zodiacs. You pushed it off longer than you’d realize, and after the insistent nagging in every meeting, you decided tonight was the night. 

“Hey,” you let Kun into your condo, dressed in a white tee and gray sweatpants. You invited him over, making up a lie about someone following you home. Your hair is pinned into a bun, and you just got out of the shower. You have had to kill before, but this was different; you never had to kill someone you cared about. 

“Where did you say he was following you,” Kun asks, looking out your window. 

“I was leaving the warehouse, and I noticed this sedan was following me,” you fake a sigh, more so to calm your nerves. “I went a long way home and was able to lose them, thank God.”

“Mmhmm,” is all he says, and he continues to look outside and around your place, checking to see if anyone else was inside. You act completely natural, flipping through the channels until you find something semi-decent to put on the tv, not that you’ll be watching it much.

“You know you didn’t have to call me over here,” Kun plops on the couch next to you, laying his head on your nap. “You could’ve called one of your guards here.”

“I know,” you shrug, playing in his hair. “But I wanted you over here. Is that such a bad thing?”

He perks his lips up, and you kiss him, the sweet taste lingering on his lips that has you wanting more. His hands take out your bun, allowing your hair to fall down your face.

“I’m glad you asked me over,” Kun whispers, leaving the last kiss on your nose. Your heart is touched, and you start to feel tears form, so you make a motion that you are getting up and go into the bathroom, leaning against the door. You wish there was another way to be in charge and still have him. You went into this cold-hearted and not wanting love, but here he is, sucking you in again like years before. You take a long look in the mirror before reaching underneath the sink for the pistol you kept hidden there. Your hands are searching for it before you bend and look for yourself, grabbing it and taking it out of its case. You take a deep breath and open the door, Kun on the other side startling you. 

“Jesus!” You exclaim, clutching your shirt. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You walk past him into the kitchen for a glass of water. You feel your face hot from embarrassment, and you gulp your water down, ready to face what’s to come. 

“Are you okay?” you hear Kun behind you. “You seem a bit off.”

It’s now or never, you say to yourself. You clear your throat and pull out the gun from behind you, aiming for Kun’s head. Instead of looking shocked, he sighs heavily, taking a seat on one of the stools. 

“It was only a matter of time, I suppose,” he surmises, raking his hands through his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” your voice is small, fighting back the tears. “I wish this could have ended differently.”

“It can be different,” he pleads. “Let’s leave this life behind. Run away with me.”

You look at him incredulously before bursting into laughter, your voice bellowing throughout your kitchen. You two were both born into the mafia families; it’s either them or death. No way you can just leave without being hunted down. 

“You sound crazy,” you scoff, scratching your left temple with your gun. “You are just saying that to get out of this.” You cock the safety back, ready to pull the trigger. 

“Have you ever known me to be a liar, Y/N?” he asks, slowly getting off of the stool. “I knew you were sent to kill me the day you showed up at my club. No way you just randomly showed up to see me.”

You keep your poker face, but your heart is pounding at his revelation. You thought you covered your tracks, keeping your i’s dotted and your t’s crossed. What happened?

“Come on, I’m in the business Y/N. I already know how this goes,” he points out, moving closer to you.

“So if you knew, why haven’t you stopped me?” You move your finger to the trigger, something he notices and stops dead in his tracks. 

“I fell in love with you,” he confesses. “I went into this thinking that I could have a little fun before we eventually would have to square off, but you made me want love… You reminded me of the times we were kids and growing up together, and it feels good. I don’t want to lose that.”

The silence is deafening, the tears you were blocking pouring out of your eyes. 

“I know you feel the same,” Kun steps slowly to you again, entering your personal space. “I know you want to leave this life behind.”

You hate that he is right, and if you had the strength, you would end it right here and now. But his eyes are showing a vision of love, an alternate reality where you two can be together without having to look over your shoulders; A life of leisure with your childhood sweetheart, the love of your life. 

“But how could this even work—”

You’re cut off with his lips pressed against yours, almost knocking you out your senses. You give in to his feelings, setting the gun on the counter and placing your hands on his neck, deepening the kiss. 

“Let’s find a way to end this together,” Kun’s voice is shaky, his eyes peering into your soul.

You nod, sniffling as you turn around and reach for a paper towel to dry your face. 

“I love you, Y/N.”

That’s the last thing you remember before the gun went off and everything faded to black.

[hops-hunny]

You Can Be the Boss

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.2k

Request: N/A but it’s based off of this rambling here

Summary: Women are beautiful, but they sure don’t make ‘em like her.

Warnings: Weed, Alcohol, Mentions of sex.

