#loan against plot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peachdues · 6 months ago

Text

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 🫡

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

4K notes · View notes

niqhtlord01 · 7 months ago

Text

Humans are weird: Best form of Revenge

Alien: What is the best way to get back at someone you despise?

Human: Why are you asking me?

Alien: Because humans are renowned for their ability to plan elaborate revenge schemes against those who have slighted them.

Human: On behalf of the human race I am offended by that.

Alien: I have witnessed you slowly drive your co-worker insane by moving everything in their office one inch to the left every day for 3 months.

Human: To be fair I only kept doing that because they refused to pay me back my $1.50 I loaned them for lunch.

Alien: *Stares at human with mocking eyebrows

Human: Fine, I see your point.

Human: Alright, here is what you do….

Alien: Wait, do you not wish to know why I want revenge?

Human: No.

Alien: Really?

Human: Yes.

Alien: Oh….okay.

Alien: So what should I do?

Human: Ignore them.

Alien: What?

Human: Ignore them, diminish them; make them feel beneath your notice.

Alien: That seems rather childish for an elaborate revenge plot.

Human: That is because I haven’t expanded it.

Human: If they come to you to gloat about something they did, anything, ask them who they are.

Human: When they explain who they are and how you should know them, still act like you have no idea who they are.

Human: If they continue to persist about how you should know them simply, and this is important, shrug and say “If you say so”, and then leave.

Alien: How is this revenge?

Human: Because in their eyes now they will think that they need to prove themselves somehow for you to notice them.

Human: Like a kid trying to win his drunken father’s affection.

Alien: That’s rather dark.

Human: So is revenge; keep up.

Human: Now they will continue to come back to you day after day trying to win your notice and you will continue to dismiss them or give them the bare minimum attention.

Human: If you want to get further under their skin start talking up someone else in their presence; someone who you would consider more of a rival then they are.

Alien: How would that work?

Human: Like this. *In mocking alien voice “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ve done rather well for yourself; but not as much as Thomson on the 3rd floor. That bastard has been upselling me all week and I’m convinced he’s the one stealing my parking space.”

Alien: What good will that do to bring in someone else?

Human: By actually acknowledging someone who your target thinks is beneath them, they will further become enraged as you’ve just reinforced how little they appear on your radar.

Alien: And that works?

Human: Indeed.

Human: You need to treat your displeasure towards someone as gift to them, for you have deemed their existence worthy of acknowledgement.

Alien: Alright, I guess I could give it a shot.

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

*Two Months later

Human: So how’s the revenge going?

Alien: I’m not sure.

Human: What do you mean you’re not sure?

Alien: I mean they came up to me today and offered to have sex with me.

Human: Oh….in that case they must be very desperate for you to notice them.

Alien: What should I do?

Human: If you want to keep up with the revenge have sex with them, then afterwards don’t speak with them.

Human: If they come up to you and demand an explanation say that the sex was so bad you wanted to forget that moment by never speaking with them again.

Alien: ……………….

Alien: Who broke you to make you so devious?

Human: *Grins as they sip their drink

Human: I’m human; we were made broken.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #funny #revenge #long game #scifi

2K notes · View notes

kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

Note

Hi !!!! I’m sorry if this is bothering you and if so you can totally ignore this but…

I’ve been thinking about how Ghost would react to reader gradually pulling away from him because she gained some weight and is self conscious and ashamed and doesn’t want to be seen by him, so sculpted and beautiful… but of course he’s feeling low because he wants to be close to reader and so he asks and she finally explains it to him (ready to be broken up with…)…. And I’d love to read your take on it !

You can make it female or gender neauteal I don’t really care !!!! Thank you anyway ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Wildflowers Grow in Ruins

(Ghost x F!Reader, word count: 5 k)

Summary: Reader tries to break up with Ghost because she thinks she's not good enough for him.

Tags/warnings: FLUFF, soft sensual smut 🔞, hurt/comfort, light angst, Jealous!Ghost, Soft!Ghost, self-loathing & self-body shaming. Good girl talk/praise kink. Reader is female and wears a skirt for smut plot purposes.

A/N: I hope you like this take & I hope you don't mind that I tweaked this request just a little bit!) Also: JFC I'm wordy. The "I need to explain why they're fucking!" meme comes to mind every time I write anything.

Wars are exhausting.

You know fighting for something can empower people. Fighting against something usually just depletes your strength.

But waging a war against yourself…

Now that is pure hell.

It started somewhere in your youth. You thought adulthood would take it away; that reason and tolerance would take it away. You were supposed to feel more confident in yourself, more positive about life. And for a moment, you thought you might just succeed.

But standing beside a god of war is no easy feat.

He came into your life like a walking myth, swept you away, and you only laughed as you went. It was fun at first. He was supposed to be your savior, the solution to all your problems. If a man like him found you attractive, perhaps it was the world that was crooked and not you.

But then you got soft: you started to gain pounds. Meanwhile, he became even more magnificent. It reminded you that it had all been just a dream.

Perhaps it was his eyes that seemed to worship you, that seemed to look past your every flaw. Perhaps it was the hands which never seemed to get enough of your skin. Whatever it was, it was too much. And at the same time, never enough.

The day has finally come to let him go.

You think yourself heroic. It's like it should be: it's only right that you finally release him to someone better than you.

But inside, the noble feelings twist and turn and curl around your throat and stuff your stomach full of ice - the kind they fill glasses of mojito with. The drink you'll always remember him by because he teased you about it: that you wanted an ice-cold summer drink even in the middle of winter.

Now you feel cold all over, and wish he could warm you like he used to.

You would forsake all the mojitos of the world to keep him. You would renounce the whole drink if it came to that; if you could make him yours.

But he's not yours. He never was: he was just on loan to give you a taste of what it would be like to have a man like him. That taste should be more than enough for a lifetime. You should feel grateful.

So why is it so hard to let go?

The key on the front door turns, and your heart shoots up your throat: you're supposed to settle this thing once and for all. You're supposed to let go of him today.

And still, when he arrives, you can't find the courage to say what you need to say. The words are stuck in your throat, but tears are not. He should already be a memory, but you find yourself suffocating on memories as you cry. You've learned to do even that in silence, like the rest of your suffering.

You take a few deep breaths, wipe the tears away, shove the rest of them down your throat – you save them for later, later, when he's far away and you can finally curl up and cry your heart out without no one there to look. Fucking later.

Good.

Great.

You put your heaviest armor on. It protects weak and soft flesh because you can't meet him all bare. Then you step forward with the knowledge that you’re a thoroughly wounded guerrilla while he is a seasoned, well-rested veteran. The fight is nowhere near even, but it's ok. You are not meant to be in the presence of immortals anyway.

The man looks at you warily as you finally enter the room. That haunted look has followed you for some time now as the distance between you has grown.

It should be easy, what is about to come, because he hasn't touched you in weeks. You haven't wanted him to.

Or you have… But it's not easy to have his hands on you when your body is only a vessel you hate. How can you even think about pleasure when all you think about is how it must feel for him to caress something as awful as this?

The man is a vision, and he settles for a peasant. It should be against the law, but it's not… so you figured a some time ago that you should simply find the strength and grace to do ii: do what's right.

"I need to talk to you."

Your voice comes out neutral, and it makes you more confident, if only for a second or two.

He lifts his chin: already knows what's coming, because he's not stupid. You've been shutting down for weeks, and he hasn't done much about it. But when the thunder rolls in, he doesn't flee. Probably because he fears nothing.

"Go ahead then," he says, equally as neutral, equally as icy. Got his armor on, too.

This should be easy…

It's really not, so you decide to rip the band-aid off in one yank.

"I think we should go separate ways."

The following inhale from across the room pierces the air like a bullet. You can hear his breaths gain depth and speed all the way to where you're standing.

"Ok."

It doesn't look or sound like he's ok. If anything, he looks like he's trying to process the sudden storm.

"Ok…" His eyes are on the floor as he rubs the back of his neck. Then he starts to pace around the little kitchenette you've shared for almost six months, just before you started gaining weight.

He stops to look out the window, then turns to you, and the hurt in his stare comes through like a thousand needles pushing through skin.

"Is it because of my work?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

Your breaths are getting out of hand, too. He looks like a lost, tired creature in an abandoned animal shelter for a moment, and it breaks your heart. It squeezes the organ inside a flaming fist until it shatters like it has never been nothing more than ice.

Your lip starts to tremble, and he notices, as per usual. Nothing escapes this man, except perhaps the true reason for your anguish.

"Hey. Hey."

He comes to you and hugs you like it's the only thing that matters: to comfort you when he sees you're about to cry, no matter how crushed he's feeling himself. The sudden warmth, the intimacy after weeks and weeks of pain is knee-buckling.

"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

His voice is soft, so soft… The tears rush forth now; there's no way of stopping them. What the hell can you even say to a question like that? That you wish he could grab a magic wand and turn you into someone gorgeous, the woman he deserves?

His embrace feels good, kind of. It also feels smothering because your self-hate makes you want to disappear from existence entirely. His eyes are equal to physical touch, a probing scan that sees every little flaw, not to talk about massive faults, the ones which make you feel like you're simply disgusting. His touch only reminds you how you must feel like to him: soft, too soft, weak.

And he must hate weakness.

"What do you need me to do? I'll do anything," he tries with a parched throat, then swallows.

It's fucking horrible. This isn't going at all like you had imagined.

"It's not about you," you struggle out of his hold, and he lets you go with reluctance. You have to basically fight your way out of a bone and steel prison. Why would he even want to hold a pathetic woman who's on the brink of ugly crying on top of everything?

"What do you mean?"

He's slightly breathless – and restless as fuck. He's usually so calm; nothing can get to him, nothing can rattle the tower of raw strength. Now you've not only pierced some invisible armor; you can hear pieces of it falling on the floor.

"Have you found someone else?"

What the…

"No." You put as much weight on that word as you possibly can. To imagine that he thinks you are cheating… Fucking cheating on someone like him. "Jesus Christ…"

He takes a deep breath and sighs deeply, sighs out relief, perhaps. Then his razor-sharp stare fixes on you again, and you can see the fear turning into something akin to concern. You suspect you have to tell him the truth, otherwise he will dig it out of you.

"I'm just…"

Jesus, this is just humiliating.

"I'm just not your type."

"What the hell are you talking about," he mutters, the impending fury giving way to momentary surprise.

He gets intense sometimes. This time, the ferocity is born of barely concealed distress. He's broad and magnificent, even in despair. He’s just so fucking fine… The perfect man, someone you had never even imagined yourself with. Pulled down to the world of puny mortals, evidently stressing about losing one.

Losing you.

"If you have someone new, you can just bloody well tell me."

"It's not that. You don't understand–"

"Try me."

"I just…" A tear escapes down your face as you finally break for him. "I'm fat. Okay? And ugly. And–"

"Stop right there."

The look on his face is just… It's priceless, you suppose.

"Bloody fucking hell…"

He looks at the floor, then runs his fingers through the short cut hair on top of his head. You've yanked those blonde strands more times than you can count, nearly every time he's been between your legs, and you miss it – you long for it, like fallen angels long for heaven.

And if there was a time this man was rendered speechless, you would say you were witnessing that moment right now. His brows knit together, then he looks up at you again with blaring disbelief.

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"This is the reason you wanna break up?"

Ugh.

"Yes?"

His voice grows rougher with every question until it resembles thunder, and you suspect this is the commanding tone his soldiers are used to hearing.

But you're not: it's gravelly, harsh, and betrays the feeling of having been insulted. You feel even more devastated with yourself – it appears you can do nothing right.

"Where has this… idea even come to your head?"

"I don't know."

"And you never thought to ask my opinion?"

"Would you please stop yelling," you whisper and blink back some putrid tears. His mouth is snapped shut, his head pulls back just a little as he realizes what he's done.

"Sorry," he says with a half-whisper, and you catch the strain in his throat. You've never seen him cry, but now his voice is suddenly thin and frail. "I'm sorry."

He takes a step, then another, places fingertips on the counter as if to take the faintest support.

"Can I touch you?"

You don't really want him to do that, but you feel pity for the man. He's trying to find a way through this mess, and you want to help him.

"Yes," you whisper, and he immediately comes and takes you in his arms again. Hot tears disappear into his shirt, and you sniff a few times. He feels so good, so safe, even when you're about to lose him. His hold tightens around you, and the kitchen is silent; the whole world is silent. You don't know if you're being put to a grave or if you're in a deaf womb, waiting to be reborn.

"Now I don't know who's said this shite to you but ugly is the last fucking thing I'd call you," he declares above you. As if it was some bully whose fault it is that you were this way, a bully he could deal with with his fists or a gun. If only things were that easy…

"Have I said or done something? To make you feel this way?"

Then the blade is turned against himself. The man desperately searches for a culprit so he can deal with them.

"No," is the only thing you can say because it's true: he has never done a thing to make you feel like you weren't good enough; quite the contrary. But then again, he doesn't have to. It's enough that he exists and resembles a god.

"Then why do you think you're not my type?"

"Because you're so perfect," you hear yourself wail, no, cry into that shirt that smells of sweet safety and familiar musk – his scent, another thing you have missed like it's the only way to heaven.

"That for sure ain't true."

"But it is."

He seems to have the utmost difficulty in grasping what the issue here is. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head with a rusty, laborious creak.

"Can't believe you wanna break up because of this," he finally says. You've chipped his pride, the ego that lives off of pleasing the ones he loves: the few chosen ones who he wants to give his whole life to.

"To me, you're perfect," he then says, and you simply… You stop breathing. "You're like… my dream woman. Ever thought about that?"

It can't be true, even if you vehemently, desperately want it to be. You reach out to his words like they're precious food after years of famine. Like they're sun and spring rain after being buried in the cold, dark soil whole winter.

"No…?"

"Never occurred to you that I might find you fucking beautiful?"

"Stop," you whisper, because it's too much to take in. He sounds so serious, so sincere.

"No, I don't think I will."

He pulls back a little and cups your face. Brushes away a tear, looks at you with so much love that it physically hurts; you feel like it's a lance that slowly drives through your heart.

"How about I kiss every part I love about you?"

You let out a soft little whimper. Fuck, that you want him to…

It would also be uncomfortable as hell. To try and let him love you and your body, which you have grown to loathe.

"It's gonna take all night, though. Wanna be as thorough as possible."

"Simon–"

"Love. I want you. Thought I'd made it pretty clear, but apparently I haven't. If you only knew how much–"

He sighs deeply. The man is frustrated with his shortcomings, thinks that this is all his fault. You cry a tear or two just for the sake of how absurd it all is.

"I don't want you to go. I fucking love you. Everything about you."

For the second time this afternoon, your lower lip starts to tremble as if this was some stupid, romantic movie. He can be so soft when he wants to, more romantic than the soft-spoken gentlemen in Jane Austen's novels. It doesn't even require any effort: underneath the cynical surface, there's fiery emotion, so powerful and raw that it almost bleeds out of him. Fuck… Does he even know what he's doing to you?

"I love you too," you whisper back, and the warmth that starts to bloom in his eyes is an entire sun on its own. It's hope, and you believe him, almost believe him.

"Then I'd say it's a bloody bad idea to break up."

You chuckle while few more tears push through to the surface.

"Simon…" You sigh and look back up at him, your armor falling to the floor too. "I feel like a wreck."

You allow him to see the pain, all of it. His breath is sharp as it hits him, but he still doesn't waver.

"Then let me help you."

The arms around you gain more strength, and you're crushed against a chest made of power. He tries to turn shit to gold, and threatens to succeed. You allow yourself to soften in his hold. How good it feels to be supported – no, loved.

