#i do wonder if either of the clubs would be welcoming to a kind of strange goth guy (me) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peachdues · 8 months ago

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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!

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

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dat-town · 5 months ago

Text

abcdlove

Characters: school radio club leader!Taesan & class president!female reader

Setting & genre: high school au, coming of age, first love, fluff, a hint of enemies to lovers but it’s only in the girl’s head

Summary: You convinced yourself that you hated Han Taesan after what he had done in sophomore year but now you have to work together on a senior project and maybe he isn’t that bad. Or maybe just for your heartbeat.

Warnings: stage names are used, OC has negative opinion about Taesan and Leehan in the beginning, mentions of social and parental pressure, the amount of banana milk consumed might not be healthy, hopefully not too ooc even though i wrote it within like 2 weeks after @restlessmaknae started sending me bonedo content

Words: 9.6k

Author’s note: this is the product of the amount of Ann Liang books i binge read recently, the instagram algorithm and @restlessmaknae’s marketing for Zico’s kids. this really pulled me out of my writing slump, so thank you for that! honestly my first impression of Taesan was that he looks like a tsundere, so that’s pretty much how it all started.

i'm pretty sure you guessed it; happy name day @restlessmaknae <3

read Leehan’s companion piece here

You had been following your well-planned route to success for years. You had already taken advanced courses at a prestigious hagwon, a private after-school academy for the subjects you totally needed to ace at CSAT. You also offered tutoring services to underclassmen, volunteered at the local library during summer and carefully chose your extracurriculars to align with the ideal student vision SKY universities had. You only needed to follow through the plan in your senior year too and you would be fine. You would finally make it.

Needless to say Han Taesan wasn’t part of your plans.

Yet, there he was standing right in front of the principal’s office where you were heading in all his 6 feet tall glory, his school uniform’s tie neatly done for once.

“What are you doing here?” You blurted out with no greeting when your steps slowly halted next to him, your jaw set and muscles tense.

Taesan turned his head slowly and looked at you impassively from under his dark fringe before speaking up in his raspy voice that made your classmates swoon whenever they heard him make a radio announcement.

“What does it look like?” He raised a brow as if he was telling you not to ask stupid things.

There could only be two kinds of reasons why somebody was called into the principal’s room: either very good or very bad. You had never gotten into trouble, so you were hoping for something positive but seeing the boy there wasn’t really promising. Not because he was a troublemaker or a bad student. He might not have been a straight A student like yourself but he was the leader of the school radio club and he was also generally liked among his peers as far as you knew. Your wariness was more so because you didn’t want to be associated with him in any way.

“Oh, both of you are already here. Wonderful! Come in, come in,” the office door opened and Principal Im rushed you inside with a welcoming smile.

At least, you could be sure by then that the news wasn't anything too bad.

You took a step to follow the man inside at the same time Taesan moved next to you as well which made you momentarily falter. However the boy merely reached out and put a hand onto the door’s edge to keep it from closing. You had to force yourself not to scoff at the fake gentleman-ish action and instead just duck under his arm to go inside the office.

You just sat down in one of the cushy chairs and smoothed out the lines of your school uniform skirt when you heard the door close and soon enough Taesan took the chair next to you.

“Alright, I won’t even waste your precious time since I know both of you are busy. I called the two of you here because as representatives of the senior classes, I would like the two of you to conduct interviews with your classmates and prepare a pre-recorded radio segment that can be broadcasted on graduation day. It can be about anything you want: what the students’ aspirations are or what they liked the best in high school. I trust you will do a great job,” the principal smiled at you hopefully but you could feel your own polite smile freeze onto your face. This was not how you imagined yourself spending the first term of senior year.

“But…”

“Yes, Y/N?” The principal looked at you expectantly and you could feel Taesan’s dark eyes on you as well which snapped you out of your confused stupor.

“Why the two of us?”

“Of course, you can get others to help too if you want but you have exceptional organizing skills as I heard and Taesan already has experience with our recording system and editing softwares. You two were the first ones we could think of, but of course I can’t force you…”

“It would be an honor, Principal Im,” you hurried to stop him there because there was no way you would have said no to a task like this. Not only because you could hardly say no anyways but also because it would look good on your resume. The only thing that bothered you was having to do it with a boy you could not stand. If you had that much time and you could do so, you would have gladly done it alone without his help but no matter how much you hated it, Principal Im was right: he had the skills to perfect a radio segment.

“Great! If you don’t have further questions, then good luck!”

“Okay, what about we meet after school to discuss the plans?” You asked immediately once you left the principal office because you had less than 5 minutes until first period and since you didn’t share a class with Taesan, you rarely ran into each other unplanned (thank god) and you would need your color-coded planner from your bag to plan any further than the afternoon.

“I have a radio club thing until 6,” Taesan simply said, not offering any alternatives, so you let out a sigh. Of course. What did you expect?

“And I have academy classes every other day,” you pointed out because he wasn’t the only one busy. “Then I can just email you your parts and we don’t need to–”

“So you can complain later that I’m freeloading off your hard work? No thanks,” the boy interrupted you and your gaze sharpened at him. He leaned casually against the corridor’s wall, a hand reaching up to loosen his tie and tilted his head at you as if to challenge you to protest. “We can make do during lunch hour.”

You opened your mouth, ready to tell him that you had plans already but going over your History notes, when it was just the first week of the term and you were ahead of the course work anyway, wasn’t that necessary even though you hated giving in to his idea.

“Okay, let’s meet outside at the benches then,” you agreed, telling yourself to be the bigger person, and turned your back on the boy before he could see the frustration bubbling up in you.

You and Han Taesan had the kind of history that you didn’t really like to revisit. That’s why your initial reaction was to roll your eyes whenever you heard his voice on the school radio or to puke your guts out when girls gushed about his ‘tsundere charm’. Their words, not yours.

Actually you would have probably not cared about the guy if it wasn’t for your model student campaign which he had ruined. Last year the school had run an event to choose a student representative by voting and every candidate could have a pre-recorded segment on the radio. You had your own carefully recorded and edited audio file with the best convincing speech you could prepare and emailed them the sharing link on time just to hear yourself sing your go-to karaoke song through the radio on the big day. In panic, you ran to the school radio broadcasting station only to find Taesan sitting there by the control panel with headphones over his ears, calmly letting the audio play well past the two minutes mark, seemingly not finding it weird at all that somebody tried to win the campaign with a karaoke rendition of a love song instead of saying a few words. As it turned out, you managed to share your entire recordings folder with the radio team but the club president, instead of playing the file titled campaign_speech_final.mp3, decided that AUD_20230326_192251.mp3 was the right track for your model student image. That week you not only lost that title to the grade’s pretty boy, but you lost your pride as well and it was all Taesan’s fault. Not that he ever thought to apologize or right his wrongdoings. So no, you weren’t looking forward to working with him at all.

He was late.

You had already dotted down six different questions and a rough program outline with your half-finished, now cold rosé pasta lunch menu on the side by the time Taesan put his tray down on the outdoor table.

“You are late,” you picked at him right away which earned you a rather confused look.

“It’s still lunch hour,” he pointed out and dug into his own kimchi jjigae like he had all the time in the world. His behavior was seriously dancing on your nerves.

“Whatever. Let’s get into it,” you prompted because you didn’t have time to argue about semantics or his attitude. “We should divide the related tasks this week, finalize the questions and gather people for the interviews, then we can start on those next week.”

“What’s the rush? We have months until graduation,” Taesan questioned and while he was right (or because), you had the sudden urge to strangle him right there. You forced yourself to stay calm.

“Well, I don’t like to leave things to the last minute. Closer to graduation, we will be busy with the exams and college applications anyway.”

“As if you don’t already have everything prepared,” he muttered absentmindedly, scooping more kimchi on his spoon, eating without a care.

You pursed your lips, annoyed. You needed to remind yourself again that you had no time nor the energy to argue with him if you wanted to get this discussion done before your upcoming English class.

“Khm… so we can agree on splitting the interviews between us, right? You interview your classmates and I will do mine. We just need a common question sheet,” you said, tapping the end of your pen on the table.

Whether it was the repetitive sound or your words, it managed to get Taesan’s attention. He looked up from his food and leaned forward on his elbows, his dark eyes sharpening their focus on you.

“How would you record the interviews?” He asked, simply yet you had a feeling it was a tricky question.

“On my phone?” You furrowed your brows. Wasn’t it obvious? How else did he expect you to do it?

“That won’t be good. We would have a huge difference in audio quality. So unless you are fine with that, you need proper equipment. I can borrow a portable mic from the radio club, but I’m not trusting you with that.”

“Excuse me?” Your eyes widened in disbelief but Taesan didn’t elaborate on his reason. Ridiculous. He was just looking for faults in your ideas.

You let out a huff of frustration.

“Are you that desperate that we work together?”

“It’s called professionalism, miss class president,” he taunted you, looking completely serious. “I don’t want to broadcast anything under my name that’s just ‘good enough’.”

“Do you now?” You snorted and rolled your eyes. As if it wasn’t him who played your singing for the entire school. Where was his professionalism then? Who was he to lecture you about it? But okay, you could be the bigger person if he was so freaking stubborn. “Fine. We can do the interviews together with your fancy mic. These are the initial questions I thought of.”

You slid your open notebook towards him with questions about what they used to dream of becoming as a kid, what they want to be now, what colleges and majors they considered as well as their most memorable moment at the school and what they would tell their younger selves or their underclassmen. Taesan furrowed his brows as he was reading through the draft, probably dissecting each of your questions like a poor lab rat but eventually didn’t say anything. You raised a brow at him when your eyes met and he just shrugged.

“Sounds good to me,” he said which didn’t really added value but at least he didn’t find something to pick on in everything you did.

The rest of the discussion went easier as it was obvious that he would be the editor and you would organize the interviews. You were already mentally preparing a survey to send out to the students via the group chats you usually used for class president duties to see when they would be free to conduct the interview among the slots you offered. Taesan wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the hectic and busy scheduling in the upcoming weeks but eventually agreed to get it over with within two months tops. He must have realized too that the earlier you finished with this project, the sooner the two of you could part ways.

You had the first batch of interviews at the end of next week. After ruling out inconvenient locations, you ended up with the obvious option: doing the recordings in the school radio clubroom. You were against it at first because the last time you had been there you faced public humiliation, whispers behind your back for weeks about your singing and messed up campaign, but objectively speaking you knew it was the most reasonable choice, so you bit the bullet.

You arrived ahead of time, of course, but you were quite surprised that Taesan was already there too, setting up who-knows-what on the professional equipment. He looked up when the door opened, the sun hitting the side of his face, giving it a natural warm glow, a stark contrast to the coldness he often radiated. He acknowledged your presence with a nod then went back to his work, so you just put your stuff down next to the round table in the middle of the room and got ready with your nicely printed questionnaire.

For the most part, the interviews went well, the students showed up more or less on time for their own slot, Taesan let you do the talking, merely letting you know when a recording started or ended. It all started going down when the last interviewee for the day didn’t show up. After five minutes passed, you texted Wonyoung asking politely whether she forgot the interview but she didn’t answer. Ten more minutes of awkward silence while Taesan was playing (or texting, you couldn’t tell) on his phone, you tried calling her but with no success. You started getting restless and frustrated.

“She could have at least told us if she wasn’t going to come,” you muttered more to yourself than anything when your next call went to the voicemail as well. It was such a waste of time just waiting.

“Why do you always assume the worst of people? Maybe something happened and she can’t make it. She could be too sick to care about you blowing up her KakaoTalk,” Taesan looked up from his phone and there was something in his eyes that made you feel like you were in the wrong, like you were a sulky child because generally it wasn't like you were always this pessimistic about people, but before you could have argued, Taesan sighed. “You can go. I can interview her if she shows up until 6.”

Well, you could have taken his word and left. Wonyoung was his classmate and he probably didn’t have anything better to do anyways. There was a set list of questions and not much to mess up. But just as he didn’t want you to handle his beloved mic alone, you didn’t want to leave it to him alone. So you just stubbornly held his gaze, trying to come up with a more profound reason when the clubroom’s door opened and Wonyoung stepped inside in the cheerleading squad’s PE clothes.

“Sorry. Practice got delayed. Thanks for waiting for me,” she panted and Taesan sent you a ‘told you so’ look which made you want to commit atrocities. You hated not being right and even more to be reminded of it.

“It’s okay. Catch your breath,” you turned to the girl with a reassuring smile but you were undeniably relieved when you could finally bid goodbye to her and pack up. It was getting late.

However, when you saw that Taesan was still saving the audio files and uploading them to your shared cloud folder, then putting away the recording device and the mic, you stalled around the door, feeling inconsiderate to leave earlier.

“Just go,” the boy muttered gently when he noticed your hesitation and you didn’t need to be told twice.

On your way to the bus stop, you stopped by at your favorite corner convenience store for some banana milk and almost missed your bus but luckily the driver saw you running and stopped.

“Thank you,” you bowed to the middle aged man who just mumbled something about youngsters these days, then tapped your transportation card against the sensor before looking for a place to sit.

Since it was past the rush hour, there were quite a few empty seats but there was one next to a familiar face close to the door. He had put on a hoodie over his uniform and had his head against the window, eyes closed but you would have easily recognized his long ass limbs everywhere. With the taste of your hurt pride still fresh on your tongue you walked past him, sitting down in the very back, only checking on Taesan a few times to see if he managed to wake up in time to get off at his stop.

Even without the interview project, senior year was busy. You felt like your days were piles of classes, homework, mock tests, real tests, tutoring and studying. Sometimes you memorized English vocabulary or dates for History class even during your lunch breaks or on bus rides because that way you could make the most out of your time. Some might have argued that you took it too seriously but if you wanted to get into the top universities of the country, you had to.

No wonder you spent the two hours you had between classes and tutoring on Friday in the library too, working on your Literature essay. It was kind of boring and you had a long week; you justified your frequent yawns and slow blinking. You didn’t even notice when you slipped into a dreamless sleep, not until you woke up with your head over your folded arms on the table.

As you were still in the haze, instead of panicking that you might have missed your tutoring class, you slowly blinked yourself back into consciousness and the first thing you saw was a pair of eyes.

The boy sitting at the table next to yours was looking at you with something akin to the mix of concern and amusement but you were too busy committing the lovely almond shape and chocolate brown shade of his eyes to your memory to be bothered by it.

Then the realization hit you like a truck because it was no other than Han freaking Taesan.

Oh, did he always have such pretty eyes?

Realizing that you were staring, you quickly turned your gaze away, sat up properly and fixed your messy hair while mentally reprimanding yourself for letting your sleepiness take too much control over you.

You hastily checked the time on your watch, sighing in relief that you only napped for about 15 minutes, so you still had time to finish what you were doing. Which was…? Ah, right, your essay.

You cleared your throat as you focused back on your homework, pretending not to be hyper aware of every chair creaking or pen against paper scribbling sound coming from the table on your left.

The next batch of interviews were scheduled a week later and you did everything in your power to avoid Taesan, hoping that he would forget that embarrassing little encounter you had in the library. Not like he was looking for you either but now that you have become more aware of his presence, you suddenly noticed him everywhere. He wasn’t just the subject of your classmates’ talks and an annoying voice from the radio anymore, he was in the canteen, on your regular bus, on the corridor between classes. Really, you wondered if it was your mind’s self-sabotaging doing or you just managed to ignore him previously. Since you tended to be laser focused on what to do, often walking by people you know without recognizing them, it wouldn’t have surprised you that much.

Still whenever you saw him, he was usually alone if not with juniors from the radio club, so you were a bit taken aback (and you weren’t sure you were hiding it well) when a bunch of his friends from his class were already in the clubroom by the time you got there. The door was left ajar, so you could hear Jungwon’s bubbly laughter and Gyuvin teasing Taesan for ‘working oh so diligently’. They all fell silent when you pushed the door open wider and suddenly their attention was on you. Leehan patted Taesan’s upper back with a grin and muttered something about ‘boss lady is here’ which earned him a glare.

