#i THINK a peach body spray??

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

sometimes the retail worker experience is looking through reports and finding information about products that haven’t been announced or released yet and you just have these secrets in your brain

[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!

[unholybacon355]

Kinktober Day 17 - Im Nayeon x M! Reader

Kinktober Masterlist

The shower was by far the best place to do it. Experience has taught you that that is the best way to not having to deal with the aftermath of all this, water just takes everything and you don’t need to cover or clean anything. You two can truly enjoy it when you do it in the shower.

You were kissing and grabbing your girlfriend by the waist, she has her hands on your ass. Both under the warm water of the shower like a lot of couples do, just that you’re about to do something that isn’t really usual between “average” couples. 

“Are you ready?” Nayeon answers your question by nodding her head and looking at you with big eyes, then she bites her fingers like she does when is being shy or embarrassed. “Come on, you go first.” You kiss her again and then turn off the shower tap. “I love you.” You her lips once again and then you get on your knees. 

“Can you eat me first?” Nayeon asks, still acting shy. “That would be lovely.” She says after biting her fingers again. All this could be very cute, if you weren't about to do what you gonna do. 

You would do anything for your girlfriend so you smile at her and gladly grab her by her thighs, Nayeon instinctively takes a step towards you so now you´re facing her crotch. Her lips are perfectly waxed but Nayeon maintains a well trimmed patch of hair on her pubis. That gives her a cute look in your opinion, and makes you smile before your lips touch her delicate folds. 

After your lips comes your tongue, making its way through a path of sensitive lips covered in moisture not only from the shower. And you eat as your girl wants you to do. With your eyes closed all you can feel are her pubes tickling on your forehead, and how Nayeon’s fingers are scratching the back of your head, telling you that you’re doing good. Soft sighs come from Nayeon’s mouth as another confirmation of your good work. 

To help you Nayeon grind her crotch to your face with slow movements. Her pussy is soaked by now and the sensation that she’s about to lose it is invading her body. “Ca-Can’t hold it anymore.” She says between sighs, and that’s all you need to hear to stop eating her out. 

Someone might think that stopping when she’s close to the orgasm it’s mean, but an orgasm isn't what Nayeon couldn’t hold anymore. She was drinking a lot of water all the evening, and since yesterday eating a lot of fruits. Peaches and watermelons were on the menu, along with another sweet fruits. All that to make sure that her bladder would be full of pee by this point, and thanks to the special menu that pee would be more sweet than usual.

“Give it to me.” You say looking at her eyes. Somehow she’s shy again, even when this is something that you have done dozens of times before. Experience was the way you learned how to play with the food and beverages to end making her pee so delicious. And somehow with all that experience Nayeon is still shy and gets nervous when you do this, even when she loves it so much.

Nayeon’s hand reaches her lips and using her fingers she spreads them to let you see her urethra. Making a little effort she pushes and immediately her pee comes out of her. A warm rain of the golden liquid hits your face, and the smell floods your senses. It smells good and tastes even better because all the effort pays off. You can taste the fruity notes on Nayeon’s pee as if you were tasting a fine wine, and you could say in which cask it was aged. This is by far the best result you have ever gotten and that makes you drink what is sprayed on your mouth with more eagerness.

Nayeon is releasing sighs of relief this time, since she’s emptying her bladder directly on your face and chest. You receive everything she has to give you with an open mouth and closed eyes. She uses her other hand to guide your head so your mouth can be closer to her pussy, and now the effluent of pee coming out of her urethra is hitting you right in the mouth. All you can drink is served straight to you by your lovely girlfriend Nayeon. In your opinion Nayeon’s pee is the most delicious beverage on the surface of the world, and she only gives it to you. 

But suddenly as started the blast of liquid started decreasing its power and soon there is nothing left. Soon Nayeon’s bladder is empty and you're soaked in her warm and delicious pee. With your eyes still closed she guides your face once again and you can feel the touch of her folds against your lips. You know the golden moment is gone from you and you have one last thing to do, so you eat her again.

Now Nayeon’s pussy feels and tastes different. Coated in another fluid that isn’t just her slick, but making it more tasty and delicious. Still with closed eyes you grab her thighs and open her legs a little bit to gain more access to her precious pussy. Nayeon leans against the shower wall to help her to support her weight while you eat her out like a famelish wild animal. All your love turns into arousal because her fluids are flooding your senses. The mixture of Nayeon’s pee and slick is delicious, intoxicating, and addictive to you. That’s why you do everything that is in your hands to get as much as you can, driving Nayeon crazy too in the process. 

The long awaited orgasm hits Nayeon while she’s still leaning against the wall and your head is buried on her crotch. She holds your head against her trembling body, and you hold her by her thighs. No one wants the other to leave this lovely but dirty kind of hug, but everything has to come to an end; and the amount of fluid that can emanate does too.

When she stops shaking and moaning you're free to get apart of her soaked pussy. She cleans your eyes allowing you to open it once again, so you can see how happy she’s now. Soon you’re on your feet again kissing Nayeon and pushing her against the wall. She seems to not care about the fact that your face isn’t just coated on her slick but also her pee. She just enjoys this as much as you do it,  so the kiss is full of passion and love.

“Is my turn now?” Nayeon asks between giggles using that shy tone again, while she begins to kneel in front of you.  

[e-hibiscus]

reader having a cuddle session with Acheron would be so nice, I feel like Acheron gives really warm hugs. If you want, could you do a scenario with that ?

Sorry that this took awhile to get out i have been struggling mentally 🫡 but im now standin stronger than before so i write for you silly goobers :3c

Writing Acheron fluff improved my mood too so that’s a plus 🍑

Cuddling with Acheron 👀 •••

When the two of you cuddle, Acheron is very aware of where she puts her hands. She knows what she’s doing when she wraps her arms around your waist— hands slowly snaking down before she grabs your ass.

Acheron knows what she likes 😔 and she’s gonna take a handful to squish. I believe she’s an ass girlie, can’t change my mind

Acheron has her hands wrap around your waist, chest flush against one another. She holds you close, not letting you pull away from her embrace as her fingers draw circles idly on your back— a silent display of affection the two of you share.

Acheron would prefer more private displays of affection. When you two are alone, in the privacy of your own room, Acheron is rather clingy 🥺 she wants to be as close to you as she can. She likes when you sit on her lap or have your body against her.

Acheron would burry her head against you while holding you close. Like, maybe it's just my wishful thinking, but she would take in your scent 😭 you’re just such a comforting presence and Acheron just takes it in. If you have some sort of fruity perfume/body spray Acheron would enjoy it a lot. Even moreso if you actually smell like peaches like me 😰

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unwanted 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, bullying, insults, body insecurity, perversion, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You're used to being unwanted, but a strange man might just convince you that's a good thing.

Note: this is a sequel to Unsolicited/Unexpected, but with a different reader. This is Lloyd's sequel. Peaches is flourishing somewhere else.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You keep behind your brother a he marches through the mall. If you walk beside Derrick, he’ll be sure to elbow you away and if you get ahead of him, he’ll think you’re trying to prove something. Anything but out of sight is incorrect. 

That’s the way it goes in your family. Your brother is the chosen one. He’s perfect, but you, you’re a disaster. You’re a nuisance. Unwanted. 

“God, stop dragging your feet,” he snarls over his shoulder. “If we’re late, I’m going to tell dad it’s your fault.” 

“I’m going,” you go faster but he easily outpaces you. 

“And if they’re out of stock, it’ll be your fault too,” he spits. “I don’t even know why they sent you with me. Probably to get a break from you.” 

Probably. You can’t disagree. Your parents are no more fond of you than your brother. No one really is. Who would be? You’re thirty and you still live at home. Pathetic. Useless. Everything they say is true. 

You’re out of breath as you enter the department store. It’s one of the upscale ones with the overpriced throw pillows and the store brand merchandise. Derrick turns left even as you glance right towards the beauty department. 

“Um, Derrick?” You shuffle after him. “I think the perfume is--” 

“Shut up,” he sneers. 

You obey. It’s easier to let him figure it out on his own, even if in the end, he’ll be mad at you for not telling him either. That’s just how it is. You can’t do anything right. 

He wanders through the men’s clothing and comes almost full circle before he finds the fragrance desk. He growls and you don’t miss the glare he sends in your direction. You linger behind once more as he steps up to the desk and slaps the bell. 

“Yo, anyone here work?” He hollers. 

You shrink down in embarrassment. If only you could make yourself small. You’ve never been that. Curvy at best, chunky some might say, fat in your mother’s words. 

“About time,” Derrick huffs as a woman in a black turtleneck appears behind the glass counter. “Yeah, I’m here to pick up a bottle of... hold on.” He takes out his phone and taps around, mumbling as he scrolls. “I just had it... where the fuck--” He sniffs in frustration, “what the fuck kind is it?” 

He turns to bark at you and you flinch. You glance around as other customers pause to look at his rising voice. You push your shoulders up and gulp. 

“White Ice,” you say. You can see the gleaming bottle your mother forbade you from ever touching. You never had the courage to tell her it stinks to high heavens. 

“Yeah, what she said,” he spins back. 

“Oh, well, I think we might have a few bottles. The holidays are a bit chaotic,” she chimes. 

“Whatever,” he mutters. 

He follows her to the end of the counter and around to the shelves. You stay where you are. The blend of scents is a bit too much, you don’t need to wade any closer. 

You busy yourself by perusing the promotional shelf of beauty samplers. Body spray, lip balms, even hand lotion. You lean in to figure out what those little metal containers are. 

“Damn, look at the dump truck on you,” a man chortles heartily at the disgusting remark as it leaves his lips. “That’s not a peach, that’s a damn three-tiered cake.” 

You don’t react. You tend to block out the general public. They often to the same to you. 

“Hey, sugar stack,” a hand falls onto the top of the shelf before you and you stand straight. You gape at the man who leans on one foot and smirks at you, “I’m talking to you, or can you not hear me over that extra cushion? You need me to push it outta the way?” 

“Excuse me,” you utter. “Do I... know you?” 

“Nah, but you can get to know me,” he snickers. “Gimme a hint, huh,” he wiggles his finger towards your coat, “does the balcony match the basement?” 

You stare at him dumbly. He can’t mean... that. It’s gross. Disgusting. And not very flattering. You know what he’s doing, he’s making fun of you. 

“No thanks,” you turn away and fold your arms. 

“Where’re ya goin’? I’m just gettin’ to know ya, baby?” He trails after you as you search around for your brother. “Come on, I know you don’t wanna go back to that jerk you were following around. Jackass barely looks at you, does he?” 

You shake your head and keep going. You stop as you see your brother. He has a bottle in his hand and a scowl on his face. Even he knows it isn’t the right perfume but the associate is doing her best to sell him the substitute. 

“Really? You’re gonna ditch me for that jackwad,” the stranger scoffs. 

“He’s my brother,” you mutter. 

“Ah, that explains it. Even better reason for you not to both. Come on. Let’s get outta here and you can rest those legs,” he grabs your arm and spins you back to him. “I even got a nice seat for you to sit on.” 

He licks two fingers and smooths his mustache. You curl your lip. Oh god. He has nice enough eyes and his hair is tidy, but the lines around his eyes and in his forehead give him about a decade on you at least. Besides, the way he talks is nasty.  

You might not have many options but nothing is sometimes better than anything. Not much more or less than what you already have. You shake your head, “no, thank you, sir.” 

You turn your back to him again and tug your arm away.  

“Sir? Oh, say it again, jello jugs,” he purrs, “I like the way those lips sound around it. Oh, wait, wait, try Lloyd. Yeah, I wanna hear you say my name--” 

“Stop,” you hurry away but he’s quick. “Please, leave me alone.” 

“You should be thanking me with a wide load like you got. I mean, look at me, sweet cheeks. I’m a ten. Eleven if we’re being honest about it,” he taunts. “You really wanna hang out with baby boy brother or you wanna go with a real man and see how he can make you shake--” 

“I said leave me alone,” you hiss over your shoulder. “Or my brother will tell you himself.” 

“Pfft, alright, sweetheart, you really think I’m afraid of that bitch boy?” He scoffs. “Fine, you go one, hide behind big brother. All alone. Unlicked.” 

You stop short and peek back at him. He sticks his tongue out lewdly and you shudder. You blink at him then twirl back to your course. 

You reach your brother as he snarls at the associate, “stop wasting my time. You either got it, or you don’t.” 

“I’m sorry, sir--” 

“Save it!” He puts his palm in her face and turns to you, “come on, let’s get outta here. Fuck. Dad’s gonna be pissed.” 

You move out of his way and let him go ahead. You scurry at his heels and keep your head down. That man looms, pretending to look at the perfume rollers. You ignore him as you wring your hands. 

He isn’t wrong. You don’t get much attention from men. None, actually. Yet, his isn’t welcome. His makes you feel worse somehow. Dirty. Wrong. 

You just want to forget about him. You’re certain you will soon enough. With the mood Derrick is in, your parents won’t be much better. 

[ipegchangbin]

ipegchangbin, in the years since our last night together (lovely night by the way), i’ve reminisced often.

lovers, bodies touching on park benches, bated breath, curious hands. remember the orchard where you clutched my youth? the warm nights with love in our eyes? the grapefruit moon, the red fish in the water, your perfume, my last gift to you; a simple blushed peach. it all seems shortsighted now but i hold it close to my heart.

anyways, i had a dream the other day i had to lock myself in the bathroom during a holiday to jerk off non stop and i just couldn’t cum no matter how hard i tried, it was more like a nightmare.

can we discuss sweet changbin waking up in tears with ruined underwear after such a dream, unwavering need to hump his lover’s body beside him and play with his pussy until your cock/hands/mouth/whatever you want, grants his unabating wish to cum and spray his sweet release everywhere, and then retreat back to honeyed slumber and saccharine dreams with a smile on his dearest sleeping visage, most innate cravings quenched into next week.

love,

your fruitcake.

beloved dai fruitcakebin,

i remember you. of course i do. how could i forget, love? whenever i see peaches, i think of you and the blessed hand that gifted it to me; yours, the scent of your person still lingering as i browse grocery aisles that aren’t the same as the night we spent together. who would i be to forget you?

now about your dream…

🏷️ sub!boypussy!changbin. dom!gn!reader. cunnilingus (changbin receiving).

as sweet as his dreams are, changbin can’t help himself as he’s glued to your warmth on the bed. in his head, all he sees is the impression of your teeth revealing themselves into a menacing smile as he’s held in his seat with no physical restraints; just you, your hands, unforgivingly fingering his pretty pink pussy.

it’s too much yet not enough, your fingers — undoubtedly yours, felt by the texture and length and width — curling inwards and outwards in a way that keeps changbin’s release so close yet so far. in his head, he wants to go; in reality, he simply humps your leg, whimpering slightly in his sleep.

he grunts in real life, but in his dreamscape he’s begging for you with no clear intention. he doesn’t want it to stop but he doesn’t want to keep going without cumming. you take notice of his sweet noises in your hazy slumber-turned-wake, firstly noticing the sensation of something wet on your thigh.

his cunt oozes cream and wetness as he nears his orgasm: you devilishly stop him from cumming as your fingers harshly pull out of his cunt.

changbin wakes up with a high pitched whimper.

