#my friends have been mostly quiet
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I'm going to try to go back to work tomorrow. it's gonna suck - my dad was a volunteer at the museum too, lots of people there knew him, and it's where I last talked to him on the day he had his heart attack. I loved getting to work there with him, seeing my dad during breaks, showing him the things I was doing there, sometimes having lunch together, and I'm really going to miss that, even if we only had that for a few months. but I can't just stay home forever. there's a project that needs finishing, and I need to get out of the house and do other things too.
but I'm really, really not looking forward to this.
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manasurge Ā· 4 months ago
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Just a bit of lore relevant vent art (with terrible proportions bc apparently I mess that up horribly when I'm tired ugh. Watch me regret posting this tomorrow. The head size is already driving me mad bc it's too big, and I can feel myself wanting to abort this mission already) of Mourynn just, lying down on top of one of those large elevated Pale Tree roots far above the Grove (and far away from everyone else), and during the time between the early years and before the Personal story. Caithe is gone (Destiny's Edge), Wynne is gone (bc well, y'know...), even Faolain is gone (bc of Caithe in DE), and she's just feeling miserable, lost, and alone. (Her hair is in between her sapling hair and the Zhaitan hair, so it's grown out a bit bc she's depressed, and she's meant to be in the new outfit she designed, but I'm in the process of redesigning it a bit, so I've made a few tentative changes for now. Her collar is now just an extension of her clavicle leaves which can be put up like a collar, or can be draped down over her shoulders or back)
#gw2#sylvari#artgallery#mourynn#mourynn art#I've just been so tired lately bc of work#also just going a bit stir crazy with the silence (lonely; but alas I unfortunately suck at starting convos bc I have nothing interesting t#talk about and work has been draining my social energy; making it even harder :( (I'd rather burn the social energy with friends yknow?)#it's getting a wee bit better; but I haven't had much time or energy to even game while we're in the midst of our busiest season :(#I miss hanging out and chatting with my buds; but the universe insists on keeping us apart :(#just miss having something to look forward to throughout my day. Been trying to fill it with other things; but the depresso is overriding i#Mostly just been me with my thoughts and that is just bad bc I got so many horrors in there lmao.#I wanna at the very least; draw more or game more to distract from it; but work is sapping all my time and energy from it.#but also it's very quiet on my end and it's kicking my overthinking into overdrive so I#Ive just been fighting with my mind lately lmao#hopefully this will all pass soon so I won't obsessively keep thinking about it loll#lol I'd post this in the servers but it's vent art so it feels a bit weird to do; so it's going straight to home video w/o a theater releas#hopefully once work calms down it'll help#(I have so many long shifts makes me so frustrated bc I hate them and I run out of steam half way through)#other than all that I'm doing fine lol. My brain's always been like this; But I usually only get like this during the winter season#(bc of the holidays making everything quiet and also the SAD) so it feels weird having this exact same feeling happen to me in July lol
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kafus Ā· 3 months ago
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pokemon is the interest i get a lot out of fandom and socialization with, vocaloid is the thing i like to enjoy on my own, and kaf/kamitsubaki is somewhere in the middle
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wacky-nameless-inventor-24 Ā· 1 year ago
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Fully dressed, cry in the bath Iā€™m still a child Pick me up, reuse me ā€˜til the glue melts apart From the heat of the argument
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1roentgen Ā· 3 months ago
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#sunny and hot outside today#rather quiet except for the birdsong#i know itā€™s august but it feels like summer#just woke up from a sleep paralysis nap lmao#dreamt i was too high to move#but people/ my phone kept informing me i was failing all my classes again šŸ˜‚šŸ˜‚#and i was so guilty cuz iā€™d spent all my time drinking and smoking instead of studying#not what happened irl btw#i actually still tried when i was at uoft i was simply too unwell for the workload šŸ˜‚ brain getting confused#imma shower wash the dishes get lunch then practice bass#the audio interface i ordered is awesomesauce but iā€™m completely broke the rest of this month šŸ„²#also bass is really difficult#i guess starting anything is#picking it up is supposed to be easy compared to other instruments but i only have piano to compare to#and iā€™ve been playing piano since i was four#mostly iā€™m just frustrated iā€™m not good at it right away#like usual#told my mates id actually learn to play over the break so i gotta lock in#still absolutely shite#band never gonna happen at this point#new school term starting soon i canā€™t wait to have a proper schedule to follow again#and i wanna hang out with my friends#idk what to do about The Issue but i suppose thereā€™s no issue#life shall proceed and weā€™re still friends#who give a shit#feelings are internal and incorporeal and can stay that way how tf they gonna screw anything up unless u let them#think things r gonna be ok#smiley face emoji
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sarah-sandwich-writes Ā· 9 months ago
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HOLD ON WAIT UP HOLD THE PHONE
I KNOW I WAS GONE FOR A FEW MONTHS THERE BUT HAS BLUE LIKE DON'T FORGET ABOUT ME ALWAYS BEEN A PART OF A SERIES OR IS THAT A NEW DEVELOPMENT???