“We will be on our best behavior,” Jungwon saluted with a promise when it turned out they booked the first three slots of the session on purpose, so they could sit through each other’s interviews. While you interviewed people by themselves, since the entire school would hear the edited version anyways, you supposed it couldn’t be a problem if they really did behave. They were friends after all, if they wanted to share them why not?

Them chuckling at some parts of each other’s answers or whisper-shouted hollering about future ambitions was a bit distracting but nothing seriously annoying. You could only hide your laugh with burying your face in your hands when Gyuvin recited a freshmen memory as his most memorable with a prank that ended with the four of them becoming friends. Apparently the day before the first term’s end, right on the edge of the summer holiday, Taesan had brought soap dispenser-shaped water guns into the PE changing rooms, so whenever somebody just tried to wash their hand, they got wet. It shouldn’t have been funny since it was rather childish, but glancing at the always stern and intimidating Taesan and seeing him smile at the memory turned it into something lovely even if it ended with the four of them arguing about whose was the best prank out of all the ones they did over the years.

It was truly one of a kind to see Taesan interact with his friends, people he felt comfortable around. He suddenly became talkative and loud yet warm and gentle when he scolded Gyuvin like an Asian mom for falling asleep at Miss Lee’s class again but promised to send him his notes once he got home.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you shrugged when he caught you red-handed watching him still after he literally pushed his friends out of the door.

Despite witnessing this side of him, if you wanted to be honest, it didn’t quite sit right with you that he was friends with Kim Leehan. The popular boy might not have ever rubbed salt into your wounds by reminding you that he was chosen as the model student representative of the school instead of you who was the grade’s academically best student, the defeat still hurt. You didn’t like to lose in general. So while you knew it was a far-stretched idea, your mind couldn’t stop coming up with scenarios to prove that Taesan sabotaged your campaign speech on purpose to help his friend and it made you irritable and restless during the rest of the interview sessions.

When you were finally alone, it made you blurt out:

“Was it a prank too?”

Taesan froze mid-movement when you spoke up. He was doing the finishing touches, getting ready to leave as it was just the two of you. He slid the headphones, which he used to make sure the recording quality was good, down around his neck.

“What?” He furrowed his brows, visibly confused and you weren’t surprised, he had probably long forgotten how he had humiliated you.

“My model student speech last year,” you said, your nails digging into your palms, bitterness sweeping into your features.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy claimed, firm in his standpoint which made you snort.

“Of course, you don’t,” you muttered, then grabbed your bag and walked out of the door before you would say something you would regret.

A part of you thought that Taesan would ignore you the way you ignored him, especially after your callout (or whatever he wanted to call it), so it took you aback when the opposite happened.

As a class president you often had to help the homeroom teacher. It was nothing out of the ordinary when he called you into the teachers’ room and gave you a box of university application help books to hand out in class. It wasn’t really heavy but there was no proper handle on the box, so you had to hold it against your chest and it made it hard to see the stairs in front of your feet as you walked up to the classroom.

Students came and went both ways around you, nobody really paying attention to you struggling not to fall and you let out a little sigh of relief when you reached the first landing of the staircase without tripping. You adjusted your grip on the big brown box and was about to go on when the box crashed into somebody’s chest… or more like, stomach.

“Sorry, I…”

You were about to apologize automatically when you saw Taesan standing in front of you, very clearly on purpose. However, before you could have told him to move out of your way, he did the unthinkable: he easily took the box out of your hands, his knuckles brushing against your open palms as he did so.

“Hey! Give it back!” You reached out for the box again once you snapped out of your stupor but the boy’s hold on it was too strong.

“Stop being so stubborn for once,” he said, his quiet, deep voice washing over you in waves and then you could barely do anything but watch him turn around and walk up the stairs with ease, the box in his hands and his bag thrown over one of his shoulders.

You shuffled after him a bit awkwardly, halfway torn between being grateful because out of all people in the school only him was considerate enough to offer help and being offended and angry because what if he only did so because he pitied you now that he knew that you still held grudges over what happened last year.

That became a smaller worry though as you realized he was heading straight towards your classroom and you didn’t even want to guess the rumors starting if even just one gossipy girl saw him help you. You grew more anxious the closer you got but Taesan’s steps halted right before he got to the door. You almost bumped into his back at the sudden pause.

“Here,” he turned to you with the box that you took gingerly, making sure you didn’t touch this time.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, actually meaning it but you couldn’t tell with Taesan’s low hum and light on his feet disappearance if he believed you or not.

The third week of interviews went without a glitch. You were almost done which also added to your good mood. One less thing to worry about, one less to-do during your already busy weeks.

Taesan stayed behind in the clubroom this time too, hunching over the computer setup with the headphones on like always but for the first time you said bye. Or well your version of it.

“Don’t stay too late,” you told him loud enough, so he could hear you through the headphones but turned on your heels before you could have seen his reaction.

It was a good day, you decided. You got praised by your Literature teacher for your essay on the themes of social class and Confucian values in your recent obligatory read. The interviews went smoothly and the corner CU had a 1+1 promotion for your favorite banana milk. You even caught the bus just in time, getting on the vehicle after two giggling students. It was busier now than usual because lots of students had to stay longer in preparation for the Freshmen Open Day.

Apologies falling from your lips, you made your way through the crowd in the front of the bus and looked for a seat in the back. That’s where you caught sight of Taesan with his bag on the seat next to him and when your eyes met, he pulled his stuff into his lap. You hesitated for a moment but that was pretty much the only place left and it would have been more awkward if you didn’t take it. So you dropped the ignoring act, swung your bag to your front and sat down, drumming with your fingers on your knees. The bus departed from the stop and took a turn, the silence between the two of you becoming louder than the chatter around you.

You unzipped your bag and pulled out the banana milk bottles you just bought and held one out towards Taesan. The boy turned his head towards you, his dark eyes unsure and… was that blush on his cheeks? Your hands touched when he took the bottle from you, sending little tingles over your skin.

“Wanna listen?” He held out one of the earbuds of his wired earphone that he always seemed to have with him. So old-fashioned, so cool.

You felt shy as you looked him in the eye because it was like sharing something intimate. Still, you took the audio device and put it inside your right ear, smiling as the unfamiliar beats of a slower western song played. You pierced through the lid of the banana milk with your straw and hid your smile behind your drink when you saw Taesan do the same.

Maybe you were just warming up to each other after weeks of working together but it gave you the push you needed to ask about what you were listening to and it started a whole monologue about the kind of music Taesan liked and how his father introduced it to him. Honestly, he listened to a lot of bands you heard of but couldn’t really associate songs with and quite a few you hadn’t even heard about. You didn’t mind though, you liked listening to him talk about it, watching him gesture and slur his words when he got excited. It was a lovely side of him.

The bus ride never felt so short.

That one conversation and shared banana milk somehow led to daily song recommendations from the boy. He was always curious about your opinion even if you didn’t like it. Soon enough he could guess pretty accurately if you would like a song or not, so he even created a Spotify playlist just for you that he updated frequently. This turn of events was surely unexpected but not at all bad.

You also got to know that he would have liked to study sound engineering in university and you told him about your own ambitions and why it was so important for you to have near perfect grades and all those achievements. Belatedly you realized that you had never told anybody how much impact it had on you that you were constantly compared to your cousins.

It was a new side of Taesan you got to know, a side he didn’t show to just anybody and you realized it was the same with you. You hated showing weakness in front of others, yet it wasn’t too bad to admit to him that you tended to be judgemental with people because nobody had really been patient with you either before labeling you this or that.

But texting over the phone was one thing, you weren’t sure it would change anything in person. Sure, you had been seen together due to the interview project but that would be over soon. Not to mention you really didn’t want to deal with high school gossip in your last school year. And yet, you couldn’t help but look for Taesan whenever you were in the school canteen or near his clubroom. You caught yourself anticipating the radio announcements just to hear his voice. It was pathetic really, how fast you went from finding it annoying and purposefully ignoring him to waiting to see him.

Your heart did a little somersault when you actually saw him in the library one afternoon and only when you walked closer did you notice that he wasn’t just leaning over his papers but he was sleeping soundly, his pencil still in his hand, his textbook getting wrinkled under his weight. Briefly you wondered whether you should have looked for another place since Taesan must have chosen this corner table far in the back to have some peace but you would have liked to believe that he wouldn’t have minded you joining. After all, he waved to you casually like you were friends when you ran into each other on the corridors earlier that day.

Eventually, you pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and quietly put your study material down. You squinted at the books and printed papers around Taesan recognizing them as advanced Maths exercises on trigonometry. While you were trying to see if it was a sheet you had already done, something else caught your eyes instead. The light reflected on the silver bands around Taesan’s index and ring fingers down to the similar thin, metal bracelet he wore. You had never noticed that he wore accessories but you had never really paid attention to what he was wearing either (except his unmade tie). Or maybe due to the long sleeved uniform you couldn’t even notice it but now that he had his sleeves rolled up and arms outstretched, you couldn’t help but notice how long and elegant fingers he had, unfairly nice for a guy.

Taesan suddenly exhaled sharply which made you act on impulse. You leaned back in your chair and looked down at your randomly opened book just in case he woke up. However, his quiet sleeping noises soon returned to normal, so you deemed it safe to look up. You let out a relieved sigh when you saw his eyes still closed, his eyelashes casting a light shadow over his cheekbones. Dark strands of hair fell softly over his eyes and you weren’t sure what came over you but maybe all those silly romance dramas were right when they thought girls couldn’t stop themselves from brushing a boy’s fringe out of his eyes just once in their life. But just as you reached out, Taesan straightened his back and yawned like a cat, stretching his arms towards the sky. He blinked himself awake slowly but he froze the moment he noticed you right in front of him.

To make the situation less awkward for both of you, you smiled at him as casually as you could (which wasn’t much thanks to your racing heartbeat but still, you tried) and turned to your book, flipping to the correct page you wanted to review. From the corner of your eyes, you saw Taesan fix his clothes and sit up properly before arranging his rumpled papers to continue the Maths exercises. He must have been stuck on a problem though because he kept sighing and going back to the same page in the workbook. After his sixth or so frustrated sound, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“What are you stuck on? Maybe I can help,” you spoke up, closing your own book, so he would see your focus was on him.

“It’s fine,” he dismissed your offer so fast that you could tell he didn’t even think about it. You were sure because that was what you tended to do too: claiming you could handle everything on your own. But still, sometimes wasn’t it nice to receive help? Like how he had helped you with that box?

“Okay, then what about explaining it to me?” You changed your strategy because sometimes even that much could help: offering a listening ear. Maybe he could realize the mistake he was making in the equation while telling you about it.

You didn’t even think about it, you just stood up and walked to Taesan’s side of the table, sitting down next to him, leaning closer to see his scratchy handwriting and the calculations he had been doing. You might have blushed when you realized just how close you were but you refused to show it. You took studying seriously after all. So you looked the boy in the eye with a challenge in yours until he gave in.

Four minutes later he found the trigonometric identity he used incorrectly.

After sharing songs through texts and studying together at the library, the next thing that became a routine for the two of you was visiting the corner convenience store whenever you left the school together. When it first happened, Taesan claimed he needed to buy something too but he was looking around in the snack aisle suspiciously long (you missed your usual bus that day), so the next time you told him that you would catch up to him at the bus stop, he didn’t need to come with you. But more often than not, he went along with you anyways and ended up buying candies or chocolate bars. When you told Taesan about your go-to emotional support banana milk reminding you of your childhood, he told you that he wasn’t really into sweet things, so he bought all these snacks for his younger siblings. One time he bought a pack of four cream milk breads just for the freebie Pokémon toy that came with it because his little sister liked that character. It made you coo internally.

It wasn’t always just the two of you though. One day you were going over the English vocabulary with Jihan from your class in the library when Taesan and Jungwon walked in and took the desk next to you, eventually joining the English quiz. Another time Leehan needed to stay after school too because of his model student representative duties (a photoshoot for the Freshmen Open Day brochures apparently and suddenly you weren’t so sulky that you didn’t get the title) and he decided to tag along when he saw Taesan and you head over to the nearby CU.

“Ah, senior year is really hell. Everyone’s so busy we barely have time to hangout after school anymore,” he justified himself while throwing an arm around Taesan’s shoulder. “Jungwon told me you went to the library to study the other day. Since when do you do that? I thought you said being around so many people is distracting.”

You still heard Leehan’s voice as they disappeared into the snack aisle with the purpose of getting jellies and you walked forward to the refrigerated section, trying not to think too much into it. Maybe senior year changed Taesan’s mind, maybe he found the presence of others motivating now. Or maybe he just wanted to spend more time with you. The thought alone made you shy.

You were on schedule with the interviews and soon only the intro and outro as well as your own parts were missing. You wrote a script for the introduction and ending which Taesan improved with his experience of radio shows at school. You argued about whether your version with the ‘high school memories forever staying with you’ sentiment was too cringy or his ‘it’s only the beginning’ version was too vague but this time there was no harshness in your voice, there were no grudges held, it was only friendly banter as you went back and forth with arguments supporting your own ideas.

Eventually you managed to find a common ground, mentioning both the importance of keeping one’s high school memories as a reminder of their formative years and youth as well as being ready for what was coming. It was not even a question that it would be recorded by Taesan because he really had a nice voice and while you tried to stay professional and pay attention to his pronunciation and the flow of the speech rather than him, you failed miserably. Luckily, Taesan had enough radio experience to know exactly what to do. He introduced the segment with ease and charm, captivating the audience (you, for now) and you had to clear your throat to focus when he finished reading.

“We can start the interview with me,” you said, eager to get on with the tasks before Taesan could call you out on your behavior. He must have known your reason for the sudden change of attitude though because he smiled to himself, quiet but obvious about it, as he held the microphone out for you and hit record.

You knew all the questions by heart but still you waited for the boy to ask before you answered.

“When I was young, I wanted to have my own karaoke room. There was one on the basement floor in the building where I used to live and the owner auntie always gave me homemade honey biscuits. She seemed to be so joyful humming songs happily,” you said at the first question, glancing in Taesan’s direction briefly.

He must have been surprised – you were too –, because it wasn’t the model student-like answer everybody was expecting of you like saying your dream had always been to become a doctor or lawyer. Honestly, you had your own answers prepared and memorized ever since the questions for the student interviews were finalized and approved by your teachers. But looking back at it now, you felt embarrassed because even though it was just an interview, it wasn’t graded or judged, yet you had felt obligated to answer according to what other people would think of you. However, in the recent weeks as you got to know Taesan better, you realized that people would judge others without reason, without knowing them, even you. So you shouldn’t have changed your whole personality just so you would fit into this image they had of you. Even if it was about your parents’ or teachers’ expectation or your classmates calling you the teacher’s pet behind your back. You had been okay with the prejudices since high school was just one step in your foolproof plan to lead a successful life, you had been okay without building deep connections with other students because you had known that you would drift away after graduation anyways but only lately you realized that you could have had fun while also working hard. You could be yourself and let people closer. The world wasn’t going to crumble, it wouldn’t ruin your plans. You could be honest, both with yourself and others, because what was the worst thing that could happen? That they would judge you? They are doing it anyway, so it didn't matter.

“And now? Now I’m applying for business majors. I’ m not sure what exactly I would like to do with my life but I will get there. Who knows, maybe one day I will open a karaoke room, too,” you chuckled even though your ambitions were to build a bigger company, something creative and useful. You still had time to figure out the details.