A/N: I wrote this to cope with the copious amounts of work I had due but I finished it all so now we celebrate!

Hogwarts had many things but one thing it lacked severely was normality. Not that it was a problem, nobody who attended Hogwarts was normal but it didn’t stop a portion of muggle born students from feeling a bit homesick to things their muggle friends did at their own schools. That’s how the talent shows started. At first, the students tried to get it officiated by the school. Dumbledore thought it was a wonderful idea!....if it was professor supervised and when it turned out that Snape was the only professor with enough freetime on his hands, the idea of having it being school ran quickly flew out the window. But looking back on it now, many were happy they went with the idea of going behind the professors backs. It wasn’t like they weren’t aware, they just had no proof of it all happening. The atmosphere of the talent shows were different from ordinary talent shows, however.

For starters, anything went. Any talent you had you were encouraged to bring it no matter how big or small it was or if it was “school appropriate”. But the pro to this was also booze and bud, meaning that everyone had a good time no matter what. Although, as it would turn out there were many talented people at Hogwarts. So, for the past few months every Friday everyone would gather in the room of requirement, watching the many ups and downs of performances. Neville started frequenting there as often as he could. It was a win-win, his friends got free entertainment and he had a chance to make some money from selling to chumps with too much cash on their hands. What better way was there to spend the night? 

His hazel eyes snapped up at the feeling of his blunt being ripped out of his hand. He went to swear, glaring at whoever was stupid enough to do that but quickly stopped as he saw who it was. He watched with wide eyes as the tip of it went between her pretty (l/c) lips, exhaling smoke. (Y/n) (L/n). She was one of those girls you either knew or you didn’t but more than likely, you knew her. Before 5th year, no one so much as spared her a glance but after a very fortunate late puberty in their current year (7th) she was slowly becoming all anyone could talk about. It was truly amazing what a haircut and a bit of weight in your hips could do for your social life. He eyed her curiously as she looked down at him.

“You comin’ tonight?” she asked, exhaling another puff of smoke into his face. (Y/n) put the joint back in his hand, moving the heavy guitar case into her now free hand.

“Yeah. ‘Spose I am.” He mumbled, eyes trailing down the expanse of her plush thighs. They were on full display due to the skirt she wore that left nothing to the imagination. His eyes locked with her (e/c) ones as she hummed, nodding as she took the blunt back from him walking off. She flashed him a smile once more, winking as she turned the corner going merlin knows where.

“Oi! What does she think she’s doing? You really gonna let her take the blunt from you like that just because she’s fit?” Ron complained, glaring at the boy who was set with the rest of their group. Neville shrugged, turning his eyes back to his book as he turned the page.

“If you’re so bothered by it why don’t you go take it back yourself?” Neville sassed. They all looked at Ron waiting for a response, laughing as he had nothing to say but a small ‘piss off’ under his breath.

-----------------------------------------

Neville wasn’t one to put too much into his appearance. He’d usually just throw on a sweater vest over one of his uniform shirts and call it a day. However after the conversation he had had with (Y/n) earlier, he couldn’t help but wanna look nice. Was she flirting with him? He sighed as he glanced at his appearance in the mirror for a bit. ‘I doubt it.’ he thought. He shook the negative thoughts out of his head, packing his satchel with a few different strains. Just because some pretty girl was batting her pretty little eyes at him didn’t mean he was going to forget the reason he went to these things in the first place. The only other time Neville made this much money was Gryffindor common room parties and even then, it was only by a little.

But even as he was checking his appearance once again, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts drift. “Why am I wigging out? It’s not like we haven’t talked before.” He said out loud to himself. (Y/n) was a frequent buyer from him and even though he didn’t know her personally, she was one of the few people whose faces he remembered. At first, he was extremely annoyed by her. Who did she think she was showing up at his dorm at 3AM just to buy a bit of fucking jane? Every wednesday at the same time, she’d show up at his door (in a negligee that was far too short might he add) with that dopey look on her face asking to buy. And every single time without a doubt, he’d sell it to her. He had to admit, after a while he even started to enjoy the girl’s appearance. It gave him something to look forward to during his mundane school week.

“Ready to go, Nev? If we leave now, we can use a secret passage my brothers’ showed me.” Ron said, opening the door to Neville’s door. The lanky boy cleared his throat, giving the boy a nod as he wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. Without another word, they both began their way ready for the night to unfold.

As usual, the talent show didn’t disappoint...for all the wrong reasons. Even though the cringe worthy performances were top notch entertainment and he had already made quite a bit of money, he still couldn’t stop from searching the crowd for a certain head of (h/c) hair. Where was she? After the stunt she had pulled earlier, he was sure she would be here. She had some nerve doing that and then not showing up. However, as he turned his gaze back to the stage, he saw the woman of the hour herself. She was in an oversized crochet sweater dress and a pair of combat boots. His eyes looked up in wonder as she took the stage, sitting on a wooden stool that was placed from the last sad excuse of a performance.