“y/n,” he cries out gently, clutching onto your arm. “can’t sleep.”

“mmm, can’t sleep or can’t cum?” you respond.

changbin’s eyes widen before darting down to the mess he’s making on your leg. his precum seeps through his underwear and makes it down to your thigh. you could feel his cunt pulsating, aching with pure desire chasing for you.

so you clench your thigh, watching changbin writhe by your side.

“was i noisy?” he asks adorably.

“a little, but i don’t mind.”

you take a handful of changbin’s love handles, revealed by his ridden-up shirt, allowing him to inch closer to your warmth. he responds with a roll of his hips, beady eyes returning to his wet dream as he keeps going, but you allow him to use your body.

the thing is, you don’t allow him release.

as if he’s back to his dream, your fingers find his cunt again and you rub circles on his clit. the fat bud reacts instantly, quivering as he gushes his wetness onto you. a whine escapes his luscious lips, but he attempts to muffle the next moan by kissing your neck.

you laugh with closed eyes as you squeeze his hip with your free hand.

“my lovely changbin, did you dream of this?”

“yes…” changbin’s eyes tear up and sparkle.

“you didn’t cum, right?”

he nods, gulping.

“want me to make you cum?”

changbin clamps his needy legs around yours, squeezing his cunt right on top of your fingers. he waits impatiently for you to respond but you simply giggle.

“well, i’ll make you cum after i play with you for a bit, yeah?”

he whines but takes it obediently. you always love this about him: he remains a good boy even when he grows desperate and impatient. the contrast makes your heart jump, so you don’t mind when he asks for more. he’s too adorable, with his cheeks puffed, ears beet red, eyelashes wet with tears, and a cunt leaking and aching to be loved.

one finger pushes his underwear aside. you slip two fingers inside his pussy and changbin moans fully.

rolling his body to slot himself onto your curves, changbin resists the urge to grind onto your leg and hand. he whines your name with hitches in his breath. it’s only then that you notice how hard he grips your arm but it’s never enough to squeeze. he loves that you love him.

so you pump your fingers slowly into his cunt. a wet noise follows your calculated actions, the sound of sin echoing through the bedroom as changbin feels everything. he pulses on your cunt and gushes even in the smallest of strokes. it’s only two fingers, but the chub of his pussy lips sucks you into his tight walls in waves of pleasure.

“relax.” you slowly detach from changbin’s grasp, making him clench around your fingers to signal you to stop. you raise an eyebrow at him.

“changbin, i said relax.”

he instantly unclenches and a small flood of wetness follows. his arms loosen around your body, allowing you space to move as you wish.

“can i taste my binnie? wanna see your pretty pussy,” you suggest.

the taste of his cunt is a drug that you can’t get enough of. it’s a taste that’s savory and sweet, only enhanced by the look of his folds against the curls of his pubic hair. his pussy lips are sensitive to the point that kitten licks get him to cum, and his clit appears only once he’s aroused enough — much like a flower blooming. he’s so gorgeous and he tastes like heaven.

so you motion yourself down on him, opening his legs, slotting your mouth on top of his pussy.

“y/n!” this time, he fully cries. “please! i’ll cum!”

“isn’t that what you want?” you ask, leaning your cheek against his thigh. “i’ll give it to you if you give yourself to me.”

changbin sniffs back his next cry, opting to nod in response. at that, your tongue immediately licks a stripe down his cunt. changbin instinctively closes his legs, caging your head onto his pussy.

he cums a little bit once your tongue licks back up and finds his clit, but neither of you think nothing of it once your lips attach onto it and suck.

he writhes, whining your name, one hand holding the pillow behind his head while the other grabs you by your hair. he’s still gentle with it but he pulls you closer onto his cunt, letting you savor the taste of his leaking cum while you keep going. the ache only gets worse when you cup his inner thigh with one hand, while two fingers of his other hand find his needy hole again.

guiding themselves back, his tight hole reopens for you as you pump two fingers in with the same speed in which you suck his clit. changbin’s tears fall down his heated cheeks as you fuck his wetness and cum in and out. you slowly add one more digit into his tight hole, the difference making it tighter. changbin wails and squirms lightly, soft belly bouncing as he rolls his hips onto your head.

release builds and builds until it almost explodes — your mouth pops out of his clit.

“cum all over my mouth binnie.”

you lick his cunt once, twice. then your fingers curl to his limit, then his sweet spot, then before you know it, he squirts.

shock washes over changbin as he sprays his release onto your mouth and hand. even the sheets beneath you both get wet. but before apologies reel in, you lick up his release and finger his cunt more until he creams this time.

at this point, changbin’s a sobbing mess.

he wails for comfort only to be greeted by a kiss on the cunt and a hug around his belly.

“did so good for me,” you say, licking your lips.

the warmth of your body hugging him calms changbin. his breath stabilizes slightly as you pat his hips. you readjust your position after a minute passes, just you and him slowing your adrenalines down.

you invite changbin to hug you in the same position you both started, only now, you both are messes that smell like sweat, cum, and love.

another minute goes by and changbin snores, drooling on your chest, cum oozing out of his pussy as he returns to deep, satisfied slumber.

[transformersandturtles]

Couldn't find any of this SO I WROTE MY OWN FOR A ONE SHOT‼️ I will write more but I thought this would be good for now‼️ I'm really sorry if this seems out of character for either of them, I've never written anything for them before. 🥲

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CW - Swearing, reference to explicit content, possible spelling errors (non reviewed)

Word Count - 2,017 words (10,995 characters)

𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝑮𝒐 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈!

"Wade, is there anything you need from the store?" The gruff voice of Logan Howlett grumbled from the kitchen table, reading glasses resting on his nose as he held a small notepad and pen. He'd asked Al earlier if she needed anything, that wasn't illegal substances he had no way of getting his hands on, so now it was just a matter of asking his partner, who had just gotten back from walking Mary Puppins. He tapped the closed pen on the wooden surface, peering over the ridge of the glasses Laura made him wear. Who knew it was easier to read with glasses? He'd have to get something to thank her next time she came by.

"Oh! You're going shopping! Ooh, let's see!" Wade had quite the grin on his expression, taking off the harness and leash from the ever loving Dogpool, who he totally didn't get the owner of murdered so he could take her, and he picked her up, letting her lick his face as she was coddled like a baby in his arms. "We need more dog food," he spoke as he waltzed over to Logan, his hood falling down as he did so, "and more milk. Maybe some more eggs, and a pack of XL-" before he could finish, he felt something sharp poke at his throat.

"All that's on the list, except that last one. YOU can get that on your own time." The old Canadian scoffed a bit, not exactly in the mood to entertain Wade's thoughts. But he couldn't hold back a small grin when the other Canadian whined at the threat.

"Whaaaaaat? But Honey Badger, I can't go alone. They'd look at me weird." He protested, trying to be dramatic all for the sake of being dramatic.

"Uh huh, sure bub. . ." Logan put his claws away, grabbing the napkin off the table by his empty plate to wipe the blood away as the spot between his knuckles healed quickly. "So, there's milk, eggs, toilet paper, new beddings, steak, vegetables, beer. . ." He mumbled, setting the notepad down to write a few more things that came to mind. Wade set down Mary Puppins and he leaned over Logan's shoulder to figure out what other things were added. Toothpaste, mouthwash. . .

"Oh absolutely not." Wade reached for the pen to scratch out the body spray. "No way in HELL are you gonna buy Axe. Are you TRYING to smell like a skunk? Your musk is enough to make a room full of E-Sports players sick!"

". . . The fuck is E-Sports?" Logan wasn't sure if he should be insulted, confused, or both. But he wasn't too happy about the comment either way. "Also what the fuck is wrong with Axe? It's cheap and smells fine." He scoffed a bit. "I'm not trying to spend over $100 to smell good." He took off the metal framed glasses and placed them on the collar of his T-shirt under the teal-blue flannel.

"And I'm not saying you need to spend $100 to smell good, I for one think you smell amazing. Gets the body goin'. . ." Wade gave a cheeky grin with a chuckle, looking Logan up and down for a moment before looking back at the list. "But Axe is the worst one to use. If you want something to smell decent for work, I'd recommend Old Spice at the very least. Sure, the smell names are weird as fuck, but that comes with all male hygiene products. Women get all the sweet and nice sounding scents like peach vanilla or sunset cinnamon. . . Meanwhile we get stuff like Pine Jizz or Whales Fucking or-"

"Shut the fuck up, Wade. . . . Just shut up. . ." Logan let out a groan of annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. Wade had a grin on his face, laughing a little at how Logan told him to stop talking.

"I'm just saying, Peanut, if you get Axe then you're sleeping on the couch or out in the hallway." Wade warned, before leaning in to kiss Logan on the cheek. "I'll go get ready." He hummed, and left to the bedroom to change out of his sweatpants and hoodie.

"Yeah, yeah. . ." Logan mumbled in annoyance, putting his hand to his cheek to hide the light blush across his face. He huffed and stood up, stretching as his joints popped and cracked, from his lower back to his legs and neck. He popped his jaw a bit, before going to the coat rack to grab his brown leather jacket he got for a fairly good price last week. It was nice, not too tight but not too lose, and had some decent pockets. Perfect for carrying booze. . . Or other stuff he didn't want to pay for, maybe. He was THE Wolverine, and taxes were too expensive sometimes. Who was gonna throw him in jail if he shoplifted? No one, that's who. He adjusted the collar of the leather jacket, getting it how he wanted before stopping when he heard the bedroom door open. He looked at Wade, and stared at him almost dumbfounded. "You are NOT going out like that. . ."

"Why not, Peanut? You always like it when I dress this way." Wade teased, he wasn't serious about wearing the outfit in public, but he wanted a good reaction out of Logan. Besides, the outfit was pretty comfortable but no way in hell was he having enough confidence to show off his unicorn crop top and short-shorts. He didn't mind wearing it when he was having his great days; where he was overly confident and eager to show off his body despite the scarring. But today wasn't one of those days, especially since it was getting cooler as Autumn was coming in after what felt like eons of Summer. Wade did notice how Logan's complexion had turned a few shades of a deep red while looking, which also made Wade's cheeks turn a soft pink.

"Alright, alright, hurry up then. . ." Logan sighed softly, not even making a comment or retort to what was said because Wade was right. Logan crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Wade but was surprised when the bedroom door closed again and he frowned. Did he say the wrong thing? Did he upset Wade? The mutant stood quietly but worriedly, his nose twitching a bit as he sniffed the air, trying to figure out if Wade was upset or not. It was hard to tell, so he stepped closer to the door. There didn't seem to be any low serotonin levels, they seemed about as normal as they could be for Wade. His nose continued twitching as he kept sniffing past the door, still trying to figure out if he upset his boyfriend or not, his ears twitching a little as well as he listened carefully. Before he could figure it out past the smell of everything else on the other side of the door, he was met once again with the face of Wade who seemed surprised at how close Logan was to the door. But that surprise soon turned to playful, mischievous grin.

"Aww, was someone worried about me?" He teased, wrapping an arm around Logan and leaning in to rub his nose against Logan's cheek. The gruff man scoffed with a growl, not out of hostility but annoyance, as he bit Wade's cheek with his big canines.

"Like hell I'd worry about you, dumbass. . ." Logan grumbled, moving away from Wade but didn't move too far so they could at least hold hands. "Let's go. . ." He sighed heavily, taking Wade's hand and going to the door to get their shoes on as Logan grabbed the keys to the apartment and put them in the pocket of his leather jacket with the notepad.

At the store, Logan had to keep holding Wade's hand so the younger wouldn't run off, who knows what that undiagnosed dork would go find and beg to have. Logan had his glasses back on as he looked down at the list in his hand. He had a specific order to get everything in, and if he had to deviate from that plan he might just lose it. Wade was very aware of his boyfriend's thoughts and methods, and honestly he didn't mind holding hands and walking with Logan, though he did stop a few times to look at something that caught his attention.

"We really gotta get you an appointment. . ." Logan mumbled as he gently tugged Wade along so they could keep shopping to get everything on the list. He headed over to the produce section, his hazel eyes gazing over the different fruits and veggies, letting go of Wade's hand for just a moment so he could find the perfect vegetables to cook for dinner. He'd started learning how to cook lately and had a nice dinner planned, so he made sure that the ingredients would be edible and not rotten inside or anything of the sort. He grabbed some potatoes, a few peppers, and for something sweet as a snack for later he grabbed some apples, a grapefruit, and a cantaloupe though it was slowly coming out of season and probably wouldn't taste as good as it does in the summer but he didn't care. He goes to check the ingredients off the list and turns to hold Wade's hand again, only to find the other Canadian had vanished. "Great. . ." Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath before grabbing the shopping cart and continued with his shopping, knowing he'd find Wade eventually, tracking his scent wasn't that difficult due to the constantly dying and regenerating cells, along with the citrus-pine smell he had. His ears and nose twitched every so often as he leaned his elbows against the cart to push it, walking around and glancing around as he got cheese, milk, eggs, and some other things in the aisle, a gruff and raspy hum vibrating in his chest as he tapped his sharp nails against the metal bar of the cart while listening to the music playing through the store. It was crappy compared to what he liked, some hit pop song the youth enjoyed, but damnit was it catchy in the kind of way that it was really annoying but kinda good. He whistled a little, getting everything on the shopping list and went to the aisle full of booze before an announcement rang over the store's system.

"Logan Howlett, please come to the front. Your child is waiting." A bored teen girl sounded over, the tone of her voice a mix of boredom, with a hint that screamed she did not get paid enough to watch over someone or help. Logan raised a brow at this, confused. Laura wasn't here, was she? But then it clicked, and he groaned slightly with some annoyance. He grabbed two packs of the good beer and headed to the front, finding Wade near a desk who seemed happy and relieved once Logan arrived.

"Honey Badger! I was so worried you left without me!" Wade nearly tackled the older man the moment he could, and Logan grunted, a bit startled.

"You're the one who ran off, idiot. . ." Logan scoffed, glaring at Wade before looking down at the soft thing between them. "Wade. . . What the hell is that?" He frowned. Wade looked down, and a big grin was plastered on his face.

"Pompompurin! He'd be great to sit with Hello Kitty and Cinnamoroll!" He beamed, excited even as he held the large dog plush. Logan wanted to say no, to make him put it back, because who knows how much money that thing cost, but the longer he saw those big eyes, Logan eventually let out a groan of defeat.