In the beginning of the term you would have felt vulnerable sharing these about yourself in front of Taesan or the entire school because everybody expected you to know what you want to do with your life but now, it felt okay. You actually felt lighter, relieved. Especially because there was nothing akin to judging in Taesan’s eyes as he smiled at you from the other side of the table.

“Please tell us about your most memorable high school memory,” he recited the last question after you went over all the others.

Previously, you would have said it was being chosen as a class president because it was an honor and a proof of hard work but now, your academic achievements didn’t seem that important. What will you really remember when you will be older and think back on high school?

“Honestly, senior year so far has had some unexpected surprises, it’s hard to choose just one but maybe this one. Now,” you and me, just the two of us in the radio club room, being vulnerable yet not being judged. “I like the person I have been becoming ever since this senior interview project started and I think it's going to be a great memory one day.”

Silence embraced you as you finished talking, a bit nervous but without regrets. Taesan pressed a button and the recording stopped, ready to be saved.

“So karaoke room, huh?” He asked and you kicked his shin under the table for that teasing grin on his face.

“Your turn,” you reminded him as you passed the mic and adjusted the headphones around your ears. By then, over so many interviews you were sure Taesan knew what was coming too but just for the show you asked him about his dream job as a child versus now as well as his higher education plans.

“Becoming a musician was my childhood dream. My entire family loves music, many of us play an instrument, so it felt natural,” Taesan said and even though you didn’t know this, it wasn’t hard to imagine given his love for music and all that knowledge about genres and classics. “After I joined the radio club, I realized that I like it a lot despite the fact that here we don’t usually play music. So it would be cool to be a radio DJ on a music show one day but I’m interested in the technology behind it all, that’s why I will study sound engineering.”

You smiled to yourself because you had already known that latter part and it felt nice knowing you had come so far. After a few more answers, you got to the last question about his most memorable moment and Taesan’s feline eyes turned mischievous.

“Hm, a fierce girl yelling my head off during a live school radio radio–”

“Yah, be serious!” You interrupted him when you realized he was talking about what happened last year but your voice was more amused than scolding.

“I am serious,” Taesan claimed but there was a teasing tilt in his mouth. “It’s pretty memorable.”

“So you’re saying I was the only girl interrupting you during a broadcast? Shocking,” you raised a brow at him, a small part of you feeling triumphant about the fact that in a way you were special even if your first actual meeting didn’t have the best circumstances. Thank god that his microphone wasn’t on when you showed up and straight up started questioning him. “Also, just to clarify I wasn't yelling. I just expressed my bewilderment about why you were playing that audio.”

“That was the only one under your name.”

“What?” You blinked, confused at Taesan’s quick response. He sounded like he meant it but you knew that couldn’t have been true, they got access to your entire recording folder accidentally. So if he didn’t see that, it meant he wasn’t the one checking their emails.

“To make sure things are running smoothly, we always have a script about our broadcasts and all the audio files are organized in linear order in a folder for that day. I just played what was prepared for me,” he explained and gosh, you felt so stupid.

All this time you thought he had been the one who chose the wrong file on purpose maybe to help his friend, maybe to just have a good laugh but it made sense that his juniors were more likely the ones doing such preparatory work.

“But still, you could have stopped it instead of just letting it play,” you muttered, trying to justify your reaction.

“Well, at first I thought it was actually a pretty unique tactic and then…” Taesan scratched his nape and looked away, then shrugged as if he just convinced himself to tell you something that might be embarrassing. “To be honest, I just liked your singing.”

At his words you felt the tip of your ears burn and heat spreading all over your cheeks. You were glad that the lighting in the room hid it well.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You found yourself asking quietly because thinking back you weren’t exactly nice to him.

Taesan gave you a look. Okay, true, you didn’t really give him a chance to explain before antagonizing him. And then it must have been weird to just bring it up.

“Right. Um, sorry,” you mumbled, embarrassed due to your too quick judgment but the boy just shook his head as if he had never been mad at the injustice in the first place. “About your answer though, you have to cut it out.”

Obviously with 60 people answering 6 questions, not everything would make it into the final cut, it would be more of a montage of answers, a glimpse of the seniors’ lives and you didn’t want to be reminded of that incident in front of the entire school. Not again.

“Nope,” Taesan protested, popping the ‘p’ sound, teasing just to be difficult.

“I’m deleting it,” you warned him but you seriously miscalculated several things: there was no way you could have reached the computer before him and with him standing in front of the monitor and keyboard you didn’t see anything. You tried to get hold of the mouse at the same time as looking over the boy’s shoulder but he made sure that he was always in the way which somehow turned into a one sided (struggle) wrestle match and honestly at that point you weren’t even trying to achieve anything and both of you just laughed at your poor attempts.

“Am I interrupting something?” Spoke up a newcomer you didn’t even notice. Sullyoon, another radio club member from the year, stood by the door visibly surprised to see you or well the current situation you were in: Taesan leaning against the desk in front of the computer and you pretty much plastered over him, trying to reach something behind his back.

“No!” You objected vehemently and took two steps back, stumbling a bit. Taesan reached out to steady you by the forearm and only after he made sure you wouldn’t fall did he turn to the girl from his club.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just forgot my buju here,” Sullyoon got over her surprise too and quickly retrieved the prettily decorated journal from one of the shelves. You watched her go and then buried your face in your hands because of embarrassment.

“Emotional support banana milk?” Taesan prompted after he saved the files and turned the computer off.

You smiled at him and followed him out closely. If you were any better off, you would have teased him about his flushed face but instead you just made him race you to the convenience store, so both of you would have an excuse if anyone asked about your red cheeks.

Now that all interviews were done, only the editing was left from the project and while you could have left it all to Taesan since he did the actual editing, you were there keeping him company all through it. First of all, you listened to all the raw material and decided which answers to include from each interviewee in the final cut and then you could help out when he needed a second opinion on the order or cut parts or whether the transition was smooth or not. When he was deep in the concentration mode, you just did homework or studied for upcoming tests. It took three sessions to finish it (you had to force Taesan to get his ass out of school during the second one because he was determined to finish it which past you would have appreciated but not even this project was worth losing proper meal schedule or sleep over it) and when you listened to the final version you were proud of what you had done, together.

“Should we celebrate?” You suggested once the file was sent to the principal and his secretary. You finished it pretty much on schedule and yet, you weren't as relieved as you thought you would be when you had first started it. But still, it was an achievement and you liked to celebrate small wins like this because if you didn't, who else would?

You meant it as in going out to eat something good. For example, in the tent restaurant two streets down the auntie was selling the best tteokbokki you had ever tried. But Taesan had his own idea.

“What about karaoke?”

“Yah! Stop teasing!” You glared at him but you weren't actually mad, it started to turn into a private joke between the two of you.

“I’m not!” The boy insisted and all it took was his almost pout to convince you.

There were karaoke rooms on pretty much every other street in this neighborhood, so it wasn't hard to find one where you booked a room for an hour and bought snacks and drinks at the counter from the girl who looked like a bored university student.

You usually went to sing with a small group of girls from your class, so it was the first time that it was just you and a boy. And not just any boy but Han Taesan. Somehow it felt more special. Sure, he might have already heard you sing and said that he liked it, but you were shy, so you insisted that he would pick a song first. He chose Dean's 21 and totally nailed it, the karaoke machine's high score proving that you weren't just biased when you told him that. You had already liked his speaking voice but when he sang, oh boy! You could have listened to him for hours.

You went with a girl group song you were confident in and it was fun. Song after song you both hyped each other up and the one hour passed by quickly. A part of you wished you could just pay for one more and sing until your voice became hoarse but the rational part knew that you shouldn't have stayed out too late. You still had homework to do and Taesan needed to memorize those English words for tomorrow's test.

It was the same T side of you that went a bit ahead of you and started thinking about the midterms and then how busy you would get once summer ended and the last term rolled around. It was still months away and yet, you wondered if it took that much for you to drift apart or the end of this interview project would be enough. You were a bit scared to know the answer, just how you were scared to answer Jihan's question the other day when she saw you walk to class together with Taesan. Admitting out loud that you liked him would have made it real and it would have made you vulnerable. You weren't sure you were ready to do that but it was certain that you didn't want to lose him.

“Taesan…” You spoke up quietly, swinging your feet back and forth on the bench in the bus stop after you spent the walk from the karaoke room to the stop in silence, lost in thought. The boy turned his head towards you, his fringe getting into his eyes, messy and beautiful. Your heart ached with the certainty only first love could. “Now that the radio segment is ready, will we go back to how we were?” You asked barely in a whisper as if speaking louder would have had its consequences. That was also why you had to rush to clarify. “Because I don’t want that. I… I would miss you too much.”

You didn’t mean to say it like that and it was a scary thing to admit but it was worth all the extra beats of your heart to see Taesan smile, a shy little thing stretching slowly from one side to another, his eyes sparkling under the moonlight and street lamps’ glow.

“Me too,” he said and you reciprocated his smile. There was a short pause, an inhale of the universe waiting, then Taesan called your name and you looked up immediately.

“Hm?”

He looked you in the eyes with those dark oceans of his. Once you associated them with the cold depth of the sea but since then you realized that you were wrong. You knew only a few people who had warmer souls than this boy.

“You are my most memorable high school memory for a reason,” he whispered like it was a secret and a promise at the same time.

It left you speechless a moment too long and the bubble around you burst when the bus pulled up in front of you with a loud screeching sound. Taesan was quick on his feet but instead of getting on the bus right away, he looked back at you and held a hand out for you. You blamed it on not having time to think about it with the bus driver yelling at you impatiently and took it, following the boy onto the vehicle and to your usual place in the back with a smile on your face and a new rhythm in your heart.

Taesan didn't let go of your hand during the entire ride. As you closed your eyes and listened to the music he put on, you hoped he wouldn’t let go for a long time.

#stories #boynextdoor x reader #taesan x reader #boynextdoor fluff #taesan fluff

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starkeymuse · 21 days ago

Text

decode | rafe cameron | part one

summary: grace knew the outer banks were full of dangerous currents, but she never expected rafe cameron to be one of them.

warnings: mentions of violence.

masterlist

✧ listen to: menswear by the 1975 ✧

grace's pov

the midsummer's party was in full swing on figure eight, a chaotic blend of laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint hum of live music drifting from the veranda. the heat of the night clung to my skin, and the sticky air made it almost impossible to breathe. it was the kind of party where you could almost feel the weight of every whisper, every side glance, and the eyes that followed your every move. kiara had convinced me to come along, promising it wouldn’t be so bad. she lent me a dress and heels and told her mom that she would go only if i was her plus one. i slipped away from kiara, the cool, chilled air of the hallway hit me like a welcome relief as i stepped inside the country club.

the white walls gleamed under the soft lighting, adorned with gilded frames displaying paintings of serene ocean scapes and old sailboats. i wandered, my fingers brushing against the cool surface of a polished table and my eyes scanning the room in wonder, momentarily lost in the luxury of the building.

"you lost?", the voice was low, but it cut through the silence. I swallowed, the familiar irritation flickering inside me.

rafe cameron.

i turned around to see rafe standing a few feet away, his posture was relaxed but there was an edge to his presence. he was wearing a dark grey suit coat over a crisp white shirt, the fabric stretched slightly across his broad shoulders. he looked every bit the part of someone who belonged in a place like this, effortlessly polished—yet there was something in the way he looked at me, like he was studying me, weighing something in his mind.

"i was just looking for the bathrooms," i said, my tone sharper than i meant it to be. i couldn't help it, it was rafe, after all. "but i guess i can add getting harassed by another kook to my night."

"relax," rafe said, taking a slow step forward. "it's just me."

"exactly." I folded my arms.

rafe sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. "are you gonna keep pretending i'm some monster?"

"aren't you?" i shot back, narrowing my eyes. "or are you going to tell me you had nothing to do with what happened to pope?"

the mention of pope's name made something flicker in rafe's expression. guilt? i couldn't be sure. he broke eye contact, looking down the hall.

"i didn't touch him" rafe muttered, his voice quieter now.

"but you didn't stop it either,' i countered, stepping closer. "topper and kelce went after him with golf clubs, rafe. golf clubs. and you just... stood there."

his jaw tightened, and for a moment, i thought he might snap at me. instead, he ran a hand over his head, letting out a scoff. "you think i had a choice? you think they’d listen to me? topper and kelce don’t exactly back down once they’re riled up."

"you didn't even try," i said, my voice softer but no less accusing as the image of pope stumbling toward us after they had jumped him flashed through my mind. rafe finally met my gaze, his blue eyes heavy with something i didn’t expect: shame.

"it won't happen again." he said.

i didn’t know how to respond. my anger was still there, burning hot, but underneath it, something else twisted in my chest.

"that’s not good enough, rafe,” i said finally, my voice steady. “not for me. not for pope.”

he nodded, just once, like he’d been expecting that. “i didn’t think it would be.”

rafe fell silent, his gaze flicking over my shoulder. i frowned, confused by the sudden change, until the sound of approaching footsteps and a familiar voice broke the quiet.

"there you are!" topper announced, stepping into the hallway. his tie was askew, and his drink sloshed precariously in his hand as he pointed at rafe. "i’ve been looking for you everywhere, man."

he stopped short when he noticed me, his eyes dragging over me in a way that made my stomach twist. “oh, look who we have here. slumming it, are we?”

"topper." rafe said, his tone sharp with warning.

i rolled my eyes, refusing to take the bait. "so fucking unbearable."

but topper wasn't deterred. he stepped closer, his grin widening. "hey, i'm just saying, rafe, you've got an interesting taste in company tonight."

i tried to side step him, but topper's hand shot out, grabbing my arm to stop me. "what's the rush? we were starting to have fun."

my body stiffened, the heat of anger flaring up in my chest as i yanked my arm back. "let go of me, topper."

before i could say another word, rafe was between us. he shoved topper backward with such force, his back slammed into the wall behind him.

"don't touch her," rafe said, his voice low and dangerous.

topper blinked in surprise, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “whoa, man. what’s your problem?”

“you’re my problem,” rafe snapped, his eyes narrowing. “back off, topper.”

topper raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t falter. “alright, alright. didn’t realize you were playing knight in shining armor tonight.”

i turned on my heel ready to leave both of them behind. the soft click of my heels echoed in the hallway. but i wasn't far enough when topper's voice laced with cruel amusement, cut through the air.

“nice dress, grace,” he sneered. “too bad it can’t hide that you’re a still low-life pogue with nothing going for her. you look like a pig in lipstick."

the words landed like a slap, the insult more biting than i expected. my hands balled into fists at my side. i kept walking, ignoring the sick satisfaction i could hear in topper’s laugh. behind me, i could hear the scuffle continue before i saw it.

"what the fuck is wrong with you?” rafe’s voice was cold. his blue eyes burned as they pinned topper in place. my stomach flipped as i saw rafe slam topper into the wall, his fist tangled in the collar of topper's pastel-colored suit.

"dude, i was joking!” topper sputtered, his hands clawing at rafe’s grip.

"don’t,” rafe growled. His face was inches from topper’s, his expression dark and furious. “don’t touch her again. don’t talk to her like that. ever."

rafe’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he shoved topper back. the kook stumbled, nearly falling before catching himself. his face was red now, a mix of anger and embarrassment.

rafe looked down the hallway to see if i was still standing there, but i was already back outside, searching for my friends. he stood there for a moment, watching the empty hallway, a quiet anger simmering in him.

he had hoped that i would still be there, maybe looking at him with something other than the usual coldness.

my eyes scanned the party for any sign of my friends. the sooner we could leave, the better. i spotted kie, her arms crossed, looking like she was waiting for me. when she saw me, her expression shifted from curiosity to concern.

grace?” kie called, pushing off the side of the table she was leaning on and walking toward me. “everything okay?”

"yeah, can we leave? like now?" i asked, not really as a question, more of a demand.

kie didn’t question it. without missing a beat, she nodded and turned, starting to lead the way toward the edge of the yard.