“It’s a bloody shame that she’s so fucking hot. Poor thing is going to embarrass herself singing up there.” Ron said, taking a sip from the beer he had in his hand. Neville nodded in agreement, taking a hit from his blunt but not really paying mind to his friend. It was hard to do so when the girl of his dreams was on the stage a mere foot away from him. He was absolutely intoxicated by her (and the few shots he had taken a bit ago) but he had to agree it would suck when she-”

“You taste like the fourth of July

Malt liquor on your breath, my, my”

She sang into the microphone softly. Neville’s jaw dropped in awe at the sound of her voice which was nothing short of angelic. He wasn’t the only one who was stunned considering the whole crowd went silent, a stark contrast from the loud chatter and laughter from before. He watched as she strummed at the guitar in her hands, looking up from the ground into the crowd. Mesmerized wasn’t even the right word to describe the state he was in. 

“I love you but I don’t know why…”

His eyes were focused on her lips, taking in every word she said. Harry nudged him, mouthing the words ‘look up’ to him as a small pause had come into the song. Neville looked at him confused before trailing his eyes up, gasping when he saw that hers were locked on his own. She smiled and flashed him a wink before continuing her song, leaning in forward. His own body began to subconsciously drift forward to but at the last second she pulled away and continued to sing.

"Did you see that? She definitely wants me." Seamus boasted confidently. The others looked at him dumbfounded at the fact he could get even more idiotic than ever before.

"Don't be fucking dumb mate! She was clearly looking at me." Ron chimed in, causing another round of even more exasperated looks to be thrown the ginger's way. They truly were dumb and dumber.

"I-I think both of you are wrong. (Y/n) was looking at.." Harry trailed off as the girl stood up, dancing around the stage with her guitar as she continued to sing. Not a single pair of eyes weren't on her at the moment. Could you blame anyone? When a beautiful girl with the voice of a siren is on stage, you'd be a fool not to. However, dumb and dumbers’ argument ceased as she made very clear eye contact with their awkward friend.

“You can be the boss, daddy

You can be the boss”

“That’s all me boys.” Neville said, a triumphant smirk taking over his place as Dean leaned over to give him a fist bump. As much as (Y/n) had him wrapped around her finger, it appeared she was wrapped around his too. All the angry glares being sent his direction were only fuel to the pride he felt growing in his chest. Such a pretty girl, the same pretty girl who plagued all his wet dreams and shower thoughts, was not only on stage singing in front of him, but directly to him as well. She reached a hand forward, tips of her fingers lightly brushing against his flushed cheeks.

“I like you a lot, I like you a lot

Don’t let it stop”

“This is totally unfair. One of the hottest chicks in our year and she’s pining over Longbottom.” Seamus grumbled, grimacing as the liquor went down his throat hard. Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Jealous much?” he asked no one in particular, as that could be said about most of the guys they were sitting with.

“Bad to the bone, sick as a dog

You know that I like, like you a lot

Don’t let it stop”

Neville felt his own lips curl up into a smile at the sight of the one that belonged to the angel in front of him. However the cute moment didn’t last long cause once again, Ron chimed in with something else.

“Neville? Bad? He still sleeps in pajama sets!” he exclaimed quietly, earning a ‘shh!’ from Harry. The boy in question leaned forward, looking at his ginger friend.

“Is this really coming from the boy who needs Mummy’s howler to fall asleep at night?” that shut him right up. Harry snorted, high fiving him for bringing up the embarrassing piece of information. 

The girl continued to sing, eyes never leaving Neville’s for a second. Ron and Seamus’s petty comments had ceased as well. Even though they weren’t the one receiving attention, they could still admit the girl had pipes on her. When the song was over she stood up, bowing as the silence of the crowd quickly erupted in cheers and claps from the breathtaking performance. There were a few more people left but no one paid much mind to them. He found himself feeling bad for them. Even if they were good, none of them could top the performance of the night. 

As the night began to come to a close, (Y/n) found herself over to Neville again parking herself in his lap which he gladly accepted. She looked up at him, smiling shyly. It was almost comedic due to the words she had so sinfully sung to him only 45 minutes ago. Neville ignored the way his friends gawked at him. He’d deal with that another time.

“Come back to my room and split a spliff?” she asked, looking down as she picked at her fingers. He grabbed her hands, leaning in close to her.