"You don't even let me touch you anymore."

It's a filed complaint, but also heart-rending, soul-wrenching longing. You have evaded him for weeks now – hell, this shit began months ago and has escalated gradually, stealthily, until the moments together were a rarity, the space between you was full of frost; and not the crispy, happy summer drink kind.

"I thought you'd found someone else. Could've found out if that was the case in minutes, but honestly, I didn't wanna know."

Oh my God…

Has he lived with a growing suspicion and dread all these months?

That would explain why he has avoided you too…

He has allowed you to go to your supposed lover, has given you space to be alone and without too much attention. The man has shielded himself from pain.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I'm so sorry," you say with a strained little breath. "I swear it's nothing like that. I just… I feel like a mess."

"Never seen such a gorgeous mess."

He speaks on your skin, the kiss on your forehead feels like an absolution.

Then you notice it's not only his words which try to assure you. He's growing harder by the minute against your stomach, just from a simple hug. Just from being pressed against you like this, after weeks of dry, bitter longing.

"Miss your taste," he murmurs to your skin, his voice like sand wrapped in burning velvet. "The sounds you make when you want it hard."

Oh God–

"Miss your smile when we go to shower after."

"Hmh…"

"Don't wanna live without that smile."

You don't have to.

God, you don't have to…

"How about we make a deal," he draws fingers down your chin, coaxing you to look up at him. His eyes are stripped from the cold distance that greeted you just moments ago: now they are filled with warmth that spreads to your chest and belly and bones. You drink him in like summertide.

"You come to me every time you feel bad and I'll make you feel good. Alright?"

"...Ok."

He tilts his head a little to the side, not entirely satisfied with your shy little answer.

"Come on. Make me believe it."

"It's a deal," you say with more grit to it, even if you're nearly crying again, this time from relief.

"That's my girl."

Oh fuck…

He knows exactly what strings to pull, the good girl talk being one of the things that instantly makes your legs feel like jelly.

And why does he always have to use that voice when he calls you a good girl or his girl, that sultry smoke that makes you want to swoon until he catches you and carries you to bed?

The man seems to be a mind reader as well, because he sweeps you off your feet and does exactly that: carries you to your bed which has mainly seen silent tears and painful sleep last months.

"Poor thing doesn't even know how lovely she is."

He sounds amused in the face of your darkness: sees it in full and still doesn't fear at all. He's ready to battle your demons for you, and you feel like shaking: from his touch and that voice, from the stress and loneliness that starts to release as he lays you down on the bed.

He looks so different from the man that has haunted this place for the past months, the complete opposite of the reserved soldier retreating into the shadows.

He moves to kiss you, and it's been – what? Weeks since your last kiss? And even that was only a quick peck, nothing like this… Wet, and desperate; a devouring. It makes you clench around nothingness, and you finally surrender.

No one can fake such fervor.

You try to accept it: accept the fact that even if you hate yourself, he does not. For some reason, he adores you. His breaths hit your face hot and urgent, and he can't keep his hands to himself anymore. They wander over your waist and hips, they even risk to steal a feel of your breasts, and then he groans in your mouth.

"I've missed you. Fuck, I've missed you..."

You taste notes of burning leaves; tobacco, his only weakness. You fantasize on the thought that you might be another weakness, too.

"Remember when I fucked you in my office?"

"I've missed you too," you utter softly in between the kisses that threaten to turn into a sloppy mess. "So much..."

He smiles at that, and it makes you weak, even when lying down like this.

"Yeah…?"

"You were so loud I had to put a hand over your mouth."

His voice is thick as he laughs a short chuckle. Your inner walls clench again at the sound, you throb among the warm syrup surrounding you.

"Never seen you so wet. Almost dripped all over my gear."

"It's that stupid mask you wear," you hear yourself breathe like you've just been underwater. Feel yourself throb some more, feel a burning sensation in the nether areas from the scorched desert turning wet again. You want him so much that it actually hurts down there.

"Knew you'd like it. That's why I kept it on."

If this man keeps talking, your underwear is going to be utterly ruined. And of course he does; of course he continues to pour more love in your ear.

"Everyone looked at you like you were a queen," he grunts in your ear, sounding almost… pissed.

"Don't be ridiculous," you try to form sensible words. It's only a faint breath, really, but he huffs at your modesty.

"You don't have eyes in the back of your head, love."

Wow… He is a bit pissed.

Had they checked your ass out when you visited him?

It was the first and, what you thought, the last time you got to visit him at his workplace… but you never would have guessed the reason for him not asking you to visit again would be jealousy.

"Don't worry. I put those fuckers in their place after you left."

Whoa.

Ok…

First, he had fucked you senseless in his office – a highly inappropriate move for a man in his position – then got jealous because some soldiers had checked you out as you left with his cum practically dripping from your cunt.

You put yourself in his shoes for a moment: he's had to live with thoughts of you running to some other man's arms when he's not home, and then watch you waltz around his workplace after making what was supposed to be the last effort to make him love you… When he has loved and adored you this whole time, has watched the sway of your ass with the rest of those home-deprived, horny soldiers, thinking you had fallen out of love and were on your way to go see some other guy.

Had he invited you there to try and win you back, too? By showing himself to you in all his puffed up, masculine glory? A desperate man in a skull mask, hoping to get love from you…

There's so many misunderstandings; they rip your throat. A sob escapes, and he stops his caress.

"Love… Tell me to stop if you–"

"No. No, I don't want you to stop."

Your request comes out with such demand that he hesitates only a second or two. Then he moves on top of you and tugs your skirt up. You don't even have time to realize what is happening before he has worked himself out of his pants.

He's hard and heavy between your legs, and your eyes go wide as you realize he's not going to bother to take your briefs off. He just slides a hand under the skirt and draws the fabric aside, and the fat tip of him is pushed in the middle almost clumsily. It's hot, and slips down to your opening with ease.

Oh f–

"Been jerking off to you nearly every night at the base," he says just before he pushes himself in.

"Uh–...."

Your thighs spread wide as he fills you slowly, inch after inch. The sound that leaves him is starved: a dry, painful sigh. He's been waiting for this for god knows how long, and you're just as hungry to take him in. He seems endless, the way he finally works himself fully inside, spreading you even wider as the thickening base of his cock reaches its end.

"Thought you were getting railed by someone else while I only get to fuck my hand."

"Oh god…"

There's really nothing else to say as his balls press against you, heavy and taut. He's not going to last long.

"Yeah. Imagine that," he admits, breathless like you.

You look at him with what must be the most helpless stare of longing in your eyes. Then he moves, and you want to grip him to keep him inside. The first thrusts are divine, they're pure heaven, and your head sinks deep into the pillow as you try to get enough air, try to not scream from pleasure already. Somehow, all you are able to utter is a desperate little whisper.

"Simon–"

His cock is good enough to bring tears to your eyes. You're starving too, you're pulling him in with fierce hunger, and he groans, then nearly falls forward, his weight pressing against you, swallowing you, until you feel like you're an idiot for thinking that you're too big. The thickness of his chest rubs against you as he makes love to you with passion that echoes the first times you did this.

"Just wanna adore you, love." He's panting desperate somewhere above you. A god and a man, both furious and gentle. "I wanna adore you. Just like this."

You answer him with what must be those sounds he told you about, the sounds you make when you want it hard.

You want him to fuck you, to wreck you after weeks of loneliness and hate. To love you until you break into a million pieces.

"Simon," you whisper. "...Love me."

He halts, huffs in your neck. It's almost a sob. There's so much emotion and desperation in the air that it could be scooped up and sold in the streets.

"Always," he rasps in your ear, then moves to kiss you again. "Always."

The promise echoes around you, it coats your lips as he loves you with all he has. It's been so long, and he feels so good that you nails dig into his shirt, his shoulder, you try to hold onto him even though he's the wave that rocks you.

"You feel that?" He goes deep; he's out of breath and desperate, even more desperate than you. "That's love. You feel it, yeah?"

"Yes," you sob in his shoulder, tears trying to escape your waterline as you're going dumb from the pure sensation, the sensuality of it all.

"That's it, love. That's a good girl," he turns to your neck and gruffs in your ear as you whimper and moan. "Always such a good girl."

Shit…

"I, I'm gonna…"

Your legs wrap around his middle, your muscles twitch and your hands reach and grab – they claw and yank and tug everything they can: his back, shoulders, shirt, something sturdy to keep you from drowning in a glorious orgasm.

He laughs in your neck and continues to grind you through your climax even when you're shattering, sighing, moaning, writhing under him. He just laughs, the man who never laughs: from witnessing you respond to him calling you a good girl.

Fucking bastard…

Lovable, infuriating bastard who knows you to your core.

You're an overstimulated heap by the time he comes as well, not long after you, but long enough to make you feel like you're only a tender bunch of nerves. Your legs have fallen to the side, he has open access to take what he needs: you, your love, all of it.

His whole middle goes tense as he cums, he groans and swears somewhere deep into your neck, rolls his hips over and over again like it's a must that his balls press against you with every thrust that shoot his load.

Then he falls slack, nearly collapses on top of you, reminding you of what it feels like to be small under a giant like him. You're throbbing together, you're full and fulfilled, and he is still lodged deep inside you, panting and broken in a sweat.

"Jesus Christ…"

He sounds dazed.

Relieved.

"Should've done this weeks ago."

You laugh at seeing him so done – a man in love, torn by jealous yearning, finally taking what's his. You stroke his neck, his back – it's so good to have him finally there… So close, with no barriers in between.

"I should've talked to you weeks ago..."

"Yeah. You should have."

"Are you going to punish me?" You giggle a little – the flirt is light and frees your heart further from its recent jail. He moves to look at you with all the tenderness there is. It's too much... His love is too much. But you won't run from it anymore.

"Nah. Think I'm gonna spoil you some more."

He spoils you right away with a kiss. You surrender to his treatment with happiness: happy tears, even.

The medicine to your anguish has been the exact opposite to what you had first tried, what you had originally thought. The true remedy for your sickness is mercy. Perhaps some spoiling…

And love.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost fluff #soft simon riley #simon riley imagine #ghost x you #simon riley x you #fluff and smut #call of duty

4K notes · View notes

sundaramhomefinance · 2 years ago

Text

#Housing Loan #Home Loans #Plot Loans #Home Improvement Loans #Home Extension Loans #Top Up Loans #Balance Transfer Loan #Take Over Loans #Loan Against Property

1 note · View note

silken-moonlight · 6 months ago

Text

Older Alpha and Human waitress/ Part 4

A/N: Hello again! I am back with part 4 of this series. I have a lot of fun with developing the plot and characters. I am hoping I am not overdoing it in any way shape of form. Also we have now the Moodboard and the Introduction. Also here you'll find part 3 if you are interested. I love you guys so much -Swan/Moon

Desmonds POV

The next day was similar to the days before. He went to the meetings in the morning and noon, speaking with the other alphas about the pack territory. The problem had been that there was a new pack forming and they had demanded space or else they would have taken themselves said space. This of course could not have been permitted, since that would have ended in a massacre. The human government would have not been amused to cover up a slaughter between two packs and so they had to find a way without blood. While Desmond knew better, some days he wished they would just fight it out. Atlest then there wouldn’t have been so many meetings and fights in the meeting room. His thoughts were captivated by something else anyway…He was worried for his mate, she had looked so distressed. The longing to just take her away from all her worries had never been as strong as in that moment.

The alpha tried to cheer himself up, he would see her again today. Maybe would even make her smile when he brought her the books she had left behind. Of course was he aware that it might have looked a little weird…he just could not help himself. The urge to spoil and pamper his little mate was overwhelming. In his mind he had already planned their first trip to his cabin. He would take her there before they would officially return to the pack village. Thinking about all the things they could do…while Desmond really tried to keep his thoughts pure…it was not as easy. His inner wolf whined and scratched against the walls of his mind. The primal needs he felt were strong, he craved to touch his mates soft skin. To kiss her plump lips, to make her feel safe in his arms. To undress her slowly before- Desmond stopped his thoughts right there. He really didn’t want to get a boner in the middle of a political discussion.

A few hours later, the meetings and work was done for the day. Desmond would do the paperwork later, he had gotten an email from Isaac with some documents he needed him to look at. Desmond’s Pack had a few companies under their name or were part of them, while most things were equally shared, two of the companies were under his name. There also were many contracts he had to look at, work with or renew. 60% of the money earned ran into the Pack fund, all pack members that were working full time also gave away 10% of their salary to the pack fund. With that money were paid a lot of things like the maintenance of the packhouses, insurance costs, school and kindergarten places, student loans, cars that were free to use amongst the Pack…the list went on and on. Desmond himself had brought this concept to the pack after seeing it being absolutely successful in another pack. Since he did that, his pack had not only grown a lot but also was one of the most peaceful. That comes along with being an actual community. Desmond had learned the importance of acceptance, beginning to help werewolves who had not such a good start in their life or a rough time…The Alpha wondered what his mate would think of all of that. With how sweet she seemed, he was sure she would adore his work.

With his mind occupied by that thought, he walked into the restaurant. He sat down in his usual booth…but his beloved was not there. Desmond ordered by her colleague, waiting for her to arrive. But she did not come. His heart sunk…where was she?

Your POV

It had been your day off when your father had a bad episode of pain. His back and hip were hurting so much that he couldn’t get up from his bed. Of course you took two days off and stayed with him day and night. You had called his doctor who had taken the time to do a home visit. He had given your father some medications that eased his pain for a short time. Today was the first day that he felt better. Right now he sat in the garden, Pumpkin and Spice laying at his feet, enjoying the sun. Your mum and you were baking blueberry muffins, the kitchen smelled deliciously like the home baked goods. Tonight you would work again, but would always be available for your parents to call.

Initially you had wanted to become a nurse, but the condition of your parents has kept you occupied. You were unable to stay away from home too long, so you found a job that only would be in the afternoon and evening. That's how you ended up in the Sailor Boy, utterly grateful for your job and understanding boss. It may not have been what you wanted at first, but you were more than grateful to have something. Your mum and you put the muffins in the oven, setting the timer and sitting down. Your phone beeped and you looked at it.

William: Hey love, I am in town again, how you doing?

Y/N: Will, haven’t heard from you in forever! I’m doing fine.

William: Nice to hear that, yeah, I was on a big hike with Jeannie. Want to meet up and catch up?

Y/N: Sure, but I am only free in the mornings and noon, you okay with that?

William: Absolutely, how about tomorrow? In our Café?

Y/N: Sounds like a plan, how about 9 am and eat breakfast together.

William: Deal, see you there.

You were quite excited to see Will again. He was one, actually the only, friend you had left. Most of your friends had stopped texting you when your parents' conditions worsened. Since you refused to go out and party, which wasn’t your thing anyways, they stopped making the effort. You tried to do other things with them like going shopping together, movie nights or hikes together. That wasn’t really what most of your friends wanted. So they and you started to text less and less until you lost contact. The two friends you still had were William and Amanda. Amanda began to use you as her personal therapist, trying everything to get your attention. Manipulating you to be available to her at all times. Will told you she was bad news, you didn't listen. The brutal fallout came eventually. Both of you were left hurt.