"grace! kie!” i could hear the familiar voices of pope, jj, and john b calling out from the edge of the party.

The sound of kiara's parents’ protests faded behind us. we started running down the path, laughing as we dodged the occasional bush or branch, the freedom of it all exhilarating.

“don’t mind them,” kiara muttered, rolling her eyes. “they’re just being dramatic.”

our laughter rang through the night as we neared the boys, the cool air tugging at our clothes. That’s when I spotted sarah cameron standing a few feet away, framed by the soft glow of the party lights. She looked effortlessly perfect in her white dress and the flower crown perched atop her head. our eyes met for a split second, and i caught a fleeting look in her gaze, a mix of longing and curiosity. it was as if, for just a moment, she was tempted to leave her perfect little world behind and join in. but before i could really think about it, kiara was already pulling me forward, and we were swept up in our own world again.

the night carried on back at the château, laughter, music, and voices blending together like a dream I couldn’t quite hold onto. we were caught up in it, all of us—until my mind drifted back to rafe.

there was something in the way he looked at me, something that made my heart race and my skin prick with awareness. for a moment, i couldn’t tell if he was still the guy who stood back and let his friends do the dirty work or if there was more to him than i’d ever realized.

but for now, i kept laughing with my friends, keeping that thought pushed down, pretending the night was just about fun and forgetting that, somehow, it had already become something else.

and maybe I was running from that too.

hi there! :) this is the first part of my series, decode. i’ve never published anything on tumblr before, so please excuse any mistakes. just a heads-up: while I'm loosely following the plot of outer banks, i’m making some changes and tweaking rafe’s character and actions along the way. i’d love to hear your thoughts!

p.s if you were wondering, yes the title is inspired by decode by paramore from the twilight soundtrack! hehe.

thank you so much for reading if you've made it this far! <3

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe x reader #obx rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe imagine #rafe cameron fanfiction #enemies to lovers #rafe x oc #outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron series #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writing #fanfics

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artist-issues · 2 months ago

Note

What drove me away from Christianity was my pastor saying my autism and ADHD was an excuse for not being able to sit still during church. What the pastor said deeply hurt me and it caused me not to trust any church, even making me angry at Christianity at large for years.

What is your response to this?

I don't think it really matters what my response to it is: it matters what God thinks, and it matters what your response is.

I understand feeling hurt because your pastor reprimanded you for something you actually medically have little to no control over. That is hurtful, because I'm sure it makes you feel like the pastor, the guy who's supposed to be caring for your soul and leading you toward Christ, 1) doesn't understand you and 2) doesn't care about how you feel/what your experience is/what is difficult for you 3) has expectations of you that are out of line with reality, but still wants you to meet them. It's no wonder you were hurt. He should not have said that to you.

But a pastor? A human man who's just doing his best but is actually a hugely sinful creature, just like the rest of us? One pastor is not Christianity.

"Christian" just means "little Christ." A person who's trying to be like Jesus Christ, and has dedicated their life to following Him and doing what He says to do and being in a growing, loving relationship with Him. That's a Christian. So if you "walked away" from that because of what one human man said? Maybe you misunderstood what Christianity is.

It's not a social club that is there to make everybody feel welcome and accepted for who they are. It's not a social club. It's not even really supposed to be what the world calls a "religion," which is another word for "social club with sometimes-cultic practices."

Again: Christianity is supposed to be a person trying to follow Christ and be more like Him, and having a personal relationship with Him while that's going on. One of His commandments is that we do it together, as an imperfect-but-graciously-trying group, so we follow that commandment.

But again, I guess my point is, are you telling me you walked away from any potential relationship with the almighty Deity, the God who made you and loves you and orchestrated the events of history to put Himself through unimaginable torture so that He could be in that relationship with you, an imperfect enemy of His...because some other imperfect creature He created said something hurtful to you?

Would you walk away from your dad because your dad's little brother said something hurtful to you?

I'm not minimizing your hurt. I'm saying, stop attributing what imperfect people do to the perfect God who shows them the same grace He shows you. When you're immature, ignorant, or inconsiderate and hurtful to others, He doesn't approve, but He doesn't smite you with a lightning bolt on the spot, either. Same thing with His response to that pastor who hurt you. He gives you the same grace He gave that pastor. Because it's really all about who God is, who Jesus is, not who the imperfect people who try to serve Him are.

Jesus was not like that pastor. God is not like that pastor. Jesus healed a deaf man. But before He healed that deaf man, He signed out what He was about to do. He took a guy who had been shunned by society for his disability, a guy who was rarely ever communicated with, and before He ever healed him, Jesus compassionately got on his level and took the time to communicate with him. Jesus did not have to do that. He was the supreme Being who spoke that human into existence; AND He was about to take the disability away. He didn't have to be kind and take a moment to treat the deaf man like a human, first. But He did.

Back in the Old Testament? Being left-handed was considered a huge disability. But God chose a left-handed guy to be his prophet, and to be the warrior that killed a monstrous abusive king.

Jesus treated people who had any kind of medical trouble doing what other people do with compassion and grace. God chose those people. That is the example Christians are supposed to follow: that is what the pastor who hurt you got wrong. But what he did was get it wrong. Don't walk away from a relationship with Christ because of what one of His imperfect kids got wrong about Him.

See who Jesus is for yourself and don't let imperfect humans stop you from doing that.

#Jesus #Christianity #autism #adhd #mental illness #church #religion #asked #answered

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givemeasinglekidney · 2 years ago

Text

Jealousy, jealousy | Oikawa T.

Hurt/comfort

Warnings: swearing

Synopsis: you become Seijoh’s manager after not being able to get into other clubs. After a while you start getting backlash by the milk bread lover’s fans.

Well that was no use.

Every club you had tried for either rejected you or was too cramped. So what now?

You walked around school during lunch. You didn't have many friends, yet the ones you did just so happened to be busy right now. As you were walking, you passed the gyms, more specifically the volleyball gyms. You applied for the female volleyball club but you turned in your application just a tad too late. As you passed the gym, you heard a voice.

“Damn, every one of them?” The first voice said. It was followed by another.

“Yeah. Kinda sucks man.” He replied.

“Man! Why does he have to make it so hard to find a genuine manager?”

“Unfortunately, he’s our captain. Also happens to be our best friend, Makki.”

“You’re right on that unfortunate part.”

You contemplated. Boys Volleyball manager? Doesn’t have a bad ring to it. It sounded hard to get in, but every other club had failed, so why not.

You walked into the teacher’s work room and located their coach, Irihata. You already knew of him from the volleyball team being so famous in the region.

“Uhm, excuse me.” You asked, “Where can I apply for the Boy’s Volleyball manager position?” He looked at you, slightly annoyed after what you said.

He crossed his arms, “Listen, we’re not really looking for any managers currently. We know you really like our setter but our manager needs to be serious in what they’re doing.”

You lifted your eyebrow in confusion, “Your setter being…”

He stopped for a second before answering you, “... Oikawa Toru…”

You paused to collect your thoughts, then it hit you, “Oh! Him! You mean that one guy who injured his knee a bit ago! Yeah I know of him. Never talked to him, but he seems to always have girls' company. I mean good for them, they know their type, but I’m good.”

He kind of stared at you, “Ah… well… I guess it wouldn’t hurt to let you apply. Can I ask if you have any experience with volleyball?” He questioned before reaching into his desk to grab you an application.

“Yes I do!” You said, “I’ve played for all 3 years of junior high. I tried applying for tryouts for the female team but I turned it in too late.” He handed you the application and you bid your goodbyes as lunch would be over soon.

It was the next day and as you got to school you strolled to the gym as the boys had morning practice. There weren’t any girls there since it was super early and you just wanted to turn your application in asap. As you opened the door, you caught sight of all the boys, focused on their playing. You heard a voice call out to you.”

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d show up!” You turned to the direction of the coach. “Got that application filled out?”

“You know I do!” You walked over to him. He looked at the papers you handed him.

“(L/N) (Y/N), hm.” He read your name. He continued to scan your paper, nodding his head every once and a while. “Well, I'd say you’d be a great fit. If you really do want to join, you’re welcome!”

“Really? That’d be great! When could I start?” You questioned. You were kind of excited. You finally got accepted. And for it being your final year in highschool, you were hoping it would work out.

“Well, I don’t see why you can’t start now.” He stated. He then raised his voice in the direction of the players. “Hey boys! Gather around!”

The boys stopped what they were doing and came crowding around. Their eyes tended to land on you, which caused a couple whispers here and there.

“This is (Y/N) (L/N). She’s now going to be your new manager.” He announced.

You took this as your sign to introduce yourself. “Yo.”

There were a couple murmurs of disbelief, and then one guy crying what you think were happy tears about it, until one guy started talking.

“Ah, are you sure you’re not one of my lovely fans who made her way to this spot?”

“No, not in a million years.” You shot back with no hesitation after looking him up and down. False tears ran down his eyes as his friends laughed.

“PFFFT- HA! Get rejected!” A boy with pinkish hair giggled out, His friend laughing right next to him.

Suddenly, there was a slight commotion at the gym doors. You went to inspect it when you got called out to.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, it’s a mob out there.” A muscular guy said.

You contemplated, but finally moved your feet towards the door. As you opened it, you were met with many confused eyes.

“Uh, who are you?” One girl asks.

“(L/N), the team's manager. Who are you?” You replied nonchalantly. You were met with eyes of disbelief and jealousy. Then, all of the sudden, it was like a light bulb went off in all their heads.

“Hey, (L/N), you're in my Calc! You can let me in right!”

“Hey, You're so pretty. Let’s talk!”

“We sat together last year! We’re friends, let me in!”

You stared at them with a look of disdain. Then, you got an idea.

“What’s the password?”

They all paused.

“...What…”

“Wrong!” You interrupted.

“What password?”

“Incorrect!”

“Listen here you little-”

“Wrong again!” You cut her off. “Man you guys are really bad at this. Oh well, no Oikawa for you. Good day.” And you slammed the door shut.

You turned around to see the team, half in awe and the other half laughing their asses off.

“Oh my god…” One with short, messy black hair said between halfs, “This is great!”

Time skip -

It’s been 6 months since then and you’d become best friends with the 4 other third years. They saw you like their sister, like they’ve known you since forever. Well, most of them.

“(L/N), can you tell Mattsun he’s being an idiot!” A pink haired male shouts. It was lunch and the two were arguing over what color science was.

“Am no! It’s 100% blue!” He shouts back.

“Is not! It’s definitely yellow!” His best friend argues.

“I think you’re both being idiots.” You said with a straight face, “Also, it’s green dumbasses.”

They went back to quarreling as you took a bite out of your rice. Iwaizumi and Oikawa sat to your right as the two others sat to your left.

“Why do you fuel their stupid questions?” Asks the half filipino.

“It’s funny watching them fight over stupid shit. It fuels my entertainment.” You answered. You found it easy to stir the pot with the two.

“Yeah, but they’ve been talking about it for 10 minutes now…” The setter added.

“Okay, watch this.” You turned your head to Makki and Mattsun, “Centaurs have six legs, therefore are insects. Discuss.” The two began to discuss.

“Oh my god-” The setter looked in disbelief and amusement.

“Ima be right back, gonna grab a drink.” You stood up.

“Get me something!” The brunet said.

“Nope, get it yourself ya broke bitch.” You replied and walked off.

You turned the corner to the vending machine. You put your coins in and selected your choice of drink. As you knead down to grab it, a hand comes and takes it before you reach it. You look up to see a girl meet your stare.

“Well if it isn’t the little whore.” She speaks with venom.

This was the part you hated about being their manager, and it wasn’t even the boys fault, it was the girls. You have female friends, so you know it's not all girls, but there are some who are way too attached to the main setter.

“You’re one to talk.” You spit back.

You never told anyone about how these girls would treat you. You didn’t want to cause more commotion or possibly lose your position to problems being caused.

“Everyone knows you're just a manager to be close to the 3rd year. Especially Oikawa. You’re no different than the rest of us. The only difference is you’re actually hoeing around with them. It’d break their hearts to know you’re just using them” She stated. She acted like she knew all your business.

“Really? Cause it sounds to me like you're projecting what you’d do.” You replied. “And I’m not doing any of that. It’s so obvious we’re all just friends.”

Just friends. That’s all you were. Unfortunately, there is a false statement you made. After you thought it would never happen, you managed to gain a bit, just a tiny little bit of feelings for none other than Oikawa. It’s not like you wanted to, in fact that was your exact opposite intention, but that was your result.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you tell yourself.” She looked at you with disgust. “You know, they probably feel bad for you. You had nowhere to go so they had no other choice. I mean, who’d want to hang out with an ugly nobody? Look at yourself. They’re just being nice. When the time comes, they’ll drop you within seconds. You’re helpless without them.” She took a sip of what was supposed to be your drink. What a bitch.

She walked off leaving you standing there. You didn't want to admit it, but sometimes people like her really get to you. You never showed it, but they did affect you. And you know what they say about just ignoring it? Yeah, pure bullshit. It never works. They’re no longer looking for a reaction, but a punching bag. Someone who will take their punches and not give anything back, coming back the next day to repeat the cycle.

You walked back to the group, no drink in hand.

“Hey, where's your drink?” Mattsun asked, his quarrel with Makki being finished with no answer since they ended up spiraling off topic, somehow getting to how Baby’sRus is a misleading name.

“Oh, they were out of what I wanted lol.” You told them. You lied to them about a lot of things. You felt bad, but it was always due to the treatment you received from the ever so glorious fan base.

Lunch soon ended and so did the day.

You were making your way to the boys gym when you had a thought.

‘Were they just being nice?’ You questioned. ‘No, they wouldn’t, I’m mean to them sometimes anyway. Mean. Maybe I take it too far sometimes. Maybe they are just being nice. They did want a manager, so this is their way of not complaining.’

You tended to overthink, but recently it’s developed worse than it’s usually been. Like a million thoughts running through your head yet you still can't figure out where the music is coming from and why it’s only playing the same 4 lines over and over again.

You saw the doors to the gym… and turned around. You headed home. They didn’t need you. Nobody did. Maybe they’re all right. You’re useless. Unworthy. Ugly. Words hurt like any other injury, but it’s something painkillers couldn't stop.

You walked the sidewalk alone for the first time since you joined their practice. It was quiet. You were going to miss the chaotic chats with them walking to eachothers house. Makki, Mattsun, Iwa, then finally, yours. Oikawa insisted that they’d go to your house first cause he ‘didnt want their precious manager being in danger’ which was sweet of him, but also kind of dumb since his house was closer to Iwa’s than yours. Over the course of the 5-ish minute walk to your house, the two of you had bonded nicely. Too bad you didn’t plan on going back. As much as you loved them, loved him, you worried it was all lies. Their words got to your head and they stung. Then they stayed, but you got used to the sensation.

You made it to your room and looked at your phone to find missed texts from the team. You picked Oikawa’s number to find 2 missed calls and 8 missed texts. Man this boy was insane. You texted back ‘Sorry, don’t feel good, carry on without me.’

Technically you didn’t lie. You really weren’t feeling good, just it was mental rather than physical. You laid on your bed, clutching a pillow as you put your blanket over you. Tears started to spill. You couldn’t take it anymore. You cried into your sheets until you slipped into sleep.

You didn’t go to school the next day. Or the next. You stayed in bed most of the time, occasionally going on your phone or to the bathroom. Other than that you were either numb, crying, or asleep. Every now and then you’d stare at yourself in the bathroom, insecurities rising as you cry out about your appearance. You maybe ate one meal within the 2 days you stayed home, but it’s mostly a blur.

It was the afternoon when someone intervened.

The one

The only

Oikawa Toru.