“Only if I can eat your pussy afterwards.” he said confidently. He said it quiet enough to not draw attention but just loud enough that his friends would hear. (Y/n) felt her face grow warm as she nodded, hopping up from his lap as she dragged him off to her room.

Neville 1, blokes 0.

Extra:

“Seriously?! Is it really that easy? What does he have that I don’t?” Seamus said, mind running over the times he’d attempted saying things like that. The only place it had gotten him was on the ground after he had his balls kicked!

“It’s gotta be the weed. After all, who wouldn’t wanna sleep with the weed man? Free pot!” Ron exclaimed, trying to rationalize what had just happened.

“Aren’t you the residential booze man of Hogwarts? If that was the case, you’d have an easier time with women too.” Dean said, causing Harry to nod in agreement. Ron simply grumbled, slamming his empty bottle down as he walked off from the cackling group of blokes.

[a-stitch-in-time-and-space]

ok i agree w/ everything you said about those ladies besides, lwaxana gives s*xual pr*dator vibes and that is why i dont like her.

I can see that reading for sure and all things are subjective. I do strongly disagree, but hey, fandom is a space for that! Super chill.

to go a little more into this though, since it's not really so much about what any of us feel, but more about how we engage with female characters (and I'll use your example of why you don't like her - not to drag you, your dislike is totally fair, she's fictional, she won't mind, but just because it's a single line that kinda puts her in a box. And not a very nice box to be in, that's for sure...)

a little tw for mild references to some of the shadier writings of star trek vis a vis sexual assault and otherwise sexist and/or strange relationship dynamics

okay so you know how Riker has like. two? episodes that're suuuper shady in terms of his treatment of women and the rest of the time it's pretty chill. and he's one of my favourite characters, but I have gotta skip those episodes, because whatever they were trying to do, they Did Not Succeed - and there's a reading of him that incorporates those elements and if you do you've gotta contend with the character being quite probably someone who's assaulted women.

or how Worf at times espouses sexist shit that makes me roll my eyes outta my head and you're either gonna say "I don't fucking like this character" (and again, totally fair, I've seen people who don't Vibe) or you've gotta find a way to make this work for you if you want to explore that character - or both of those things, you can dislike a character and want to write about them

Or some of the weird shit the writers have Geordi do (which, Geordi is my favourite character in TNG, but sometimes ya gotta breathe and go "the writers are fucking dumb, the writers are fucking dumb")

or - the spiritual successor of Geordi, Julian Bashir (my favourite character from DS9 - clearly I have a Type). You've gotta go: This is stupid writing. I can make it work with my own read of the character, but first and foremost The Writing Is Dumb!

Or hell, Q - since we're talking about Lwaxana and I assume her interactions with Picard and Odo, let's not forget to mention Q, both in TNG and on VOY with Janeway - some of the more urgh-inducing scenes between Q and Janeway are, I think, meant to be charming and funny? And I'm a massive QCard shipper here, okay, I actually vibe so hard with him as an alien who doesn't get shit about boundaries (this mostly with Picard, with Janeway I have gone: "Hm. This doesn't feel good" a fair few times).

or how the writers of DS9 had Garak be in a very uncomfortable relationship with Ziyal, who was a teenager, then not a teenager within much too short a span of episodes (and actress changes)

or Quark. Remember the episode in which Quark tries to get Kira's likeness so he can put it in a sex-fantasy roleplay that she did not consent to? or how there are two cold opens where his female employees are told they have to sleep with him to keep their jobs

or like... Neelix (okay, I am not a fan of Neelix anyway, but for people who are fans, there are times when you've gotta wonder what in the heck the writers are thinking - not the character, the writers)

what I'm trying to say with the post I wrote is that this same graciousness isn't offered to female characters - especially female characters of colour, but in the case of Lwaxana

she's older, she's an ongoing female guest star, she's very (sometimes uncomfortably) sexual towards especially Picard and for a short while Odo, before they become really good friends.

she's also in-text several times in positions in which men are trying to control her (the episode where she gets kidnapped, the episode in which the guy who's married her is a misogynist) and she uses or tries to use her "wiles" to escape these situations.

She's really more of a faded beauty who's putting a pressure onto her daughter (in a rare interesting, complex, fraught mother-daughter dynamic that I loooove) and refuses to let go of the past, because (and here we get into my read, but mildly supported by canon) it's the only way she seems to have learned how to be loved and have relevance. She's terrified of letting that go, because where does she go next, without everything that's defined her? which is why her final episode with Odo is actually so powerful to me.

Picard is never threatened by her in-text. He's not massively fond of her (at first, she grows on him... like a mold), he would prefer to avoid her, but he's not in a powerless situation here. She undoubtedly makes him uncomfortable at times in a way that - like some of the above examples have made me go "mmmmokay" but certainly not the worst example of this in the writing.