I FEEL LIKE ITS CHRISTMAS ALL OVER AGAIN FUCK Y E A H
Okay so
I...
have been cooking
by which I mean illusions of grandeur and
schemes
And I have not been forthcoming lol Everyone kind of disappeared all at the same time so I kind of stopped talking about what I'm doing but I have been biding my time, quietly putting mechanisms into motion and plotting and occasionally cackling over my cauldron.
I finished the first draft of Blue like don't forget about me and didn't like it so I cut out all the sci-fi fantasy stuff (bye bye aliens farewell superpowers) and in November wrote a new first draft that's all contemporary romance babeee and I'm so in love with it I'm turning it into a little 3-part (possibly 4 if I can't control myself) series.
The original childhood years have been split off into a prequel novella called Red like my bleeding heart in your hand. Then Blue like don't forget about me will take place 20 years later. Nash works at Cherished Hope Nursing Home
ā€œAnd what is it you do? At the nursing home, I mean.ā€ I wipe shit off of old people. And Teddyā€™s a hockey player. Whatā€™s Luke, an underwear model? He shouldnā€™t have come.
Teddy comes back to town for a funeral and
Teddy looks at him for the first time in twenty years and every ounce of warmth leaves his expression. Message received. He should not have come.
OKAY SO AND THEN the next book will be Jo's POV and is called Violet like these delights. and MAYBE there will be a 4th from Luke's POV bc he gets to live this time by the grace of god (me) but it'll depend on how Violet goes (its current state is mostly vibes and a single overarching theme so, stand by).
Red needs a clean-up round of edits to snip out the few little threads that connected it to OG blue. And rewritten blue is basically done. I've done the major revisions and am about to start line edits and after those are done I'm sending it out to beta readers (lmk if you're interested).
There are concise actual summaries in my pinned post btw lol
WHICH REMINDS ME
The series title is Wildflowers of Deliverance. Which I'm extremely proud of. Did you notice did you notice how each title incorporates a wildflower did you did you? and the town they grew up in where Nash and Teddy first met is called Deliverance!!! It's okay I know I'm a genius.
And this brings us to the meal okay? because like I said I've been Cookingā„¢ quietly but steadily for a few months now. ANd what have I been cooking? PLOTS and PLANS
I've decided on a pen name: Sarah B. Elisa
I've created a(nother) side blog for it that will be exclusively centered on my og writing and geared more toward readers rather than writers like this blog is: @sarahbe-writing
I'm going to create a website (as soon as I convince myself to spend money)
and a newsletter (as soon as I convince myself to spend money and do work)
I'm still waffling between trad publishing and DIY. I really like all my hats and it would be a shame to have to share them but oh my god I don't want to do all the marketing but trad pub seems hit or miss on how well they market you so I might get half of my hats taken away and still have to do the marketing bullshit UGH
anyway
OH YEAH and the OG draft I wrote for Blue? I'm going to spin it back to its OG OG roots [parkner, naturally--Return of The childhood friends to estranged almost lovers to super-powered rivals to reluctant allies to friends to lovers finally wip!!! AKA: We Were Gods (we were kids)] and that will fix all the things that went wrong and I didn't like ļæ½ļæ½ so it's basically like double Christmas I think
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honeysuckledreams Ā· 6 months ago
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Also since I am being too personal and there is a slim chance one or two members from that old college friend group might see this, in bombshell news Ren and I are no longer friends, and Ren and Fed (now Fae) are divorced. Ren and I ended late December 2022, so it's been 1.5 years and I am finally, finally starting to feel better.