"Fine. . . But you're payin' for it, bub. . ." Logan patted Wade on the shoulder, before taking him and the cart to the self checkout aisle so he could scan everything himself. Logan didn't like strangers touching stuff sometimes.

"Fine by me!" Wade grinned, watching Logan scan everything and he snorted a bit, amused by his odd yet loving boyfriend.

[etherealhoneybee777]

I have a lot of goofy mob psycho perfume headcanons, but one of my favorites is that Reigen wears Bath and Body Works Champagne Toast but is ashamed of it.

Champagne toast is a juvenile, fun scent that smells like hyper-sweet champagne and peach. Reigen LOVES this scent but he HATES that he loves it because even though he’s crazy about sweet femme scents, he doesn’t want people to know that he wears a cheap scent designed for tween girls.

So when people ask what scent he’s wearing, Reigen lies and says “Nautica Voyage for Men” Reigen shamefully keeps champagne toast stashed in a locked drawer in his desk. It’s his secret.

It’s his secret to everyone except Teru.

See, the thing about Teruki Hanazawa is that he has an amazing nose. He knows the name of a fragrance just by smelling it. And Teru ADORES bath and body works. He collects it. So Teru smells Reigen and immediately knows reigen is wearing champagne toast.

Their interaction goes like this:

Teru (who proudly wears scents designed for tween girls) I never knew you liked champagne toast, Reigen-san!!! We should talk bath and body works sometime!! I’m somewhat of a collector myself. I’m actually wearing the tutti dolci collection right now!

Reigen *visibly sweating*: dunno…dunno what you’re talking about. I’ve never been to bath and body works in my life. The only scent I wear is nautica voyage for Men

Teru *squinting* You don’t smell like nautica voyage. You smell like champagne toast.

Reigen: I guess your smeller is off.

Teru *visibly distressed at reigen gaslighting him at the tender age of 14*

Later, for Christmas, Reigen unwraps his present from Teru. It’s an unboxed bottle of nautica voyage for men.

Teru: go ahead, spray it!

Reigen starts sweating. He’s been caught in a lie—now everyone will smell the ACTUAL nautica voyage for men, and know that Reigen smells nothing like that, thus proving that Reigen has been lying the whole time about what fragrance he’s wearing.

People will discover he’s a fraud. A fraud who wears champagne toast.

Unable to think of an excuse, Reigen sprays the bottle of nautica voyage for men.

It smells exactly like champagne toast.

It smells like champagne toast because it IS champagne toast. Teru had bought a bottle of nautica voyage for men, emptied it, refilled it with champagne toast, and gifted it to reigen. The reason? He wants Reigen to be able to keep his perfume on his desk, to spray champagne toast without feeling ashamed.

Tears come to Reigen’s eyes. Teru knows Reigen’s a fraud. At least when it comes to the fragrances he wears. But Teru doesn’t care!! In fact, he’s HELPING Reigen lie by gifting him champagne toast disguised as nautica voyage. The idea that the kids see him—the real him, the liar—and accepts him anyway, is almost too much for reigen to take.

But Reigen keeps going. Like he always does. He says thank you to Teru. Gives him a hug. He sprays champagne toast, and is proud.

[yellowbunnydreams]

Bunny Ears (Part 13) ~William Afton X F! Reader~

~POV: You finish your paper and have it reviewed only to recieve 30+ comments on it dragging it through the dirt and lighting it on fire. Edit; Finished and submitted, flipped off my computer~

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Want more or something different? *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tag List: @ruh--roh-raggy @h4nluv @sleepy---head @do-double-g @confiscated-peaches-main @dij-ology @viviennemuerte @robin-the-enby @shari-berri @randymeeksisafinalgirl @hallow1090 @aponia-yue @likoplays @dilflover-3 @oak-leafs @phd-in-fuckery @weirdoartist21 @nicolezghostz @fauine

Sorry if I missed you on the tag-list!

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), Female Reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 30's), divorce/processing divorce, Afton being a sarcastic hot ass, Henry being such a dad, grumpy x sunshine . Faz-Fuck TM. Cringe scenes ft. Henry.

The knocking at your door on your day off stirred you from your sleep. Groggily heading towards the door and opening it whilst rubbing sleep from your eyes with the heel of your hand. The knocks were too light for William, and you weren't expecting any packages, so there was some trepidation as you answered.

Blinking against the bright light, you were surprised to see the petite and lithe figure of Sarah Emily on your step. Blonde hair tied up neatly into a ponytail and wearing jeans with a white t-shirt, looking like a casual woman around your age unless you looked closely and could see the crinkles around her eyes from years of smiling.

"H-Hey! Um...Hi Sarah." You said after a moment of confusion, looking down at yourself and realising that you were wearing William's hoodie again and some shorts. Blushing at the fact this was the second time you had answered the door to somebody you knew whilst dressed in such a state.

"Well good-morning sleephead! I thought I would stop by and come see you." She laughed, giggling more as you gestured for her to come inside and shut the door behind her. Padding into your kitchen and taking out two mugs from the draining board next to your sink, turning on the kettle and finding your instant coffee and tea.

"Tea, coffee?"

"Coffee, milky with two sugars please." Sarah replied, amused at seeing you still somewhat out of it and wearing Afton's hoodie. She recognised it from the similar one Henry had, tucked away back in his closet somewhere in case he wanted to wear it one day. Not that he, nor Afton wore those kinds of things often anymore since the opening of Freddy's.

"So um...how have you been?" You asked, waking up a bit more as you grabbed milk from the fridge, making coffee for Sarah and yourself as you placed them on the counter. Leaning against the cool lino and feeling your attention wandering as you realised that Sarah had a slightly mischievous look on her face. "And I'm guessing this isn't entirely a 'I was in the neighbourhood' call."

"Good good, Charlie's been a little terror recently, but she's sweet otherwise. And you caught me! I wanted to know if you wanted a girly day out, and then, we go on that double-date I mentioned last time?" She asked, making you choke on your coffee slightly, nose burning as the action nearly made it come up through your nose. Coughing to gather yourself, you found yourself looking at your hand and the mug.

"I don't think I've ever...had a girly day? But I'd like the date later!" Sarah raised an eyebrow before she looked incredulous, her slender hand resting over her heart as she looked at you.

"You've never...NEVER... had a girly day out?"

"Nope."

"Get some pants on and get in the fucking car, we are rectifying this, now!" She exclaimed, downing her coffee and making you do the same, wincing as the heat slid down your throat before you half-ran to your room. Throwing on some deodorant, a subtle body-spray and some somewhat clean jeans and a t-shirt over your underwear. Dragging a brush through your hair and huffing as you almost tripped over yourself trying to pull on your socks and boots. Sarah standing by the door and your door keys dangling from her fingers, grin plastered on her face as you grabbed them from her.

"Why did we need to rush again?"

"Oh, no reason, but it was quite funny to watch." She laughed as you locked the front door, laughing harder as you gave her a stern look. Heading to her car and climbing inside, sighing as you rested your head against the seat and closed your eyes briefly.

~~

"William! How're you doing buddy?" Henry called as he opened the office door, making William jump slightly as he was disturbed from his intense concentration on some of the blue-prints in front of him. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he sighed and looked towards the smaller man. Noticing how his hair was loose and wild despite his professional appearance.

"You only call me 'buddy' when you need something Henry, what is it this time?" Henry placed a hand over his heart and pouted, dramatically leaning against the door frame and sinking against it like he'd just been shot before he stumbled into the office.

"You wound me! I don't do that! You are my buddy!" William scoffed and rolled his eyes at his dramatic business partner before looking back down at the plans in his hand. Scribbling on a separate piece of paper to note some measurements and calculations whilst he heard Henry lean against the desk. Almost hearing the smile in his voice as he spoke again.

"Anyway, me and Sarah are going on a date tonight and we were wondering if you and your little girlfriend would like to join us and make it a double date?" William sighed and set the papers down on his desk, looking over his glasses to see Henry's wild grin. Afton sucked on the inside of his cheek before replying, going to pick up the paperwork on his desk once more.

"Absolutely not, the last time you attempted something like this Henry, Sarah practically bit Clara's head off and you got so pissed you walked half an hour down the high-way before we found you."

"That was college! And secondly, you'll let your girlfriend down if you don't show!"

"I'm sure she also said no to this stupid idea."

"Actually, Sarah's gone to her house and they're having a little trip to get all dolled up for this date tonight." Henry smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as William dropped the papers and rubbed his hands over his face. Groaning loudly and leaning back in the chair, making it creak under his weight.

"You mean to tell me that Sarah, your wife, has kidnapped my girlfriend and is playing dress-up with her?" Running his hands through his hair whilst glaring at Henry, who nodded with the same, stupid grin plastered on his face. Afton groaned again and put his head in his hands.

"Fine, you sick bastard, I'll come. Just leave the address on my desk and tell me what time to be there."

"Don't forget to bring a condom William, I'm sure that afterwards you'll-"

"HENRY, DON'T BE A FUCKING PERVERT." Henry cackled at his friend's outburst, holding his hands up in defence, laughing harder as William reached into the drawer and chucked balled up paper at the man as he retreated. Leaving William to hide his face in his hands and groan in frustration, wishing his friend had at least asked him before kidnapping you via his wife.

~~

"What about this one?" Sarah asked you, showing you a swatch of an eyeshadow on the back of her hand and you hummed in thought as you looked at it. Shaking your head after a moment. "Oh come on," she groaned your name slightly as she put back the little tester tub. "you have to like something I show you!"

"I'm sorry Sarah, I'm just not...I don't really even do my own make-up. I wear mascara and some lip gloss occasionally, I don't do..this." You gestured to the large make-up counter that you were both at. Glancing over the bold and bright colours that Sarah seemed to favour, brow knitting together as you picked up a container and opened it, looking at the dark green shade inside before closing it and putting it back.

"Maybe we're doing this in the wrong order!" Sarah clapped her hands together before grabbing one of yours, dragging you behind her and almost tripping over your feet with the force the small woman was surprisingly able to move you with. You supposed that she was a mom, so perhaps it was from having to move a reluctant child...or Henry. You could also see Henry having to be dragged away from stores a few times by his wife.

She pulled you into a boutique in the mall, blinking as you adjusted to the new lighting inside and looked around. Spotting plenty of dresses lining the walls and making you groan. You couldn't remember the last time you'd found a dress you would even consider wearing, let alone wearing one, and they all seemed so formal, you'd hoped that you could get away with a nice top and some cleaner jeans for the date. Sarah seemingly had other ideas as she began browsing the racks.

Under encouragement, and a few teasing words, from Sarah, you began looking too. Hands idly flipping through the dresses and cringing as some of the material felt awful under your fingers, others just a plain ugly colour that you wouldn't be caught dead in.

"Can I help you find something?" The voice made you jump and you turned to see an elegantly dressed shop assistant standing near to you, heart pounding in your chest as you looked back at the dresses for a second, brow furrowed and a soft sigh escaping your lips as your shoulders slumped.

"I um..I'm going on a double date tonight and apparently I have to wear a dress..so..yeah. Just trying to find something I like honestly." You say, speaking quietly as your fingers scanned through the materials before the woman cleared her throat again, grabbing your attention once more.

"Well, what colour does your date usually wear?" They asked, making you pause only for a moment before you answered.

"Black."

"Well, I'm guess you're newly together, so matching might be a little much. But I can suggest some colours that work well and we'll figure out style from there." She smiled, making you give a polite smile back as she gestured towards another part of the store. Practised eyes scanning through the dresses and flickering back to you before her hands darted out to pick out a few dresses before taking you back to the dressing rooms, where Sarah was already admiring herself in a dark green dress that hugged her figure perfectly, a long slit up her leg and showing it off.

The assistant handed you the dresses and shooed you into a dressing room, pursing your lips together before you obeyed. Hoping that there would be at least one thing you liked amongst the pile.

~~

Sarah carefully brushed your eyelids with a careful precision that you were unsure you would have ever been able to manage. Feeling what felt almost like a brush-pen moving against your lid and out before you heard the click of a lid closing. Her slender hand grabbing your chin gently before you heard another lip pop, your eyes closed as you let the older woman manoeuvre you and do your make-up as she saw fit.

You jumped slightly as you felt a cool wetness against your lips, making the woman tut disapprovingly as she tightened her grip slightly and coated your lips, letting go of you as she spoke. "Press your lips together for me dear." Following her instructions and feeling some of the stickiness dissipate before your eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly as you glanced up at her.

"Go on, check yourself out little lady!" She squealed, helping you to stand up in the tiny kitten heels she had somehow convinced you to wear as well. Focusing intently on walking as you walked up to the mirror that Sarah had placed on the floor so that you could get a better look at yourself.

Your hair had been set loosely around your shoulders, styled to perfection and looking glossy, healthy. You were surprised by how lovely the dress looked, a soft purple chiffon with translucent sleeves and a 'v' shaped neckline, allowing the swell of your breasts to be visible as well as the dip of your collarbones. The middle wrapping tight to your body to show off your waist before the skirt flowed down, coming to your knees and floating slightly like something you saw in fancy prom movies. It looked almost a similar shade to purple that you were sure you had seen William wearing before. And Sarah had masterfully applied winged eye-liner to your eyes, darkening your lashes with mascara and the faint shimmer of nude coloured eyeshadows could faintly be made out. Your lips glossy and tasting like almonds.

Stepping behind you, Sarah's blonde hair was tied up into a classicly braided updo, two curled strands framing her face as you noticed she had similar make-up to how you had it. The dark green dress from earlier looking stunning on her as she placed her hands on your shoulders, smiling brightly.

"You look gorgeous, dear."

"I feel like I'm a little girl playing dress-up." You sighed, smoothing your hands down your dress carefully and frowning slightly, making her tut as she took your hands, bringing them up and smoothing over your knuckles with her thumbs.

"You don't look like it. William is going to not know what hit him when he sees you." She smiled, making you blush and smile back, nodding your head as you allowed her to guide you through the house and out to the waiting taxi. She'd driven her car back home and gotten a taxi back to yours, calling for one to pick you up and take you out to the restaurant that apparently William and Henry were waiting at.

You shifted nervously in your seat, watching the streets blur past before Sarah gently nudged your bag towards you, smiling as you opened it and took out a little bottle of perfume. The only expensive one you owned, it was your signature one for more 'formal' occasions, and it seemed like as good a time as any to use it. Carefully applying it to your pulse points, the smell comforting and exciting as you put away the bottle. Sarah applying her own perfume and touching up her gloss a bit as the ride seemed all too short and all too long at the same time.

You made out Henry's car parked up, frowning as you noticed you didn't spot William's, stomach sinking as you climbed out of the taxi whilst Sarah paid before she linked arms with you.