With Odo I also don't like how some of her interactions with him go in the first episode they're in together. But once they're friends and you see how easily she accepts him ("I can swim" is always going to be one of my favourite little chuckle lines) that no longer applies. He clearly likes her and enjoys her company. There's something incredibly lifelong platonic partners in their easiness with each other.

You can argue in both cases (and argue well) that there are scenes that are kinda sus. But there are lots of scenes that offer you depth of character. She's not one-note. She's got off moments.

Some of these guys (and others - I haven't watched as much TOS and Voyager so I don't want to misrepresent anyone, but I feel sure that Tom Paris has made me squint once or twice + I've not seen Enterprise yet) have whole episodes that make me shudder.

It's really - within this fandom for sure - open how we interpret characters and I'm not saying anyone needs to read Lwaxana like this or change their minds and like her.

The point of the post is not to say you have to like any of these characters. Or even to say you have to engage with them regardless of how you vibe or don't vibe with them. It's just... I have listened to several up-until-then-enjoyable deeply analytical podcasts where at some point one of the (guys... always guys... I'm guessing white) makes a sneering comment completely dismissing their value within the series.

My point is that Lwaxana (since we're on her) has value as a character within the Trek universe. She added something important. She's not everyone's cup of tea, but it's a big series, we're not all guaranteed to like everyone.

and in the original post I used "shrill" and "cringy" on purpose, because those are descriptors I've heard. And they are absolutely rooted in misogynist dismissals of female characters no matter what shape they take (Keiko, Lwaxana, Michael, and Ezri are radically different from each other and yet all easily brushed aside regardless of screentime, personality, show, age, role/job).

I'm not making points about having to engage with or like characters. I'm just saying we need to be aware of how easily we specifically look down our noses at female characters (and specifically female characters of colour - apologies, this was just because we were talking about Lwaxana, but some of the shit I've heard about especially Michael and Keiko have made me want to bang my head against a wall... or other peoples heads against walls... you know, for a nice change)

so how much sympathy or analysis of behaviour is afforded to female characters vs their male peers. What judgements are we making and how do they compare to our readings of their male counterparts?

sidenote: I hate using male and female about star trek, my brain is just like "why anyone gender? why do this? you're in space? there are aliens? y'all can't chill with the binary for two fucking seconds?"

different post

[autumn-foxfire]

Not the “it’s only the women who get mutilated” bullshit again. Because oh my let me think? There’s Aizawa(leg chopped off, one eye gone), Sir Nighteye(literally dead), Best Jeanist(severely injured by AFO, thought to be dead and only just came back), Ectoplasm(literally has prosthetic legs), Gran Torino(severely injured and very nearly died), Ingenium(literally is disabled and in a wheelchair now). Oh I guess I can also add Hawks in here too with his wings be less than they were! Plenty of male characters have been severely injured, killed, left with permanent scars or put in a hospital just like the female characters. Horikoshi sure does have his ugh moments with women, but this “he only injured the females” agenda isn’t one of them you all just like to ignore the fact male characters get hurt just the same!

I'm sat here wondering how the fuck did I forget about Aizawa. The man tore off his own leg and then had his eye taken from him and that didn't cross my mind at all?! I am really forgetting what is going on in the manga and I apologise.

I think the reason people bring up female characters getting injured though is that most of the characters you have mentioned have actual characters. Their role was beyond getting injured for the shock value, meanwhile it feels Hori injuries his female characters to give them a feeling of contribution to the fight without having to actually expand much on them.

[lanshappycorner]

Deuce Spade facts and fun facts🥳🥳

This is a list of facts and fun facts about Deuce! This list is based on true facts only and any observations I've made, however observations can be subjective, so those will be labeled properly! Let's start off with some facts already in the wiki :)

First Yr, class 1-A, student no.24

Birthday: June 3

Age: at the beginning of the game, Deuce is 16, but currently, he is 17 [his profile in game has not been updated, but as time is proven to flow in game, it is unclear but can be interpreted that the characters do canonly age]

Gemini

173 cm / 5'8" ft

Homeland: Rose kingdom

Family: Mother, Grandmother, it is implied that his father is out of the picture as Deuce states that he is the only man in the family so his father has either left or is dead

Club: Track and Field [alongside Jack]

Best subject: PE

Dominant hand: Right

Fav food: Egg dishes / omurice

Least fav food: Bell peppers

Dislikes: Limited time sales

Hobby: Magical wheel (twst motorcycle I guess but it looks kinda funky)

Talents: Machinery Maintainance [good with fixing gadgets and etc]