In my version, I couldn't emotionally support Ren through their divorce anymore, and I needed a break from talking about it literally 4x a week. They found out I talked to Fae about the divorce after I set that boundary with them (because that was the third time Fae ever asked for insight about the divorce, and it was still almost too much) and Ren ghosted me! My best friend of seven years ghosted me because I set a boundary and wasn't capable of emotionally supporting them anymore. We literally talked every single day for our whole friendship before that point.
After 2 months of occasionally reaching out to them and getting radio silence, I ended our friendship. The ending was mutual in the last conversation we had.
#Shit sucks#I was literally planning on having them as a life partner and living with them since I was 18#But it happens#And honestly my life is a lot better now#I never really felt like I could be happy around them or talk about my life when it was good because they were always so sad#And they were always having a really really hard time#And I wanted to support them but I didn't want to be in a hard spot myself#And it felt like we could only connect on shitty things#By the end I did not recognize them at all#And from how they have acted and what they have said after and how they see themselves is just#I have no idea who this person is#And I never realized how much they hid from me#That friendship ending is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do#That was all of my 2023 just recovering from that friendship ending#I went to therapy specifically because of it#Anyway#I've wanted to kind of let people who knew us know but I can't do that lol#So talking into the void feels good#But losing Ren and Fyo devastated me#I still talk to Julia P Fae and Olwen though#I love all of them a lot and I am really happy we are still friends#Celestia says stuff#It honestly was a bit of a blessing that they ghosted me even though it was utterly devastating and broke my heart like nothing else#Because any other ending would have been so much harder#It was (mostly) clean and quiet and quick#And I just don't think we could have been friends anymore with how they were acting and treating people#So
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lesbianlenas Ā· 9 months ago
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my friend & i watched the lesbian movie saving face the other night & it was like šŸ˜­ ok like. u could tell it was made by a lesbian u know so i appreciate that. however. it was sooooo depressing. and not even like the lesbians actually. the main characterā€™s mother was just one of the most depressing characters i have ever seen in my life šŸ˜­ like it was like having the soul sucked out of meā€¦ā€¦we were both like this is actually draining fr
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coffin-flop Ā· 1 year ago
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i know my cat knows i love him but does he know how much?
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zipquips Ā· 2 months ago
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#i was hanging out with the other first year students yesterday#and it was super fun!#but then someone made the comment about how they hate seeing people with non astro backgrounds (ex: computer science/engineering/ect)#get into astro programs because those people are taking spots away from astro majors (their words not mine)#and i don't think the comment was about me#because everyone is really nice when i talk to them#but they also know i am someone with a non-astro background#so i was just really quiet and felt very awkward in that moment#so idk#like i know i deserve to be here (otherwise i wouldn't have gotten into the program)#but i sort of feel like shit because they think people like me have taken spots away from them#especially because i have been having a mild crisis about not knowing the same basic things as everyone else seems to#(because of my non-astro background)#and sometimes i do still doubt that everyone likes me#mostly because there are some times i can't interpret the meaning behind what people say in response to the things i say#(mostly when i'm trying to be funny)#and i can't tell how people interpret me all of them time yet#<- as in i can't tell if they have gathered that i'm autistic or if they just think i'm strange in a bad way#idk i'm just annoyed about that comment + the fact that there's been a couple comments about me that feel infantilizing?#but i'm also not sure?#again the autism <- idk how to interpret the meaning#like i got comments that were something along the lines of ā€œaw precious baby/childā€#when i said i didn't know what some website was that you can post your academic stats + grad school acceptances/rejections#and that scooby doo used to scare me when i was a literal child (but it doesn't anymore)#any everything i'm venting about is so minor and so meaningless and so something i wouldn't really think much about/very easily let go#if i wasn't already feeling like shit because i woke up too late to take my adderall and now i've done literally nothing all day#and i'm very frustrated with myself#and i very much miss my friends from home#and i cannot stop thinking about them because most of them were my grad school friends at my old college#and now i'm making new grad school friends
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queer-ecopunk Ā· 1 year ago
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So, I'm trans. And several years ago, I was at my great grandfather's funeral. 17, newly on T, barely out to anyone other than my close friends and family. And I'm standing there at the refreshment's table, surrounded by strangers and members of my family's church, when George walks up to me.