"I told Henry to pick up William, they're both at the table and waiting for us." She reassured, noticing your worried expression with a comforting squeeze of your hand. Heels clicking against the concrete as you both headed inside.

It was far more formal than any place you'd been before. And your silly plastic bracelet felt out of place in there. You felt out of place in there. Waiters in white shirts and black pants ran about with towels over their arms, the walls wood panelled and the floor a beautiful, rich patterned marble tile. Your heart pounded in your chest as you allowed Sarah to drag you along.

Henry spotted the pair of you and gestured for William that you had arrived. Watching the pair of them squeeze out of the booth as you approached, your breath catching in your throat slightly.

Henry had his hair loose, revealing all it's fluffy, curled glory that was still cropped somewhat close to his head. Clearly freshly shaven and dressed in a dark green suit that matched Sarah's dress, crisp white shirt and a black tie, he looked ecstatic that he had matched his wife, seeing him tear up slightly as he caught sight of her.

But you lost your breath with William. Dressed head to toe in black. he had put on tailored black pants that seemed to highlight how long his legs were, as well as how strong they looked. Sleeves rolled up on the black shirt, tight across his broad chest in a way that made you afraid he would pop buttons if he flexed in the wrong way. His greying hair slicked back and his eyes slightly wide behind his glasses as he drank you in. You smiled as he raised his hand and you spotted the bracelet still on his arm, feeling comforted that he had continued to wear it despite the more formal setting.

His jaw fluttered slightly as he watched you approach. Wearing one of his favourite colours and the slight way you wobbled when you walked as you clearly tried to get used to moving in heels. He found himself feeling relief that you had worn the bracelet too, but his heart was pounding too fast in his chest as he took you in. You were a picture of beauty, and he reached out his hand as you came closer, taking your softer hand in his before he half-bowed to plant a kiss onto the back of your hand. Breathing deeply as he smelled your perfume and feeling his body aching with want.

"You look gorgeous, bunny. I should perhaps let Sarah have you more often." The teasing tone in his voice evident for the second part as you giggled, blushing and feeling the heat rising in your cheeks as he kept ahold of your hand.

"I-I don't think I need anymore make-up or dresses. But you look really nice." You swallowed, trying to change the subject back onto him. Seeing his cheeks heat up despite the stubble across his face. A lopsided grin being given to you as he gently guided you into the booth, still holding your hand as you settled in, his thumb running over your knuckles adoringly.

Henry called your name and you glanced at him, seeing his eyes still watering as he looked between you and your held hand. "You look great. I hope this isn't too short notice or strange, but I wanted to take Sarah on a date and then it occurred to me, I should invite you guys along too!" Chuckling and sniffling as he tried to not be too emotional as William remained close to you. Sarah rolled her eyes slightly, but the smile on her face told you that she wasn't really annoyed, kissing Henry's cheek before she picked up a menu to glance over.

"Thank you for inviting me, I really appreciate it. And I hope that it's as fun for all of us." You smile, seeing Henry's lip quiver at your words. Nodding his head before he looked at the menu, trying to distract himself.

William brought your hand to his lips again, giving your hand a squeeze as you leaned in and gave his knuckles as kiss in return. Smelling his warm, spiced cologne as you got closer, making you feel dizzy as you turned your attention to the menu. Still holding onto him as you browsed the options.

It was going to be a long night, but you felt a little more confident to face it with William by your side.

[gilverrwrites]

Supernatural Taste and Smell Headcanons

I included a lot of characters (I think 24?), but if your fave didn't make the cut, just send me an ask!

Dean

Smell: Leather, cinnamon, and the kind of musk that only comes from an axe body spray, cause you know what man only buys whatever is quick and easy at the gas station. He’d also smell like gasoline.

Taste: Malty like beer, but sweet in the way bbq sauce is sweet.

Sam

Smell: I just feel like (when he’d not hunting) he smells clean, ya know? Citrusy and woody, kind of like D&G light blue, with undertones of like a ‘fresh’ scented fabric softener.

Taste: Kind of fruity but tart, like a berry smoothie.  Also just a little bit of like garlic, or mustard.

John

Smell: That man is a smoker, and you can’t tell me otherwise – at least later in life, way after the marines, and losing Mary. He always has a stale smoke smell on his clothes and lips. I recon he uses old spice or similar as an aftershave, so also like cloves/sage.

Taste: Again smoky, ashy, but also oaky and malty like bourbon.

Mary

Smell: Citrusy like Sam but darker, smokier (joke not intended) with hints of like jasmine, bergamot, and a little bit of vanilla. 100% the kind of smell that wraps you up if you come in for a hug.  

Taste: Chocolate, specifically the kinds with nuts and caramel, woman has a sweet tooth.

Castiel

Smell: I feel like all angels smell at least a little like parma violets, or some kind of sweet and subtle floral smell, be especially Cas. On top of that, he’d have like other earthy scentes, like honey,  patchouli, maybe a bit of amber.

Taste: Coffee, always coffee. When human/when he eats; grape jelly, and honey.

Jack

Smell: Like Cas he has the sort of clean, floral scent to him. I also think he would smell of peppermint and like a yankee candle version of warm vanilla. He just has a cosy, familiar smell to him.

Taste: Again I think minty, additionally like white chocolate and rose/flora flavours.

Bobby

Smell: Like old books, burnt candle wicks, motor oils, and nose hair singing whisky.

Taste: More than anyone else on this list (including Crowley) Bobby tastes like whisky. Not the good stiff though, that’s only for special occasions. He taste like Jim Beam and Jack Daniels.

Crowley

Smell: Like a bonfire!!! Smokey, warm, woody, with a hint of burnt sugar.

Taste: 100% Whisky, and dark chocolate.

Charlie

Smell: Charlie smells like she just stepped out of a fantasy book, like wildflowers, and peppercorn. Like strawberry and blackcurrant wine.

Taste: Like a vegan alternative to Nutella, creamy, chocolatey, nutty.

Meg

Smell: Surprisingly soft and clean. Milky, with almond and peach. Just a hint of leather and cedarwood underneath.

Taste: Salty and sweet, anise: like a strawberry liquorice.

Ruby

Smell: Like cedarwood, ginger, and pink pepper. Pleasant but sharp, and strong. Like it pulls you in from across the room.

Taste: Bold and sweet like cabernet sauvignon, starkly contrasted by pepperoni and cheesy pasta.

Lucifer

Smell: Similar to Jack, in that he smells clean and minty. However, his is sharper, harsher. There is lime, and moss, and mahogany.

Taste: Like pure Moroccan mint, with that like sweet sourness you get on things like a tangfastics or a sourpatch kid. Like if you’re not expecting it, or you taste it for to long it will make you squirm.

Gabriel

Smell: Like walking into the kitchen of a bakery just before opening and they’re prepping everything. Mocha, malted sugar, rich caramel, creamy vanilla.  

Taste: All of the above again! Just so sweet and creamy. Like a spoonful of sugar.

Raphael

Smell: Very similar to Cas, floral, but less earthy, and more sterile. Like aloe vera and antiseptic.

Taste: Again, very clean. He has a flavour the way cucumber has flavour? Refreshing, clean, but not notable.

Michael/Adam 😍

Smell: Kind of like the ocean, meets the forrest. Musk, white lilies, salt, collided with pine, sandalwood, and cedar. Cold, but familiar, ya know?

Taste: Hear me out: Fruit loops, and Dr Pepper. Like Michael has little say over what they eat, that’s all on Adam. And after the initial, ‘I haven’t eaten in 1200 years, I’m gonna eat everything I craved’ has worn off. He’s just like, a normal guy (who does not need to eat because he shares his body with an immortal angel). So, I can see him mostly reaching for snacks that make him feel good, that remind him of his mum, or his childhood, something comforting; like sugary cereals and fizzy drinks. I love them, I will take no criticism.

Rowena

Smell: Like an apothecary. Rich and indulgent. Very aromatic with lots of deep woody tones, sweet cherry, dark rose and other florally scents.

Taste: Like a bottle of mataro, or Nebbiolo wine. Spice, cherry, plum, smoke. She both smells and tastes intoxicatingly expensive.   

Chuck

Smell: Kind of musky, cottony, leafy. I don’t really imagine him smelling too strongly of anything.

Taste: Summary and tart, like a sea breeze cocktail. (Grapefruit, cranberry, lime – an acquired taste)  

Amara

Smell: Similar to Chuck, I sort of envision an absence of smell. Maybe just hints of amber, sandalwood, and a musky citrusy scent.

Taste: Like a white dessert whine, like Riesling. Dry but sweet. Honey, and pears.

Billie

Smell: Bergamot, rose, silk, and cocoa. Inviting and pleasant, but with an undertone of darkness.

Taste: Very similar to scent, sweet and warm but with an aftertaste of something bitter; blackcurrant and dark chocolate

Benny

Smell: Robust (Copper, ginger, tobacco,) but enticing (amber, cardamom, cinnamon).

Taste: I mean, I have tried really had to not add blood to any of the previous entries, but Benny undeniably tastes like blood.

Kevin

Smell: Not good. Pre-prophethood, not so much; I imagine like mint, green tea, jasmine, the kind of smell you would expects from a reasonably priced aftershave. During prophethood, the aftershave is long forgotten; its more fried chicken, old paper, and forgetting to shower for 9 days.

Taste: Like redbull, chexmix, and mouthwash.

Eileen

Smell: Like peaches, and roses, rich chocolate, and strong coffee.

Taste: Chocolate and coffee again, but hints of sparkly summer fruits.

Ketch

Smell: Like high end British aftershaves only the royal family know off, something with notes of fig, and oud, and other pretentious smells. The small of cigar smoke, and leather follow him around too.

Taste: Like earl grey tea, and dry gin.

Balthazar

Smell: Kind of like ketch, some high end and expensive (if he actually had to pay for it). But woodsier, and fresh. He would also have that hidden undertone of violet.

Taste: Creamy and hazelnutty, but there’s a constant aftertastes alcohol, and something metallic to him, no  matter what comes first.

[zeltqz]

in charge

/ɪn tʃɑːdʒ/ based off this request love you anon <3 mwahhhh

summary. i honestly dont even know how to summarise this; so it's just you and ran = talking, but he denies it. you get sad, he gets common sense knocked into him, you fuck. the end.

pairing. ran haitani x fem!reader

featuring. kokonoi hajime, manjiro sano, mentions of Kisaki's eyebrows lol, hanma shuji, rindou haitani, haruchiyo sanzu, kakuchou

word count. 8.8k (long again, sorry not really)

content. fluff, slight angst (i suck at angst), getting together, sort of one-sided pining (ran doesn't know he likes you so it's sort of one sided),. nsfw content. alcohol/drinking consumption, oral sex (m receiving), mentions of smoking/weed, unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism at the end

“Is there a reason you’re literally showering yourself in  perfume?”  

Your friend Maki, wiggles her eyebrows from atop your  bathroom counter, kicking her legs playfully, a wide grin  displayed on her pretty face watching you forage through  your perfume collection. You’ve been frantically observing one  bottle, pushing it to the side, agitated and annoyed when it  wasn’t the right one. 

So far, you’ve dosed your neck with the third, maybe fourth  fragrance —she’s lost count at this point. 

Your other friend, Kyo snorts with laughter watching you. “I  hope you know lavender doesn’t smell good with vanilla,  peach and—” He picks up the perfume bottle you recently just  sprayed and turns it around to find the label, “—Berry Mellow  Blue? The fuck is this?” 

“Lemme see.” He hands Maki the perfume bottle and she  sprays it on her inner wrist, bringing it up to her nose. “ Oooh,  this smells good. Can I use it?” 

You don’t respond, mind preoccupied, too busy trying to file  through the memories trying to figure out which perfume  combination you had sprayed just a couple weeks prior, the  one Ran complimented you on. 

It shouldn’t be that hard to find, after all you had a  dedicated spot inside your brain just reserved for him.  Unintentionally of course, he just happens to take up most of  your thinking time with his mere existence. 

Inside that special V.I.P spot, it’s filled with all the outfits  you’ve worn that he liked, the outfits he’s worn that you liked,  the sound of his morning voice when you call him to get up  because he’s overslept and missed third period.  

“Kyo, pass me that one.” Maki gestures to the tiny perfume  bottle inside your hand and he reaches over to snatch it . 

“Oi, give that back!” You try to grab him but he’s taller and  annoying so he holds it above his head. 

“Please, you’ve used enough, don’tcha think?” 

You disagree, though their nostrils are practically burning,  nose hairs shrivelling in overstimulation.  

He hands Maki the perfume bottle and she sprays it on her  neck, wrists, arms, clothes, basically everywhere and you  from, upset she smells like you now. 

Kyo’s elbow finds itself on top of your shoulder, the weight of  it has your body tilting to the side before you shove it off.  “What do you want?” You glare at him, irritated. 

“Is there a reason you’re going all out today? It’s just a get  together for New Years.” 

“Yeah, she wants to get together with a special someone,  doesn’t she.” Through the mirror, you meet Maki’s eyes, her  lips twitching up into a grin. When Kyo’s eyebrows raise up in  confusion, she turns to face him, ignoring your glare  completely. “Do you know who’s gonna be there, Kyo?” 

He shakes his head, and she turns back to face you, nose  wrinkling playfully, offering a charmed smile and your face  drops. 

She knows… 

Kyo takes a moment to read the room. There’s definitely  something he’s not getting at here…why are you both looking  at each other like that. “...who’s gonna be there?” He has a  feeling there’s a subtle inside joke he’s missing out on  because he’s certain you’re both mentally communicating  through the mirror through grins and harsh stares. “Oi! Don’t  leave me out, what’s goin’ on?!” 

Maki holds eye contact for a second longer before turning to  face him. “Just the regular group she hangs out with.” 

“Oh, so—” he gets his fingers ready for counting, “—us, that  Mikey guy… uhh , the guy with the bald spot—” 

You frown at the slight jac at Kakucho. “It’s not a bald spot —” 

“—the guy with the weird laugh—” 

“Shuji’s laugh is not weird.” Your frown now turns into a  scowl and Maki giggles into the air. 

“It’s pretty weird, admit it.” 

“—the guy with the eyebrows —” Kyo gestures ‘\ /’ with his  hands, resembling the weird shape of Kisaki’s eyebrows and  you can’t even bother to defend him on that one because,  frankly it’s true.  

“—the guy with the pigtails—” 

Yeah. 

That was your final straw. 

“It’s not pigtails, you fuckin’ idiot!” You groan, frustrated at  that overused joke between Maki and now Kyo apparently.  You stomp over to continue searching through your makeup  bag and Kyo watches your outburst, trying to hold his  laughter in. 

“Wait…” He sounds like he’s come to a realisation as you’re  pulling the top off your eyeliner pencil. “Oh shit! You like  pigtail guy!” 