So that only left Will. Will had no one but his girlfriend Jeannie and you, he had gone no contact with his family as soon as he moved out. For a short time he had lived with you and your family, when his flat had caught fire and he was left homeless. Will didn’t want to be a bother, but you refused to let him sleep in a dingy hotel. That was two years ago. Will had also been the one to tell you about Werewolves and other magical creatures. You didn’t believe him, that was until he had transformed into a Werewolf in front of you. You had been…a little out of it afterwards. However when he explained everything and you swore secrecy, everything went on as usual. Honestly the knowledge of magical creatures didn’t affect your daily life in the slightest. Shortly after the housefire William met his wonderful girlfriend Jeannie, she was a travel and hiking blogger. The two of them hiked and traveled the world together, often sponsored by some big company. William took the pictures and videos while Jeannie was the model. Jeannie was a lovely person, kind and so confident. You two got along so well that Will often joked if he was even needed when you all met up.

The next hours passed quickly, you thinking about tomorrow, the muffins being ready and eating a late lunch with your parents. You got ready for your work and took the bus into the city.

Half an hour later you arrived at your workplace, quickly going up into the staffrom an changing into your work clothes. After that you went down, doing your usual routine. Not even forty minutes had passed when a certain somebody entered the restaurant. Desmond, you remembered his name, was dressed in a black suit, his hair in a bun and his beard must have been freshly cut and formed. You bet that he smelled like the most expensive perfume.

You smiled at him kindly: “Hi there, how are you doing?” You asked him. Why did he look so relieved? You were missing something, you just didn’t know what. “I am good, wonderful actually.” He stepped with you on the side and a worried look was on his handsome face, his gray eyes were filled with compassion. “Is everything okay? You looked distressed the other day.” He asked, his voice was soft. Actually worried. Your bottom lip trembled, a sudden wave of sadness and exhaustion washing over you. If you thought too hard about it, you would cry. However, you caught yourself. Faking a smile you tried to ease his worry: “Yeah everything is alright, don’t worry.” You looked up at him, he was far taller than you. “May I ask what happened?” You nodded slowly: “Well my parents are chronically ill. My father had a bad episode of pain and needed me.”

The handsome man, Desmond, looked at you again with such compassion. “I know I might overstep, but you left the books behind and I took the freedom to buy them for you.” He placed a black paper bag in your hand. Your eyes went wide and you looked up at him absolutely surprised. “I cannot accept these.” You quickly said. Desmond chuckled:” I insist.” You felt guilty, you must have looked so distressed that he wanted to help you. “Let me pay you back.” You tell him, wanting to get your money. “If you pay me back I will give it as your tip.” Desmond said with a grin. “Has anyone told you before that you are stubborn?” You said with a smile. Desmond chuckled: “Actually yes. And please accept the books. I am so grateful for our conversations. After a day at the office I always look forward to it.” You grinned and answered: “Here I was thinking you’re always returning for our town's famous cocktails.” Both of you laughed at that.

“Thank you, really.” You then said a little more serious again. You blushed slightly, but then quickly remembered what you had told yourself before: He was just kind, not interested in you. You reminded yourself that he was older, a businessman and very surely not interested in a waitress from a medium sized town.

336 notes · View notes

drealty736 · 1 year ago

Text

Dreality-Best value real estate Service Company in Noida

Reality

When it comes to determining the "best value" in real estate services and home loan providers, it can vary depending on individual needs and preferences. However, I can provide you with some general information on finding the best options in these areas.

Best Value Real Estate Services:

Research and compare: Take the time to research different real estate agencies or agents in your area. Look for their track record, customer reviews, and the range of services they offer. Compare their fees and commission rates to ensure they provide good value for their services.

Local expertise: Choose a real estate agent or agency with strong knowledge and experience in the specific area where you are looking to buy or sell a property. Local experts can provide valuable insights into market trends, pricing, and potential investment opportunities.

Transparent communication: Look for real estate professionals who communicate clearly and honestly. They should be responsive to your queries and provide regular updates on the progress of your transaction. Transparency in pricing and fees is also important.

Negotiation skills: A good real estate agent should have strong negotiation skills to help you secure the best possible deal. This includes not only negotiating the purchase or sale price but also other aspects like repairs, contingencies, and closing costs.

Best Home Loan Providers:

Interest rates and terms: Compare the interest rates, loan terms, and repayment options offered by different lenders. Look for lenders that provide competitive rates and flexible terms that suit your financial situation.

Loan options: Consider lenders that offer a variety of loan programs to meet your specific needs. This could include fixed-rate mortgages, adjustable-rate mortgages, FHA loans, VA loans, or other specialized loan options.

Fees and closing costs: Evaluate the fees and closing costs associated with obtaining a loan from different providers. Some lenders may have lower origination fees, processing fees, or closing costs, which can save you money in the long run.

Customer service: Look for a lender that provides excellent customer service and is responsive to your needs throughout the loan application and approval process. A reliable lender should be available to answer your questions and guide you through the process.

Reputation and reviews: Check online reviews and ratings of different lenders to gauge their reputation and customer satisfaction levels. Look for lenders with positive feedback and a strong reputation in the industry.

Remember, these are general guidelines, and it's essential to conduct thorough research and consider your specific requirements when choosing the best value real estate services and home loan provider for your needs.

0 notes

kelcemenow · 1 year ago

Text

Sweet As Sugar.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 7657

Warnings This will have a little bit of everything in it! Fluff, angst, strong language, mentions of alcohol and smut. I also should have probably done a better job of proof-reading so there may be some spelling or grammar mistakes here and there.

I got this Anon request a while ago and I think I'm going to do something a bit different with this. It's such a long period of time passing so you'll see how I've covered all of that time without the plot moving too fast or being too much of a slow burn. I hope it reads well and you enjoy it! "Would you write a sugar daddy travis kelce au smut? Where the reader (female) is a broke college student who meets travis at a bar one night? Both of them slowly fall for each other, and it eventually ends with Travis asking for the reader's hand in marriage."

JANUARY

You carefully poured some vodka into your flask and stuffed it into your handbag. The taxi outside honked it's horn for the second time so you looked over your reflection in the mirror before running out of the door, your Goodwill heels clacking against the floor.

"Hurry up, bitch!" Mila called out of the taxi.

You laughed and quickly shuffled in next to her, making sure your dress didn't get caught in the door, "I was filling my flask."

"Girl, if you're broke, I can give you money? I've told you this!"

You shook your head, "No, thank you, but I'm not loaning money from a friend. It gets messy. We'll still have a good time tonight!"

"If you won't let me loan you any cash, will you at least let me buy you cocktails?"

You checked over your makeup in your compact mirror, "Now that you can do."

When you arrived at the club, Mila grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the centre of the club. You were both cheerleaders and struggling through your senior year of college, meaning your dancing skills often earned you some free drinks. As the music pumped into your ears, you began to sway and grind your hips to the beat, raising your arms in the air. You noticed that you had both caught the attention of a small group of men at the bar, so you accentuated your movements more. Mila held onto your hand and pulled you to face her, her eyes flickering over to your newly acquired audience. You smiled and raised your eyebrows before strutting over to the bar, making sure they could still see you.

"Two Manhattan's please." You smiled as the bartender got to work with making your cocktails.

Suddenly, your nostrils were filled with an almost spicy scented cologne and you sensed someone close behind you.

"I'll get these." His low voice gave you shivers.

You glanced over your shoulder to see a incredibly handsome man, dark, broad and tall, holding his gaze with the bartender. His eyes were intense and brooding, narrowing slightly as he watched the drinks being made. Being only inches away from, you studied his face and noticed a well-kemp and tidy beard and short buzzed hair. His jawline was soft yet strong, and his skin was lightly sun-kissed. Everything about his physical appearance turned you on but you wiped all thoughts from your head, reminding yourself that you weren't looking for a relationship.

"Actually, make it three."

He still hadn't looked at you, which drove you crazy.

"I'd have had you down for a Sex On The Beach."

Your comment caused his eyebrows to jump upwards. He quietly cleared his throat, finally turning his head just enough to meet your eyes, "I prefer a Suck, Bang and Blow."

Your clit throbbed instantly, your knees weakening at the same time. You smiled and picked up your drink, watching quietly as he did the same.

He leaned closer to your ear, "Let me know if you want to try one sometime."

Your breath caught in your throat, a mixture of shock and amusement. You watched as he walked back to his group, his ass and thigh muscles straining against the fabric of his pants. A heat washed over you and you shook your head, picking up Mila's drink and making your way back to her.

"Works every time!" You sang as you approached her, holding up the two cocktails.

Mila widened her eyes and took the glass in her hands, taking a delicate sip from the end of the straw. "Mmmmm, nice. Who's the lucky guy?"

You turned to your right, pointing out the tall stranger, "He's absolutely gorgeous. We had a little flirt." You shrugged your shoulders.

Mila smiled broadly, "A flirt? Is that so?"

"Yeah. He's cute." You pinched the straw in between your teeth, your eyes sparkling.

"Then what are you doing still standing over here? Go and talk to him, give him your number?"

You breathed a laugh, "You think I should?"

Mila placed her hand on your shoulder and playfully pushed you away, "Are you fucking blind? He's a God and he's obviously interested. Go...now!

Laughing, you turned your head again, immediately making eye contact with your admirer. He was practically undressing you with his gaze, scanning every inch of your body. You threw Mila a wink before strolling sexily towards him.

He stepped away from the group a little, placing his hands in his pockets. You paid extra attention to his outfit and you noticed that he was dressed impeccably. An expensive suit covered his clearly toned body and you spotted a gold watch adorning his wrist.

You were sweating by the time you reached him, but you tried not to let your nerves show on your face. In silence, you held out your hand with your palm facing upwards. The man looked down at your hand with some confusion but after a couple of seconds, produced his cell phone, the contacts app open. You tapped your number onto the screen, saving it as Y/N and walking away swiftly. With your back turned to him, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, grinning from ear to ear.

Mila grabbed you when you were back within touching distance of her, "The digits and disappear? A classic!"

______________________________________________________________

FEBRUARY

"So, you took your time to call me." You ran your fingers gently along the rim of your wine glass.

Travis looked down at the table, quickly looking back up with a smile that made you almost melt on the spot.

"Well, there's so many numbers in my phone, I didn't know to look for your name, especially considering I didn't know it."

You blushed a little.

"I was looking for Beautiful Girl In Aura but that wasn't there."

You tipped your glass towards Travis before bringing it to your lips, "You're smooth, I'll give you that."

Travis sipped his wine and placed the glass back on the table, his body language relaxed, "So, what is it you do?"

You swallowed, "I'm a student. I'm studying psychology."

Travis nodded his head and raised his eyebrows, "Interesting."

"Is it?"

"I think so."

There was a short silence before Travis picked up his glass again, "Don't you want to know what I do?"

You smiled, "Okay. What do you do?"

"I own a large international chain of luxury hotels, golf and spa resorts."

You froze for a second, "Wow."

Travis leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, "I think we can help each other?"

You fiddled with the edge of your napkin, curious and anxious, "You do?"

"Sort of like a business arrangement, I suppose."

"You want me to...work for you?" You questioned.

Travis smirked, "Not exactly. So, when I explain this to you, just know that you don't have to say yes. This can be on your terms as well as mine."

Your brow furrowed further, "Travis, I'm not following."

"Hear me out. I'm proposing that in exchange for your...company, I can provide you with financial compensation."

Your expression stayed unchanged, "You want to pay for me to go on dates with you?"

"Basically, yes." Travis leaned back into his chair, "It's a win win. I want to spend time with you, have you in my company. You're a student, times are hard for everyone but I could help with that. Wouldn't you like to have your student loans paid off? To have nice dinners out, to have nice things?"

Your jaw dropped open a little, "Well...yeah but-"

"Then say yes." Travis smirked again.

You closed your eyes as you repeated what Travis had said, "Why does someone like you, looking the way you do and being who you are, feel the need to pay for girls to date you?"

"Sure, some people think it's like that. But I like you, Y/N. You're interesting, funny, intelligent and absolutely gorgeous. I want to help you."

"And that's all it is?"

"I take you out a couple times a month, maybe three times, I wire you some money, I buy you gifts, pay for things? No funny business, nothing shady, all on your terms."

You couldn't help but to laugh, "I'm sorry but this is crazy."

Travis slowly picked up his glass and took a large gulp of wine, watching you intently and waiting for your response.

You realised that he was being deadly serious and as your palms began to sweat, you opened your mouth slowly, "And you don't want anything else out of this other than my company."

Travis shrugged his shoulders, "All on your terms, baby."

The corners of your mouth moved into a smile and you exhaled a short laugh, "When do I start?"

______________________________________________________________

MARCH

You waited anxiously on the front steps of your apartment, your hair moving gently in the early spring breeze. As you held onto your coat and pulled it further across your chest, a large shiny black car pulled up to the curb in front of you. You waited until the back window of the car lowered down, revealing Travis. You smiled and he winked at you, opening the door and moving along so that there was a space for you.

As you carefully climbed into the back of the car, the familiar spicy scent from 2 months prior hit your senses.

Travis looked to you and smiled, "You look beautiful."

You felt your cheeks deepen as the car pulled away, "Thank you. You look really good too."

He did. A simple white button-down shirt was tucked into light grey trousers. He appeared much more relaxed than your previous encounters and although you had been texting back and forth in the meantime, he was still a complete stranger to you.

"Thank you very much." He cleared his throat, "I got you something."

You shifted in your seat, "Oh Travis, thank you but you-"

He held out a finger, "Ah ah. I wanted to. Call it a preview of what's to come. And a thank you."

"A thank you for what?"

"Doing this? I suppose?" He produced a large square velvet box, "Here."

You took the box in your hands and your fingers felt the edges. It was clearly jewellery, something you had never received as a gift and you wondered if you were ever going to get used to being showered with gifts, expensive ones at that.

"Well, are you gonna open it?"

You smiled and opened the box slowly. Sitting in the centre of the box was a white gold chain holding the most exquisite round cut diamond you had ever seen. It glittered perfectly, causing you to gasp loudly.

"Oh my God, Travis. It's beautiful!"

Travis grinned, taking the necklace out of the box and motioning you to turn around. You lifted your hair from your neck and as Travis closed the clasp, his fingers grazed your soft skin, sending a shiver down your spine. As you turned back to face him, you touched the diamond that was now resting at the top of your cleavage.

"This is amazing, thank you so much." You instinctively leaned closer to him with your arms out, "Can I give you a hug?"

He scratched the back of his neck, "Sure!"

You reached your arms over his shoulders and his took you in from your waist. The hug was slightly awkward from your positions in the back seats of his town car, but he felt tough and safe, his scent stronger than ever. His facial hair rubbed against your cheek and you swore you felt him squeeze you a little tighter. Your heart began to beat faster and harder and you were worried that he'd be able to feel it against his chest.

You slowly pulled away and looked into Travis' eyes for second, feeling your stomach flutter before he broke his stare to glance out of the window.

"Oh, we're here."

You licked your lips and retrieved your purse, trying to slow the speed of your breathing as the car stopped outside of the most beautiful looking restaurants you had ever seen.

Travis must have noted your expression, "Well, I had to impress you for our first proper date."

The word made your heart skip, "Date?" You repeated.

Travis smirked, almost nervously, "Well, it is a date, I suppose."

______________________________________________________________

APRIL

"And there's no sex at all? No kissing, no fooling around? Nothing?" Mila stared at you intently, holding her cup of coffee to her chest.

You shook your head.

She sat back into the sofa, her eyebrows raised high, "Wow."

You pressed your lips together and waited for Mila's next question.

"And are you attracted to him at all?"

"Well, yeah. He's absolutely gorgeous. But I get the impression he's not into the whole idea of a relationship. He's so busy and successful, he probably doesn't have the time for anything serious or long term. I think he like's having female company but this way, he doesn't have to deal with all of the politics. There's no strings, no stresses."