Used to be a delinquent before he heard his mother crying on the phone to his grandmother about his behavior. Afterwards he decided to change

Owns a pink leopard printed suit

Cannot do middle school math, he will take a lot of time to solve simple Algebra problems

Gets nervous and stops functioning entirely when talking to women

Onto some fun facts outside of the wiki! These facts have been gathered from various sources (ppl who can read japanese, ppl who have told me abt info in the twst guidebook, twitter, and ofc the main translated story), but I cannot prove 100% authenticity of this, so take it with a gain of salt

Canonly a pretty boy. Deuce is described as the "cool pretty type" in the twst guidebook

Smells like flowers [applies to all students from Rose kingdom]

A romantic, he admired the king and queen of heart's relationship and trey teased him about it

Thought that baby chicks hatch from store bought eggs until the MC and Grim told him the truth

Can cook eggs (he likes them over easy)

Wanted to make a magical wheel club but was rejected so he joined track and field

Bought magical wheel magazines when he was younger and studied it

Wanted to ride his magical wheel in the heartslabyul maze (mentioned he forgets bad things when he rides it so like...it makes him feel better)

Hates limited times sales/shopping but is extremely good at it. He can remember the price of an item, when exactly it sells out, the percentage/probability of when it can sell out, discount prices and pretty much any math that has to do with it [he's extremely good at shopping because his mother brought him out a lot with her to limited time sales]

In addition to the point above, it is implied he can memorize and calculate that for pretty much every item he intends on buying (everything I listed above is in relation to the time he bought 20 limited time puddings which greatly impressed Sebek who wasn't able to grab even 1, but it was later revealed that he also bought 8 bag full of items requested by Trey for baking, as well as the others probably from heartslabyul) so basically Deuce big brain and very good memorization abilities

Hilariously in the instance above, Sebek, who is like...a real fae, has said that what Deuce did was not something a human can do

Flirted with a plant because vil was fucking around with him and told him to

Was ready to fist fight Riddle

Was about to go find Leona to beat him up but Vil was like do u have no fear and Deuce pretty much said that he can get thru to Leona with his muscles

Was about to fight Malleus (jesus christ) but ended up fixing his tamagotchi and came out completely loaded and rich (good for deuce, get that cha ching babey)

Won a Track and Field competition (noted to be rare for a first year)

He is literally a pretty boy, it's been pointed out that he looks good in the ceremonial clothes (but we already know that)

Admires Riddle and sees him as a role model, has called him boss (like...yakuza boss terminology) once

[Observation] Has a pretty good relationship with Jamil as he has asked Jamil to help him practice his Stargazer dance, and mentioned him once again when talking about how Jamil fixed his hat and said that he was a reliable upperclassman

Has said fuck and would not hesitate to say it again 🥺

Has been called honest and cute, was fawned over by kalim and trey. Kalim said Deuce was similar to his younger brothers

During his delinquent phase, he was blamed for many things he didn't do as well, Deuce said that he realized no one believed in him despite what he says, but because a policeman stood up for him, he wanted to become a cop when he grew up

Used intimidation tactics [the equivalent of "u wanna fucking go let's go I'll beat ur ass" to scare off ppl and silver was like hm I will have to try that sometime, to which deuce was pretty much like ahahah no dont

Deuce refers to Yuu as his "mabu", basically calling Yuu his best friend

He can change a lightbulb, and he talks abt hand washing materials and just domestic house stuff in general as if it's common knowledge. In other words it's implied Deuce is really good at housework due to doing a lot for his mother

When he was a kid, he used to cry because he thought there were monsters outside, but it was just hanging laundry

Is more scared of Riddle than ghosts

It's implied that one time (or several times...) he stayed after school with Crewel, and the poor guy had to attempt to explain the same concept over and over again to Deuce for hours until he understood

Ace always cheats in card games with Deuce, so Deuce claims that it's not very fun playing with him

Bad at astrology bc apparently all stars look the same to him

Likes cafe latte

Does tease ppl, he once messed with Yuu and in the process called Ace "Ace-kun" (Ace called him "Deuce-kun" as well). There has been an instance where he's teased Jack about his Niceness TM

Used to have over 30 gang members following him at age 14-15. (You'd think that him being so young would make him like a lackey but no he was the boss)

Has a thing for summoning cauldrons since he was young, but apparently you need to have a large amount of magic capabilities to summon objects, so [observation] deuce may actually be extremely powerful bc he was able to summon things at a young age, but he hasn't refined his powers yet so he still seems weak compared to a lot of the cast

During his delinquent phase, apparently he had a really wild hairstyle and he used his magic on people weaker than him