A jutting look bestows his features when he sees your hand  freeze, mid-gesture. Maki claps her hands, a look on her face  a proud mother would have for her kid and he bows  dramatically, thanking you both for his time. 

“I don’t like him, but okay.” You huff, fixing your eyeliner a  couple times, slow strokes along the wing of your eye to  perfect it.  

The angle is a little crooked, and when you take another look  at both sides, it’s not parallel at all. You glower at your  eyeliner pencil, mentally blaming it for ruining your face  rather than your own fault.  

Kyo hums, bumping shoulders with Maki as he hops onto the  small room you have left on your counter and you side eye  him when he knocks over your makeup remover bottle,  watching it roll onto the floor. 

Maki hands him the perfume bottle they both stole from you  and he juggles with it, tossing it from hand to hand. “Then  why’d you get so mad when I called him pigtails.”

“Because it’s—” you pause, voice trailing off as you try to  think of a justification for your slight overreaction, “—it’s  offensive?” 

Sometimes you think they both share the same braincell, or  were long lost twins because they do things at the same time,  or say things at the same time and it’s creepy. 

 Now is no exception either, they both drop their amused  faces, replacing it with a deadpan look and turn to look at  you.  

“Really?” 

You jut your bottom lip out, refusing to crack under their  stare. “It…it is offensive. He’s a man with long hair, he doesn’t  need to be feminised.” 

“Then why the fuck is he wearing a feminine hairstyle?” 

Your hands tighten on the eyeliner pencil. “I will stab you in  the eye if you keep talking.” 

“Okay, jeeeeeez!” He puts his hands up in surrender, “can’t  even joke with you no more.” 

You roll your eyes and continue to fix your crooked eyeliner  and Maki leans in to whisper in his ear, voice low in a whisper,  “Just don’t joke around about her lover boy.” 

Steam is practically spewing out from your ears at this point  and their snorts and witty commentary is making your blood  boil. You look down at your eyeliner, wondering if it’s sharp  enough to murder them with. 

Nobody would notice they’re gone, and you might get away  with it. Mikey knows a good cover up guy anyway. 

But you take your anger, transforming it into a deep exhale  that does wonders to help rid your body of your irritation and  fish for your earbuds inside your drawer. “I’m going to tune  you idiots out, stop distracting me.” 

“Maybe stop getting distracted—”  

You shove your earbuds in your ear so fast, turning the  volume up on your phone to 100 and watch Kyo’s eyes narrow  in the mirror when you cut him off.

Though you can no longer hear them, they’re doing a good  job at making their presence known . It’s obvious that they  haven’t changed topic, still discussing Ran and his pigtails .  Maki’s making a love heart in her hands and when you look at  her through the mirror, she winks and blows a kiss towards  you. 

Your eyes roll and you shift your gaze over to Kyo,  reading his lips trying to come up with a ship name for you  and Ran. 

God, they’re so insufferable. 

Kyo would actually get along with Ran. They’re aware of  each other's existence, exchanging nothing more than nods  as they pass each other in halls or parties. They don’t talk  though. Ran has his own friend group, and you have yours,  consisting of these two idiots but you won’t change it for the  world. 

You finish up your eyeliner, hoping you’ve fixed up the  crooked edge enough to mirror the other side, hoping it’s  perfect enough for Ran to notice that you’re wearing more  makeup than usual today, hoping he likes it and compliments  you again. 

Your cheeks heat up, an wanted smile creeps up onto your  lips before you could even control it.  

“Awwwwwww, is someone thinking about pigtails again?” 

You look in the mirror, trying your best to glare at Kyo but  the smile on your face overpowers any sour funky mood he’s  able to put you in, so you stick your middle finger up instead. 

He pushes your finger away. “It’s not as rude with a love  struck smile on your face so wipe it off and try again.” 

You roll your eyes for the millionth time today, fiddling with  your eyeliner pencil in your hand. “His name is Ran, not  pigtails. Learn it.” 

Maki nods her head twice in agreement. “Yeah, Kyo , learn it  so you can write it on their wedding invitations to send out  later—” 

You slam your hands down onto the counter. “I’m…gonna get  changed now!” You interrupt her sentence and storm out of  the bathroom, straight into your bedroom.

The two of them laugh as you change into your outfit for  tonight, choosing to focus on whether to wear jeans or skirt,  choosing to drown out the fake exaggerated moans from Maki  in the bathroom and the loud claps from Kyo.  

They’re so annoying. In fact, you take it back. They’d get  along with Haruchiyo more than Ran. 

The obscene sounds are so obviously fake, but realistic at  the same time and Maki even slips Ran’s name in there and  your brain immediately replaces the image of those two with  you and Ran…on your bed…at the party…having fun and you  want to scream into your shirt before you slip it on. 

It’s a simple look you’re going for tonight. You don’t plan on  drinking or getting fucked so you’re wearing a shirt, skirt and  tights. Maki’s wearing a black dress and Kyo’s gone the simple  route like you, a white shirt and jeans.  

You’re sure since the party's at Kokonoi's penthouse, he’s  sure to go full out and so will everyone invited. Ran and  Rindou never miss an opportunity to go full out on parties,  wearing the most expensive rings, necklaces and clothes just  for the flex factor alone. 

You hope the outfit is enough to capture his attention  tonight, though it’s plain, you still want him to be attracted to  you. You’re not dating , definitely not, but you’re not just  friends either. There’s this weird tension in the air every-time  you’re with him.  

Maki was the first to notice. It’s strangely obvious, to her at  least, that you have a crush on him. You make sure your  touch lingers whenever you touch him and though it’s a  fraction of a second longer, she notices.  

After that observation, she took note of your body language  around him, whenever you’re talking to him, you always hold  eye contact, you lick your lips a lot, touch him a fuck ton,  blink a hell of a lot too.  

It’s not just you with the obvious body language, Ran is  guilty of that too. Whenever you’re not looking at him, his  eyes are always trained on the side of your face, waiting for  you to turn to him. The second you do, his eyes are the first  thing you come into contact with. 

He always does an excellent job at flustering you, always  leans down to your level too, standing too close to you, he’s  playful too but that might just be his personality. He mocks  you a lot, playfully, and as much as you act annoyed at him,  you both know it’s just another way of saying continue please.  

“Are you done changing?” Maki bangs on the bathroom door  to get your attention, “make sure to wear the slutty dress I  left in your closet. Ran might like it—” 

“ Shut the fuck up .” Your eyes move over to the closet door,  the dress hanging up there, alone, and a spotlight shines over  it.  

Fuck dressing simple. 

You grab it, tug it on, smoothing the wrinkles down with  your palm before heading over to the bathroom door. “How  does this look?” 

Maki’s been spraying herself with more of your perfume and  Kyo’s picking at his nails before they both turn to face you.  

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLALALALAAAAAAAA!” Maki  grabs you, forcing you to do a spin and though you’re  frowning, your face is flushed with embarrassment as she  hypes you up. 

Kyo nods his head in approval. “Man to man, he’ll love that  dress.” 

“I don’t care what he loves.” You’re lying to yourself and  them and they both groan. 

“Whatever you say.” Kyo hops off the counter, checking the  time on his phone before slipping it into his back pocket. “We  should go, there’s like an hour left till midnight.” 

“Fuccccckkkkkk, I’m not even ready yet! I need more—” You  push past them both to grab at your perfumes again and Kyo  holds you back with his annoyingly strong arms, ushering you  out of the door as you try to fidget from his hold. 

“You smell extreme , trust me. I’m doing Ran a solid and  saving his nostrils tonight.” 

He dodges the kick you try to send his way.

“Don’t be rude, Kyo. She smells like Berry Mellow Blue—”  You want to hit her but she runs past you before you could. 

The entire ride there, your leg bounces anxiously, biting on  the tips of your nails as you stare out the window, the trees  and bushes still fresh with that winter snow. Kyo’s a sloppy  driver, taking aggressive turns and he’s not even wearing a  seatbelt. Yeah, he’d definitely get along with Haruchiyo.  

You make a note to introduce them to each other tonight.  

The car parks outside the building of Kokonoi’s penthouse.  He’s so boujee , he doesn’t like being in the dorms with  everyone else so he bought a fucking pent house instead.  

“I hate how rich your friends are.” Maki groans, eyeing up the  building in jealousy as she holds her hand out for you to slide  out the car, smoothing her hands under your dress when it  slips up your thigh. 

You nod, thanking her and avert your gaze elsewhere. You  recognise a couple cars from the parking lot at college,  Haruchiyo’s here, his car is painfully obvious. He stuck devil  horns on the side mirrors (????????), claiming they’re for the  aesthetic. 

No motorcycles though.  

“Do you think Ran’s here yet? I wanna be first to assert my  dominance, y’know”? 

Kyo slams the car door shut and begins walking. “If he was  here, we’d know. After all, you didn’t spray all that perfume  for him to attract him for nothing.” 

Maki gasps, “Like an ant to a cookie!” 

They snicker again and you glare at them. “You’re both not  funny.” 

Though you think they’re dragging the scent jokes, Maki  seems to love them. Love them so much to the point that  she’s laughing so loud and hard, she has to clutch her  stomach. “No seriously though, what scent were you trying to  achieve here? You smell like a rainbow pup rolled in perfume  oils and threw up all over your neck. You’re trying to attract  Ran, not repel him.”

“What the fuck is a rainbow pup?” Kyo looks back at her,  opening the doors to the front of the building. 

Maki shrugs. “Pups are cute, rainbows are excessive. She  smells cute but excessive.” He seems to understand her well  enough and nods his head. 

You’ve had enough of their antics for the day.  

Heading inside first, it’s almost embarrassing how quickly  you’re searching for Ran, eyes darting to every corner of  Kokonoi’s penthouse. When you finally see him, he’s lounging  on the couch, talking to his brother as they pass around a  blunt in a group.  

Your mouth goes dry as your nerves take over your body,  unconsciously smoothing down your dress, freeing it from any  wrinkles as you slowly make your way towards the couch. A  girl appears from fucking nowhere just as soon as you get  close enough and slots herself down next to him.  

The first thing you notice is how pretty she is, all long legs  and confident. She does a good job at stealing Ran’s attention  away from his brother, using two fingers to grab the blunt  from his hands and bring it up to her lips. His eyes are trained  on her lips as she inhales and honestly you don’t blame him  either, she’s fucking gorgeous.  

“Damn, who’s that?” Kyo places his elbow on your shoulder,  sipping on a cup of Bourbon.  

“I dunno, but he seems busy so I’m gonna—” You turn on your heel, slipping away to leave but Kyo grabs onto your forearm.  

“Why’re you leaving? Just go sit next to him, there’s a spot  right there.” 

“You don’t get it! I can’t just—” You gesture towards her, then  towards you and his brow knit in confusion. “I—forget it.  Where did you get that?” You switch subjects and point over  to his cup.  

“Over there. Hey! We can play beer pong together!” 

Kyo can’t see the fake smile you put on as you let him whisk you away, down to another corner of the party. Every now and then, your eyes would trail back over to the couch. They seem to have gotten closer, physically at least. She’s laughing now as he talks and gets more handsy too. There’s this prickly feeling inside your gut, churning the longer you see her touch his shoulders, gently pushing him away the longer she laughs.

You’re a girl . You know what she’s doing. You’ve pulled the same moves out a couple times when trying to get your way with a guy. Ran isn’t yours, you know that, he knows that, everybody knows that; but you just can’t bring yourself to look over at their direction anymore.

Whenever you enter a room, Ran’s always the first to greet you, hug you, annoy you, same all. Though you push him away, tell him to knock it off, it’s code for please acknowledge me more . 

Fuck him. Who cares anyway. 

A rough tap to your shoulder brings you back to your current situation. 

“What’re you spacing out for?! Don’t lose the game!” Some random guy shouts at you and hands you the ball. 

“Oh.. yeah sure.”

You had honestly forgotten it was your turn. The game goes by pretty well, around ten more minutes of screaming and Kokonoi comes by and makes a deal, proposing the winner of the next game gets some cash.

Kyo practically had money symbols in his eyes and went his hardest only to lose. You comforted him after he lost and during all that, some guy had been eyeing you from across the table. Though your mind, body and soul was still trying to get little sneak peeks over at that corner of the room where Ran was, you decided to forget about him and humour this guy instead.

You ditched the ball and head over to his side of the table, brushing your hand against his arm, complimenting his muscles, smiling pretty up at him. 

He talks way too much, you notice and you’re stuck nodding your head every couple seconds to show him you’re ‘listening’ when in regard you’re too busy glancing over at the clock, waiting for it to hit midnight—definetly still not sneaking peeks over at that couch in the back of the room.

Nothing’s changed. They’re still talking, flirting—whatever. And he still hasn’t acknowledged your presence.

“Hey, do you wanna smoke?” You cut him off mid sentence, looking away from the couch and up at him. He looks down at you, cheeks hot and flushed when you run your fingers up his chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt with that cunning smile on your face.

“Sure, yeah holdon.” He puts his cup down, handing it to his friend without as much as an explanation and you grab his hand, leading him to the couch. 

You consider yourself a petty person, which is why you absolutely do not feel sorry when you purposefully trodded on Ran’s feet as you stepped past him and that girl on the way to sit on the other end of the couch. 

“Oh shit sorry!” You apologise to the girl—who’s feet you didn’t step on. She giggles and you frown internally, she sounds so sweet; no wonder Ran’s attention has been stolen by her for the last fourty minutes. 

“It’s okay!! You didn’t hit me.” Her smile is just as sweet as her voice as she gestures towards Ran next to her. 

Your eyes trail over to Ran just as his eyes—that were taking a journey down the beauty that is your body—return back to your face. The first thing he notices is that you look good , better than he’s ever seen you so far.

You look at him, face clearly annoyed, and mutter out “Oh, okay.” 

Ran’s brows knit in confusion at that reaction, and he gets even more confused when you hold your hand out behind you, some guy comes up and intertwines your fingers together. You have this lovestruck smile on your face as he leads you over to the end of the couch. 

Oh. So that’s the game you’re playing?

“I’ll be right back.” Ran stands up; the girl he’s been talking to now left alone on the couch. He sneaks up behind you, long slender fingers covering your eyes and leans down to whisper in your ear. “Guess who?”

You rip his hands off your eyes and glare up at him for a few seconds, then turn back to that guy. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Ran stands up to his full height and tells the guy you were with to fuck off. It’s annoyingly hot how the guy scrambles away almost instantly, almost spilling his drink on his shirt with how fast he rose.

You frown deepens when the couch dips as Ran takes his seat next to you, a little too close for comfort. Crossing your arms, you ignore the slide of his arm against your shoulder, pulling you in for a hug from the side.