Mila nodded her head as you spoke.

"He said it's all on my terms, but I obviously want to respect his wants too."

After a moment of silence, Mila put her cup down on the coffee table and leaned across to you, "Are you sure you won't get attached?"

You shook your head, "I don't think so. It's a business arrangement." You repeated Travis' words and you heard his voice in your head, causing you to smile.

Mila raised an eyebrow, "Oh no. I know that smile!"

You laughed, "What? It's fine! I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do!" Mila fell back onto the couch, "You're a Sugar Baby!"

"No way!"

Mila rolled her eyes, "Yes, you are! He's your Sugar Daddy and you're his Sugar Baby. It' a whole thing now, I read about it a couple of weeks ago. I just didn't think it was genuinely possible, yet here you are!"

"Will you stop? It's not that deep."

"Not yet. Just you wait, soon he'll be all you can think about. You'll be at his beck and call, your life will completely revolve around him."

You sighed and took a sip of your coffee, your mind begrudgingly fixed on Travis.

______________________________________________________________

MAY

"I'm telling you, this is the best ice cream in the city."

Travis shook his head, "I don't know, I've tried my fair share of ice cream!"

You handed him the small tub with a plastic spoon dug into the side of the perfectly rounded scoop, "Trust me."

You watched with anticipation as he spooned a generous amount of ice cream into his mouth, his tongue lapping at his top lip to savour every morsel.

He swallowed and looked into your eyes, "You're right, this is the best ice cream."

You laughed and patted his chest, "I told you!" You spooned your own ice cream and he nudged you playfully as the pair of you walked side by side in the cool evening.

"Alright, alright. I'm a man who can admit when he's wrong!" He looked down at you and smiled, "So, how do you think your finals went?"

You tipped your head to the side, "I actually think they went well. I felt really confident coming out."

Travis flashed you a broad smile, "That's great! You'll have done amazing, baby, I'm sure of it."

You felt your cheeks blush at the nickname. He had never called you that before but it felt so natural to hear him say it.

You brushed past it, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, "I hope so. I want to go to grad school eventually, so it's really important that I do well."

"I have every faith in you." Travis winked as he devoured another spoonful of ice cream.

"Did you do the whole college thing?" You glanced up at him.

Travis shook his head, "I dropped out after my freshman year."

You raised your eyebrows, "Oh really? How come?"

"I think that way of learning suits some people. It didn't suit me at all, I'm much more hands on, more practical." Travis stared straight ahead, "As soon as I dropped out, I started working my ass off, I built my career from the bottom and soon after, I bought my first hotel."

You smiled as you listened to him speak, his face content.

"My Mom was so proud of me. It was her idea that I branched out internationally too, but I swear she only suggested it so she could have vacations whenever she wanted." He laughed, "Eventually, my empire grew and grew and I was named one of the richest men in America."

You swore you noticed a switch of emotion.

"And that's sometimes the problem, women are only interested in me for my money. When they look at me they see Travis Kelce, owner and CEO of Kelce Hotels and Resorts, instead of just...me." He spooned the last of his ice cream into his mouth.

You fiddled with your spoon, scraping the bottom of the tub, "Travis-"

"Oh, before I forget..." He mumbled through his mouthful, "I've already sent you your money for tonight."

You looked down to your empty tub and nodded, "Thank you, Travis."

"No, thank you." He swallowed quickly, "I really like spending time with you."

You stopped to throw your tub into the trash when Travis placed his hand on your shoulder and turned you to face him, "Wait."

Your eyes blinked as you stared up at him, "What?"

"You've got a little bit of ice cream there."

Travis leaned closer to you and brought his thumb up to the corner of your mouth. He paused for a second, almost hesitating before gently rubbing the ice cream away. You looked down at his hand, watching as he kept it there, slowly moving to hold the side of your face. You brought your eyes back up to meet his face, shifting your focus between his eyes and his mouth as you watched his lips part slightly. You stuttered a breath and smiled a little when you felt his other hand find your waist, sliding around your lower back and pulling you in even further. Your bodies were now pressed together and as you relaxed into his hold, Travis tilted his head to the side and lay a gentle yet quick kiss onto your lips. Your eyes fluttered closed and you stayed still, unsure of what to do.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

You opened your eyes to see Travis looking down at his feet, frowning and shaking his head a little.

"No." You said plainly, "No, it's fine."

Travis looked up, his expression hopeful.

"Kiss me again."

"What?"

"Kiss me again." You repeated.

Travis stuttered a breath before kissing you again, this time with more pressure. He lingered there for a moment before letting his lips move across yours with haste, deepening the kiss further. Impulsively, you brought your hands up to his face, one of them holding the back of his head. You had wanted nothing more but to touch him, to feel his body around yours and now that it was happening, you swore your heart was going to beat out of your chest. A heat quickly started to rise up in you, a wanting that you didn't know you had. Your fingers floated down to his neck, your nails dragging along his skin.

Travis smiled into the kiss before pulling away, "Wow." He spoke in a quiet and content whisper.

"You know that sort of thing will cost you extra."

Travis threw his head back and laughed before taking your hand and continuing your walk towards the lake beach, the romantic light of the sunset shining off of the water.

______________________________________________________________

JUNE

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I have to go there anyway for some business meetings. I'm thinking of opening up some hotels over there." He ran a hand through his short beard, "I figured I could make a vacation out of it and thought you'd like to join me for the week?" A smile crept on Travis' face.

"Do you...want me to join you?"

Travis laughed, "Of course! You can relax and sunbathe by the pool, sip cocktails during the day and then have delicious dinners with me at night."

You looked upwards, thinking, "That does sound good."

"All expenses paid, I'll get you everything you need. Tickets, hotel, clothes...everything."

You felt a flutter, "Would we be sharing a room?"

"Oh, no. We'd be in the same suite, but we'd have separate rooms." Travis retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and began scrolling, his attention now diverted.

You felt a pang of disappointment in the pit of your stomach which you quickly dismissed, "I'd love to, I really appreciate it Travis."

"Don't mention it. You've worked so hard with your finals, you deserve a break. Call it a thank you."

You smiled and ran your fork across your plate, feeling somewhat deflated. You were grateful for Travis' kindness and generosity but you couldn't help hoping that this would be a sign that he was willing to get closer to you. Ever since your kiss, he had almost took a few steps back from you. He seemed slightly distant and although you still kept up with your arrangement, he was behaving differently.

"You want to go shopping for some new outfits? I can pick you up tomorrow? Maybe grab some lunch too?" He shoved his cell phone back into his pocket.

You blinked quickly, clearing your throat and the disappointment in the pit of your stomach, "Uh, yeah sure. Thank you."

______________________________________________________________

JULY

The Greek sun warmed your skin as you relaxed on your lounger, your eyes gently closed. You could hear the waves lapping against the rocks nearby on your private beach and beads of pool water ran down onto your shoulders from your recent swim.

You stretched out a little further with your hands above your head when something shaded your face from the sun. You opened your eyes to see Travis standing over you.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't want to disturb you...I thought you were asleep."

You sat up, shielding the sun from your eyes with your hand. You couldn't help but notice Travis' eyes were awkwardly shifting around you, glancing at your body. You smiled, sweetly, "No, I was just relaxing. You know, with my cocktail?" You lifted your Mojito and took a sip.

Travis laughed and rubbed his palms together, "Sure...yeah."

You noticed that he looked somewhat tense as he sat down on the lounger next to you.

"I...errr...wanted to talk to you about something."

You dropped your sunglasses onto your face and swung your legs around so that you were facing him, "Sure, is everything okay?"

Travis smiled, "Yeah. Everything is fine. It's just...I've been thinking."

"Okay?" You said slowly.

He breathed a nervous laugh, his eyes fixed on the sand underneath his feet.

You leaned forward and place a hand gently on his knee, "Trav, what's up?"

His eyes moved to your hand and his mouth moved into a smile, "See, that right there." He pointed to your hand, "I have this feeling in my stomach whenever you touch me, it's like something I've never felt before."

You were motionless, apprehension washing over you and stopping you in your tracks.

"I-I told myself not to fall for you. I made a promise to myself that this would strictly professional, that I didn't want to put you in any uncomfortable situations. But I've broken that promise."

"I don't understand?" You removed your hand quickly and rested it on your own.

"I think that we should stop whatever this is."

Your eyebrows lowered and your nose crunched upwards, "Because you're falling for me?"

Travis finally looked at you, "Yes and I-"

"Travis...I'm falling for you too."

His eyes almost glazed over as he straightened his spine immediately. His lips curled into a smile, "Really?"

Your cheeks flushed and you nodded your head quickly, "Yeah. I really am. There's this feeling I get from you, a protected and safe feeling...I can't describe it."

Travis shifted himself onto the edge of the lounger, moving closer to you and taking your hands in his, "You don't understand how relieved I am to hear you say that."

You entangled your fingers with his, exhaling a laugh, "I could say the same thing."

"I have a meeting in an hour...how about we head back to the room?"

You stood up, Travis doing the same with his face only inches away from yours, "Sure. Mine or yours?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Very funny." Travis said quickly, before lifting you over his shoulder, your legs kicking in the air as you squealed loudly with delight.

______________________________________________________________

AUGUST

You could feel his eyes on you as you carefully chopped the vegetables for dinner. After a few moments, you placed the knife down onto the counter and turned around, your arms crossed.

"Can you stop?"

Travis smiled and looked down at his phone, "Stop what?"

"You're staring at me, I can tell."

Travis shook his head, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

You laughed, "Travis?"

He flipped a page, his eyes looking at you from under his brow, "Yes, dear?"

You tipped your head to the side with your eyebrows raised.

"Okay fine!" He threw his phone down onto the sofa and made his way towards you, his hands wrapping around your waist, "But how can I not? You're stood in the kitchen, wearing my shirt and nothing else, cooking food for me. It's so unbelievably sexy."

"It's sexist!"

Travis laughed and laid a kiss on your neck, his lips lingering and his hand starting to move to your ass.

"Mr Kelce, do you want me to make dinner or what?"

His face was still nuzzled in your neck, slowly moving down to your chest as he hummed, "I can think of something else I'd rather eat."

You ran your hands over his shirtless back, tipping your head back and closing your eyes as his mouth latched to the skin just above your breasts. Your gentle moan turned into a gasp when Travis picked you up and spun you around, laying you down on the kitchen island in the centre of the room. His shirt that you were wearing lifted up slightly, displaying your neatly shaven pussy to him. His eyes glinted as he connected his thumb with your clit, watching you intently as you squirmed on the counter top.

"That's it, baby. My good girl."

His words only spurred you on, your writhing and moaning growing more intense by the second. With one hand, he pulled the bottom of the shirt up even further, his eyes admiring what was in front of him.

"You're so wet. Look at you, getting wet for Daddy."

You closed your eyes tight as you felt your pussy throb harder and harder. Travis loomed over you with hunger in his eyes. He dragged his fingers over your wet folds and flicked at your clit every now and again, your thighs twitching from the sensation. You pulled at the shirt fabric covering you and balled it up in your fists. Your nipples hardened with the growing pleasure fluttering in your core and as you pulled further at the shirt, they peeked out from underneath. Travis responded by grabbing your left breast with his large hand as his mouth made it's way to gently lick your clit. His tongue quickly replaced his fingers and you cried out a guttural scream.

Travis smiled as he sped up his pace, frantically licking and sucking at your pussy. You ground against his face, your heels digging into the hard, cool, marble. You were beginning to feel yourself come undone but before you could fully release yourself, Travis pulled at your thighs, sliding you to the edge of the worktop. You squealed gently, turned on by his strength. His arm slid underneath you and he lifted your back so you were sat up, his face buried in your neck. Your legs were spread and your pussy was pressed against his crotch, a wet patch forming on the front of his light grey shorts. You reached down and pulled at his waistband, exposing the top of his pubic hair. Travis responded by removing his shorts completely, throwing them over your shoulder to the other side of the room. Your hands immediately grasped onto his dick, squeezing slightly and taking pleasure in the fact that he was already hard. A drop of precum leaked onto the side of your finger and without breaking eye contact, you placed the finger into your mouth, sucking the liquid from it. Travis' eye widened and a growl escaped his lips.

You grinned with your finger between your teeth and massaged his cock with your free hand, running your thumb over his sensitive head with every stroke, causing Travis' hips to buck forward. He took your face in his hands quickly, pressing his lips to yours with force. and kissing you passionately. Your hand began to stroke faster and faster and Travis' moans were filling your mouth. As the intense pleasure built up between you, your teeth clamped onto his bottom lip. Travis hooked each arm under your knees and pulled you even closer, his dick rubbing against your wet folds. You watched as he thrusted slowly, the sounds of your entangled genitals filling the room. His cock was grazing your clit, spreading his precum and your wetness across you both. He held onto you tightly as he quickly adjusted his hips so that his head was pressed up against your entrance. You held his stare as you felt a growing pressure inside of you slowly filling you up, your lips parting as you gasped.

Travis grunted as his hips began snapping forwards, your knees either side of your face and your legs over Travis' shoulders. You squeezed your eyes shut as you whined through the slight pain of your pussy being stretched with this new position. Travis held onto you as he picked up his pace a little more, pressing his forehead to yours and watching as you approached your orgasm. Your eyes flew open suddenly and you felt the knot in your stomach snap. Your vision was blurred with tears and a gush of liquid covered you both. Travis smiled as he looked down, stopping for only a moment before resuming his rhythm.

"Did you just squirt for me, baby?"

You squeezed your eyes closed and silently nodded your head.

"Tell me what happened, I want to hear you." He grunted.

"I squirted...for you." You whined, desperately trying to ride out your high through Travis' relentless fucking.

Travis hummed and you noticed that his rhythm was becoming unpredictable. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his eyebrows were furrowed, indicating his effort. You leaned your head forward, resting it against Travis' shoulder. You could feel the pleasure building up inside of you again and in an attempt to stop yourself for screaming, you sank your teeth into his tanned skin. Travis' head flew backwards and he gave one deep thrust into you before his legs began to twitch and his muscles clenched. You could feel his cock pulsating inside of you, pumping his cum into your pussy.

You both stayed still for a moment, your synchronised heavy breathing the only sound. Slowly, Travis removed his arms from you, kissing your parted lips and letting your thighs rest on the counter top. He looked down to see the pool of his cum forming and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Can I finish making dinner now?"

______________________________________________________________

SEPTEMBER

With a hand, Travis helped you out of the car. Once you were stood, he placed a hand on your lower back and guided you towards the front door of his house.

"Thank you again for tonight, Travis. It was beautiful." You smiled.

"Baby, you don't need to keep thanking me." Travis kissed your hand, "I just want to treat you."

When you reached the door, Travis turned the key in the lock and motioned for you to walk inside.

"Such a gentleman."

Travis laughed and closed the door behind him, "You go and get us some drinks from the kitchen, I need the bathroom and then how about that foot rub I promised?"

You smiled and hummed, turning towards the kitchen. Travis always had a well-stocked bar; beers, spirits and champagne. But it was a bottle of red wine that took your fancy tonight. You retrieved two glasses from the cupboard above your head and searched for a bottle opener, kicking your heels off and enjoying the feeling of the cold flooring against your aching soles.

Two strong arms snaked around your waist and the familiar feeling of stubble rubbed against your cheek. You smiled and cuddled into him, his large frame wrapping itself around you.

"Lost something?"

"Yeah, I don't know where you keep your bottle opener." You said as you scanned the open drawer in front of you.