[Observation] Deuce is actually pretty good at lying. In his Halloween card he was able to put up a good act and deceive some of his ex gang members into following him into the forest before mildly roughing them up (keep in mind that he has not had contact with these ppl for at least a year, yet somehow he was able to assert enough authority to tell them to follow him. Also, he thought of this plan on the spot, and acted malicious enough so that the gang members would believe in him—which proves that he's not only quick witted but a convincing actor, as Jamil actually believed his act for a while)

It's implied that he and Ace are often in leadership positions, as they helped to lead heartslabyul in designing their Halloween booth, but they also mentioned that it was much easier compared to organizing unbirthday parties

[Observation] despite wanting to be an honor student, Deuce is still able to take unjustly means to achieve his goals (EX. Making a deal with Azul to pass his test), in general, deuce doesn't care too much about the method, be it through cheating or violence to get to his goal, but he does value a fair battle

[Observation] a lot of Deuce's strengths are subtle as we are frequently told abt how much of a bad student he is, but if u rly think abt it, deuce is put in leadership positions a lot, he's good a memorization and small technical details, he can be at times quick witted and deceiving, and he has the potential to be extremely powerful in magic. In conclusion Deuce is a menace and once we find out what his unique magic is I'm 100.01% sure he will become a greater menace and I think he should fight a lot of people and win

That will be all for this post! There may be more fun facts/observations that I may have missed, but feel free to add on to this! Anyways thank u for reading and please stan Deuce Spade♠️💙

[officialgritty]

How I Would Humble NHL Players

An essay written by bigboigritty. 

I would humble hockey players the only way I know how to, by sending them to Australia. Let’s suppose that they have decided to hold the All Star game over here (forget about it’s usual date) (forget that some players I have listed below might not be invited) (and while you're at it, please forget that Australia’s rinks are Not Good).

I think that they would suffer but in an entertaining way so it’s fine. 

First of all, their biggest concern is getting sunburnt. It would effect all of their dumb asses but I’m particularly worried about Pierre-Luc Dubois and Mitch Marner. Boys are practically translucent. Vince Dunn would be fine, he’d probably wear a shirt most of the time which is a very smart decision. 

You may wonder why I didn’t mention Nolan Patrick because I am a certified slut for him, well I don't think he would have a problem. He would spend most of the time inside and when he joins the others, I think his Virgo ass would reapply sunscreen. Maybe he would burn slightly but I don't think it'd be enough to make him uncomfortable. 

Another thing that I think they will gain from this experience is a higher pain tolerance. Now you’re probably thinking, “Zoe they are NHL players so they can handle pain.” Wrong.

Real pain is running barefoot on cement at theme parks while you race to get to the next ride. Also getting into the car and having to avoid touching every piece of metal to not get branded like a cow. Or better yet, when the heat gets so bad that there’s a black out because everyone has their air conditioning turned on.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that other countries have scary animals but I would pay to see them panic over ours. Crocodiles here can grow up to 5.2 metres / 17 feet. We have a box jellyfish season where it’s advised to avoid swimming or wear wetsuits for coverage. Funnel web spiders can survive underwater for hours by trapping air bubbles around their skin. We have several of the worlds deadliest snakes present across the country. 

Listen, I don't want anyone to get injured but the constant fear that they would have when doing anything would be enough to make me happy.

My biggest question is who would survive in the shady areas, who would survive the eshays?

Under no circumstances can you look them in the eyes or cross their path. They are not to be feared individually but in groups caution is advised. I think the players would attempt to assert dominance and that is simply not an option. You are better off to ignore the eshay.

Nolan would have no issues here if im being honest. He is big and I don't think they’d find it worth it to fuck with him. But you know who they would target? Matthew Tkachuk. “Where are you going pretty boy?” “Oi braa did we hurt your feelings ya pussy cunt?” They would make fun of his hair in particular. 

Travis Konecny would be an eshay. I don't think I need to make further comment. (So would Louis Tomlinson but I am not a 1D account and I will continue to repeat that until it’s true.)

I would also give them a few iconic tasks to get the true Australian experience. Activities for the ‘vacation’ include triathlon events, beach flags, bush walking and climbing the harbour bridge. They could attend a cricket match but they tend to like golf so unfortunately they would probably enjoy this :(

AFL is an extremely popular sport here and I think they would loose their shit when they learn the rules of this game. No protective equipment is used other than mouthguards, that's it. That’s all you get. And jumping onto other players for leverage is encouraged. I would thoroughly enjoy the fights that would break out because of this.