You were laying in your bed. You had just finished a breakdown, eyes still red. Out of nowhere, you hear someone running up the stairs. You thought for a second you were about to be a victim of a home invasion, being that your parents were home, but you were proven wrong when a tall, brown eyed male swung open the door.

“(L/N)! What’s wrong! Are you sick?” He questioned you. You’d been gone from school for 2 days now, making you absent for 4 practices. 3 after school, and 1 morning.

“Oikawa! Shouldn’t you be at practice right now? What are you doing?” You asked, thoroughly confused how he got in. wait- “How’d you get into my house?”

“Well when our manager is sick, who just so happens to be one of my best friends, I’m gonna see what's wrong.” He answered, taking short breaths making you figure he ran all the way here. “Also, I know where you keep your spare key.”

He looked around to see what state you were in. It had been evident you were crying, despite you trying to hide your face in the comfort of your pillows. He sighed and made his way over to your bed, sitting on the edge.

“Now, tell me what's bothering you?” He said, his voice becoming soft.

“Nothing, just don’t feel good. It’s no use wasting your time here.” You told him, hoping he’d leave. You didn't need his pity. Maybe you wanted it, but you turned it down thinking it was all an act, all lies.

“If you think I’m falling for a lame lie, you're wrong.” He sighed. “What’s going on?”

Oikawa, out of all the guys, knew you the best. There wasn’t a way he’d be convinced you’re okay. So… You spilled.

“Why do you keep me around?” You started, “Why do you care?”

“...What do you mean?” He asked, his worry growing.

“I mean, why me? Out of everyone, why do you guys hang out with me? I’m mean and useless. My management isn’t even good. If you're just being nice to spare my feelings then just leave me. I know my worth and it isn’t a lot. You guys deserve better.” You finished your mini rant with tears brimming at your eyes.

He stared at you with empathy. He hated seeing you like this, it hurt him so much.

“You’re amazing. In all you’ve done you’ve helped our team more than we ever dreamed. We finally found someone who’s dedicated to all she’s assigned to help us with. You know me. You know I’d never be fake with someone to spare their feelings.” He sighed. “I just wish… you’d see yourself the way I do…”

You felt terrible. Your crush sat there as you pathetically lied on your bed because of some emotions, or lack thereof.

“You don’t mean that.” You said, trying not to face him.

He laid down on your bed, right next to you as your back was turned in his direction.

“Have they been bothering you?” he interrogates.

“Who’s they?” You tried acting oblivious, but you both knew who ‘they’ were.

“You know exactly who.” He replied. You stayed silent. He sighed again, “I should’ve known. I'm so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off, “It’s not your fault you're attractive.”

“Oh, so you think I’m attractive?” He remarks, trying to lighten up the mood.

“Oh shut up.” You giggle. It was the first time in a while you did that.

“What a shame. I wished the person I liked found me attractive.” He jokes. It took you a moment to process what he just said, then it hit you.

“Wait, what?” You questioned in disbelief.

“I know you said you’d never like me, not in a million years… but I can’t say the same for myself. It’s selfish but I really do like you.”

You turned around and stared at him. He stared back, but his mind was racing, taking your silence as rejection. Before he could get up, you grabbed at him and buried your head in his chest.

“Don't…” You started, “Don't leave. Please? I like you, too. I promise it didn’t start out this way but this is how it ended. I know now I look creepy but I didn't-”

He cut you off. Not with words, but with his lips. The warm sensations of his mouth on yours brought you a comfort like no other. Your hands wrapped around his neck, and he went around your waist, closing any gap there was between you two.

He broke the kiss, pulling away to stare at your beauty. “I get it. I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Can we… keep this a secret? Just the two of us?” If this got out, you’d be out for the count. Numerous rumors would start and people would start thinking that you were an actual whore.

Oikawa saw your mind race and put it to a stop, “Of course, I get it. We should tell the others about your situation. We’re here to protect you, you know. We love you. I love you.”

“... Love you too, Toru.” You said and he pulled back into the hug as you head rested on his neck/

“...So you do think I’m attractive.”

Small time skip -

After that night, you told the group what was happening and just like Oikawa said, they stepped in. The 4 of them became your personal bodyguards, not letting any known Oikawa fangirl try and say shit to you. After practices, you and Oikawa would walk to either you or his house to hang out and have little private dates. You were the happiest you’d ever been in a while. You slowly lost all thought of others' jealousy, enjoying your life with your best friends and lover.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x manager reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #oikawa torū #hq oikawa #oikawa toru x reader #seijoh #aoba josai x reader #aoba johsai #iwazumi hajime #hanamaki takahiro #matsukawa issei

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misc-obeyme · 10 months ago

Note

I'm a newish follower and definitely new to obey me and I've got a lot of questions about Barbatos's tail

I've seen some art and fics depicting his tail as slimy and it seems weird for a really clean guy to have a tail that could potentially make the things around him dirty. Like wouldn't he be so embarrassed if his tail accidentally stained someone's dress when they walked by him or leaving a streak on the floor? just in shame

additionally what about it being like a lizards tail imagine how mortified he would be to get it lightly trapped in a door for it to pop off suddenly and start wiggling there on the floor

or is it like a snail tail and when you touch it, it retracts back up underneath his jacket

if it's hard and spiny like some kind of spike, could he kill with it?

i have a lot of questions about his tail and would like to know what you think

Welcome to the blog, anon! And welcome to the fandom!

We all have a lot of questions about Barbatos's tail. I like to think I'm a Barb expert, though half of that is headcanon at this point. Anyway, I will endeavor to answer the questions to the best of my ability!

Now it's funny you should bring up the slimy tail situation because this was a discussion we were having here on the blog not that long ago!

It took me a second to find it, but there's a daily chat where Satan says, "it's said to have a wonderful, glistening sheen."

There's also this issue of the RAD newspaper where it's described as "wet and glistening, but not slimy."

I suspect a lot of fics that make his tail slimy have more to do with him using his tail for nsfw lubrication purposes. But honestly I had mostly forgotten about this detail entirely. So in a lot of my Barb fics, where he's in demon form, he will wrap his tail around MC a lot. Because I was always thinking about it being dry. But then I did remember that it was supposed to be "slimy" though I misremembered and it is only "wet" (though what is the difference when it comes to a tail like his?) and then I adopted the headcanon that he can control how wet it is. That way my fics still make sense to me lol.

That also allowed me to consider that he wouldn't have the problem of leaving behind any kind of mess from it because he can control how messy it is. Though now this is officially my favorite idea for how he manages the tail wetness.

But yes, I suspect that he would not like having an appendage that has the potential to make things dirty when he himself is so clean. I highly doubt he would have spent the many years of his life with it without devising some way of preventing that from happening.

I tend to think of it as more of a salamander tail. A long time ago, an anon suggested this and so far it's the one that seems to fit his tail best in my mind. Anyway, I think salamander tails can pop off like some lizard tails do and grow back, so either way he's still gotta deal with that. I like the idea of it retracting, though, that sounds cute.

Though we are talking about a demon tail so maybe it has some different properties. I kind of think that a demon's tail, whether based on a real life animal or not, is going to be rather sturdy and maybe even powerful. Barb's tail is much larger than a standard lizard, I think, so I expect it's just stronger in general.

So while I don't think it's hard and spiny, I do think he could kill with it. Tails generally have bones and muscles in them (I think), so I just imagine Barbatos's tail being super strong. Like he could probably use it as a spike if he wanted to. But I also think it'd probably be easier to just wrap it around someone's throat, you know? I also think he could potentially use it more like a club and bash someone's head with it.

But this is all just conjecture on my part. I don't think he's ever used it like that in the game lol. I do believe it's canon that he doesn't like when people touch it, though. That being said in the daily chat following that one from Satan, if MC asks if they can touch it, he says he'll make an exception for them.

In the end, since we have very little canon information about his tail, you are free to imagine it however you like! I've obviously thought about it... probably too much. But there are also OC related reasons for why I have spent a lot of time thinking about demon tails in general lol.

#just one of the many things I enjoy about Barbatos #his tail is unique imo #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me barbatos #anon asks #misc answers

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lisutarid-a · 4 months ago

Text

[Gakuen K] Munakata Reisi Route Translation

Survival Training Camp

LIST OF CHAPTERS

[Translation under the cut]

Saya: Blue club is amazing, renting the whole deserted island for the camp…I'm sure it will be a fun camp.

Fushimi: …I hope so.

Saya: What does that mean?

Fushimi: You'll see when you get there.

Munakata: …So, I'd like to welcome you all in a survival training camp.

Munakata: Because of the harshness of Mother Nature, the purpose of the camp is to learn the value of clothing, food and supporting one's life.

Munakata: Basically, we are on our own in providing ourselves with local food. Cooking also requires the use of the environment.

Munakata: Since the camp is on a deserted island, it would be a loss if you don't enjoy nature to the fullest.

Saya: (S-survival…!? Self-survival means that if you don't have food, you won't eat…!?)

Saya: Senpai, sorry. I have a question…

Munakata: Yeah, what is it?

Saya: If we don't get any food, does that mean we won't eat?

Munakata: Yeah, that's right. But don't worry so much, it'll be alright.

Saya: Eh?

Munakata: The island is rich in natural food. The water is clean, so there are plenty of fish, there are also a lot of nuts.

Munakata: I think it's impossible not to eat anything.

Saya: I-I see…

Munakata: It is rare for us to rent out the whole place, so let's all work together and this camp together.

Munakata: Now, let us briefly divide into groups.

Saya: (…So that's what Fushimi-kun meant earlier)

Saya: (I wonder if there are any wild beasts in the woods or anything)

Munakata: Konohana-kun.

Saya: Y-Yeah!

Munakata: I'll give you a tinderbox. Use this and try to build a fire.

Saya: Understood.

Munakata: If you can't build a fire, all the fish we catch will go to waste...

Saya: Understand! By the time everyone gets back, I'll do my best to build a fire!

Munakata: That's the spirit. Well, I'm off to go fishing.

Saya: Okay, please be careful!

The Blue club Member 5: Gyaaa!?

Munakata: Seems like they are enjoying the nature of the deserted island right away. I can't lose to them.

Saya: (Enjoying…that was the scream, wasn't it?)

Saya: (…It's not working at all)

Saya: (If I don't do it soon, everyone will come back, but if I rush, it won't work)

Saya: (Let's read the explanation one more time and try again)

Saya: (I'm glad I somehow managed to build a fire…Now I just have to wait for everyone to return)

Saya: (…)

Saya: …They are not coming back. I hope they are okay.

Fushimi: Haa…Did I make it back?

Saya: Ah, Fushimi-kun, welcome back! You look very tired, are you okay…?

Fushimi: This guy chased me.

Saya: Eh!?

Saya: Wild boar!?

Fushimi: I killed it, so this will be food too.

Saya: It's huge! We can share it with everyone.

Fushimi: I also picked some nuts.

Saya: Wow! So many…!

Akiyama: That's amazing.

Saya: Akiyama-senpai! Thank you for your hard work. What is that you are holding in your hand…

Akiyama: While diving, I found some turban shells and got a lot of them.

Saya: Eh, turban shells!? You find it here?

Akiyama: I couldn't believe it either and had to double check. Let's grill and eat it later.

Akiyama: It's about time for the other members of the club to return, I think we should make more bonfires.

Saya: Yeah!

Saya: (They brought different kinds of food)

Saya: (It seems that Munakata-senpai was right when he said that we didn't need to worry about food)

Munakata: Looks like the harvest turned out to be good.

Saya: Munakata-senpai, please take a look! So many things!

Munakata: Excellent. We could live here for a week with all this.

Fushimi: No, it's would be hard, so please don't even joke about it.

Munakata: Is that so…What a pity.

Fushimi: So, what did the President bring?

Munakata: Ah, I've caught some fish. We have enough for everyone, so please grill these.

Saya: Okay. Understood!

Saya: Haa…It was delicious. I'm full.

Fushimi: The wild boar mean wasn't that bad.

Munakata: Well. Thank you all for your hard work today. I think each of you fulfilled the purpose of this training camp.

Munakata: Awashima-sensei, who was unable to attend due to a summer cold, has generously provided us with a tent.

Saya: (Awashima-sensei had a summer cold…It's a pity we couldn't have a training camp together)

Munakata: Please set them on your own and go to bed.

[Prev chapter][Next chapter]

#k project #gakuen k #gakuen k wonderful school days #otome translation #munakata reisi #fushimi saruhiko #akiyama himori #fushimi killing the boar was the highlight of this chapter xD #something tells me awashima knew what was coming and purposely didn't go with them

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alittlextrathatway · 1 year ago

Note

"Wonder how many girls he had loved and left haunted" -any location

Going back to visit the High School AU.

Location: Library

You can find part one: here.

***

It didn't take Matt long to realize he and Sylvie had the same free period. She typically spent hers in the library either getting a head start on homework or studying for her next class. Like him, her grades were important to her. For different reasons, he's sure, but it didn't really matter why. It only mattered that they had that in common.

And that it meant he knew he would always have at least a half hour of one on one time with her every day.

He's leaving his AP English class, after an impassioned lesson from Mr. McHolland. Matt never really enjoyed reading, especially not fiction, but when Mr. McHolland teaches it he has to admit he can see the appeal.

Normally, he can zip out of English and make it to the library before Sylvie, but today Dawson decides to get in his way.

"We should probably figure out when we're gonna work on our group project," she says, crossing in front of him and planting her feet.

He skids to a stop, just short of running her over. "Don't you need to leave for City College so you can make your next class?"

Gabby is dual enrolled at City College in an effort to get her freshman humanities courses out of the way. He admires her drive. Like many of his friends, college is only option if you work exceptionally hard. For Gabby that means reducing the amount of years she'll need to be in college to earn a degree. For him, it means needing scholarships.

"The professor cancelled class today," she says, shrugging. "Besides, my early college courses aren't gonna matter if we don't nail our Senior Project. It's twenty-five percent of our grade."

"We have the whole semester, Gabby. We have plenty of time. I've gotta go, I'm running late."

She smirks and lifts a brow at him. "Isn't this your free period? What are you running late for, exactly?"

He winces. He really tried to keep his interest in Sylvie away from Gabby. He knows he's no good at being subtle. He can't hide it, but he can avoid talking about it with her. He knows Gabby still has a thing for him almost a year after they broke up. If he's honest, until Sylvie, he always assumed he and Gabby would get back together eventually. But now...

Well, the new girl changed everything.

"How much do you know about her, really?" Gabby asks, seeing straight through his hesitance to answer her question. "I've seen her around talking with that Junior on the football team -- Grainger? And at lunch yesterday that Sheffield Kid came up to our table to talk to her about joining Key Club. She's got plenty of options. How do you know she's not one of those people that just likes to flirt? The farm girl act is cute and all, but that doesn't mean she's the right fit for you. I mean, I like her. I do, but how sweet and innocent can she be, really? She might have left a trail of broken hearts between here and Indiana, for all we know."

He can't tell if Gabby's jealous or genuinely looking out for him. She seems to get a long well with Sylvie. She and Shay have welcomed her into their group. But her speech reminds him of all the reasons they broke up. Gabby cares about the people around her. She's very protective. But she can also get wrapped up in her own interests and dive so far down into self involvement that she becomes petty and vindictive. She seemed to be that way with him when they were dating more-so than anyone else they knew. He loves her as a friend. She's been by his side through a lot of tough times. But, as a couple, they bring out the worst in each other. That's the last thing he needs right now.

"That's kind of the point, isn't it?"

"The point of what?" She asks.

"Of getting to know her. That's all I'm doing right now, Dawson. So far, I really like what I've seen and I'm excited to learn more. That's enough for now."

"For now?"

"Yes, for now." Because he's almost certain he's going to ask Sylvie to be his date to the homecoming dance. Which he needs to do sooner rather than later considering, as Gabby mentioned, he has plenty of competition.