Travis laughed, "You're telling me that after all of the time you spend here, you don't know where anything is?"

"Hey! I found these all by myself!" You held up the glasses in front of his face, "Besides, you always get the drinks."

"Maybe I'm spoiling you too much!" He kissed your cheek, "You go and make yourself comfortable, I'll bring the bottle opener."

You walked into the living room, the sounds of Travis clattering in the kitchen echoing in. You moved towards the couch and glanced at the coffee table when something made you stop.

A small pile of $100 notes were neatly placed in the middle. As Travis arrive into the room you pointed towards them.

"What's this?"

Travis looked down at the money, "Oh, I didn't wire you anything but I had some cash laying around so I thought I'd pay you with that?"

A stab shot to your stomach and you could feel a redness growing in your cheeks, "P-pay me- excuse me?"

Travis gently placed the glasses and the bottle of wine next to the money, "Well, yeah. Wait, is there a problem?"

You exhaled a small breath, "I don't know, I didn't think there was, but maybe there is."

Travis took a step towards you, "Baby, what have I done?"

You could feel a lump forming in your throat, "You've made me feel cheap, Travis."

"Hold up, I don't understand why you're upset?"

"Exactly, you don't understand." You blinked away a small tear.

Travis shook his head, "But we agreed to this, this was the arrangement. You said-"

"Was Travis, was." You ran your hands through your hair, "I thought things had changed, and I thought you felt the same way."

"I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't. You didn't think, Travis." You could feel yourself getting louder, "Maybe you should think before telling someone that you're falling for them. Maybe think before you have them stay at your place for weeks on end. Think before making me feel like we had moved on from just you being my Sugar Daddy."

"Y/N, listen." He held his hand out.

"No, you listen. I thought we could have been something real. But I'm obviously still just something else that you bought." You picked up the money and pushed it into his chest, "Find someone else to pay for."

You stormed to the kitchen to collect your heels and your purse, quickly making your way to the front door.

"Y/N, wait...don't go, please." Travis called out, trying to follow you.

You slipped your feet into your shoes and slung your bag over your shoulder, "Leave me alone, Travis."

Travis held onto the door frame and watched you descend down the large steps, "At least let me get you a car?"

You turned to him, a scowl plastered over your face, "I don't need anything from you anymore, Travis."

______________________________________________________________

OCTOBER

A soft knock sounded on your bedroom door, causing you to groan and roll over in your bed.

"Sweetie? I'm coming in whether you're decent or not." Mila said through the door.

You buried your face in your pillow as you heard the door click open, "I knew giving you a key was a mistake."

Mila sat on the edge of your bed, "You have to leave your apartment at some point, you know."

"No I don't." Your voice was muffled by the pillow.

You felt Mila shift on the bed, "I did tell you not to get attached."

You quickly flipped over to face her, "I'm not really in the mood for 'I told you so' at the minute."

Mila narrowed her eyes at you and tilted her head to the side, "Babe, when was the last time you plucked your eyebrows."

You groaned and collapsed back into the bed, pulling the blanket up and over your face, "How could I have got it so wrong?"

"You can't blame yourself for any of this. He made you think it was going somewhere. He drew you in, made sure you were falling for him and then let you down. He did this, not you. He's an asshole."

"You wanna know what the biggest problem is?" You could feel your voice trembling, "He's not an asshole. He's the most amazing man and the most amazing thing that had ever happened to me. And I'm not talking about the money and the gifts or any of that. I mean, that's how it started but after a while, that stuff didn't matter anymore. He was kind and sweet and funny and holy shit, he was amazing in bed. He made me feel...perfect."

Mila laughed as she reached over to wipe away the tears that were rolling down your cheeks.

"I just thought the Sugar Daddy thing would stop after the holiday. You know, after that day when we told each other how we felt and then we slept together and it felt...different. It started to feel like a real relationship."

"Has he contacted you?"

You shrugged your shoulders, "I don't know...I blocked his number. I've barely looked at my phone to be honest. He keeps sending flowers though, but it just reminds me that he thinks he can just buy me stuff and everything will be okay."

Mila shook her head, "You really liked him, didn't you?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, releasing another tear.

Mila sighed, "I'll go and get the wine."

______________________________________________________________

NOVEMBER

You pulled your hair into a high ponytail and zipped up your hoodie before grabbing your purse and leaving your apartment. Your footsteps echoed in the stairwell and you took a deep breath as you opened the front door of the building, almost squinting at the morning sun.

You skipped down the concrete steps and turned right onto the sidewalk when the sight in front of you made you stop. Travis was walking towards you with two tubs of ice cream in his hands. He looked tired and nervous and when he looked up and saw you, his face immediately softened.

You opened your mouth to speak but you made no sound. Travis took a tentative step forward, holding one of the ice cream tubs out to you.

"So...someone told me that this is the best ice cream in the city."

You lifted your eyebrows, "Oh yeah? Who was that?"

Travis looked deep into your eyes as he made his way closer to you, "The most wonderful woman I have ever met."

You pressed your lips together and nodded your head, "Sounds like someone you wouldn't want to lose." You noted that his eyes looked bleary.

"I am so sorry, Y/N. I should have never made you feel the way I did." He cleared his throat, "You are perfect, in every way and you were right, we did have the beginnings of something amazing. I'm an idiot for fucking it up but I was hoping that..."

You waited as he trailed off, blinking tears away from his eyes.

"I was hoping that you could let me show you how much you mean to me." He breathed a laugh, "I've been a mess without you."

You smiled meekly, "Yeah, I didn't want to kick you when you were already down but you look like hell."

Travis glanced down at the floor, "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't focus on anything but you."

You could feel a wave of emotion washing over you and the butterflies started to build up in your gut. It had been almost 2 months since your fight and all you had wanted was to see him but your head was telling you not to. But looking at him in front of you now, every feeling came flooding back.

You slowly took a step towards him, glancing down at the ice cream and opening your mouth. Travis smiled and closed the gap between you, scooping the small plastic spoon and pushing a dollop of ice cream onto the corner of your mouth.

You closed your eyes and exhaled a small laugh. Looking up, Travis beamed at you and pulled you closer to him, his warm scent bringing back familiar goose bumps onto your skin. He bent down slightly and his mouth connected with your skin, removing the ice cream with a kiss. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck and he lifted you off of the ground with ease. You pressed kisses into his cheek with desperation and his arms held onto you tightly, as if never wanting to let you go again.

______________________________________________________________

DECEMBER

You turned to Travis with furrowed brows. He was fidgeting and his gaze was unsettled, a worried expression on his face.

"Is everything alright?" You said with a hand on his thigh.

Travis whipped his head to face you, "Yeah, everything's fine. Why wouldn't it be?"

Your eyebrows lowered further, "Because...you're being weird."

Travis cleared his throat, "No, I'm fine. Are you fine?"

You smirked, "Yeah, sure."

He smiled at you and took your hand in his, which you noticed was shaking slightly. You stared out of the window and as the car pulled into a parking lot, you recognised the location.

"This is the restaurant we came to for our first date."

Travis smiled at you and squeezed your hand before stepping out of the vehicle, rushing around to the other side so he could open the door for you, helping you out with his arm.

You made sure your gown was falling correctly, pulling the satin material and smoothing over your hair.

"I thought this would be the best place." Travis said nervously.

Your expression of confusion returned, "Best place for what?"

Travis stayed silent, guiding you into the restaurant with a smile. As you walked quietly, you noticed hundreds of bouquets of roses surrounding a single table in the centre of the room. The restaurant was empty, aside from a string quartet in the corner and candles filling the room.

You gasped and took a small step back, your hand covering your mouth. Travis held tightly to your other hand, pulling you further into the room.

"What's all of this for?"

Travis turned to face you once you had reached the table in the middle of the room and held onto both of your hands.

"I was going to wait, but I don't think my nerves can take it." He said quietly.

You watched with bated breath as Travis looked around the room and gave the string quartet a nod who immediately began playing their instruments.

"I always thought that I didn't need anyone by my side. I always described myself as fiercely independent and somewhat of a lone wolf. I built my career myself and always assumed my life would stay that way. But then I met you."

He stared deeply into your eyes as you felt your chest begin to rise and fall quickly.

"I never thought that I would be so happy dedicating my time to someone else...and not for any other gain than pure happiness. You have changed my life and I want to spend every waking minute with you...if you'll let me."

Your jaw dropped as he lowered himself to one knee, reaching into his pocket for a small navy blue box. He stared up at you with a hopeful expression and clung to your left hand.

"Y/N, I love you...more than I thought I could love anyone. You make me a better person and I cannot imagine living the rest of my life with anyone else."

Tears begin to build up in your eyes and you listened to Travis' words.

"Y/N, will you marry me?"

You wiped away the moisture from your cheeks, trying hard to steady your rapid breathing, "Yes...yes, oh my God yes!"

Travis leapt up and cupped your face with his hands, kissing you with immediate passion. You held onto the back of his head, rubbing his stubbled skin with your fingers. He held you for a while before pulling away, opening the ring box and presenting the most beautiful diamond ring, the stones set in a delicate white gold band. Either side of the diamond were two fire opals, its colours shifting in the light.

"Travis, it's so beautiful."

He held onto the ring between his fingers, "May I?"

You smiled and held out your left hand, your ring finger prominent. The ring fit you perfectly and once it was settled on your hand, you gazed down at it with glassy eyes. You took a deep breath and looked up to Travis.

He smiled, "Can we have some dinner now? I was so nervous for this, I haven't eaten all day!"

You laughed and kissed him before settling into your seat, the string quartet serenading your first meal as a fiancé.

______________________________________________________________

I'm sorry this took so long to post but as you can see, it's rather long and I wanted to do it right! I really enjoyed this format and I hope everyone else did too! My requests are open and I'll be continuing to work through the requests I already have but please keep them coming! To be included on my Taglist for future fics, just let me know!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae @kristencochefski1125 @countrygirl120983 @charmed2000 @nouis-bum @cixrosie @delicateearthquakellama @wordsaresimple-imnot @amylouwho9 @queenisa17 @talicat713 @luvvtrent @purecinnamonextract @savaneafricaine @caelipartem @beyxgrande @caitdaniels @ezgirl1108 @vir-tual @lightsoutstyles @macey234 @s294749w @kelcemesoftly @calirindo @livinginmyfantasies @bernelflo @secretmywritingfictionlawyer @killatravtramp @there-goes-thefighter @unicornblueberry @calirindo @tjkelce87 @kristinamae093 @kmc1989 @ajbird18

#travis kelce x reader #travis kelce imagine #kelce x reader #nfl imagine #original story #travis kelce fic #travis kelce #kelcemenow requests #travis kelce fluff #nfl fluff #travis kelce smut #travis kelce angst #nfl smut #nfl angst #nfl fic #sugar daddy au

497 notes · View notes

battlekidx2 · 9 months ago

Text

Hazbin Hotel Episodes 5 and 6 Thoughts

Wow. These two episodes of Hazbin Hotel were easily the best out of the series so far. They’re still working at a breakneck pace, but these episodes were so much more focused than the first 4 that it worked significantly better. The A and B plots of both these episodes were cleanly tied together so that no one part felt insignificant.

One of the biggest problems with the first four episodes was the fact that the split focus pulled the episode in different directions and made it so that reveals didn’t get the build up they needed to really feel impactful and pushed the Hazbin Hotel to the background so it felt insignificant in its own show.

The second biggest problem in those episodes was that Charlie’s wish for her people, for redemption, and attempt to get into heaven to avoid extermination felt like it wasn’t the driving force it should have been.

But these two episodes really fix that and expand on the characters really well. I’m just going to go through what I loved the most.

Alastor

I absolutely loved what we got from Alastor in episode 5. He really is the highlight of the show for me. There’s just so many layers to his character that the show isn’t rushing to peel back like it is with everyone else and it makes his character so intriguing.

I liked the fact that this episode hints that he truly does care about the hotel and wants it to succeed. It’s not only entertainment like he initially claimed. That moment where he sends Mimzy away was really telling. There isn’t even a hint of sinister subtext, sarcasm, or a joke in his voice or face when he tells her she can’t stay if she isn’t going to take redemption seriously.

The way his eyes twitch when she says he can’t seriously care about the hotel is such a great little detail.

I really like this point. The main theme of the show is redemption and showing that even someone like Alastor can care about the hotel is a direction I wanted the show to go in from the pilot, but something I wasn’t sure we would actually get. But I liked that it’s getting hinted at this early, especially since we now know there’s a season 2 and it can get fleshed out much more and can probably get to the point where he might grow into an actual mentor for Charlie instead of it being performative to spite Lucifer like it was in this episode.

(side note: I like that Charlie defends his actions against her father. She sees it as protecting the hotel, which we learn is the truth. He did do it for pride, but he also cares about the hotel and does want to protect it. I like to see that Charlie’s ability to see the best in people does pay off at least somewhat.)

That little hint of care to his actions with the hotel isn’t all we get to see of Alastor's layers. He is still the infamous Radio Demon after all, so we also get to see his pride at play.

It’s his pride being hurt by Lucifer that causes him to play up his role in Charlie’s life. It’s his pride being hurt that leads him to taking on the loan sharks alone both to remind everyone of his power and to show what else he brings to the hotel.

It’s also what causes him to go off on Husk. Husk is the only character willing to call Alastor out. He knows Alastor better than anyone else at the hotel because of their past and his ability to see through his facade. And he hurts Alastor's pride when he calls him out with the truth: That he's on a leash just like him.

The reveal that Alastor is also on someone’s leash was expected, but well executed.

This episode let Alastor’s mask slip a bit and we got to see more of his real emotions/feelings about things.

Alastor was the character I thought would have the most layers to them. Characters like Charlie, Angel Dust, and Vaggie wear what they feel a bit more openly than a character like Alastor (or at the very least their true feelings come out more frequently). There are motives and mysteries behind Alastor’s actions that aren’t clear with him like they are with everyone else and his demeanor, words, and actions can conflict with his true feelings and that’s what draws me to him so much. His usual (kinda) goofy and cavalier attitude, cold and ruthless demeanor that can come out at the flick of a switch, and infamous past make it so learning about Alastor's true intentions and introducing the idea of him changing and coming to care is very intriguing to me.

I just think that Alastor is the character that is working the best in the show right now because his plotline and development is not going at a breakneck pace. We’ve only gotten hints about why he was gone for seven years, who he sold his soul to, why he appeared to help with the hotel, etc. His character progression is also taking its time. This is the first real hint we get that he does genuinely care about the hotel in his own way and it’s 5 episodes in. This is the kind of pacing and development that the whole show would benefit from.

This isn’t meant to be a shot at the show. I think it was put into a complicated situation because it was picked up initially for only 8 episodes (this is the type of show and large cast that needs at least twice as many) and was only renewed about halfway through the production of the first season, which I think explains why these episodes felt more coherent and fleshed out than the first four.

I really can’t wait to see where his character heads. He's still a walking question mark as of right now and every time we get a glimpse at his true intentions it's always fascinating because it's never clear cut where he stands.

Side note: I find it hilarious that Alastor created a rivalry between himself and Lucifer. The literal king of hell. Lucifer hurt Alastor’s pride and he immediately decided he would be as petty as possible towards him.

Charlie

I was always in the boat that Charlie was an interesting protagonist. The pilot set up a character that was very intriguing for the setting she was placed into. I didn’t think the three episodes necessarily handled her the best, but I think that was more a result of the rushed pacing and bloated plot. She’s handled significantly better from episode 4 on.

Episode 6 is where I think Charlie really came into her own as the protagonist of this series. The song where she stood up to heaven really sold me on her character.