“Yo, you good?” He jostles you for good measure and when you don’t respond, he leans forward to examine you. Any fool with eyes and a bit of common sense could tell you’re angry and annoyed at something, but he just doesn’t know what.

He doesn’t miss the way your jaw clenches every couple seconds, as if stopping yourself from spitting verbal vitirol.

“Hey, look at me.” His voice got deeper as his mood switched from playful to serious. You hate how your stomach turns at the sudden switch and you adjust yourself in your spot, subtly rubbing your thighs together in the process.

When you don’t look, his hand pinches at your jaw, your cheeks squishing under his grip. “Aw, you look so cute like this.” He coos, thumb brushing at your lower lip and for a second you almost fall apart under his hold until you remember why you were upset to begin with.

“Let go—” You sound muffled and Ran smiles again when wrinkles form above your eyebrows from scowling so much. “Ran, let go.”

There’s no point trying to rip his hand off, not when he’s squishing your cheeks this hard. It’ll end in abstract failure and the last thing you’d want is to stroke his ego.

“Why should I? You look so cute like this,” he squishes your face even harder, moving his hand around so you look all swollen. “You gonna tell me why you’re mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.” 

He scoffs, finally letting go. You massage your cheeks, frowning at him again. “You’re not mad, huh? Where’s my hug then?”

“What fucking hug.”

“You don’t know what a hug is?” 

You’re so over this conversation. You stand up and smooth down your dress just in case it’s ridden up and start walking only to be dragged back to your original spot.

“Where’re you goin’?”

“Why do you care?” 

A simple tug on your arm has you falling back to the couch and you hate how easy he can manhandle you. “You’re not leaving till you tell me why you’re mad.”

“I’m fine . Go back to that girl from before.” Though you were obviously annoyed before, now you just sound downright hateful and Ran’s eyebrows raise, amused.

“Ohhhh, I get it.” He shifts forward and you scoot back to keep some distance. You hit the armrest of the couch, unable to shift more and he takes that opportunity to close the distance, nose brushing yours. You swear your ribcage is closing in on itself from the close proximity but refuse to let him see your facade cracking. “You’re jealous , aren’t you?”

“The fuck ?” You do your best to sound disgusted but it fails, you end up sounding doubtful, like that wasn’t even the conclusion you came up with but deep down knew it was true. “Why’d I be jealous of you? Not like we’re together…or anything.”

He shrugs, leaning back and giving you back that blessed space. “True, we’re just friends anyway.”

Uh, ouch. 

“We are?”

He looks at you like it’s obvious knowledge, a chuckle leaving his lips that basically screams ‘Uh, no shit?’ and you want to sink inside the couch cushion and disappear. The fuck even is this? He treats you more like a girlfriend than ‘just a friend’ and when it comes down to it, he just thinks of you as a friend? 

Fuck this.

Now your mood is funky again. 

“Yeah, whatever.” You stand up and walk away quickly, not even sparing him as much as a second glance. You find the guy you were talking to by the staircase. After a couple minutes of talking, you find out his name is Kaji and let him take you upstairs to ‘talk’ more.

The party was a bummer after that. The lay wasn’t even worth it, though Kaji was hot, he was terrible in bed and you had to fake your orgasm. You went home after that, Ran’s words still ringing in your ear was enough to leave you depressed for the rest of the day. Kyo got laid, thankfully, and it wasn’t a total flop. Maki went home early because she felt sick from drinking too much. 

The boys lingered around to help Kokonoi clean up the place, and by clean up; it really means Kakucho. The rest of them sat at the gambling table, playing a quick game to pass time.

Ran, on the other hand, trods over to his brother and snatches the drink from his hand and downs it with annoyance. 

“Uh, okay I guess.” Rindou looks confused, shuffling the cards at hand. “Any reason you’re this upset or?”

“Nah,” he wipes a hand over his chin, catching the droplets of beer on his sleeve. “I need to get laid, right now.”

“There was literally like 50 girls at the party that just ended.” Koko gives his useless opinion, also shuffling his own cards.

“Okay and maybe I didn’t want them, did you ever think of that, Koko?” Maybe he’s a little too abrupt, he knows it, everyone at the table knows it. 

Hanma has a smile on his face, enjoying Ran in this funky mood like the sadist he is. Haruchiyo’s stroking his eyelashes, stopping them from curling into his eye, and only half listening to the conversation.

Rindou puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder, hoping it calms him down a little.“Wasn’t that girl you’re always hanging out with here? Just go fuck her.”

“What, (Y/n)?” Rindou nods his head; Ran shakes his own. “No, we’re just friends.”

“Huh!?” Haruchiyo calls out from the other end of the table, not so subtly eavesdropping. “I thought you were dating this entire time! I was gonna go find you and tell you I thought she was cheating on you because she went upstairs with this one dude.” He stops talking to take another long gulp of his drink, throat dehydrated from talking so much. “I was like damn, the audacity of that girl to flirt with someone else when her man is right here. But it makes sense now I guess.”

Ran stares at him like he’s an idiot, though that’s just the usual stare he gives Haruchiyo so nothing changed there. “You guys never had platonic friendships with girls before, I swear to God.”

“Uh,” Rindou side-eyes him, “ we have platonic relationships with girls. You don’t.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

Hanma giggles as Rindou starts talking again. “You like to touch her. All the time. Flirt with her, always get playful around her, sometimes even possessive. No wonder we thought you were dating.”

There’s an unlawful silence in the room. All eyes on Ran as they think he’s processing Rindou’s words and coming to a conclusion that maybe… just maybe he realises he was leading you on the entire time.

So imagine the disappointment on all their faces when he just shrugs and says, “And?”

Haruchiyo almost slams his head on the desk, imagining it was Ran’s head instead, hoping it knocks some common sense into his mind. 

“Oh my god, you’re hopelelss.” Koko laughs, standing up from the table to grab some water. He’s starting to get a headache.

“What?” 

“The worst part about this is that he genuinely seems confused.” Rindou runs his fingers through his hair, wanting to pull at his strands from sheer frustration. “Bro, anyone with eyes can see you guys aren’t just friends.”

“I thought we were! She flirts with me, I flirted back.” 

Mikey finally talks for the first time tonight, voice soft yet low at the same time. “Did it…ever occur to you…that she flirted with you…because she liked you?”

Haruchiyo snaps his fingers in Mikey’s direction, wholeheartedly agreeing, mumbling that’s a good point , under his breath.

“You don’t flirt with friends.” Ran defends.

“Well, do you like her?”

That question is one he cannot answer himself because he doesn’t know. It’s weird what he feels. He doesn’t love you, but he doesn’t just like you either. He treats you differently than his other friends, and would ditch his plans for you if you asked. But love? That’s a bit extreme. 

“I don’t love her.”

“Nobody said love, we said like .” 

Kakucho returns to the table, slotting himself beside Mikey and looks around the table. There’s a tense atmosphere in the room and he looks around, confused. “...Did I miss anything?”

“No,” Hanma sighs, covering his smile behind his huge hand, “just a little therapy session for our emotionally unavailble friend.” He points over to Ran and he scowls.

“We aren’t friends.”

“I don’t care.”

“Anyway,” Rindou cuts them both off before they can start another argument. “Answer the question, do you like her? Not love, like, the transitive verb—”

“I know what like means, stupid.” 

Another giggle that has Ran wanting to shove his baton down Hanma’s throat. Not in a kinky way. “I like her, as a friend.”

A collective groan leaves the table and Haruchiyo sighs, rubbing his temples. “So…you wouldn’t care if I messaged her, right?”

Ran side-eyes him, accordingly. “Do you not message her already?”

“No, you fuckin’ idiot. Message her in the way you do.”

“What?”

“Okay, picture this—” Haruchiyo stands up, walking over to Ran’s chair, placing his hand on his shoulder and leans down to his ear, “You won’t care if I went to her house right now , kissed those pretty lips of hers, laid her on the bed, gently , kissed down her chest, sucking her nipples into my house, kissing that cute birthmark on the underside of her boob so tenderly—”

Mikey interrupts the little fantasy. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Haruchiyo only winks, keeping it a secret, not missing the way Ran’s jaw clenches the longer he’s picturing his hands on your body. Seeing he’s on the right track, he continues, “You won’t care if I marked up her thighs with kisses and hickies, spread her legs open and ate her out so slowly till she pulls at my hair and cums on my tongue, then I’ll fuck her so hard and so deep that she forgets the name of any other man that’s not me. Including you. But you won’t care, right? Cause you’re just friends?”

Koko breaks the silence. “Seems like you’re the one in love with her Haruch—”

“Shut the fuck up, Koko.” He turns back to Ran, “answer me.”

Ran gives a not-so convincing shrug of his shoulders, “I won’t care.”

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn. I can’t do this.” Rindou stands up, heading towards the kitchen. He needs another drink. Maybe he’d be able to continue the conversation after shit-faced.

“Alright. I’ma go see her. See you guys tomorrow.”

They all say bye to Haruchiyo as he walks over to grab his jacket and leave but Ran’s a step faster, grabbing him by the arm, stopping him. “Okay, I get it? Alright, I like her, just leave her alone.”

Mikey clears his throat to get his attention. “Go tell that to her , not us.”

And he does just that. 

There’s a harsh knock on your door  that you miss over the loud volume of music playing over  your speakers. You’re knuckle deep inside yourself, trying  to get yourself off since Kaji from earlier failed too.  

But nothing is working.  

Your fingers just aren’t working . With a frustrated sigh, you  lean over to your bedside drawer, pulling out your vibrator  and power it on, only to realise the batteries are dead.  

“ You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”  

Grabbing the nearest jacket, you tug it on, still fully naked  underneath, just need something to protect you from the  coldness in your house.  

You scour the living room, tryna find a new source for  batteries. It’s pitch black in your place, you don’t bother  turning the lights on.  

The front door opens by itself, the lock being picked from  the outside and the next thing you know, Ran stands  before you, bobby pin in hand with a slack jaw as he looks  at you, wide eyed like he’d been caught committing a  crime.  

Technically, he was . But that’s a conversation for another  day.  

“What, so we’re breaking into peoples houses now?” It’s a  miracle that the lights are off, because you forget you’re  completely naked, wearing nothing but a jacket as you  steal batteries from your remote.  

“And you just walk around naked, for what reason?” Even  in the dark, there’s no hiding how pale your face just went  right now, like a ghost took over your mind, body and soul  in that instance.  

To make matters worse, he walks over to the light switch,  flicking it on, your half— semi naked body on full display.  

“Nice.” He smiles, all confident and cheeky. 

“You are actually a pervert.” You zip up your jacket, hoping  he didn’t see too much. “Now what do you want?”  

The vibrator in your hand is still blatantly obvious, nothing  is hiding the bright pink object in hand. Ran’s eyebrows  raise for a moment when he notices it. When he came  over, he was planning to talk to you, not…this.  

Not like he’s complaining though.  

“Just wanted to talk to you, but you seem…pretty busy.” He  walks over to your couch, kicking his legs up on the table  and watches your jaw clench at his ministrations. “So are  you down to talk now? Or should I leave.” 

“Duh! Get out! I’m busy.” 

“Busy masturbating?”  

You stuff your vibrator up your sleeve, hiding it as if the damage wasn’t already done. “I don’t know what you’re  talking about.” 

“Lemme help you.” 

Your brain goes foggy. You slowly turn to look at him;  waiting for him to take it back, for him to laugh and say  kidding ‘we’re just friends’ and utter humiliate you for the  second time tonight.  

You stay silent till that moment happens. Five seconds  pass. Then ten. The fifteen second mark is just awkward  and you realise you need to say something.  

 Clearing your throat, you mutter, “…what?”  

“I said,” he stands up, crossing the distance between you  both rather quickly, grabbing onto your waist to tug you  closer, “let me help you.” 

Your mouth goes dry. 

 “I need—” Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips and  Ran shamelessly watches the action, dick twitching in his  pants. 

“You need…?” 

You slowly push him off you and head to the kitchen. “I  need water.” 

He follows behind you, waiting at the counter, chin in hand  as you down a freshly cold bottle of water in under ten  seconds.  

You toss the empty bottle in the bin and head over towards  him, standing at the other end of the counter to keep your  distance. “Why do you do this to me, Ran? Do you enjoy  seeing me have a heart attack or are you just sadistic?” 

“What are you—” 

“You know, I seriously don’t get you. You act so close to  me all the time, treat me like more than a friend, then  when it comes down to it…you just tell me we are just  friends. Do you know how confusing that is? What do you  want from me, honestly? I—I just need to know. If you just wanna get laid, then fucking tell me instead of treating me like I’m  someone special and then tossing it all away last second.” 

You’re panting when you finish, hands balled into fists, fingernails digging painfully into the skin of your palms. His eyes are blown wide for a split second and he looks awfully sincere, guilt spreading on his shoulders.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way.” 

You cross your arms. “Well, know you now. So…what now?” 

He stands up and heads over towards you, arms pulling  you closer by your waist. Though you want to push him  away, you let him tug you closer, let your arms wrap  around him and rest your cheek on his chest.  

He always smells so good, it’s always been one of your  favourite things about him. One of his braids tickles against  your ear and you giggle, brushing it away with your hand.  

Your face is lifted by his hand, soaking in the sight of your  flustered face, how you blink rapidly as if trying to process  if this is reality or just a dream you’re trying to snap out of. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t realise it before.” He’s cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb underneath your cheekbone. You automatically lean into his touch and let your eyes squeeze shut as he leans downwards to kiss you.  

Your neck strains as you surge upwards to meet his lips, hands stalking up to his neck to hold him closer. The grip on your waist is almost painful, digging his hands into your flesh. He pulls away, lifting you up almost easily onto the counter.

“Ask me again.” You shift your hands onto his shoulders, peeking up at him through your lashes.

“Ask you what?” 

“If you want to help me…” You catch the edge of Ran’s smirk and bite your own back when he trails his hands down the zipper of your jacket. 

“Lay down,” he commands, and you follow his instructions, leaning backwards until your back is flat on the counter. He slowly unzips your jacket, and you feel like he’s going extra slowly on purpose, to taunt you. 

You shift, sliding your arms through the sleeves to tug your jacket off. “No—don’t, leave it on .” He’s tugging it back on and you stare up at him, slow ‘nd playful.

“You’re so weird.”

“You look good, shut up.” He’s spreading your legs, and you can’t help but admire his big hands roaming your thighs, his eyes glued onto the sight of your wet cunt. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“I—uh,” You whimper as his fingers trail down your slit, catching some slick on the tips of his fingers and brings it up mouth, flicking his tongue against his fingers. “Oh, god —” You keen when he fills you again, pushing his fingers past your walls.

“Feel good?” He fucks you with his fingers, enjoying you squirm on the counter. He curls his fingers at just the right angle and your back arches off the counter. “Hm, thought so.”