This man is ancient, bent like a finger and frail. Tufts of white hair surround his wrinkled face. Like always, he's wearing thick glasses, massive hearing aids, and his veteran's hat. George was my first introduction to the concept of war, when he told me as a child why he was missing two fingers on his hand. He's been a fixture at church since I can remember. I've only ever seen him at there or in uniform at parades, the rest of his time spent in a nursing home somewhere. He picks up a deviled egg and says, in his quiet voice,
"You know, before your grandfather died, he told me that now he had 3 grandsons."
I'm frozen in place. I don't know what to say to that, if I should say anything at all. This is not a conversation I expected to have, especially not with this man. But he continues.
"I didn't know what he meant! So he explained it to me."
And I can imagine it. My great grandfather, uninformed and opinionated but supportive, explaining to his friend the news he barely understood himself over after-service coffee and cookies. His eldest grandchild was now a boy.
"And, you know, I didn't know what to think."
Here, George looks me up and down. This 90-something year old war veteran, who knew me mostly as the little girl playing in the church kitchen with his wife, processing what my great grandfather had really meant. It feels like a long pause, even thought it probably passed in a second.
"But you look good. So, eh!"
And then he smiled, shrugged, and walked away without another word. If I was fine, if I was happier, then that's all that mattered.
George passed away this week, at the age of 99. This memory has been bouncing around in my head for a while, but I wasn't sure if or how I should share it. It was a conversation that meant very little, but also meant the world. It was scary, and funny, and the moment when I realized that sometimes the people you least expect will accept you. Sometimes, even if they don't fully understand, even if they barely know you, someone will choose to support you. And that will always matter.
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mrsbarnesblog Ā· 3 months ago
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the "it" couple
masterlist
requests are open
summary: you and Rafe being the hottest couple on the island
word count: 1.3k.
warnings: established relationship, mentions of sex, mentions of nude pictures, Rafe is reader's first everything, you're both lovesick
a/n: my obsession with soft and painfully in love Rafe is not curable at this point. but like could you imagine having him all to yourself?? ughhh the things i'd let him do to mešŸ˜©
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Everyone knew that there are couples that, at first glance, give you the impression that they just have really good sex. Like they are so hot and perfectly compliment each other, with a certain vibe oozing out of them, especially when they are together.Ā 
You and Rafe were that couple.Ā 
Before you started dating, no one ever considered that two polar opposites like you might even coexist. You were a kook, but still completely different from Rafe and his little gang. You were pretty, but more on the quiet side, never showing off or bothering anybody.
Rafe, on the other hand, was mean and sarcastic to everyone and everything. It was a good thing that you put him in his place the first time he talked to you, making it clear that you are not having his shit. And also making Rafe instantly interested and following you like a puppy.
You were annoyingly teasing and flirting with each other, and everyone tried not to get involved in whatever was going on. It was your first experience with a guy, because before that, nobody was really making their shots, or, at least, you never paid enough attention to notice it, choosing to focus on yourself. But with Rafe, it felt fun and so damn easy.Ā 
Your first kiss set everything in its place because you finally gave in to your hidden emotions. It made sense why you were always arguing and pestering each otherā€”you simply craved attention from one another and it was the easiest way to get it.Ā 
Surprisingly, Rafeā€™s rough edges softened, especially around you, and he was so affectionate and craved you around him 24/7. Though, knowing that youā€™ve never been in relationships before, he never pushed you to do anything, just following your pace.Ā 
But after your first time happened in the third month of dating, after the ice melted and your insecurities fully disappeared, Rafe almost got another version of his girlfriend.Ā 
If he thought that you couldnā€™t be better, then he was wrong.Ā 
He never understood his friends who said that they had to almost beg their girlfriends to have sex, mostly because Rafe had never been in actual relationships before. But it made even less sense for him because you, seemingly, had the same energy and high sex drive as him.Ā 
The first few times may have been slightly awkward with you still learning and trying to understand your own body, but once you got confident, you became unstoppable.Ā 
Whether it was early morning, the middle of the day, or way past your bedtime, you were ready to have sex right away, straddling Rafe's legs or luring him into a kiss while your hands slipped under his pants.Ā Ā 
It was crazy how much you both wanted each other. It was a perfect fucking match to have someone with exactly the same needs. You probably have been bent over every single flat surface in the house and not a single room was safe from the two of you. He wanted you all to himself and he could go hours just worshiping your body and fucking you into bliss.Ā 
You were almost glued together, never coming to an event alone. Rafe was so obsessed with the way you looked, with your smell, and with the feeling of your skin on his, so he always had to touch you one way or another. His friends teased him that he was absolutely pussy whipped for you and he had never denied it. They also started calling you Mrs. Cameron because you acted like a married couple and neither of you were against that nickname.