"Do what you think is best, I guess," Gabby tells him, her tone flat and hard.

"Gee, thanks for your permission," he snaps, shaking his head as he side steps her and leaves her standing alone in the hallway. "I'll see you for our stats class at three."

By the time he reaches the library Sylvie's deep into her history homework, making notes out of a resource book for a paper that's due at the end of the week. She looks up and smiles at him as he approaches their usual table.

"I was about to send out a search party for you," she whispers as he sits down next to her. "You're never late for free period."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Got a little tied up after English." He gets out his stats book and notes, deciding to double check his homework before he turns it in later. He did it in a rush late last night.

"Everything okay?"

The concern on her face runs deep as if his potential problems are the most pressing issue in her world right now. Gabby was way off base in her assumptions about Sylvie. He doesn't know how he knows, he just does.

"Yeah, just Gabby being Gabby. No big deal."

She bites her bottom lip, apprehension suddenly shining in her baby blue eyes. "Ah, okay. So, are you and Gabby -- I don't know -- a thing, I guess?"

Does she think he would flirt with her so blatantly if he was still into Gabby? God, he hopes not. "No. Not anymore. I mean, we used to be, but we weren't good together. We're much better off as friends."

"Oh, right." Wincing while amusement overtakes her apprehension, she says, "does Gabby know that?"

He laughs at her sympathetic expression and shrugs. "I have no idea what Gabby thinks. Never did. She doesn't exactly put her cards on the table most of the time."

"I've noticed that," Sylvie replies. "I wonder why that is?"

He can tell her interest is earnest. She's wholeheartedly trying to fill in the puzzle that is Gabby Dawson, hoping she'll end up with a better understanding of why Dawson is the way that she is. "If you figure it out, let me know. I could never get to the bottom of it. Did I miss anything in the last few minutes?"

"No, not really. Just Grainger asking me to the Homecoming Dance." She shrugs as if that one sentence doesn't crush every bit of hope in his chest.

"Oh?" He asks, cursing inwardly as his voice pitches up an entire octave. Being outwardly disappointed won't help his case. It'll only hurt Sylvie's feelings.

"Yeah, but...I said no. He's a nice guy, for sure, but I don't feel like it would be fair to him to say yes. There's plenty of other girls who would be thrilled to go with him. I am not one of those."

He had to have heard her wrong or hallucinated or something. "You said no?"

She twists her watch band, looking away from him shyly as she nods. "I'm sort of holding out for someone else. It probably won't happen, but I don't think I could go with someone else and not feel like I was leading them on or something, you know?"

Dammit. Of course she already has someone else in mind. And he has a feeling he knows exactly who she's waiting on. But also her reasoning speaks exactly to Gabby's concerns, not that Matt ever doubted Sylvie in the first place. "I get it," he assures her. "So, who are you holding out for? Sheffield?"

Looking up and meeting his eyes again, she blushes. "No, not Kyle. He's okay, I guess. But I don't know him that well."

"Then who...who else is there?" He asks, confused.

"Oh my god," Sylvie says, rubbing a hand over her face with a grimace. "Am I really that bad at this?"

Ms. Platt, the no nonsense librarian, glares over at them from where she's leaning against the circulation desk. "Pipe down over there, will ya?"

Sylvie's eyes widen and she immediately returns to her notes. "Sorry, Ms. Platt."

"No," Matt whispers, leaning closer to her. "Wait. We're not done with this topic yet. Who else is there, Sylvie?"

"Matt," she pleads, face red with embarrassment. "Just drop it, please. Pretend I never said anything."

The blushing, the embarrassment, the hesitant way she looked away from him earlier...

"Holy shit."

"Matthew Casey," Platt huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't make me send you to Grissom's office. I'll do it."

He winces and holds his hands up in surrender. "No more outbursts. I promise."

"If you're gonna curse, whisper at least. My god," Platt mutters, forcefully unloading books from a nearby cart.

When he looks back over at Sylvie, she's slid down in her seat and hidden her face behind her book. He cranes up to look up and over the book and notices her face is somehow an even deeper shade of red.

"You meant me," he whispers, sliding his chair over to hers to joining her in her hiding spot.

"Forget it," she urges him, speaking softly. "I thought--I thought you knew that I was -- or that you were flirting back with -- but clearly I was wrong."

He ignores the fact that she didn't finish a single sentence. To him, her meaning was clear. "No, I don't want to forget it. Sylvie, I have been flirting with you. I'm not very subtle. Never have been. I'm positive you read everything accurately. But I thought maybe you were just being nice or polite and then Gabby mentioned she'd seen you talking to Grainger and Sheffield so I just--"

"You assumed instead of asking me?"

He nods, running a hand through his hair while meeting her eyes with a sheepish expression. "Yeah, I kinda did."

"Well, if it helps," Sylvie supplies, leaning so close her forehead brushes against his. "Nothing's changed. I'm still waiting to be asked to the dance by a particular person."

He beams at her, so wide his cheeks begin to hurt. This is his moment. Before he even begins to ask, her face transforms into one as joyful as his. He's sure they look like idiots -- huddled behind a shared book and grinning like creeps -- but he can't help himself.

He really likes this girl.

"Sylvie Brett, will you go to Homecoming with me?"

"Why, Matt Casey, there's no one else I'd rather go with than you."

"Took you long enough," Platt mutters as she snatches the book out of Sylvie's hands. "If you're not gonna read this, then I'm putting it back. It's a shared reference book. Not an invisibility shield."

"Sorry, Ms. Platt," Sylvie replies, barely stifling an elated giggle.

Platt rolls her eyes and meanders by them to reach the reference section. As she passes them she murmurs, "you're a terrible liar."

"You wanna get out of here?" Matt asks, eying Platt warily. "We should make official plans without an audience."

Sylvie finally releases her giggle and the tinkling sounds causes a weird fluttery sensation in his chest. God, she's so damn cute. How is she this cute?

"Sure, the choir room should be empty right about now. Is that okay?"

"Sounds perfect."

#brettsey #sylvie brett #matt casey #matt casey x sylvie brett #everythingaddictxx #prompt fic #my fic #angellwings writes

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zaebeecee · 8 months ago

Text

Blitzø’s 13 ••

Written by @fletchingbrilliant and ZaeBeeCee

Chapter 3: The Backer & the Acrobat

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Read on AO3

•••

CW: Some violence. Other than that, idk, what you’d expect from a strip club in Hell?

•••

There weren’t a lot of things that could drag Blitzø out of bed in the morning, particularly when he had spent literal hours running around all over Hell’s rings and barely slept after that. But one guaranteed motivator for him was, and always had been, money: not money for the sake of money itself, but money for the sake of being able to do what he needed to do because Hell was expensive and there was nothing worse than being poor in this forsaken pit.

So, Blitzø was awake, he was fully dressed, and he was even out in public, drawing the occasional curious glance as he followed a set of handwritten directions through Pentagram City. It wasn’t his handwriting, and honestly, he wasn’t positive how it had shown up next to his head as he slept a handful of fitful hours on his couch. But follow the directions he did, because what else was he going to do? He needed this meeting, and possibly missing it would just lead to desperation.

He wouldn’t beg an overlord for anything, not even if his life depended on it.

Blitzø wasn’t sure where he was going—he’d never been in this part of Pentagram City before—so it was a surprise when he found himself standing in the square of a little township. It was… shockingly clean here; there was no debris or garbage, the walkways were intact, and there were even living hellblossoms in the flower beds. It took a few seconds for him to notice that so much of the architecture was skeletal, and quite literally so: many of the outdoor structures and building faces were adorned with bones, or just built with them outright. Most of them looked human (at least vaguely), but there were skulls of all shapes used as decoration, as well as wing bones, claw phalanges, and hoof-like shapes even he didn’t recognize. He looked around slowly, stopping when he saw a white, wooden sign with hand painted words on it.

Welcome to Cannibal Town.

That explains… just… so much.

The paper’s instructions led Blitzø to a boutique of some kind, a sign declaring it ‘Rosie’s Emporium’ hanging proudly (apparently, whoever Franklin was, he either wasn’t around or wasn’t welcome at the emporium anymore). He pushed his way inside, wondering if it was that Rosie and dodging around a couple of customers, and then took a moment to get his bearings and look around.

The place was absolutely crawling with well-dressed sinner women, all of them with sharp teeth and wide, empty black eyes. The shop itself seemed to be something of a catch-all, holding everything from mannequins dressed in example outfits you could order, to little pastries in glass cases, and even kitschy shit like shrunken heads on key rings.

I think Loonie might actually dig this place.

Blitzø’s instructions ended with him arriving at the emporium, so he was at a bit of a loss and trying to come up with the best solution when a tall woman in a scarlet dress approached him. She had the same teeth and the same eyes, her platinum-white hair pulled up beneath her hat, but Blitzø knew who she was: Rosie, the overlord of Cannibal Town.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Rosie greeted, the title missing the usual underscore of sarcasm that Blitzø usually received in sinner establishments. “What can I do for you?”

“You could tell me what, exactly, it is I’m doing here,” Blitzø said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card he had received along with the instructions. It was thin metal, not paper, sharp enough on the edges that he had to be careful not to cut himself with it, vantablack, and only adorned with thin red engraved lines that shaped an old human radio with stylized antlers. He offered the card to Rosie. “The name’s Blitzø. The ‘o’ is silent.”

Rosie’s face lit up in recognition before she even took the card. “Oh, yes, of course! Alastor told me he was expecting you. Right this way, Mister Blitzø.”

She returned the card to him before she led him down a small hallway off the main room. They passed some smaller rooms that appeared to be for private rentals, tea, that kind of thing, and didn’t stop until they’d reached a fairly isolated door at the end of the hall. With what Blitzø could tell of the layout, this room was as far-removed from the main street as one could get.

“He’s in here,” Rosie said. “How do you feel about coffee? That’s what he always has. I can bring you something else if it’s more to your taste.”

Blitzø shook his head and held up one hand. “No, Miss Rosie, coffee… coffee is fine. Thanks.” He didn’t plan to drink anything, anyway; he at least had enough self-preservation for that.

She nodded, then favored him with a wide and sharp smile that would probably make most other imps faint on the spot. “Good luck,” she said, before she turned and went back to her shop.

Blitzø only watched her go for a moment before he turned to the door, adjusted his coat and his brooch, and let himself inside. The room beyond the door was darker than dark, the sort of blackness he associated more with a deep pit than a room with the lights off. Without question, it was an unnatural darkness, and when he stepped in fully, the door snapped shut behind him, leaving him completely blind.

“Fuck me,” Blitzø said on instinct as he jumped slightly, looking back over his shoulder. The startle wore off quickly, like it always did; he was impossible to scare, but making him jump was one of the easiest things in Hell. “Wonderful. Atmospheric. This has got to be my favorite kind of absolute bullshit.”

“You say ‘bullshit’,” said a high tenor voice touched by the crackle of old radio effects. “I say ‘setting the mood.’”

There was a click, like a knob being turned on, and a blob of green light flickered to life on the opposite side of the room. It was filling a fireplace, Blitzø could see as his eyes adjusted, but there were no flames. The green light was soon joined by a warm reddish light that illuminated the rest of the room, though leaving the corners impossibly black.

Other than the odd lighting, the room fit the aesthetic of the boutique that joined the space. There were cozy chairs around the fireplace, tea tables, poufs and ottomans, doilies, and so many floral patterns all in muted colors and blacks. All of it, including in carpet, was of course also interwoven with images of skulls and coffins, ravens, and other symbols of death. The wall decor and coat rack, table legs, and mantle, were made from the bones of sinner and Hellborn alike, but done with a level of class and taste that demanded respect.

The chairs were unoccupied, and there was no sign of his host, until the green light flared again, and a swirl of black shadowy energy opened up beneath the biggest and cushiest armchair. Long and shimmering, slimy black tentacles shot up out of the black pit, lit by green, and a form appeared seated in the chair. The energy dissipated, and Blitzø could properly see his host.

“Welcome, welcome, Blitzø! I cannot thank you enough for coming all this way to meet with me. I imagine you've been quite busy since your release!”

“Been to Greed two separate times in the past day. Don’t recommend it.” Blitzø had no idea what to expect from the Radio Demon—it was impossible to hear a voice like that and try to imagine what sort of face Hell would craft for that sinner to wear, no matter how people tried to describe the terror of his otherworldly eyes and seemingly infinitely jointed body—but it wasn’t what he was looking at right now.

Blitzø cataloged everything he could about the overlord’s appearance in a two second once-over as he approached the other chair. The Radio Demon was what appeared to be fairly average height for a sinner, clad chin to floor in bright crimson and black, his short hair following the same color scheme in an impressive display of aesthetic commitment. Blitzø couldn’t tell if he had animalistic ears, or if that was just his hair, but he could see the small antlers and just somehow knew that they could grow big enough to gore someone. The only flesh he could see was his face, a somewhat dingy shade of dark beige, and… maybe his hands, if those red-tipped claws weren’t coming from black gloves. But it was the eyes and mouth that struck him hardest, and he knew this was what people feared about him. His eyes, red on red and glowing in the dim light of the room, and his mouth… no. His smile. Sharp, unnervingly wide, yellow teeth: it was the kind of smile you could imagine attached to a jaw that unhinged to an unfathomable degree to swallow anything, or anyone, whole.

Blitzø stopped beside the chair. “I should be the one thanking you for the quick response. I didn’t know mentioning your hatred of Lucifer would be all it took to hear back from you in two hours.”

Alastor's head flopped to the side with a cracking of vertebrae that was downright visceral. “Let's just say I'm a fan of the rebellious upstarts of the world. But tell me, just what exactly is this little scheme you've cooked up? I won't put my resources towards anything half-baked.”

“Nothing about me is half-baked except my dating life,” Blitzø said dryly, sitting across from Alastor and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the little party he’s throwing for Princess Charlotte in two months. Long fucking explanation made short, I’m going to rob Lucifer’s Palace for the Bastinade of Life and Knowledge. I currently have three professionals signed on. What I really need is the resources to back this up, though I wouldn’t say no if you had any names tied to more people I could convince.”

The Radio Demon’s eyes glowed brighter and he very nearly purred with interest, curling his pointer on his chin. “Such a lofty goal, even if you were a Prince of Hell… I have great respect for those who take their fate in their own hands.”

“Wouldn’t let it sit anywhere else.”

“Admirable indeed.” His smile creased his eyes. Then, when his expression snapped back, the intensity in the room suddenly lessened. “I have the resources to back your little project, both of the monetary and of the more… preternatural variety. And names, yes, I have few special names in mind… So the question now becomes one of value.”

“Of course.” He wouldn’t trust a financial backer who didn’t consider that. “Which value, exactly?”

“If I'm going to put my considerable wealth and power behind your excursion, I need to understand the weight of this endeavor, why it's so very important that you embark on this dangerous quest…” Alastor leaned forward in his chair and grabbed onto Blitzø’s gaze harder than it had ever been held. “Just what are the stakes being pressed against you, Blitzø?”

Blitzø wasn’t thrown by much, but the focused intensity of that stare felt like it came from a place that rested far below Hell. He didn’t bother weighing his options; lying wasn’t smart right now, and he could tell Alastor wouldn’t want any part of their conversation leaving the room with them. “…I received a letter yesterday by courier. No idea who sent it, but they said my options are to either get the Bastinade and deliver it to them, or for them to conduct an assassination that I could have stopped.”

“And you're quite certain this assassination would be successful?”

“…yeah. I’m positive.”

Alastor sat back up, the air becoming only slightly more breathable. “Then color me convinced! You truly are committed to the cause. In which case, you should have no objection to my desire for a little… collateral. I am putting myself on something of a limb. Should the job fail, I'd like to have assurance of some reimbursement for my pains.”