You reach out for him, weakly grabbing onto the hem of his shirt, and tug on it twice.

“You want me to take it off?” He laughs when you struggle to speak, a third finger pushing inside to only add to the pleasure. He’s doing this on purpose, he has to be; whenever you’re about to talk, he curls his fingers, hooks them onto your spot and the words die on your tongue, falling back down your throat.

“You’re bein’ too loud, girl ,” he looks around your apartment, walls as thin as ever, “want people to file a complaint?”

“Just—” Your eyebrows knit in frustation, the warmth in your belly pooling and swirling around the longer his fingers twist inside you, “—make me cum, please.”

“Is that an order?”

You pant as his thumb gently circles your clit, applying a little pressure agaisnt your tiny nub, leaning forward to suck a breast into his mouth. His tongue swirls agaisnt the pebbeled flesh, his fingers increasing in speed inside you.

“ Please Ran, I need—”

“Need what?”

Need you to fill me, you want to say, need you inside me , you want to cry out but embarrassment grows inside you, your hands cover your face and shake your head.

“Oi,” A harsh smack against your thigh has you squealing, “need what?”

“…you know what I need, Ran, c’mon don’t make me say it.”

His laugh tickes along your nipple, and he kisses down your belly. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ bout.”

Your breath hitches when his tongue flicks just above your pelvis, sensually sucking your flesh into his mouth and curling his fingers wickedly. “Please fuck me.” You whimper under your breath, heart beating twice as fast when he looks up at you.

He pulls his fingers out and gesture for you to sit up. Ignoring the slight ache between your thighs, you sit up, wincing at the cold marble brushing against your butt. “Open your mouth.”

You don’t hesitate, opening wide and he stuffs his fingers into your mouth, massaging his wet fingers against your tongue. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck your slick off his fingers, bobbing your head.

“Pretending my fingers is my cock, huh?” You nod your head rapidly and he cups your cheek, lifting your gaze up to him. He can see your mouth swallowing his fingers, eyes focused on his fingers disappearing between those pretty lips.

Your hands trail down to his pants, unbuckling his belt and tugging him closer, all the while swallowing the saliva pooling inside your mouth. He groans when your throat closes around his fingers and you grin, popping his fingers out of your mouth and surge upwards for a kiss.

His hand remains flush on your cheek, controlling the direction and angle of your face, tongue sliding out to lick into your mouth. Your hand finds its way down his pants, and he shivers when you stroke his cock through the fabric of his boxers. “I got a question.”

“Yeah?” You peck him once more for good measure, moving your lips down to his neck.

“How long have you liked me?”

You lick down the column of his throat, feeling his adam’s apple under your tongue bob as he swallows. “A while now,” your fingers slip inside his boxers, gripping the length of his cock in your hand, “about a year now.”

“Fuck, ‘m so stupid.” A dry chuckle leaves him, followed by a hiss when your hand slowly slides up his shaft. 

“‘S not your fault,” you kiss him, softly biting down on his lips before pulling away, sliding off the counter to get on your knees. “Can I make you feel good?”

You were eye level with his cock, hard and ready, pressing through the leg of his pants. He winds his fingers in your hair, massaging your scalp as you tug his boxers down. Licking your lips, his cock bobs free, standing thick and hard in front of your face. 

Your mouth pops open as you inhale shakily when he guides you forward with the grip on your head. 

“Tilt your head back f’me.” 

Obediently, you do as you were told, jerking slightly when he grabs onto the base of his cock, brushing the head against your lips. Your tongue darts out, licking at his tip as your hand slithers up to join his own, wrapping them over his bigger ones and jerk him slowly, pushing more precum onto the tip of your tongue. 

“ Fuck , that’s good,” he moans, hissing through clenched teeth as he pushes forward, stretching your mouth open to fit his thick girth. His cock nudges the back of your throat and you gag, hands flying to his hips to steady yourself.

The taste of him was faint, a salty aftertaste lingering on your tongue. Your jaw aches when he picks up the pace, pulling you forward by your hair, keeping your nose pressed against his pelvis as your throat convulses and spasms around his tip. 

“Fuck, fuck so tight— ” He holds you there for a couple more seconds, barely giving you a minute of peace before he’s snapping his hips back and forth, shoving his cock as far into your mouth as it can reach. 

The heavy weight of his cock against your tongue had tears pooling in your eyes, your nails digging into your palms as you kneel there, taking his cock without putting up a fight. 

Your jaw hurts , your tongue is sore and your palms sting but it’s all worth it hearing his moans, soft breathy grunts from above you as he uses your throat for his pleasure.

Ran pulls free, yanking you up, into his arms and carries you over to your room. He sets you on your bed and you grab onto his braid, tugging it gently to pull him on top of you. “Fuck me, please,” you breathe, kissing his lips and readjusting your body on the bed, wrapping your legs around his waist, tugging your jacket off your body to throw it to some abandoned corner in your room.

“I don’t have a condom.” 

You’re already reaching downwards, tugging his cock forward to push it against your pussy. “I don’t care, need you please .”

Ran grins, pinning both your hands down above your head and leans forward, nose brushing yours. “Needy aren’t you?” He’s holding your wrists with one hand, the other one sliding downwards to your thighs to spread them apart. 

He stares at you whilst trying to find your entrance, his cock nudging against your thigh, your flaps before slipping inside. “Ran—” you throw your head back and moan and he takes the oppurtunity to reach down, sucking down your neck. “ Mm , fuck—yes—”

He fucks into you with a grunt, rolling and grinding his hips against yours until you squeak, hands squirming around underneath his hold, trying to wrestle free and hold him. 

“Ran— Ran please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore, all you know is it’s not enough. You wanna hold him, wanna feel his body heat against you, want him to pound you into the mattress. “ Harder, p-please—”

“ Fuck , wait hold on,” he lets go of your wrist, pulling out and flipping you over on your belly and gives your ass a spank. It stings when gripping onto the flesh for longer, nudging his cock back inside you. 

He fucks you at a punishing pace, fast and hard, a hand splaying across your back to arch it more, nudging that spot inside you that makes you scream. “Right there?” He hits it again and you fist the sheets, pussy tightening around his cock he swears he almost cums instantly. 

“ There, right there R-ran—”  

The mattress shifts beneath you at his pace, your hand flying behind you to hold onto him. “Slow down , wa—wait, I think I’m— oh fuck —I’m gonna cum—”

“Yeah?” He looks down, his cock coated in your slick and wetness, disappearing everytime he fucks back into you, “Lemme see.”

Your hand slips between your legs, desperately rubbing at your clit and your body shakes, moans abnormally loud and your voice cracks as he fucks you through your high, thumbs digging into your lower back before he stills, hips flushed against yours and pinning you down the mattress. His cum spurts out against your walls, the head of his cock pulsing and twitching inside you.

“Oh my god ,” you huff out, breath raggedy and slow as you catch your breath. It felt so good feeling his warm cum fill you, especially when he rolls his hips twice more, each roll pressing you further into the mattress. 

“Holy fuck,” he pushes himself off you, flipping you over with the little energy he has left. He falls onto your chest, enjoying the feeling of your breasts on his face. “Gonna fuck you all the time, I swear.” He grumbles, shifting to press a kiss onto your nipple, sucking it slowly into his mouth.

You drag slow strokes into his hair, biting your lip as his mouth suctions around your breast. “You know…” you start, breathless, “my friends are gonna freak when they find out about this.”

“Yeah? Why?” He looks distracted, playing with your tits, kneading them beneath his large hands. 

“Because they ship us, like hardcore.”

He chuckles, you feel the vibrations ripple throughout your body, ringing inside your ears. “That’s cute. Which friends?” 

“Maki and Kyo, here wait—”  You shift upwards, reaching across your bedside table for your phone. By the time you plop back down to bed, you’re resting your head on his chest whilst scrolling through your photos. “Here’s what they look like.” 

You hand him the phone, watching as he scrolls through the photos of you and your friends. “Oh, wait, I've seen her before.” He points to Maki on screen, seated on top of your lap and smiling at the camera.

“Yeah, she talks to Kakucho sometimes.”

As if Maki could sense you talking about her, your phone rings, incoming call. You swipe to answer it, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

“Did you cum yet, or did that idiot from the party give you blue balls?” 

You shoot up so quickly, regretting you ever put her on speaker phone. You’d completely forgotten you’d told her about your horrible sex from the party and she told you to go release some stress at home by yourself.

“I—uh, well, yeah? I did…”

Ran chuckles from beside you, holding the back of your neck and pulling you back down to his chest. “And I helped her.” His hand trails down your naked body, clapping a firm hand against your ass and you squeal upon impact. 

Maki freezes from the other end of the line before she squeals loudly, “OHMYGODDDDDDDD! IS THIS REAL!”

“‘No, it’s not. I just have voice recordings of Ran’s voice to keep around.” 

“Okay, sarcasm isn’t fucking funny. I’m too fucking excited to be mad at you right now.” Maki shoots up from her bed, “KYO! THEY GOT TOGETHER!”

“Huh?” 

You cover your face with both hands as you hear her run down the stairs at light speed. “Oh my god, they’re so embarrassing.” You hide your face between the junction of Ran’s shoulder and groan. 

The sounds of their talking is drowned out when Ran lifts your face up by your chin, leaning down to kiss you, goading you into letting him suck sensually on your tongue. 

“Oh, now they’re making out—” 

His hand massages your ass in his hand, tearing little breathy gasps from your lips every now and then. 

“I can’t tell if this is cute or a total invasion of privacy.”

“Leave them alone, Kyo, let them fuck in peace.”

“Hang up the phone then.”

You break the kiss to reach for your phone and hang up when Maki speaks up again. “Oh and Ran, don’t do too much, okay? I have plans with her tommorow and I need her to be in peak physical condition.”

Ran, out of spite,  then lifts you to sit on top of him, repositioning his cock inside you. You let out a soft moan when he bottoms out, hips flush against his own, spanking you again for good measure . “I’ll take that into consideration, but it might be a little too late for that.”

[heartfullofleeches]

Okay okay, i know she's a bully, a meanie and whatever. But can i request a girly sleepover with peach? Like doing our makeup, paint our nails and look pretty?

"Hey, Y/n - wanna have a sleepover this weekend?..." Peach nonchalantly shoves a stick of gum in your mouth before you can speak. "Great! Come over around nine on Friday. You don't have to worry about bringing anything besides your cute self and maybe snacks since you'll be here a while."

And that's how your weekend began - tossed at the mercy of preppy hybrid without preparation or a say in the whole ordeal. You arrive an hour earlier than she told you to on whim of the vague hints she left in her text messages leading up to the day. Peach has the nerve to act surprised seeing you there a whole sixty minutes earlier than planned, pulling her fluffy cream robe over her chest and flashing a flushed smile as she leans against the doorframe to let you in - batting her long lashes behind the bangs shielding her eyes.

"Y/n, oh my gosh, what a surprise! I didn't expect to see you for another hour I look hideous... but since you're here and everything else is already set up come on in."

Peach hooks her manicured nails in the meat of your arm and drags you inside her home. The whole house smells like someone burnt down an orchard centering from the candles lit up around her room. When Peach said you didn't need anything, she meant it. A foldable bed couch had been arranged beside hers, adorned with flower petals, a travel bag full of soaps and scrubs, and pajamas in your exact size.

Peach goes through your bag for the snacks you brought and a few other things then tosses what's left in her closet. While you're checking out the items and the extras you find under the bed, Peach grows bored of hiding away the things from your luggage she wanted to keep extra safe and stalks up behind you. Her blondish mane falling over your shoulders the only sign of her approach, Peach plucks you off the ground with one arm before you're fully aware and places you up on her bed.

She's surprisingly delicate as she pokes at your face and body like your some experiment in a lab, removing any accessories you were wearing and rolling up the sleeves of your pants. As she starts massaging the balls of your knuckles you feel it's safe to ask what she's up to.

"So... What are the plans for tonight?"

"Not too much. After I give you a bath and rinse out your hair, I want to get started on your nails while the cream I put in it dries. Spice gave me this new cuticle spray for my birthday that I think will be good for your nails too. While I'm doing your makeup, we can put on a movie in the background. You're absolutely adorable as is, but I want to see how your eyes will look with a little more flare, y'know? It's crazy how pretty you are naturally. I'd be super jealous and probably shove you in a busy street due to blind rage... if you weren't all mine~"

[autism-autobot]

Flower of a Poisonous Seed Part 10

Wow! Double digits!

Tw: Pica, blood, self harm, (let me know if I missed anything)

Part 9:

To say Sun Wukong was stressed would be an understatement, but it hadn't gotten this bad in public before.

He didn't even entirely understand the reasoning behind his stress, although it could be because Nezha was taking a little bit too much time in his most recent meeting. And as usual, he was sitting on the couch in the Demon Bull Family's home.

Whenever Wukong was stressed, he had the most terrible cravings. It was the mixture of a trauma and a sorry attempt at coping with it. At least he thought it was sorry.

He was an emotional eater for as long as he could remember. Peaches usually did the trick. But there were no peaches for him to eat after Macaque left him starving under the mountain.

So he settled for eating himself.

Apparently, there was a word for his compulsive cravings: Pica, as one of his relatives has described it. Wukong ate his own hair often, it was satisfactory enough...

...usually.

But he was too stressed now. Hair wasn't enough. Not enough to satisfy his tastes at the moment.

So he started biting his hand, hard.

Wukong heard his bones snap and the felt the pain that followed soon after, but he didn't stop there. It took a few bites before he ripped off a whole chunk of his hand: the thumb and index fingers, and a good chunk of the palm, too.

Blood sprayed from the open wound. He swallowed as much of it as he could. With the whole chunk now thoroughly chewed up, he swallowed that too.

Luckily he had locked himself in one of many bathrooms in DBK's place, so no one would be able to find him like this.

Almost no one.

~~~

The Demon Bull King could smell his little brother a mile away, and it would serve him well now. He had the slightest bit of worry at finding the room he left Wukong to rest in empty. DBK didn't show it, of course. It was only when he picked up the unmistakable scent of blood mixed with his brother's natural odor did he really begin to panic.

He ripped the bathroom door clean off its hinges to find his peach-loving compatriot eating anything but that.

Demon Bull King scooped up Wukong while he was still shocked by the sudden arrival. Noticing his scared, teary, and regretful eyes and remembering the illness Nezha had informed him of, Demon Bull King decided not to lecture him now.

It was clear this was the result of a mentally unwell and quite sickly individual.

Oh, his poor brother.

~~~

The Demon Bull Family carefully inspected all of Sun Wukong's wounds: patches of raw flesh (the result of hair ripped to the scalp) , half a hand and a whole foot bitten (almost) clean off, and bleeding teeth and gums from eating through the aforementioned body parts.