“If hell is forever then heaven must be a lie. If angels can do whatever and remain in the sky. The rules are shades gray when you don’t do as you say. And you make the wretched suffer just to kill them again.”

Up until this point Charlie felt a bit limited in her actions. It really amounted to trust exercises and the hotel residents acting out made up situations. She seemed naive and well meaning, but ill equipped to actually address the mental health issues her people had due to the fact her upbringing was so sheltered. There was the potential for more, but it wasn’t given the time I felt it deserved.

But this is where she really got to step up and call out the inequality and hypocrisy of heaven. This is where we got to see her backbone and the true extent of her care for her people. She won’t back down or accept the flimsy excuses they use to persecute the denizens of hell.

I also really liked her belief in Angel Dust. Yeah, he made some mistakes (at least from heaven’s point of view), but Charlie had complete faith in the fact that he would meet their requirements. It’s this characteristic of her’s that is intrinsic to bringing out the best in the residents of the hotel and before this point it was on the periphery (like with Angel Dust in episode 4) or implied.

Episode 6 showed how important that characteristic is, especially to people who feel like they’re damned. (I like that Charlie is a good judge of character. It’s easy to take someone that’s privileged and naive and make them too trusting, but these two episodes show her belief in the best in the people at the hotel is founded.)

Another point I liked is that she was getting through to some of the angels. It’s a recurring gag that her presentations aren’t great. They’re written in crayon, flowery, and a little basic, but it’s the passion and critical thinking that she expresses in her presentations that shows that she can be a capable leader.

She effectively poked holes in their argument that the sinners in hell deserve to be there and had their chance.

Her duet with Emily was really good. The way she brought back “Hell is Forever” to call the angels and exorcists out was the best (as you could probably tell from the fact that I quoted it). It also introduces a theme that the next generation will work to change things. Both Emily and Charlie want things to be different and clash with their parents who are both afraid that their child might end up like Lucifer. It’s a very clear parallel that sets up a lot of plot potential.

Charlie really was great in these episodes.

Angel Dust

I will admit I think aspects of Angel’s arc are rushed. Him standing up to Val is a big moment and I like the fact that it happened while Charlie is trying to show heaven that they are wrong about sinners, but I wish that we had gotten more time to build to Angel Dust being able to “stick it to the man” because of how powerful I think his arc is and the themes it deals with.

Episode 4 was the first time we really got to see beneath Angel’s mask and truly see the potential for change that Charlie does. We only really got hints that Angel wanted to change, but was scared to try in the first 3 episodes. We also know that he doesn’t feel safe even when he’s not around Valentino.

Episode 4 is the turning point for him. When Val was abusing him he asked him not to hurt Charlie. His concern was solely for her in that moment despite the fact he was in the more tenuous position. He even forgives Charlie at the end because he knows her intentions are good. Plus his connection with Husk helped him find understanding so that he could come to feel like he could change.

It was the real start of his growth and it was well done in my opinion.

I just wish it had gotten a little more breathing room because while I do really like the plot points that occur in this episode I feel like they happened a bit too soon. (I know that it's been a few months in canon, but we didn't get to see that, so that slow progression doesn't have the impact it should)

I also liked that it called back to the pilot where she told the news that he was their patron and he ended up making them look bad because he was indulging in all his bad habits from before, but now it’s almost the opposite. Yeah, he drinks and does some drugs, but he shows his growth and proves Charlie’s point about sinners and it makes the angels argue among themselves.

Vaggie

The reveal that Vaggie was an ex-exorcist was something a lot of people made theories about. It was one that I wanted to be true because of what it would mean for Charlie and the dynamic of the hotel. I liked how it was revealed to Charlie.

This is another plot point that I think is rushed, but I think the execution is better than a lot of the other reveals that happened earlier in the series.

I feel like this reveal was a bit necessary for Vaggie’s character and the episode’s focus wasn’t split and I think that’s why I’m not as hard on it being rushed as I am on earlier plot points. Vaggie was the member of the hotel I thought suffered the most from the limited time/episode count.

The only focus she got was episode 3 and her arc in that episode was a bit clunky, which wasn’t helped by the fact that the other half of the episode with the overlords of hell was more interesting because it set up what looks like it will be a long term conflict and revealed a major plot point.

The rest of the hotel residents got slower paced, less cluttered focus. Alastor has been subject to quite a few plot lines and is a slow burn mystery with a lot of potential for growth. Angel Dust is the hotel’s first patron and the character positioned to be the poster boy for redemption, so of course his development is given the spotlight. Husk has a unique dynamic with everyone (Alastor and Angel in particular) and is a foil to Angel Dust which makes him a central figure/mentor in Angel getting himself together. Etc.

I think this creates a lot of potential for her character leading into the last two episodes and gives her depth that I really want to see explored. I don’t really know what to say about the reveal beyond the fact that I’m really excited to see how this shakes Charlie and the hotel. How will this effect the other residents? Will Vaggie take a stand against the angels when they come for the hotel? Will we see her grief/conflict over her past actions now that they’ve been revealed?

There’s so many directions they can take this that I can’t wait for episode 7.

One smaller note is that I wish that the threat of Adam telling Charlie about Vaggie's secret had played more of a part in the episode and Vaggie actually had to choose between standing beside her girlfriend or stopping her. She just excuses herself to the restroom instead of making that choice and it felt like a missed opportunity.

Lucifer

Lucifer is a very interesting character in the limited screen time he’s had so far. The direction they took him is different from most of the other dads in Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss. The fact that he does care and was the person that was the original motivation for Charlie to open the Hazbin Hotel is a refreshing direction to take after all the bad dads this series has.

He’s so afraid that Charlie will end up like him. That she’s putting her faith in the wrong people. That hell’s denizens aren’t capable of redemption. All these fears stem from his own crushed dreams from his fall at the hands of heaven.

It’s a nice change of pace.

I also love how he’s just as petty as Alastor, taking any shot he can at the Radio Demon to one up him when it comes to their respective relationships to Charlie.

Extra Thoughts

Sir Pentious having a crush on Cherry Bomb, but being absolutely horrible at acting on it was really funny. Sir Pentious is such a fun character.

I love that the theory that Alastor made a deal with Lilith seems more and more plausible with every episode. It certainly would explain the fact that they were both gone for seven years and how Alastor was such a dominant force in hell from the start. I want Alastor’s backstory asap.

I like that Alastor’s overwhelming power among sinners is re-established here. He’s someone that you don’t mess with. And I like that the way that people don’t react to him as much as before is because of his 7 year absence. I did think it was strange that he’s so infamous for brutally toppling powerful overlords, but people don’t go running like you’d expect in the first few episodes.

Alastor and Husk have such a complicated dynamic. I really want to learn more about their history. Alastor has no problems tearing overlords that come across him apart, but Husk ended up with a deal to keep his power. Why is that? And while Alastor does own his soul Husk will call him out on things and can read him so much better than anyone else. Alastor lets these slide until he points out that Alastor is also on a leash like him. And Alastor had to have told Husk that he sold his soul because how else would Husk know that. All these things make for one of the most interesting and complicated dynamics of the show.

I do want to make clear that I think Alastor is a character of duality and contradiction. There's a hint that he does care about the hotel and the possibility of him growing to care for the residents, but he's still the sadistic and cruel Radio Demon. There's just a glimpse of change there now.

I really like the parallels between Emily and Charlie. I really like the idea that this seems to set up that the next generation is going to step up and take a stand against the mistakes of the previous generation. This one episode set the groundwork for a really interesting arc for Emily and her potential dynamic with Charlie.

I love Angel Dust. That's it. I just wanted to say that.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #charlie #vaggie #angel dust #welcome to heaven #dad beat dad

279 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago

Text

The CHIPS Act treats the symptoms, but not the causes

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/07/farewell-mr-chips/#we-used-to-make-things

There's this great throwaway line in 1992's Sneakers, where Dan Aykroyd, playing a conspiracy-addled hacker/con-man, is feverishly telling Sydney Poitier (playing an ex-CIA spook) about a 1958 meeting Eisenhower had with aliens where Ike said, "hey, look, give us your technology, and we'll give you all the cow lips you want."

Poitier dismisses Aykroyd ("Don't listen to this man. He's certifiable"). We're meant to be on Poitier's side here, but I've always harbored some sympathy for Aykroyd in this scene.

That's because I often hear echoes of Aykroyd's theory in my own explanations of the esoteric bargains and plots that produced the world we're living in today. Of course, in my world, it's not presidents bargaining for alien technology in exchange for cow-lips – it's the world's wealthy nations bargaining to drop trade restrictions on the Global South in exchange for IP laws.

These bargains – which started as a series of bilateral and then multilateral agreements like NAFTA, and culminated in the WTO agreement of 1999 – were the most important step in the reordering of the world's economy around rent-extraction, cheap labor exploitation, and a brittle supply chain that is increasingly endangered by the polycrisis of climate and its handmaidens, like zoonotic plagues, water wars, and mass refugee migration.

Prior to the advent of "free trade," the world's rich countries fashioned debt into a whip-hand over poor, post-colonial nations. These countries had been bankrupted by their previous colonial owners, and the price of their freedom was punishing debts to the IMF and other rich-world institutions in exchange for loans to help these countries "develop."

Like all poor debtors, these countries were said to have gotten into their predicament through moral failure – they'd "lived beyond their means."

(When rich people get into debt, bankruptcy steps in to give them space to "restructure" according to their own plans. When poor people get into debt, bankruptcy strips them of nearly everything that might help them recover, brands them with a permanent scarlet letter, and subjects them to humiliating micro-management whose explicit message is that they are not competent to manage their own affairs):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/07/hr-4193/#shoppers-choice

So the poor debtor nations were ordered to "deregulate." They had to sell off their state assets, run their central banks according to the dictates of rich-world finance authorities, and reorient their production around supplying raw materials to rich countries, who would process these materials into finished goods for export back to the poor world.

Naturally, poor countries were not allowed to erect "trade barriers" that might erode the capacity of this North-South transfer of high-margin goods, but this was not the era of free trade. It wasn't the free trade era because, while the North-South transfer was largely unrestricted, the South-North transfer was subject to tight regulation in the rich world.

In other words, poor countries were expected to export, say, raw ore to the USA and reimport high-tech goods, with low tariffs in both directions. But if a poor country processed that ore domestically and made its own finished goods, the US would block those goods at the border, slapping them with high tariffs that made them more expensive than Made-in-the-USA equivalents.

The argument for this unidirectional trade was that the US – and other rich countries – had a strategic need to maintain their manufacturing industries as a hedge against future geopolitical events (war, but also pandemics, extreme weather) that might leave the rich world unable to provide for itself. This rationale had a key advantage: it was true.

A country that manages its own central bank can create as much of its own currency as it wants, and use that money to buy anything for sale in its own currency.

This may not be crucial while global markets are operating to the country's advantage (say, while the rest of the world is "willingly" pricing its raw materials in your country's currency), but when things go wrong – war, plague, weather – a country that can't make things is at the rest of the world's mercy.

If you had to choose between being a poor post-colonial nation that couldn't supply its own technological needs except by exporting raw materials to rich countries, and being a rich country that had both domestic manufacturing capacity and a steady supply of other countries' raw materials, you would choose the second, every time.

What's not to like?

Here's what.

The problem – from the perspective of America's ultra-wealthy – was that this arrangement gave the US workforce a lot of power. As US workers unionized, they were able to extract direct concessions from their employers through collective bargaining, and they could effectively lobby for universal worker protections, including a robust welfare state – in both state and federal legislatures. The US was better off as a whole, but the richest ten percent were much poorer than they could be if only they could smash worker power.

That's where free trade comes in. Notwithstanding racist nonsense about "primitive" countries, there's no intrinsic defect that stops the global south from doing high-tech manufacturing. If the rich world's corporate leaders were given free rein to sideline America's national security in favor of their own profits, they could certainly engineer the circumstances whereby poor countries would build sophisticated factories to replace the manufacturing facilities that sat behind the north's high tariff walls.

These poor-country factories could produce goods ever bit as valuable as the rich world's shops, but without the labor, environmental and financial regulations that constrained their owners' profits. They slavered for a business environment that let them kill workers; poison the air, land and water; and cheat the tax authorities with impunity.

For this plan to work, the wealthy needed to engineer changes in both the rich world and the poor world. Obviously, they would have to get rid of the rich world's tariff walls, which made it impossible to competitively import goods made in the global south, no matter how cheaply they were made.

But free trade wasn't just about deregulation in the north – it also required a whole slew of new, extremely onerous regulations in the global south. Corporations that relocated their manufacturing to poor – but nominally sovereign – countries needed to be sure that those countries wouldn't try to replicate the American plan of becoming actually sovereign, by exerting control over the means of production within their borders.

Recall that the American Revolution was inspired in large part by fury over the requirement to ship raw materials back to Mother England and then buy them back at huge markups after they'd been processed by English workers, to the enrichment of English aristocrats. Post-colonial America created new regulations (tariffs on goods from England), and – crucially – they also deregulated.

Specifically, post-revolutionary America abolished copyrights and patents for English persons and firms. That way, American manufacturers could produce sophisticated finished goods without paying rent to England's wealthy making those goods cheaper for American buyers, and American publishers could subsidize their editions of American authors' books by publishing English authors on the cheap, without the obligation to share profits with English publishers or English writers.

The surplus produced by ignoring the patents and copyrights of the English was divided (unequally) among American capitalists, workers, and shoppers. Wealthy Americans got richer, even as they paid their workers more and charged less for their products. This incubated a made-in-the-USA edition of the industrial revolution. It was so successful that the rest of the world – especially England – began importing American goods and literature, and then American publishers and manufacturers started to lean on their government to "respect" English claims, in order to secure bilateral protections for their inventions and books in English markets.

This was good for America, but it was terrible for English manufacturers. The US – a primitive, agricultural society – "stole" their inventions until they gained so much manufacturing capacity that the English public started to prefer American goods to English ones.

This was the thing that rich-world industrialists feared about free trade. Once you build your high-tech factories in the global south, what's to stop those people from simply copying your plans – or worse, seizing your factories! – and competing with you on a global scale? Some of these countries had nominally socialist governments that claimed to explicitly elevate the public good over the interests of the wealthy. And all of these countries had the same sprinkling of sociopaths who'd gladly see a million children maimed or the land poisoned for a buck – and these "entrepreneurs" had unbeatable advantages with their countries' political classes.

For globalization to work, it wasn't enough to deregulate the rich world – capitalists also had to regulate the poor world. Specifically, they had to get the poor world to adopt "IP" laws that would force them to willingly pay rent on things they could get for free: patents and other IP, even though it was in the short-term, medium-term, and long-term interests of both the nation and its politicians and its businesspeople.

Thus, the bargain that makes me sympathetic to Dan Aykroyd: not cow lips for alien tech; but free trade for IP law. When the WTO was steaming towards passage in the late 1990s, there was (rightly) a lot of emphasis on its deregulatory provisions: weakening of labor, environmental and financial laws in the poor world, and of tariffs in the rich world.

But in hindsight, we all kind of missed the main event: the TRIPS (Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights). This actually started before the WTO treaty (it was part of the GATT, a predecessor to the WTO), but the WTO spread it to countries all over the world. Under the TRIPS, poor countries are required to honor the IP claims of rich countries, on pain of global sanction.