Blitzø sighed, hanging his head for a moment. This was the one thing he had known was coming, but really, really hadn’t been looking forward to. “I’m not going to try to bullshit you. I know that wouldn’t go well.” He looked up at Alastor again. “You’re a sinner, you’re confined to the Pride Ring. I’m Hellborn, I’m not. I have connections in every ring, including cultural celebrities, members of the Ars Goetia, and more than one Deadly Sin. I’ve built everything I have in life alone, and because of that—aside from some rich assholes flexing their power—I’ve gotten very good at talking my way into and out of most anything I need to.” He hesitated. “If I fail, and you can ensure I get out of it alive, I’ll give you my soul.”

His eyes flashed again, his grin looked hungry. “Are you sure about that, my dear? It will be quite impossible to back out of this promise once it is made.”

“I know,” Blitzø said, unnerved by the level of seriousness he heard in his own voice. He thought, for just a moment, of a sex-drunk tenor voice sighing sleepy contentment, an avian purr underscoring it, and words that expressed a feeling of utter safety. Words he didn’t remember because he couldn’t let himself. “I’m positive.”

“Very well.” Alastor rose to his feet, and he stepped into the space between the two chairs, leaving room for Blitzø to approach. Slowly he extended his left hand, fingers slightly curled, like the open maw of a beast. When Blitzø stepped up to him, that creepy shadow magic started dancing around his feet, then spreading to be under them both. Looking down, the imp felt quite sure that he could fall into that void should the overlord think it would be more entertaining. The Radio Demon’s eyes began to shift, the sclera darkening until they turned pure black, irises deepening their rich red and morphing until they resembled radio dials. And as Blitzø had imagined, those tiny black antlers started to crack and bend, growing out like deformed tree limbs. His teeth were bigger, his smile widening until his skin split, quickly being stitched together with thick cord right before Blitzø's eyes.

His fingers uncurled just a little, beckoning to its prey.

I’m such a fucking dumbass.

Blitzø felt something unusual, alien, as he looked at the Radio Demon. It was fear, he thought, a twinge of it that made his breath shudder. But the alternative was worse.

He’s worth something. If I can save him from this… maybe it will offset the pain I forced into his life. Even if just a little.

Drawing a deep breath, Blitzø reached out, wrapping his hand around Alastor’s. The Radio Demon’s claws were sharp, his skin cold and scarred. Immediately, he felt a surge somewhere deep in his core, like something jump-starting an essential and nebulous part of himself with a burst of electricity. A heavy pain, like Blitzø hadn’t experienced since the fire, pulsed throughout his entire being, but he couldn’t release Alastor’s hand or curl in on himself. He couldn’t even look away. He was aware of the green light that flickered in his periphery, of the way the blackness below and around him twitched and spasmed… he even thought he saw Alastor’s shadow twist in a way the man himself didn’t, like it was laughing.

How long they stood there, Blitzø didn't know. What he did know was that there definitely was laughter coming from somewhere, sometimes high pitched and manic, sometimes deep and low and rich. Then the laughter faded, the darkness faded, and it was over.

Alastor released his hand and took hold of his own lapels, straightening his jacket. He looked exactly the same as he had before, calm and content. “Oh, I am so terribly excited about this! It has been too long since I've had a real jamboree to cut loose and have some real fun!”

Blitzø drew a breath that hurt his chest, like he’d just run six miles from an angry herd of steeds in Wrath. “Oh, it’ll be a fucking party, all right, I’m planning to make every branch of Hell’s ruling class mad in one way or another. And your insight will be… very useful. It’s been need-to-know when I’ve talked to the ones I’ve recruited, but I guess you’d be the definition of needing to know.”

“That I would.” Alastor snapped his fingers and a bright pink business card appeared in his hand in a puff of green flame. He handed the card to Blitzø. “Meet me at this club later tonight. I'll arrange for you to meet my first recommendation.”

Blitzø raised his eyebrow as he looked it over. Pandora’s Boxxx, huh? He glanced up at Alastor. “…is this a card for a strip club?”

“Clothing is generally removed as part of the dance numbers, yes. I believe they commit open sex acts on the premises regularly as well, so prepare accordingly for your seating comfort. As for me, I'm bringing my own chair.”

Blitzø snorted in amusement, an actual smirk revealing some of his teeth. “Noted. I can’t wait to see what kind of hooker is impressive enough to make your rec list.”

He raised a brow. “My friend, you will not be disappointed.”

Then the Radio Demon gave a dramatic bow, he was surrounded in tenebrous tendrils once more, and he was sucked into the floor. Once Alastor was gone, the shadows had receded from the corners of the room, and the fireplace went dark. Blitzø was on his own again.

Blitzø waited until everything had receded, then flopped backwards into the chair with a loud groan. “Fuck me sideways,” he hissed. He had no idea what kind of weight there was behind Alastor calling him ‘friend’, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, he called Loona, aware she wouldn’t be awake yet. When her voicemail picked up, he smiled a little, even though he didn’t feel it. “Hey Woonie. Gonna be out late tonight, don’t eviscerate me when I come back in the middle of the night.” He opened his mouth to continue, thought better of it, and just hung up.

•••

Pandora’s Boxxx was an establishment utterly emblematic of the kind of grimy, foul cesspool in which the denizens of Pentagram City were forced to dwell. The tiles on the floor squished into the foundation when stepped on, the scent of mold assaulted the nostrils every moment they weren't overtaken by cheap pot and even cheaper perfume. The stage and the bar were both upheld by nothing more than a whisper and a half-used cigarette. What drew Alastor here in the first place had nothing to do with the building itself, nor the owner, nor the type of business they ran. It was a single performer, one he'd seen once on another stage, and after that performance, had resolved to track him down and follow his career. He had not expected this sort of gig to be the next step in the actor's ascension through Hell’s entertainment world, but when was Hell ever fair, especially to those with real talent?

Still he came to watch frequently, curiously, slowly cultivating thoughts and plans that remained somehow aimless. Perhaps this strange plot the enterprising imp had brought to him was the culmination of his meandering intent. Not by way of fate or destiny, of course; Alastor was certain that what others perceived as fate was nothing more than either coincidence or a result of individual energies finding their way to each other. Those who controlled ‘fate’ were the ones with strong enough will to channel their energy in the right direction. That was what he was doing now. That was what he had always done. Blitzø had handed him a unique opportunity with this proposal, and he was only too eager to take full advantage.

It was almost sad. He found the imp fairly impressive, and most amusing. Such a shame that trusting the Radio Demon to any extent was tantamount to suicide.

Alastor paid the cover for both himself and his guest, then guided Blitzø to the side table where he usually sat. There were indeed a few patrons fornicating noisily in scattered locations about the room, others drinking and smoking and snorting whatever they could get their claws on. Others still were banging on the end of the dilapidated stage, hollering the word angel over and over again.

He conjured up a chair and pulled it up to the shabby table, sitting with a grin and gesturing for his new friend to join him.

“Quite a rustic little hideaway, wouldn't you say?”

“Rustic’s sure a word you could say.” Blitzø took the offer, his gently glowing yellow eyes cutting around the room sharply; it wasn’t the darting glance of a caged animal, but the calculating assimilation of swaths of information that should have been common among the criminally inclined, but so frequently wasn’t. Just as that morning, he showed no hesitation or reservations in his surrounding of sinners or in being in the direct scope of the Radio Demon’s attention. Blitzø feared nothing, that much was obvious, but whether it was cockiness, ignorance, or something else remained to be seen.

The imp withdrew a pack of cheap cigarettes from the inside of his jacket and held one in his teeth, igniting it with the blue flame of a lighter that bore one of the symbols of the Lust Ring. He kept his eyes on the loudest of the demons, watching them bang on the stage and continue their chant. “Do I wanna know what the fuck they’re yelling ‘angel’ for? I’d think that’d be a four letter word in Pentagram City.”

“In most cases, you would be absolutely correct,” Alastor said, withdrawing his own hand-rolled black cigarettes, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. He continued to casually observe Blitzø, cataloging every gesture and every glance. “They are calling out for the best performer a dive like this has ever seen, and certainly better than it deserves. He's known as Angel Dust.”

“A great performer named PCP, huh?” Blitzø asked with a raised eyebrow. Despite his casual tone, he seemed quite focused. Interested, though not in the way the hormonal masses tended towards when in establishments like this. “…think I’ve heard the name before.”

The lights dimmed, a roaring cheer rising from the chanting demons as the ragged velvet curtain opened with a creak and a low, rolling carpet of dry ice fog. They were favored with the sight of someone sitting on the floor of the stage, backlit brightly enough to cast them into full silhouette, their body leaned back against a pole and one hand extended over their head to rest against the metal. As their fingers trailed down the pole, as though to simulate stroking along flesh, a countertenor voice cut over the heads of the patrons in a song that began a capella.

“And now, the purple dusk of twilight time

Steals across the meadows of my heart.

High up in the sky, the little stars climb,

Always reminding me that we’re apart.”

In the darkness of the silhouette, eight glowing magenta eyes opened to another raucous cry from the gathered demons. The house band, which was nowhere near adequate enough for that voice, began to play as the silhouette slowly spread out six delicate, thin arms that stretched and bent and twisted like reeds along a riverbank.

“You wander down the lane and far away,

Leaving me a song that will not die.

Love is now the stardust of yesterday,

The music of the years gone by.”

The lights began to rise just as Angel Dust took hold of the pole and somehow used it to get to his feet, fluidly swinging his body once around the pole and, in doing so, lifting himself from a seated position on his hip to standing on one foot. His attire was the same aesthetic as he always wore in this club, his white skin and fur and its pale pink adornments wrapped in black and hot pink leather straps and panels that just barely left his body to the imagination.

Angel Dust took hold of the pole with two hands and, without so much as a stutter to his voice, swung himself around and up to twist himself around the metal, bending his body in ways that sent his loyal fans into fits. Everything was slow and deliberate, none of the typical high-energy theatrics so common in these establishments, but that only seemed to drive the audience further towards hormonal frenzy.

“Sometimes I wonder why

I spend the lonely nights

Dreaming of a song.”

Alastor's attention was perhaps just as occupied as that of the drooling masses, but his obsessive focus was of a different nature. Everything the sinner did had such a powerful intent, even when Angel Dust himself didn't seem to be aware of it. His voice—his words—were a haunting music that carried him back to the days when he desperately held onto his radio, tuning it carefully in order to hear every sweet note the jazz cats were crooning just for him.

He allowed himself to glance at Blitzø, curious how the fledgling team’s mastermind was analyzing Alastor's recommendation.

Blitzø was focused, his arms folded on the table, one of his scarred fingers moving along the wood like he was writing something on the grain with his claw while leaving no markings behind. Alastor heard him say a few disconnected words, namely ‘tall’, ‘flexible’, and something that sounded like ‘but fizz could’, but what that meant wasn’t exactly clear.

“The melody haunts my reverie,

And I am once again with you,

When our love was new,

And each kiss an inspiration;

But that was long ago,

And now my consolation

Is in the stardust of a song.”

As Angel Dust made another graceful arc around the pole, there was a loud noise on the rickety stage as one of the patrons decided to make an inadvisable move and rush the spider demon, and almost instantly, the house band stopped playing. In most clubs, the bouncers would deal with such rabble, but he was much too close to Angel Dust for the security to react in any sort of timely fashion.

Not that it mattered, of course.

Angel Dust’s eyes went to his amorous attacker, and the moment the sinner was close enough, he stretched one of his long legs out and slammed the tall heel of his boot into the demon’s face. As he fell to the stage, Angel Dust gracefully flipped himself off the pole and landed with hardly any sound. He walked calmly over to the demon and kicked him hard enough that he rolled over onto his stomach. Reaching down, Angel Dust grabbed him by the horn, the collar, the waistband, and one thigh, and braced a fifth hand on the pole before he swung the club menace like a battering ram until his face bashed into the metal around which the spider had just been gracefully twirling himself.

There was an appreciative groan from the audience, and Angel Dust repeated the motion twice more, the sound of the sinner’s face hitting the pole growing more visceral each time. Then, with blood splattered on the metal, the stage, and the pristine white of his own body, Angel Dust flung the demon back into the audience, where the other patrons just let him fall to the floor.

Blitzø’s staring had taken on a completely different tone, his eyes wide and his back straighter. “…okay, never mind, Fizz definitely wouldn’t do that, fuck,” he said loud enough for Alastor to hear.

Angel Dust raised his face to the audience, flecks of red now dotting one cheek and the side of his nose, like the blood was imitating the freckles he had on his shoulders. He smiled, showing his sharp teeth, and his magenta eyes flashed in a brief display of manic joy.

“Beside the garden wall,

When stars are bright,

You are in my arms.”

The band began to play once more, and Angel Dust continued his dance as though nothing had interrupted him.

Twinkling in shadows, glittering throughout the darkest night, a blood-stained display of the heavens. You are not Angel Dust.

You are Stardust.

As the song concluded, Alastor swept up to his feet and gave a vigorous applause. It was only a stunned moment before the rest of the crowd joined in, also throwing money, condoms, and other miscellaneous paraphernalia onto the stage at Angel Dust’s feet. Alastor took the opportunity to stride up to the stage, withdrawing a folded note wrapped in several large bills. Instead of throwing it to the stage, he held it up between two fingers, blowing a fragrant cloud of clove and tobacco to attract the spider’s attention.

Those eyes cut to him curiously, one eyebrow raising, before Angel Dust gracefully turned on the ball of his foot and took a couple of steps towards him, dropping onto his knees and one set of hands on the wooden stage once at the edge. He tilted his head like an inquisitive cat, but he smirked, one hand reaching out to take the offering with still-bloodstained fingers. “Thanks, Smiles.”

He remembers me?

Alastor’s smile hitched to the side in return, and he pressed the wrapped note into Angel Dust’s bloody palm.

“A brutally phenomenal performance, sha,” he said with a wink, and before the dancer could say another word, he turned on his heel and strode back to Blizø.

He could feel Angel Dust watching him go, just for a moment, before he heard the spider return to collecting what off the stage he wanted and provocatively egging the demons on to throw more money.

Once he arrived back at the table, Blitzø put out the stump of his own cigarette. “Never seen a stripper take out a harasser quite like that. I get why he interests you.”

“He certainly has potential,” Alastor said, unsure what the imp was trying to imply. He sat and took a deep drag. “I never like to leave true potential untapped.”

Blitzø, oddly, laughed at that. “Well, he sure looks open to being tapped, that’s for sure. And I get the feeling you wouldn’t get a heel in the face for trying.”

Alastor tilted his head and squinted at Blitzø. His peering didn't give him any further insight into what he could have meant. He gave up, and his head snapped back up. “You certainly have an odd way about you! Perhaps your more… modern social sensibilities will assist in our negotiations!”

Blitzø raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you— wow,” he cut himself off with a mutter, his other eyebrow going up. “Yeah, probably. Of course, I’ve been reliably told I’m a massive asshole, so let’s hope your new potential acquisition isn’t easily offended.”

“Don't worry,” he assured his new business partner, watching as Angel Dust vanished behind the curtains once more, his eyes narrowing keenly. “This one's skin is far tougher than it looks.”

•

“Good job, baby, you got ‘em all fired up!”

“Yo, Angie, I don’t think that bitch got teeth no more!”

“Oh, fuck, Angel, I’ll give ya a quarter’a my next tips iffin ya do that to Marco when he shows up again!”

Angel Dust weaved his way through the people backstage, dodging performers and stage hands and costumers and one very lost-looking PA, acknowledging everyone who called out to him while his mind was quite thoroughly occupied elsewhere. He ducked through a clothes rack parked in the middle of the back hall and went straight into his dressing room.

That voice. There ain’t no fuckin’ way.