Another task would be to use a map to make their way to a servo for a slurpee. The catch is that they will be required to pass through multiple alleyways. Also, the season is Spring, it’s swooping season mother fuckers. Let’s see how brave you are when birds chase you down the block. Personally I don’t think any of them would pass this test, maybe McDavid because the birds may not be able to detect a heartbeat.

Australian food would disgust them, I just know it. Things that they would need to try are a Bunnings sausage sanga, fairy bread, lamingtons, baked beans on toast, Milo and Vegemite. Because I’m me I would give them no butter with their Vegemite. 

An after thought I had was money so I’m editing this to include it. Everything here is EXPENSIVE so they would need to learn how to budget. Upon doing research, Canadians would be fine but the Americans will be mad.

1000 CAD = 1019 AUD

1000 USD = 1297 AUD

Another after thought was the fact that they won’t be able to drive (or at least drive well) here. We drive on the left and not the right, same goes for walking paths too. I can sense a lot of them bumping into people.

Where I think players would live based on vibes alone:

Carter Hart and Vince Dunn: North Shore Beaches, NSW. Daddy’s money. Carter probably did Nippers whereas Vince was a skater boy. 

Travis Konecny: Darwin, NT. Would 100% live there and enjoy it. He would try to conduct crocodile tours but gets assigned to feeding the baby crocs and doing shows for little kids. 

Tyson Barrie: Perisher, NSW. One of the only ski resorts we have to offer, major friendly mountain man energy.

Nolan Patrick: Byron Bay, NSW. @antoineroussel enlightened me, steering away from my original thought of Katoomba, NSW. Byron Bay is a magnet for hippies and links rainforest to the ocean. Chris Hemsworth and his family also live there.

William Nylander: Perth, WA. I don’t know much about Perth other than they wouldn’t shut up about partying while the other states had to quarantine. For some reason, I also associate Perth with Tik Tok. 

Sidney Crosby and Connor McDavid: Melbourne CBD, VIC. These two would live in the same apartment building in the city, Connor one level above Sidney. It’s the most boring looking block of them all and Crosby would send in complaints to the landlord about McDavid pacing during the night.

Tyler Seguin: Surfers Paradise, QLD. Party central, not many people are actually from this area and he would be sure to tell absolutely everyone that he was. I also think he would get a Meter Maid tattoo, specifically on his leg. Has definitely slept on the beach before because he couldn’t find his way home.

Jamie Benn: Hobart, TAS. Tasmania is usually forgotten about. Another one with mountain man energy except he is more creepy than friendly.

Mitch Marner: Fitzroy, VIC. @antoineroussel is responsible for this one too. Hipster central, makes you question how the hell someone so young can have so much money. Would chug $45 wine and not blink an eye.

(honourable mentions include = Sammy Blais: Hobart, Tas. Once again no comment on Tasmania. TJ Oshie: Cairns, QLD. Would do reef tours. Haydn Fleury: Western Sydney, NSW. Haydn would 100% own a ute or a white holden commodore and you can’t tell me otherwise. Roman Josi: Adelaide, SA. Small town history teacher vibes.)

I have attached a handy map for those who may need it.

In conclusion, the NHL should send their players over here to teach them some manners and while they’re at it, management should bring themselves too. Nolan Patrick could pass as an Australian if he built up a tan. (So does Nylander in this picture but we won’t talk about that.) Come over anytime baby, I’m free. 

Glossary

Servo - A service station, also known as a petrol or gas station. Example: 7/11

Theme park - An amusement park. Can be said in reference to both normal parks and water parks and usually means those in QLD. Example: Six Flags

Swooping season - August to October in Australia. When birds attack and chase humans and / or pets for getting close to their babies. Magpies are notoriously bad for this. 

Bunnings sausage sanga - A cheap feed / meal found at the front of a hardware and gardening store called Bunnings. Made up of white bread, sausage, onion and your choice of sauce.

Fairy bread - White bread with margarine and topped with 100s and 1000s / sprinkles. 

Meter Maids - Women who work along the beach dressed in gold bikinis. They top up parking meters to save tourists from getting fined and will often stop for photos. 

Nippers - Surf lifesaving programs carried out for children between 5 and 14. 

Ute - A pick up truck.

Eshay - A person who partakes in drug use, graffiti, listens to EDM and targets victims in groups. Below is the typical style of an eshay. 

Tagging a few friends so this doesn’t completely flop but feel free to ignore if it isn't your thing. I won’t be offended lmao

@scheifefe @ifiwasshawnmendesidslapmyself @d00dlebob @bowenbyram @kempe @prettyboyroope @quintonsbyfield @travisgermy @pitoftrash @kspitehockey @ballsakic @canadianheaters @bricksatlandyswindow @powerblais @brokeninsidebutnobodyknows @jamiedrysdales