To say more, the idea of that made Rafe so feral for you, so he didnā€™t let you get out of bed the following day. Not that you complained, though.
Rafe loved sneaking out with you. Whenever you two had to visit a gala with your families, he always snatched you from the main room to drag you to the bathroom or another hidden place to have a quickie or to burry his head under your dress because you were too hot to resist. Yeah, maybe other people noticed it, giving you their usual politely awkward smiles, but neither of you care.Ā 
On his birthday, you gave him the best fucking gift, which was a stack of your naked polaroid pictures. You were really nervous to do that, thinking that Rafe might react differently, but he reminded you once again why he was your perfect match. After looking through the photos several times, he literally attacked you, throwing you back on the bed and giving you the best orgasms of your life.Ā 
Since that day, one of the less explicit pictures of your ass has been placed in his wallet.
You were officially the ā€œitā€ couple on the island, with everyone either admiring or being jealous of that spark, which never seemed to diminish. Everyone saw the way the Rafe Cameron gave you heart eyes, soft smiles and gentle kisses. The way he held you close to himself, protecting you, taking care of you, and treating you like a queen.
Some people told you that it was only the excitement of a new relationship, but after a few years of dating, with a promise ring on your finger, it was still there. You still craved each other's touch; you still craved being together whenever it was possible, always going on dates and trips, attending all of Kookā€™s events, but mostly spending lazy days in your shared house. Sex was even better than beforeā€”more passionate, fun, hot and full of unconditional love.
Despite the gossip on the island, Rafe didn't get ā€œboredā€ of you. No, over time, he became addicted to you because you felt like home, and there was nothing better than being with you.Ā 
He didn't need any other women. And he still couldn't grasp the idea of cheating. If he had you, then why on earth would he do that? Every time he came home, the best person in the world and the best sex of his life were in that exact location, so he never complained about anything.
You were his afrodisiac and whether you were in full glam, in a bikini on the beach or in his old t-shirt with messy hair, he couldnā€™t just keep his hands to himself and not kiss the air out of you.Ā 
He liked how you stayed at home, doing whatever you wanted and treating yourself while he worked. You always greeted him with homemade food, but more importantly, you acted as if you had not seen him in months.
You were waiting on the porch or finishing up in the kitchen, but when you saw him, you ran and jumped into his arms and pulled him into a kiss. It always melted Rafeā€™s worries and bad mood away, as his shoulders sagged in relief from being in your arms again.Ā 
You always ended up in your bedroom, with you on or under him, while your hands were tugging at each otherā€™s closes. Rafe knew that it would eventually end up with him finally putting a baby in youā€”something that more and more flooded his mindā€”but for the foreseeable future, he first had to officially make you his Mrs. Cameron.
And the red box with the big ass diamond ring, which was currently sitting in the drawer, was just waiting for the perfect moment.Ā Ā 
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mahou-no-momo Ā· 11 months ago
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What people don't tell you about the Healing Journeyā„¢ļø is that it's very similar to mental wellness journeys. It's not linear, there's still trauma to unpack, you'll be sad sometimes. Sometimes you'll feel really hurt about the past. The thing is, just like mental wellness journeys, you need to learn to treat yourself right when you get like that. You have to give yourself the space to feel those emotions, to handle them, to move on when it's time to move on to something else instead of wallowing in that. You need to know what to do to love yourself at your lowest and feed your inner child. Feed your soul. Don't beat yourself up when you're trying to live your best life and suddenly feel like shit or remember bad things that make you sad. You're a human being and you're supposed to feel those things. Healing is not linear. Mistakes will be made. Sadness comes and goes. And that's okay.