Sitting at his vanity, Angel began withdrawing the bills he’d gathered from his tit fluff and his pleather outfit, giving each one a perfunctory tug to straighten it out and stacking them next to his makeup. Focus on that. So many ones, a handful of fives, more than a couple of twenties… not bad for a single set, he thought.

His fingers touched bills that weren’t a wadded mess, and he pulled some neatly folded bills out of his fluff, his mind immediately going back to glowing red eyes and that wide, dangerous smile. Angel had seen that man before, several times, always lurking in the shadows and smoking his black cigarettes and sitting in a chair that definitely didn’t belong to the club. He didn’t seem to get all horned up, he didn’t get rowdy, he never approached the dancers… and, from what Angel could tell, nobody else ever noticed him during their sets.

But Angel sure as Hell did. The ever-smiling man—whom Angel had been mentally referring to as ‘Smiles’, for lack of an actual name and a want of creativity—had seized his attention one evening, and ever since Angel had realized that he kept coming back, he got to where he looked for him. He looked so… dapper. Dignified, almost, except for the air of death and confident violence that he seemed to carry with him everywhere. He couldn’t help wondering what the fuck a demon like that (an overlord, Angel guessed) was doing, frequenting such a seedy, gross haunt. It made him curious.

And now, Smiles had spoken to him, with a voice that Angel couldn’t make himself believe he had recognized, because there was no fucking way that the Radio Demon kept coming back to this disgusting dive and gave him—

Angel’s breath caught when he finally unfolded the bills. His eyes landed on the number ‘100’ on the first one, his disbelieving brain trying to come up with what possible fucking reason there would be for any customer who wasn’t rawdogging him for three straight days to give him this much money. It took a moment for him to notice the note, and he unfolded it, quickly looking over the handwritten words.

You want me to meet you at your table, huh, Smiles? You didn’t strike me as the exhibitionist type, but what do I know?

Angel quickly gathered up all of his money, folding it all neatly with the large bills distributed throughout the stack of mostly singles, and put it in his little purse before he quickly changed out of his costume. He took a moment to clean the blood off and touch up his makeup, then pulled on his street clothes. He was off, so he didn’t want to deal with the manager trying to accuse him of going over in time by just hanging out on the floor.

Curiosity mingled with trepidation and a sense of impending danger as Angel left his dressing room and headed through the staff door that led to the small kitchen, then through another door that opened up beside the club’s bar. Angel scanned the crowd, his eyes landing on his target after only a moment, and he headed straight for the table. Thankfully, nobody harassed him, probably because they didn’t want to get their faces bashed against a stripper pole.

Angel saw there was an empty chair set at the table, and it seemed his prey had company. An imp? A well-dressed imp, at that. Interesting. The spider took hold of the back of the empty chair and pulled it out, sliding into place and crossing his legs before leaning forward on one set of arms.

“Hey,” he said in an open flirtation, looking between the two of them. Smiles was absolutely just as handsome as Angel had been afraid he would be, and his companion was… probably the hottest imp Angel had ever laid eyes on. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Smiles’ signature grin widened and his head tilted at a strange angle while he mimed tipping a hat. “Evening, sha. I've been observing your show for some time now, and I'm very impressed with your abilities. As such, my associate and I have a very special proposition for you, one for which you'll be handsomely compensated.”

Angel licked his teeth. This was getting fun; he could take a sinner and an imp at the same time no problem. “Oh, I’ve noticed you, sunshine. And I do like the sound of… handsomely compensated.”

The imp offered him a cigarette, which he accepted, and lit it for him with a blue-flame cigarette that turned the ember a pretty indigo. “We can see you’re not afraid of violence. How do you feel about other crimes?”

“Shit’s only illegal if you get caught,” Angel said, taking a small drag. “And if you two are lookin’ for a rough time, I can totally do that, but I ain’t a practiced dominatrix. Usually got those roles reversed.”

Smiles waved a casual hand. “I can assure you Blitzø is quite the capable taskmaster. You will not be required to assume a leadership position at any point during the operation.”

“Oh, okay. Great,” Angel said with a shrug. “Suits me fine.”

The imp, who must have been Blitzø, glanced at Smiles before looking at Angel and smirking. “Taskmaster’s definitely a word for it,” he said with a light purr, and oddly, Angel actually felt some of his fur stand up at that (and what the fuck was up with that?). “I’m thinking we’re getting crossed wires here, though.”

Angel tilted his head. “How’s that?”

Blitzø held his finger up, then looked at his companion. “I’m more than willing to keep this up, because it’s funny, but I really have to ask. Are you aware how much this sounds like we’re talking about sex?”

The sinner turned his head to look at Blitzø, still smiling as he always seemed to do, but it quirked in a way that suggested confusion. “Does it? That was not my intention in the slightest!”

Angel couldn’t help it; he snorted, an amused grin forcing its way onto his face. Normally, it would have been kind of offensive to be dismissed like that, but Alastor’s reaction was too ridiculous to be anything but a little funny. Blitzø sighed, gesturing at Angel with an open palm. “Alastor. When you give a hooker—” Angel raised one hand and wiggled his fingers in greeting “—a shitload of money and say you have a proposition for them, in a strip club, with the promise of more money, why the fuck would it not mean sex?”

He blinked, glowing red eyes wide. “I… had not considered that particular nuance! Allow me to rephrase.” He looked back at Angel as Blitzø made an ‘of course’ sort of eye roll. “My name is Alastor, and this is my associate Blitzø. We have a non-sexual job proposition for you. It is extremely dangerous, and requires the utmost secrecy.”

When was the last time he had the opportunity to make real money that wasn’t choking down some stranger’s body part? “Ooh, secret danger job I don’t gotta do on my back or my knees? You absolutely got my attention,” Angel said, putting his elbows on the table and folding his hands under his chin. “Alright, Mister Radio Demon, Mister Dapper Imp, I’m listenin’.”

There were zero people paying attention, Angel didn’t need his near-supernatural sense of auras to tell that; it was almost like their table had suddenly become invisible. He wondered if one of them—Alastor, he assumed—had done something to ensure their privacy. Blitzø leaned in a little, smirking up at him. “I’m planning a fun week of larceny. A complicated heist, you might call it. And Alastor here thought you’d be a perfect candidate for the team. I’m inclined to agree, because I can see how your physical skills would be very useful.”

“Aww, I missed a good organized crime plan,” Angel said, full of a sudden wave of nostalgia for his living mafia days. “I’m flattered, boys, but I gotta ask… who the fuck’re you lookin’ to knock over that’ll take a week and a big complicated plan?”

The imp’s grin widened. “Lucifer Morningstar.”

Immediately, Angel choked on the cigarette smoke and took a few seconds to cough. “What?!” he wheezed, pressing one hand to his sternum.

Alastor raised one hand and put the other (still holding his cigarette) over his heart. “Not to fear, my dear, we will be enlisting the aid of the most capable demons, and as the backer, I will be on hand to ensure that all of you are as safe as can be… under the circumstances.” His reassuring smile suddenly turned downright diabolical.

Angel laughed disbelievingly, making eye contact with Alastor and shaking his head slowly. “Holy shit… you two are nuts, y’know that?”

“It’s been suggested,” Blitzø said.

“Before I agree, I wanna know somethin’,” Angel said, tapping the table. “You said a week. Seven days. Are you talkin’ about that big party that’s supposed to be goin’ down at Lucifer’s Palace?” When Blitzø nodded, Angel pointed another hand at Alastor. “Then I want an extra assurance. From you, as the backer, and also as an overlord. Not a deal,” he added quickly and firmly, “just an assurance.”

One devilishly arched brow raised. “And what might that be, sha?”

“I know that this shit’s gonna be drawin’ all the biggest names from every corner of Hell,” Angel said. “I do not, at any point, want to be in a position where I’m alone with the porn overlord, Valentino. If you can’t gimme that assurance, I ain’t goin’.”

Blitzø frowned. “Weirdly specific.”

“And non-negotiable. He’s been tryin’ to get me to sign on to a contract with VoxTek, and he’s apparently real fuckin’ determined for some reason. I even got an offer to perform at that party a couple days back, which I ain’t answered because of this very issue.”

“Hmm…” Alastor steepled his fingers and leaned forward, then took a very pregnant pause before coming to a decision. “I can give you that assurance. But bear in mind, if you stray from my recommendations to ensure this safety in any way, this protection cannot be guaranteed. Are we understood?”

“Fine,” Angel said with a shrug of one shoulder, watching Alastor through lidded eyes, before he glanced at the imp. “Well, then, if Smiles keeps up his end of the bargain, I ain’t got any other issues. Sure, I’m in, Boss.”

“Bitchin’,” Blitzø said with a manic grin. “We’ll be doing some work before the party itself, of course. Gimme your number so I can get in touch with you.”

Angel smirked at him before reaching into his clutch and withdrawing his phone, tapping it against Blitzø’s to share the contact. “I don’t give that to just anybody, baby, you’d better behave yourself.”

“I always behave exactly the way I need to,” Blitzø said, his smile turning devious.

The spider suppressed a sigh, wondering if he was going to end up sleeping with the imp before, during, or after the party, because it was fuckin’ happening. “You boys need anything else? I gotta get home and feed my hellpig before he panics, thinks I’ve disappeared forever, and starts eatin’ all my leather.”

“Merely the promise of a dance at the opening ceremony,” Alastor said, rising and causing the chair he'd been sitting in to vanish in a swirl of blackness. He extended his hand to Angel Dust, palm up, the overlord bent over at the waist. “I so rarely get to swing it with a competent partner.”

Angel couldn’t decide if he wanted to frown or smile, which ended up with his brow furrowed and lips quirked. He reached out, placing his hand in Alastor’s palm; his skin was chilled, but oddly soft. “Well now. I’d be honored.”

His smile—somehow—grew almost warm. Alastor helped Angel to his feet, then bowed fully and placed a fleeting kiss on his knuckle. His lips were cracked and chapped, but between the cracks, they were soft, too.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, no.

Angel returned Alastor’s smile, keeping his expression light and flirtatious the way he had learned to do at all times. “See you soon, Smiles. …Boss,” he said, casting that smile to Blitzø before he offered both of them a light wave and sashayed out of the club.

It really was a better deal than working at that shitty strip joint. Angel loved dancing, of course, but he wanted to play classier places, and he had honestly missed the thrill of a good organized crime scene more than he wanted to admit.

Stealing from King Lucifer himself while under special protection from the Radio Demon… what the fuck had he gotten himself into?

•

Sinners were a special breed.

Blitzø wondered if that came from them being human, or if it was specifically because they were shitty humans (according to the lore, anyway, he had no idea how a human soul got tossed down here). Whatever it was, all either Alastor or Angel Dust had needed was to be told about the crime and to receive their own guarantees for individual investment concerns; they didn’t have to be convinced like Fizz, Millie, or Moxxie had.

He never would have thought recruiting from Pentagram City was a good idea. He supposed contacting the Radio Demon had been a better investment than he had originally imagined.

“Well, that’s six,” Blitzø said, once Angel Dust had left the club; he raised his voice enough to try and pull Alastor’s eye away from the door. “This is shaping up faster than I anticipated.”

“Very impressive progress,” Alastor said, only then finally pulling his gaze forward. Then it was as though he had never gotten distracted at all. “I think it's time we discuss how we are to proceed from here. For one thing, you are going to need a team of thirteen, including yourself.”

“Thirteen?” Blitzø asked. “Okay, I’ll bite: why the fuck? Also, do you count?”

“I do, and…” He flashed a huge grin. “...thirteen is a lucky number.”

That was a good enough reason for him. “Alright, so then, we need seven more.” Blitzø frowned a little. Loona remained out of the question, which meant… “I’m not positive I know seven more people who are ‘not mad’ at me to the point that they’d stop being a whiny little fuck long enough to listen. I already fuckin’ pushed that line with one of these bitches. And, besides, a lot of my other contacts are in a Prince’s court. …or a Goetian house. Either way, conflict of interest.”

Alastor gave Blitzø a keen look that lasted only a moment. “We need not consort with demonic royalty. Magical knowledge will be vital, but I am more than capable of providing in that department. With Angel Dust we have an acrobat. You're the mastermind. What other specialties have you covered thus far?”

“So far, I’ve got Fizzarolli, our con man, who tells me that he already has an in because Mammon’s booked him to perform. He’s personable, popular, an accomplished liar, and since he’s a clown any goofy shit he does will be taken at face value. Our pickpocket is Moxxie, son of a mafia don and an invited guest. He’s the only guy I’ve ever known who can mop a ring of keys off the belt of a Greed prison guard while still locked in a cell and the guard is awake. Also a sharpshooter, if that comes up. And our bruiser is Millie, who I ran a few jobs with in Wrath. She’s like half my size and I’ve watched her start out unarmed and single-handedly take out a group of fifteen sharks. She’s also Vox’s head of floor security at the Palace, and she hates her boss, so she’s figuring out how to provide blueprints and schematics without being noticed.”

“She hates Vox?” Alastor said gleefully. “I think I'm in love.”

“Oh, she’s a big fan of your radio program,” Blitzø said with a smirk. “Tells me all about how she’s improving her torture techniques through your advice. We can hold the wedding after the job’s done.”

Alastor clasped his hand to his chest, setting the other against his brow like a fainting diva. “I can hardly stand the wait.” He chuckled. “I must say I'm impressed. Our first four idiots might stand a chance at surviving this ordeal! Now, to cover some more bases… We'll need a demolitions expert to handle some of the more physical obstructions to our goal, someone skilled with… hrk– modern technology… an informant to feed us intelligence both before and during the event… a proper croupier to cover the gambling floor… you need a personal bodyguard, preferably one with especially keen senses… a wild card to cover anything we haven't thought of… …and someone with angelic expertise.”

Blitzø blinked at him a couple of times. “Well. …fuck.” Those all made perfect sense, and he hadn’t actually considered a bodyguard for himself. And angelic expertise? Where the fuck would be find that? “Don’t suppose you have anywhere you could point me.”

The Radio Demon’s smile was both devious and insufferably smug. “Over the next few days I will be sending you instructions for meetings with the prospects I have selected. Your responsibility will be to convince them to join our crusade.”

Blitzø raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Then… I’ll give you my number, it’s the easiest way to get a hold of me,” he said as he started to pull his phone back out.

“Oh no.” Alastor stuck a firm hand out to stop Blitzø. “Don't worry, I will deliver the information to you directly…”

He leaned down, his head starting to rotate like the hands of a clock. His eyes became radio dials again, and shadows lapped at their cheeks.

“...no matter where you are.”

Blitzø stared at him, slowly tucking his phone back into his pocket. So that was the Radio Demon he’d heard so much about; he’d thought Alastor didn’t quite fit the physical vibe he’d anticipated. The imp watched the dials in his eyes tick a couple of times, raising one hand to smack at a tendril of shadow that touched the edge of his facial scar. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re an unbelievably creepy motherfucker?”

For a second it looked like time had frozen around Alastor. Everything stopped moving. Then he blinked, his eyes reverted back to normal, and he stood up straight, adjusting his jacket. But the shadows remained, beginning to swallow him up as he finished his speech. “Strange. That usually makes imps beg for death. You're a fascinating creature, Blitzø. I cannot wait to see how this all… plays… out.”

With a theatrical laugh that faded into a distant giggle, the Radio Demon vanished.

Blitzø watched him go, the shadows dissipating along the floor and retreating into the corners. He pulled out his pack of smokes and his Ozzie’s lighter again, placing one of the cigarettes between his teeth.

“Good job, fuckstick. If you fail, he’s going to make for one incredibly annoying the rest of your life.”

•••

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#my writing #helluva blitzo #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #hazbin rosie #helluva boss fanfiction #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hellaverse fanfiction #stolitz #radiodust

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