That was the plan: instead of paying American workers to make Apple computers, say, Apple could export the "IP" for Macs and iPhones to countries like China, and these countries would produce Apple products that were "designed in California, assembled in China." China would allow Apple to treat Chinese workers so badly that they routinely committed suicide, and would lock up or kill workers who tried to unionize. China would accept vast shipments of immortal, toxic e-waste. And China wouldn't let its entrepreneurs copy Apple's designs, be they software, schematics or trademarks.

Apple isn't the only company that pursued this strategy, but no company has executed it as successfully. It's not for nothing that Steve Jobs's hand-picked successor was Tim Cook, who oversaw the transfer of even the most exacting elements of Apple manufacturing to Chinese facilities, striking bargains with contractors like Foxconn that guaranteed that workers would be heavily – lethally! – surveilled and controlled to prevent the twin horrors of unionization and leaks.

For the first two decades of the WTO era, the most obvious problems with this arrangement was wage erosion (for American workers) and leakage (for the rich). China's "socialist" government was only too happy to help Foxconn imprison workers who demanded better wages and working conditions, but they were far more relaxed about knockoffs, be they fake iPods sold in market stalls or US trade secrets working their way into Huawei products.

These were problems for the American aristocracy, whose investments depended on China disciplining both Chinese workers and Chinese businesses. For the American people, leakage was a nothingburger. Apple's profits weren't shared with its workforce beyond the relatively small number of tech workers at its headquarters. The vast majority of Apple employees, who flogged iPhones and scrubbed the tilework in gleaming white stores across the nation, would get the same minimal (or even minimum) wage no matter how profitable Apple grew.

It wasn't until the pandemic that the other shoe dropped for the American public. The WTO arrangement – cow lips for alien technology – had produced a global system brittle supply chains composed entirely of weakest links. A pandemic, a war, a ship stuck in the Suez Canal or Houthi paramilitaries can cripple the entire system, perhaps indefinitely.

For two decades, we fought over globalization's effect on wages. We let our corporate masters trick us into thinking that China's "cheating" on IP was a problem for the average person. But the implications of globalization for American sovereignty and security were banished to the xenophobic right fringe, where they were mixed into the froth of Cold War 2.0 nonsense. The pandemic changed that, creating a coalition that is motivated by a complex and contradictory stew of racism, environmentalism, xenophobia, labor advocacy, patriotism, pragmatism, fear and hope.

Out of that stew emerged a new American political tendency, mostly associated with Bidenomics, but also claimed in various guises by the American right, through its America First wing. That tendency's most visible artifact is the CHIPS Act, through which the US government proposes to use policy and subsidies to bring high-tech manufacturing back to America's shores.

This week, the American Economic Liberties Project published "Reshoring and Restoring: CHIPS Implementation for a Competitive Semiconductor Industry," a fascinating, beautifully researched and detailed analysis of the CHIPS Act and the global high-tech manufacturing market, written by Todd Achilles, Erik Peinert and Daniel Rangel:

https://www.economicliberties.us/our-work/reshoring-and-restoring-chips-implementation-for-a-competitive-semiconductor-industry/#

Crucially, the report lays out the role that the weakening of antitrust, the dismantling of tariffs and the strengthening of IP played in the history of the current moment. The failure to enforce antitrust law allowed for monopolization at every stage of the semiconductor industry's supply-chain. The strengthening of IP and the weakening of tariffs encouraged the resulting monopolies to chase cheap labor overseas, confident that the US government would punish host countries that allowed their domestic entrepreneurs to use American designs without permission.

The result is a financialized, "capital light" semiconductor industry that has put all its eggs in one basket. For the most advanced chips ("leading-edge logic"), production works like this: American firms design a chip and send the design to Taiwan where TSMC foundry turns it into a chip. The chip is then shipped to one of a small number of companies in the poor world where they are assembled, packaged and tested (AMP) and sent to China to be integrated into a product.

Obsolete foundries get a second life in the commodity chip ("mature-node chips") market – these are the cheap chips that are shoveled into our cars and appliances and industrial systems.

Both of these systems are fundamentally broken. The advanced, "leading-edge" chips rely on geopolitically uncertain, heavily concentrated foundries. These foundries can be fully captured by their customers – as when Apple prepurchases the entire production capacity of the most advanced chips, denying both domestic and offshore competitors access to the newest computation.

Meanwhile, the less powerful, "mature node" chips command minuscule margins, and are often dumped into the market below cost, thanks to subsidies from countries hoping to protect their corner of the high-tech sector. This makes investment in low-power chips uncertain, leading to wild swings in cost, quality and availability of these workhorse chips.

The leading-edge chipmakers – Nvidia, Broadcom, Qualcomm, AMD, etc – have fully captured their markets. They like the status quo, and the CHIPS Act won't convince them to invest in onshore production. Why would they?

2022 was Broadcom's best year ever, not in spite of its supply-chain problems, but because of them. Those problems let Broadcom raise prices for a captive audience of customers, who the company strong-armed into exclusivity deals that ensured they had nowhere to turn. Qualcomm also profited handsomely from shortages, because its customers end up paying Qualcomm no matter where they buy, thanks to Qualcomm ensuring that its patents are integrated into global 4G and 5G standards.

That means that all standards-conforming products generate royalties for Qualcomm, and it also means that Qualcomm can decide which companies are allowed to compete with it, and which ones will be denied licenses to its patents. Both companies are under orders from the FTC to cut this out, and both companies ignore the FTC.

The brittleness of mature-node and leading-edge chips is not inevitable. Advanced memory chips (DRAM) roughly comparable in complexity to leading-edge chips, while analog-to-digital chips are as easily commodified as mature-node chips, and yet each has a robust and competitive supply chain, with both onshore and offshore producers. In contrast with leading-edge manufacturers (who have been visibly indifferent to the CHIPS incentives), memory chip manufacturers responded to the CHIPS Act by committing hundreds of billions of dollars to new on-shore production facilities.

Intel is a curious case: in a world of fabless leading-edge manufacturers, Intel stands out for making its own chips. But Intel is in a lot of trouble. Its advanced manufacturing plans keep foundering on cost overruns and delays. The company keeps losing money. But until recently, its management kept handing its shareholders billions in dividends and buybacks – a sign that Intel bosses assume that the US public will bail out its "national champion." It's not clear whether the CHIPS Act can save Intel, or whether financialization will continue to hollow out a once-dominant pioneer.

The CHIPS Act won't undo the concentration – and financialization – of the semiconductor industry. The industry has been awash in cheap money since the 2008 bailouts, and in just the past five years, US semiconductor monopolists have paid out $239b to shareholders in buybacks and dividends, enough to fund the CHIPS Act five times over. If you include Apple in that figure, the amount US corporations spent on shareholder returns instead of investing in capacity rises to $698b. Apple doesn't want a competitive market for chips. If Apple builds its own foundry, that just frees up capacity at TSMC that its competitors can use to improve their products.

The report has an enormous amount of accessible, well-organized detail on these markets, and it makes a set of key recommendations for improving the CHIPS Act and passing related legislation to ensure that the US can once again make its own microchips. These run a gamut from funding four new onshore foundries to requiring companies receiving CHIPS Act money to "dual-source" their foundries. They call for NIST and the CPO to ensure open licensing of key patents, and for aggressive policing of anti-dumping rules for cheap chips. They also seek a new law creating an "American Semiconductor Supply Chain Resiliency Fee" – a tariff on chips made offshore.

Fundamentally, these recommendations seek to end the outsourcing made possible by restrictive IP regimes, to undercut Wall Street's power to demand savings from offshoring, and to smash the market power of companies like Apple that make the brittleness of chip manufacturing into a feature, rather than a bug. This would include a return to previous antitrust rules, which limited companies' ability to leverage patents into standards, and to previous IP rules, which limited exclusive rights chip topography and design ("mask rights").

All of this will is likely to remove the constraints that stop poor countries from doing to America the same things that postcolonial America did to England – that is, it will usher in an era in which lots of countries make their own chips and other high-tech goods without paying rent to American companies. This is good! It's good for poor countries, who will have more autonomy to control their own technical destiny. It's also good for the world, creating resiliency in the high-tech manufacturing sector that we'll need as the polycrisis overwhelms various places with fire and flood and disease and war. Electrifying, solarizing and adapting the world for climate resilience is fundamentally incompatible with a brittle, highly concentrated tech sector.

Pluralizing high-tech production will make America less vulnerable to the gamesmanship of other countries – and it will also make the rest of the world less vulnerable to American bullying. As Henry Farrell and Abraham Newman describe so beautifully in their 2023 book Underground Empire, the American political establishment is keenly aware of how its chokepoints over global finance and manufacturing can be leveraged to advantage the US at the rest of the world's expense:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/10/weaponized-interdependence/#the-other-swifties

Look, I know that Eisenhower didn't trade cow-lips for alien technology – but our political and commercial elites really did trade national resiliency away for IP laws, and it's a bargain that screwed everyone, except the one percenters whose power and wealth have metastasized into a deadly cancer that threatens the country and the planet.

Image: Mickael Courtiade (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/197739384@N07/52703936652/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #chips act #ip #monopolies #antitrust #national security #industrial policy #american economic liberties project #tmsc #leading-edge #intel #mature node #lagging edge #foundries #fabless

253 notes · View notes

athenaistired · 11 months ago

Note

YOU GOT ME ABSOLUTELY HOOKED ON YOUR CHEATFIC WITH DILUC!

I need more of it :00

Will you be making a part two??

𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂❞

— 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐭.𝟐 //

plot: ᴅᴏɴɴᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪʟᴜᴄ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜᴇꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴅʀᴏᴏᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ʟᴏɴɢ. ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ᴘʟᴀɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʀɪᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴇᴛʜᴏᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ.

art credit & word count: 4614

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴄʜᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ

— 𝑴𝒀 𝑳𝑼𝑺𝑻𝑭𝑼𝑳 𝑯𝑼𝑺𝑩𝑨𝑵𝑫 !2!

“Y/N, we need to talk.” Diluc’s voice was stern. You hated that tone. That man dared to step back into your home, claim what’s right and what’s wrong, and now he thinks of assuming you’d reason with his fantasies. You waited for this sweet revenge for years. He deserved every bit of it. You were patient and cautious. Most importantly, fueled with malice.

“It’s Master Y/N to you starting from today, Diluc.” You couldn’t hold back a smirk from spreading across your face. The offended expression was just beyond amusing.

“Are you having fun humiliating me in any way you can? Did you think that stunt you pulled during breakfast was appropriate?” His voice sounded like it was about to crack from the pent-up pressure. You fake coughed into your fist and forced on a perfect smile.

“Oh? We are talking of what’s appropriate and what isn’t, Master Ragnvindr?” Diluc’s eye twitched, and he seemed to be ready to fight over this until twilight, but you had no time nor desire to spare, “Alright then, pyro-boy,” You walked up to a mirror in the hallway before the exit to fix your hair, “You see.. I’ve got errands to run, my dearest. I’ve got no time for useless chit-chat.”

And before anything else could be exchanged, you were already by the door running out of the mansion. Diluc could only burn stares into your back with a tightened fist.

“Master Y/N..”

Marie had no clue how to approach you with the information that she had found out. You’ve sent out so many search parties, volunteers, guards, knights, and even commissioners that have almost drained your wallet to the last coin of mora. You were about to go endlessly broke. Each day you’ve begged people to lend you a loan, however, no one could as they didn’t trust that you’d return it. Even so, none of that mattered when the love of your life was missing.

You had to find Diluc.

You knew he was not in the right mindset ever since his father had passed away. The redhead began to completely ignore you, wouldn’t speak a word in your direction, and locked himself away in one of the guest bedrooms. You gave him time. You tried staying positive, be patient, talk from the other side. You left food trays by his door, and you slid letters under the creak, in hopes that one day you’ll get at least something back.

But then, Diluc had vanished into the night.

And you fell apart.

“What is it, Marie?! Did you find him?” The desperation in your voice was painful. You have been so worried, that you’ve become ill. Your stomach was twisting in knots, your throat was sore, and you could never catch longer than an hour of sleep. Everyone watched you crumble down, but none of them could do anything.

There was no cure for a broken heart.

“No, Master Ragnvindr. But we do know where he left.”

“Then why are we still talking?! We must chase after him—!”

“He’s left to Snezhnaya. Rumors say that Master Diluc has no intentions of coming back. He had left, to take lives and execute revenge. It is impossible to go that far in Teyvat. People will die in search of him.”

Something cracked inside you. All you could do was sit back down on your chair, hunch over your back, and put both of your hands against the sides of your head. You just wanted to disappear. You couldn’t recall the last time you were this alone.

An agonic moan (or was it a painful cry?) had ripped itself from between your sealed lips. You were sobbing from inner pain; your chest felt torn apart. You’ve been humiliated, abandoned, and tossed aside like nothing. Did all those memories and promises never matter to Diluc? Was this marriage really just a contract to him enforced by his father? You were convinced that at least the two of you were friends. Turns out, it was all nothing in the end.

If he ever comes back — he will regret it.

The sunlight shined brighter through the colorful windows of your office. You had quite a lot of paperwork to do. Usually, you would do it at home, but with the “guests” around to make your life miserable, you preferred the office for today. You thought of getting them a separate house, or an apartment for yourself in the center of Mondstat. Maybe even moving all the way back to your motherland — Fontaine. You could finalize the divorce and rob Diluc of his last Mora, but you also were not quite satisfied. He had to feel more pain, more misery, more agony — like you did.

You wanted to ruin his life.

Not his status, health, or wealth.

Life.

You wanted to toy with his feelings, make him question his very own reasons and intentions, strip him of any power and confidence, and most importantly — break his heart into pieces, so that he’ll never recover. Same way you never could.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock and a distant voice behind the main door. One of the guards walked in and bowed, and after your nod, he straightened up his back and proceeded to report the situation.

“The Honorary Knight and Master Jean request an audience, Master Y/N.” You blinked at the pleasant surprise. You haven’t seen Lumine for months now, and you weren’t expecting for her to come back this soon into town.

“Oh? Do let them in, of course.” The guard bowed once more before opening the front door fully to let the guests in, “My, am I dreaming, or are the two of my favorite people are in the same room as me?” You stood up with a happy smile and quickly gave the two women gentle hugs. Lumine blushed, Paimon puffed at not being mentioned, and Jean knowingly smiled, “What brings you two here?”

Lumine walked up closer to you with her sword atop her palms; there was a crack in the middle. It wasn’t broken fully yet, but with a single elemental blow, it would shatter.

“I see..” You mumbled, and picked up the sword from her, “What kind of monster have you fought to have broken blade made by my blacksmiths?” You jokingly asked.

“The Raiden Shogun..” Paimon mumbled, and your eyes widened.

“Huh—?” Before you could ask further, Lumine quietly cursed at Paimon, and then looked back at you.

“It is a very long story, but no, relations between me and Inazuma’s government are okay now.” The blonde girl reassured you as she waved her hands in defense.

“It better be, as I do not condone criminals, Honorary Knight.” Although you were being sarcastic, your tone still made the Traveler tense up, “Nevertheless, I shall have this fixed up within a week. I’ll make some changes with a few clients’ deadlines to have this as a special priority.”

“You’re the best, Master Y/N.” Jean sincerely smiled; you could see the gratitude swimming in her eyes, “I was so scared that you wouldn’t be here..”

“My dear husband came back home, so I will probably start showing up here on a daily basis from now on.” You said before you could think through your words. Well, not like this was a secret to many. After all, Donna had spoken so much about her successful affair with a married man that the news spread faster than the winds of Mondstat.

“Master Y/N has a husband?!” Paimon’s jaw almost touched the floor from shock, “No. Way?!”