None of them had the heart to lecture him. A strange occurrence, really, to have them of all people self-silenced on the matter. Wukong honestly preferred the yelling.

The family bandaged him up, put him in fresh clothes, and wrapped him up in a blanket. Demon Bull King held Wukong in his arms like a swaddled infant. Neither of them minded. It had been a long enough day as is.

~Some hours later~

SWK: I'm sorry.

DBK: It's alright, little brother.

SWK: I was stressed and scared.

DBK: I know, brother. Nezha should be returning soon. He has never taken this long before, has he?

SWK: No... what if something happened to him?

DBK: I doubt anything did.

PIF: Celestial meetings can take an unreasonable amount of time. I know from experience.

DBK: Even if something were to happen, he is a fierce opponent! All in this room know as much.

SWK: Yeah, I just get anxious without him around. He's been looking out for me for a while now, it's crazy to think that I ever managed alone.

RS: But you didn't manage alone, isn't that the whole point of the four of us acting as a support system?

PIF: Indeed, not to mention you have been getting sicker.

DBK: What even is the cause of your illness? And how far will this continue to progress before you show signs of recovery?

SWK: Honestly? I don't know. It might be purely mental. But it's affecting my body to such an extent that I'm not sure if it really is just my mental health going in a downward spiral.

RS: So we just do nothing?!

SWK: Nezha said he'd get to the bottom of this, his says he doesn't want me worrying any more than I have to in case it really is about my mental health alone.

DBK: So it is being dealt with?

SWK: Yeah, I think.

DBK: Better than waiting for something worse to happen to you.

PIF: Nezha is a very capable man, he'll get to the bottom of this.

RS: And speak of the devil! Look who's here!

Nezha: I apologize for my tardiness. I was setting up an appointment for Wu- *gets full body tackled by Wukong*

SWK: Hi!

Nezha: *pinned to the ground by Wukong's body weight* Hello Wukong.

SWK: I MISSED YOU!!!!!

Nezha: I missed you too. Setting up that appointment for you took longer than expected and that meeting took ages!

SWK: Setting up the what-

Nezha: We'll discuss it at home. For now... CAN YOU PLEASE GET OFF OF ME!!!!!

SWK: Sorry *gets off of him*

Nezha: You definitely lost weight since falling ill, but you still weight enough to feel like you'd crush my ribs in.

SWK: Can we go home now?

Nezha: Yes, yes we ca- WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU HANDS???!!!!

SWK: I had another pica incident.

The Demon Bull Family: ANOTHER????!!!!

Part 11:

Masterpost

[peaches2217]

Hey! You whose opinion I value!

I’m staring at a longfic chapter and realizing I know nothing about men’s hair care. What do we think Mario’s hair routine looks like? Because surely, if he puts effort into his mustache, he must put some effort into his hair, right?

(I say that while sitting across from my dad who puts product in his beard and nothing else so idrk anymore)

Ohohohoho, you’ve come to the right guygal!

I don’t imagine Mario’s hair care routine is quite as intensive as, say, Luigi’s; left to his own devices, he’d happily use some sort of 5-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash/motor oil/pipe lubricant. That said, he does take pride in his appearances and Luigi chewed him out royally the last time he found a 3-in-1 product in their bathroom, so he does make some effort.

Since he usually wears a hat, he doesn’t go too crazy with the hair products. He’ll shampoo his hair, maybe slap some conditioner on the ends if Luigi or Peach comment that he’s developing split ends, and he’ll use hair putty or wax when he needs to look his best, such as at a formal event. (For date night, he sticks to a more lightweight product like sea salt spray. Perfect boost of texture without too much added hassle!)

For his mustache, he typically uses the same shampoo he uses for his hair (much to Luigi’s chagrin, but hey, at least he washes it!), then combs some wax into it for some semblance of tidiness. His mustache is bushier and drier than Luigi’s since he doesn’t use as many specialized products. Still looks pretty good though, eh?

[hcdragonwrites]

Letters (a @journey-to-the-au Drabble)

I made another thing (yeah I couldn’t help myself but this one is shorter I think. I hope you like it!) I just. Brain fire.

Inspired by <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/journey-to-the-au/722003448742248448/may-we-hear-about-the-yaogui-attack-0-apologies" >This Post </a>

(Also I suck at linking things I’m so sorry.)

Liu crossed out the line on the parchment before him, splashing ink onto the stone beneath his feet in an frustrated spray.

“No that doesn’t sound right either!” He gritted his teeth, growing frustrated. General Liu, one of the Four great Generals of Flower- Fruit mountain and friend to its King Sun Wukong, had a dilemma.

He set the brush down, still getting used to holding it in his hands. Wukong makes this look so easy! But things of the unmonkey nature came easily to Wukong- how could they not ? He had mastered the mysterious arts that had given him such power, had defeated the demon who had first claimed Water- Curtain Cave in his absence (and more beside.) Wukong had walked among the men of the world and had claimed treasure from dragons.

Wukong would be able to hold a brush with ease and write words with a steady hand. The general tugged at his fur and looked about himself. Rolls of parchment lay about him like discarded rinds of watermelons. All the failed attempts to transcribe what his heart was trying to speak. He tugged more, hairs coming free.

When Wukong spoke of his experience in the world abroad their mountain, he had mentioned how the important people within that strange world of mortals and immortals would communicate through scrolls and parchment.

“It was too quiet at times for my liking!” He reminisced once, splashing some wine as he gesticulated upon his throne. “What silence! What needed to be written that couldn’t be communicated with a clear voice?” He would then call for one of the troop of his subjects to retell a story, for Wukong loved the telling of a yarn through voice and act.

Liu had understood why one would want words written down however. The things he wanted to say- to tell- either fled him like mist before the sun or stuck in his throat like a peach stone. The Marshal scratched behind his ear, brushing the notched edge and remembering. Remembering her.

Rin Rin.

Liu had never been one for such deep hesitation as he was now. In all the Aolai country, among and betwixt the unicorns and the phoenixes who preened and called themselves the most beautiful, where the leopards and the tigers roamed and boasted their own majesty, Liu had faced all that threatened his home with bravery. He loved this mountain, from every blade of grass to every luminous stone deep in Water-Curtain Cave. He thought none of the beasts or birds or celestial bodies in Heaven was more beautiful than his home.

Except Her.

He wanted to tell her. Tell Rin Rin how she rivaled all the clouds in heaven for her softness. How no flower could compare to her eyes and how they shined like the sea when the sun hit it. Her smile could make the trees cry and her anger could chase the stripes off a tiger.

Liu was afraid. Not afraid of her. Afraid to miss this opportunity! His tail lashed and sent a bit of paper skittering over the stone floor, knocking into several stone bowls of almonds.

The mountain was a paradise. The waterfall that crashed beyond, the pine forests that dotted the slopes where their needles spiced the air. He had faced tigers and demons, fought and thrown himself into situation after situation of danger without a second thought for himself.

Now he was hesitant. He acted as he had on that day Wukong had found Water- Curtain cave: hesitant. Marshal Liu had not been hesitant since that time- so why had he returned to this state ?

Liu looked down at the paper and groaned.

“I just want to tell her how beautiful she is…”

Steps approached from outside Liu’s room.

“So this is where you’ve been!” Wukong called, stepping into the room with a frown on his face. “I have been waiting for you in the Throne room for hours! Sentries have spotted what look to be the makings of a camp. We have a troop of creatures lurking in the shadow of our mountain and I need my Generals— what is all this stuff ?”

Liu didn’t bother to cover up his failings- he just lay his head on the stone table and glared at the brush.

“You only called for a meeting a few minutes ago, my king.” He replied from the table.

“Minutes- hours. It has been too long! What have you been up to in here?”Wukong picked up a paper scroll, the feathered crown on his head bobbing.

“You are as pretty as a … hmm. You never finished this one Liu!”

Liu moved his face to flatten into the stone table, feeling his cheeks burn and his ears itch. Of course my king would start reading them.

Shuffling paper noises sounded again as Wukong picked another scroll up.

“My heart becomes a candle when you are near—“ he frowned. “You crossed out the rest in a mess of black.”

Liu wished he could dissolve into the stone.

“You smell as sweet as a magnolia flower- your eyes are the shape of stars —“

“Please My King.” He begged. “Spare me.”

“You wrote them Liu! I am only reading.”

“And I ask for mercy, please.”

“Seems you’ve had trouble finishing whatever you were trying to say.” Mused the Sage.

“None of the words formed well enough on the paper.” Marshal Liu sighed. There came a shuffle and a brush beside him. He lifted his head to see Wukong had crossed his legs beside him, a shoulder companionably against Lius. The Monkey King twirled the brush between his fingers, unrolling a new scroll of parchment.

“If I help you Write your love poem to Rin, Will you stop mooning so sadly ?” Wukong cocked a brow at his general, side eyeing him in a way only a friend could.

Marshal Liu felt his pride pricked, just a bit. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liu- you have been my friend for countless years. Longer than most monkeys usually live.” Wukong dipped the brush into the inkwell, checking the ink stone and grimacing at its diminished size. “I know you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your fur. We have fought and bled side by side. You may be a master at strategy and planning but. My friend.”

Wukong turned his whole face to stare at Liu. “You suck at hiding how in love you are with Rin Rin.”

The Marshal sat up, opened his mouth to defend, to deflect —

Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, waited. His face set in a neutral and very are you really going to argue with me? expression.

Liu closed his mouth, tugged at his fur and set his chin on the stone table. “She makes me feel so—-“

“Mhm.”

“She’s so—!”

“Mhm…”

“I just can’t get the words out!” The Marshal admitted finally. “Each time I start to tell her, I freeze. I’ve tried so many times!”

When Rin and He had shared a sweet patch of strawberries he had tried to say how he loved her.

When Rin had been tending to a scratch on his face, chiding and reprimanding him for his recklessness again. Her anger had made him want to hold her and reassure her that he was fine.

When they had decided to stay out late, tails curled together as they counted the stars. Liu had wanted to compare her to each one.

And each of these times his words had either fled him or had refused to come out.

“And you thought to write them out because they keep getting stuck.”

Liu nodded.

“Give me the words and I’ll write them down.” Wukong set the tip, ready. “If I write this for you, then will come and put your mind back to keeping our mountain safe?”

Guilt itched beneath his fur. “My King i'm sorry—“

A affectionate rub of Wukongs head against his own shut the general up as the king tugged at his ear in play.

“Liu. I may not understand the power of what you are feeling,” Wukong cut off, tail thumping against the Marshals “but that doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t important. And … seeing you so distressed makes me distressed. I can help my friend in this simple task at least.”

Liu felt a warmth well from him. For all his Kings boasting and prideful proclamations, Wukong cared for each of his subjects - even in the face of his incomprehension. He would do what he could to ease his friends, his subjects, his families struggles. Wukong began to write as Liu began to speak, his face warm and his hands slowly beginning uncurl from his fur.

After just an hour with Wukongs transcribing and Liu describing, the confession was complete. Liu clutched the scroll and strapped it to his side.

He had been able to attend the Council with a lighter heart and a smile on his face. The discussion and the plans to increase patrols along the pine forest to the west of Flower Fruit Mountain had been unanimously agreed upon as the troubling information came to light.

The scouts' reports had indicated that there had been activity - a half made campfire kicked over and cold with bones from what looked like a small deer- not a few leaps and bounds from the slopes. Liu had frowned at the description of the tracks- five footed, fur and the scent of musk in the air. Another band of Monkeys … but they seem to be scouting us as well.

When Liu had this brought to attention, an immediate patrol had been sent out to gain more information on how many may be circling their home. The unspoken kept being danced around but all in that council chamber had a suspicion. Demon Monkeys….

Until they knew further who and what they were facing, Wukong wouldn’t risk a war troop to prowl the nearby hills and leave the rest of his family and people exposed.

Liu had a bit of time beneath the growing moon of night to find Rin Rin now. Before his nerves left him. Wukongs handwriting had made the words look better, flow better, feel better to the Marshals eyes. His King had sat through his flowery language, and had written it all diligently if with a little bit of snorting at times. (“Don’t compare her to pine nuts!” “But she smells of the pines and the wood and everything I love!” “…. But pine nuts ?”)

If his words failed him, Liu had them written down. If they stuck in his throat, he could pull them apart with the help of his letter. His heart was thumping, his fur was sticking out a bit as electric nerves rolled on his skin. Liu was in full armor having come from council, and it jangled softly in the night air. But it was a comforting jangle- a separate staccato rhythm against his body.

As the moon rose outside of Water-Curtain Cave casting the spray in silver light, Liu gazed out. Some other monkeys mingled in the cooling air enjoying the clear night. Tending to loved ones by either grooming fur, sharing ripening fruits from the many orchards across the vast mountain, or cuddling down in the soft grasses to gaze upward. Liu greeted each in turn, butting heads or brushing hands. Pride welled in him, making Liu stand taller. This was his home- his family. The peace they lived in was hard won and protected by their King and his Marshals- and that peace was precious.

A small bundle of babes shot past, one carrying a lychee fruit as a prize to be kept from the others. A pair of older simians gazed into the waters of the pool, leaning into each other. Liu would fight a thousand demons, all the celestial beings in the world, to keep this peace. He would tame dragons and pull the moon down from its boughs in Heaven to preserve this peace.

Liu turned, green eyes seeking. There, just beneath the pomegranate tree overlooking a mossy spray of water, he spotted the cloud gray of Rin Rin. Even in the shadow of the tree he could see her moon flower perched behind her ear, the fur perfectly groomed in wonderous swirls. He wished he had a bouquet of moonflowers to bring her or a cup of tea to present to her. He wanted to come bearing gifts and to tend and tidy her hair and weave flowers throughout it.

He came bearing his heart instead.

Said heart thumped against his chest. Steady Liu.

Liu took a moment to groom his finger through his fur, his tail, and to dust at his armor. He grabbed at a small patch of pine needles, snapping them between fingers and briefly rubbing the tips over his fur. He wanted to look his best to smell his best to be his best.

Then, gathering himself and tapping the scroll's top at his hip, Liu straightened and stepped forward.

He would tell her how much she meant to him. He would show her how much she was worth to him- between the words he had been able to wrangle and place onto a page.

Liu would never get the chance to unwind that scroll however. The night air that had been full of gentle chatter and warm conversation was broken by screams as the mountain's peace was shattered into a thousand screams of fury and fear rang off the mountain.

[jewishbarbies]

women are using “hair identifying” spray to make the hair on their face visible to shave and i just. y’all. our entire bodies are covered in those tiny hairs. you can’t see them without the spray because they’re perfectly natural and inconsequential. all body hair is normal, but for the love of god, DON’T let yourself be influenced into buying this stupid product and DON’T let people make you think you have to shave every inch of your face or else people will think you’re some big hairy monster. it’s literally just fucking peach fuzz.