“Sadly, that I do.” You groaned; already feeling a migraine building up.

“Master Y/N is married to Master Diluc.” Jean decided to speak in your stead, but you weren’t sure if the information was for the better or the worse.

“Diluc has a spouse?! But I thought that he was with Donna..” Paimon’s last sentence made everyone go quiet. Lumine lightly slapped her flying companion on the back of her head for messing up, meanwhile, the Acting Grand Master sensed that this was their queue to leave.

“A-anyway.. Thank you, Master Y/N. We will be seeing you later.” Jean forced on a smile, and soon they were all out the door.

You couldn’t help but replay the words over and over in your head. Without realizing it, you felt something warm and wet streaming down your palm. Looking down you discovered that you dug your fingernails so deep in your flesh that they broke the skin and made you bleed. You couldn’t even feel it. Almost as if you were somewhere else entirely.

“This is really bad! We should tell Master Y/N that Master Diluc is cheating!” Was the first thing Paimon said once Lumine and Jean were outside of the building. Both blondes had conflicted expressions on their faces, “How could he even do such a thing? Master Y/N is so nice and talented.. Ah.. This is wrong, so wrong..”

“Ahem.” Jean cleared her throat, “I guess it is only fair for me to tell the two of you a story about Master Diluc and Master Y/N.”

“There’s more to this?” Lumine raised her brows in curiosity.

“Yes.” The woman sighed, “The two of them had known each other since childhood, and got engaged at the ages of 16 for political and financial reasons. I do assume that they had young love in the beginning, but it quickly fell apart after Master Diluc’s father had passed away..” Lumine and Paimon exchanged a look of surprise.

“W-what happened?” The floating companion questioned further.

“Not many know this, but Master Y/N fell ill from a broken heart. They’ve searched and searched for Diluc in no vain.” Jean couldn’t hold back the frown that was forming. She remember those days like they were yesterday. Back then everything was different. Master Y/N had compassion, love, and care. Their heart had passion and kindness to give, but those dark times have stolen purity and light away from Y/N's mind — never giving it back.

Sometimes, Jean would see small glimpses of Master Y/N from the past, but they were barely there. Only an echo of the past. Nothing more, nothing less.

“They got better eventually, right..?” Lumine asked, and Jean nodded.

“Yes, as you can see. One day, Master Y/N left on a trip. All that I know is that at first, they visited a good doctor in Sumeru. That man aided them in quick recovery. After that, they went off to Fontaine in search of the best lawyers in case Diluc does come back. The rest is only known to Master Y/N, but even what I said just now is merely my personal speculation. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have been plotting a divorce for all these years in case their love had truly withered away.”

“And after all of that, Master Diluc came back and decided to cheat?!” Paimon could barely contain her anger at this point, as she waved her arms around and kicked her feet, “No, you know what?! Screw him! I’ll come up with an ugly nickname for him.. How about.. Hm.. Maybe.. No, that won’t do..” Jean and Lumine both sighed and left the floating fairy to her thoughts.

“Well.. I am not sure what Master Diluc is thinking.. But he is also not being his usual self.” Jean admitted with a sorrowful look in her eyes, “They both changed a lot, so.. I wouldn’t exactly jump to conclusions. Perhaps.. There is no black and white, but plainly grey.” Lumine raised a brow at the knight, but having caught a whiff of the feeling that she had said too much, the taller woman straightened her back and quickly looked away, “Well then, I must go.” She glanced up at the sky in surprise, “We’ve chatted all the way ‘till afternoon.”

“That we did..” Lumine whispered back in thought.

It was deep in the night when you finally decided to come back. As much as you would rather to avoid the two idiots resting under your roof, you didn’t want it to seem like you were running away. You had to come out as the winner in this situation no matter what, and you wouldn’t let some cheating bastard control where you rest, eat, and work.

“Master Y/N, welcome back.” Sometimes you wondered whether Marie ever slept. The woman waited for you by the doorstep; helping you take off your long beige coat.

“Thank you, Marie. I will not be having dinner tonight, but a snack would be appreciated.” You smiled at her, but her serious look never swayed.

“What would you like?” She asked, and a moment later you noticed a figure standing by the stairs waiting for you to finish your conversation. Suddenly, you were in a terrible mood all over again.

“A slice of shortbread with some tea, please.” You didn’t let your tone change even in the slightest.

“I will proceed immediately, Master Y/N.” Marie nodded and headed out to the kitchen area.

You decided to ignore the obvious presence for as long as possible. You took your time taking off your shoes, polishing them, and leaving a neutral essence inside so they stay fresh for the next morning. Then, you took out a roller hidden behind the shoe shelves and began picking off the dust and dirt off your coat. Of course, your maids would do this for you every evening, but you just wanted to see how long would the other person last until their patience would crack.

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Diluc gritted out between his teeth.

“My! Who’s there? Almost scared me to death!” You dramatically gasped and then turned around to face him with a sarcastic look.

“Stop with your fucking games.” You saw Diluc clench his fist, but that got no reaction out of you. He didn’t scare you, and never will. Even if he were to raise a knife or his claymore — you’ll never be afraid of a coward.

“What a foul language from a foul man.” You whispered under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear.

“Where have you been?” He asked and you raised a brow.

“I have no need to report to you.” You shrugged him off and began walking away down the hallway, but he quickly followed you. You stopped abruptly; almost making him smash into your frame, “But I guess I’ll indulge you. I was at work. Happy?”

“Delighted.”

“Now, what do you really want, Diluc?” You turned around to face him, and both of you stared at each other with hatred. Your rage was silent and hidden away, his was loud and clear.

“I want a divorce. You’re humiliating me. People speak about me in a bad light every single time I pass by a crowd. I’m losing respect and friends.” You could barely hold back a laugh.

“Divorce, you say..” You gestured with your finger for him to follow you. He was confused but did as you said. The two of you ended up in your personal study which you had built when Diluc was away. Silently, you walked up to your desk and took out a single document. You’ve treasured and kept this piece of paper in the safest place you could think of.

“What is this?”

“This — is the divorce that you so desire.” You refused to let go off it in case Diluc would rip it apart or set it on fire, “However, I’d advise for you to read it before agreeing. You know, there might be some elements which will make you reconsider.”

Diluc scanned the document quickly with his eyes, and the more he read, the paler and angrier he got. It stated here that the house, the business, the contracts, and everything will go to you. As someone who had been paying for everything over the past years, everything that used to be his — had become yours. Plus, with Diluc’s rage history and criminal record, he wasn’t considered to be mentally stable according to the laws of Fontaine. Thus, you were the one to stay responsible for the crucial deals.

“Criminal record..? Clinically insane..? What the fuck have you done?!”

“You amuse me, honey! You’ve done all of this yourself!” This time you laughed straight into his face. You laughed so hard that your stomach began hurting. Yes, you loved that expression on his face. The confusion, realization, panic, and finally — agony. He was feeling what you’ve been feeling for years and years at the time! He deserved it all!

“After you ran away for 3 years, I searched for you a long time. Eventually, I gave up and went to my good friend in Fontaine. That friend happens to be a divorce lawyer. We set up a defense statement, gathered evidence, questioned people for witness reports, and created a contract in advance. You were called to attend the court hearing many times, but since no one could get a hold of you, the court date was at first changed many times, until eventually the case was put on hold until I would be able to find you. Then, when you did come back, I hired a private investigator to uncover everything about where you have been and what you’ve done in the past three years. I’ve gathered further evidence and went back to court. You can probably guess how that went, but in case you haven’t figured it out — you are a wanted criminal everywhere except Mondstat, deemed irrational and insane, and you are suspected to be guilty of countless deaths.”

“You were prepared for the divorce.. All this time..?” Diluc couldn’t believe his own ears, “No.. Not even that.. You prepared everything to completely ruin my life..” He grinned and couldn’t hold back a nervous laugh. He stated at you in shock, disbelief, but most importantly — betrayal. It was written all over his face, and you loved every second of it. You wanted to see him in pain, you wanted to watch him regret his choices, you wanted him to suffer, and all because he left you. None of this would have happened had he made the right decision.

“Yes. I just wanted to see how low you would go before settling things once and for all. How many more disgusting lies and tales you would tell me.” You felt your voice increase in volume, so you fell silent for a moment, before continuing further, “The only reason I’ve endured everything thus far was because I knew that I had won even before you stepped back into this house. I knew that I would ruin your life no matter if you came back or not. I knew it, but seeing it play out like this?” You didn’t even realize that you were smiling. Your heart was blooming with joy.

“This might be the happiest day of my life.”

“You’re fucking crazy..” The man whispered in disbelief. All of this was beyond belief. For such fucked up case to go through, to be hidden away from him, and for everyone to be kept in the dark? There had to be uncountable amounts of bribery involved. And not just that; you’ve told lies, you acted your way through like an abused and damaged spouse. You had everyone fooled. Absolutely everyone, “You’re a psychopath. Y-You’re an actual psychopath.”

“You feed my ego more and more with each passing day.” You couldn’t help but take all of his ‘insults’ as compliments, “The paper that you’re looking at is confirmation of everything that had transpired. Once you sign this — the case will be officially closed. You can bring me to court if you so desire, but your chances of winning against me are estimated to be 0.05%.”

You were right. He had no chance against you, and even though admitting defeat this fast made a sour feeling creep up his back — he had already bit off more than he could chew. Before marrying you, he was warned about your family. That they were all crazy. Out of this world. But with your pure nature in childhood, he was certain you’d turn out differently — more weak and stupid. Maybe like Donna.

He was wrong.

You were a spitting image of your parents. Just as calculating and cold. He looked down at the paper in your hand, and then back at your smiling face. You had ruined a life to no repair, but there was no hesitation, no regret, no sadness. Only happiness. You were overjoyed. You seemed to be at the 9th cloud.

“What happens if we stay married?” He wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask this question.

“You get to keep your bar, your girlfriend, your friends. You will also get to stay in the guest bedroom of this house. You’ll be provided with food, water, and clothes. Your healthcare will be taken care of by me.”

“What happens if I leave?”

“You lose it all, and you flee in shame. You can never come back or start over. Any job would know of your criminal deeds and not hire you. You’ll become the man who cheated and divorced Master Y/N, and then ran away with a tail between his legs. You will also be known as a madman who in grief slaughtered innocents with the use of a delusion.” His eyes widened at the last sentence. It was shocking to him just how much you knew.

“I have no choice then.”

“You do. There’s always a choice.” You reminded him, and he could only glare at you with disgust, “I think this is a great way to put to the test how much Donna loves you!” You suddenly exclaimed, and Diluc’s eyes widened in horror at what you were suggesting, “Would she stay with a man who had lost his career, money, and status?” You got closer, and closer to him with each word, “Would she stay with him when everyone will know that she was the one to break apart a family?” You filled his brain with poisonous thoughts that he couldn’t shake off, “Would she stay knowing that you could kill when angry?“ Your hand trailed across his back towards his shoulder, as you leaned closer to his face, “You seem to love her oh so much, mustn’t you have faith in her feelings?” You whispered, and Diluc felt a nauseous wave swim across his gut.

“I’ve never met someone as sadistic as you.” He gritted out, and you bursted out laughing.

“You know, Diluc.. I am a good person to have on your side, rather than against you.” You shrugged, “You just made the wrong choice.”

Those were your last words as you finally began heading upstairs with Marie trailing behind you like a loyal puppy. Diluc was stuck downstairs with a storm of thoughts and a tonne weighting at his heart.

He had no clue what to do now.

Donna was getting worried about Diluc. The man began to eat less, stopped leaving their guest bedroom for weeks, and completely buried himself in books about the laws of Fontaine. He made a mind map of sorts using ripped out pages and liters of ink, but no matter how much she tried to understand what was written, she felt like she was going inside alongside him. Whenever she would attempt to communicate with him as to what was happening, he would either brush her off or ignore her altogether. She might have not been the smartest one around, but she wasn’t a complete idiot either. Sadly, all of her attempts with her lover were pointless, so that left her with a single plausible option.

“Master Y/N, Mistress Donna wishes to speak with you.” Marie knocked on your door, and you quietly murmured back a reply that Donna didn’t catch.

“You don’t have to call me a Mistress..” The brunette complained, but her voice was ignored by the maid who only gave her a small smile after opening the door.

“Donna, what an unexpected visit. Please, do take a seat.” You gestured at the chair in front of your work desk, and with hesitation, the woman took a seat, “Apologies, but you’ll have to wait until I am done. However, feel welcome to pour yourself a cup of tea.” Any other day, Donna would have insisted on their conversation being urgent, but over the past weeks she had learned that going against your word in this house was close to a sin.

The two of you sat in silence. She held her back straight but didn’t dare to touch the ceramic cup or the teapot. Her gaze got lost staring outside the window onto the endless fields, trees, and flowers. Ever since she and Diluc ended up here, it felt like all light was getting sucked out of her bit by bit. This mansion always had its curtains closed, with only a bit of sunlight peeking through. It made Donna feel suffocated like she was about to be swallowed by the four walls of this house — never able to escape.

“I’m done.” Your voice snapped her out of her thoughts, “What did you wish to speak about?”

For a second, she was silent. You could see her emotions and thoughts right through her eyes as if she was as transparent as glass. Donna was ridiculously easy to read. She seemed to be getting tired. There was an aura of defeat surrounding her.

“Do you love Diluc?” She asked. You didn’t expect that question, but it didn’t surprise you.

“I resent him. More than anything, Donna.” You reassured her, and she weakly nodded at that.

“Thought so..” She whispered, and sighed, “Is it possible for him to earn your forgiveness?”

You chuckled at her words and poured both of you some tea. With hesitation, she accepted and pressed the cup against her lips to take a sip whilst you were still stirring the hot drink with a golden teaspoon.

“When Diluc left me.. This house started to suffocate me. It felt like the sun would burn away at my skin, but the darkness would chew at what remained of my soul. I fell very ill, Donna. I was only 18, just recently married, and still so green and naive for this world. My parents died when I was only 10, he was the only one I had left — but he betrayed me. It taught me a few crucial lessons that I will never forget—“ You were finally done stirring the tea, and gently put the cutlery away.

“To only trust myself. To never forgive. To never forget. And to never let anyone think you are weak.”

Just as you were done, Donna realized that her stomach was hurting more than usual and she had an intense burning sensation creeping up her esophagus. Before she could drop the cup, you swiftly caught it and poured its contents back into the teapot. The brunette woman couldn’t stop coughing and gasping for breath as she watched you pour out the tea outside the window — erasing the evidence.

“Marie, the homewrecker seems to be feeling unwell.” Donna didn’t even notice the maid inside the room, already grabbing at her half-paralyzed body as if she were a bag of stones, “Could you have Sebastian keep an eye on her?”

“Of course, Master Y/N.”

Donna’s eyes wouldn’t stop streaming endless tears. Her nose became stuffed deep inside, but runny at the same time. She felt like from a collected woman, she was brought down to a complete mess all because she chose to trust you. She should have known better. You were full of rage, hostility, and madness. For some reason, Donna had the impression that even if you’d do something of such sort, there would at least be a warning — a built-up — but the incident just shocked her to the bone.

“Sebastian, Master Y/N requested for you to ensure Mistress Dona doesn’t die.”

Donna’s face and throat were starting to swallow up. She felt like a bloated balloon of liquids, and the more she struggled, the more it was getting harder to breathe. She felt adrenaline rush through, her heart rate picking up, and now the tears falling down her cheeks were not just from the tea.

Before she knew it, her whole world went black.

NEXT CHAPTER!

197 notes · View notes