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httpsserene Ā· 5 months ago
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š¦ššš¦šš š² š©ššš©šš - š„š§. šŸ’ (& šØš©. šŸ–šŸ)
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summary: you and lando are blessed with a beautiful baby boy. content warning: fluff, humor, slightly suggestive at times, and mainly crack/shitpost energy. reader owns & works in her bakery in monaco. images used are not mine. pairing: lando norris x fem!black!reader (& platonic oscar pastry) genre: smau & written fic combination (it's a longgg one)
author's notes: y'all i'm warning you i took it too far this time. it's long aslllll. but it might be the best thing i've ever offered to f1 tumblr in my entire career.
grab a snack, drink, and tuck yourself into a comfortable position xxx
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join the taglist | requests & feedback | table of contents ā†»
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imessage ā€¢ preseason 2023
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Thatā€™s how you find yourself outside of the MTC in the mid-morning two days later. Youā€™re mildlyā€¦exhausted, after commandeering the kitchen in Landoā€™s Silverstone flat to make a sickening amount of banana bread to feed all of McLaren. After tipping your Uber to the MTC double what the ride costs (for allowing you to stuff his car with a hundred pounds of your decadent treat and helping you unload them into the lobby), youā€™re greeted with warm welcomes and hungry eyes from the staff. Eager to eat, theyā€™re quick to find you a couple of carts to help you move all the banana bread to the communal area. Youā€™re walking backward to make sure none of your sliced loaves fall, smiling with all the workers as they follow you through the building. Setting up shop, you hand out your sliced banana bread, chatting and catching up with everyone as they sing praises over your sweet treat. Word travels around the MTC quickly when it comes to you bringing baked goods and it comes as no surprise to you when you see a perplexed and overwhelmed Oscar Piastri join the line. Youā€™re bursting with excitement and anticipation by the time heā€™s picking up his slice.
ā€œThank you for the banana bread,ā€ Oscar expresses softly, his smile boxy.
ā€œOh, of course,ā€ you dismiss his gratitude lightly, struggling to keep your cuteness aggression at bay, ā€œIā€™ve been doing this for the factory since Lando joinedā€“and I figured it would be a good welcoming gift for you!ā€
ā€œWaitā€“are you Landoā€™s girlfriend?ā€ Oscar chokes on his bite of bread.
You rush forward to pat his back, ordering for someone to get him a glass of water; you would hate to be responsible for the death of Mclarenā€™s rookie driver. When his airways are cleared, you exchange proper greetings and you are quick to make sure Lando has been treating him well.Ā 
ā€œHonestly, I shouldā€™ve known it was youā€ Oscar chuckles, ā€œLando cannot stop talking about you. Zak had to establish a rule that only allowed him to mention you two times an hour.ā€
ā€œThat must have been rough for him,ā€ you snort dryly, ā€œthe rule was five times an hour last year. Anyways, Oscarā€“who do you main on Mario Kart? This could make or break our friendship.ā€
You find yourself enamored with Oscar as the conversation goes on. He stands and keeps you company as you continue to hand out banana bread. Itā€™s mostly you doing the talking; Oscarā€™s quiet, a man of few words but he listens well. He has a sarcastic sense of humor that is similar to Landoā€™s yet completely different: Landoā€™s jokes are loud, Oscarā€™s are hushed. Heā€™s humble, shy even, flustering when you lightly tease him. Youā€™re well past having Oscar as your friendā€”youā€™re convinced that heā€™s achieved little brother or son status.
ā€œBanana Bread!ā€ Zak shouts as he walks up to the two of you, Lando at his side, ā€œPlease tell me this is your homemade version?ā€
ā€œI would never settle for store-bought banana bread,ā€ you gasp dramatically, ā€œItā€™s homemade as always, Zak. This time I did my grandmotherā€™s recipe instead of my own.ā€
The CEO practically jumps with glee and rushes to grab a couple of slicesā€“heā€™s only had this version of the dessert once, and swore it changed his life. Lando walks to you, pressing a kiss to your temple before nodding at Oscar.
ā€œWhat do you think, love, ā€œLando hums to you softly, ā€œDid he pass the test?ā€
You blink up at him and whisper, ā€œI invited him over for dinner tonightā€”do you think we can use one of the printers here to print out adoption forms?ā€
bahrain ā€¢ 2023
After qualifying, it felt like you and Zak were the only people in the garage who remained optimistic for race day. Lando was less than pleased with placing 11th; he parroted words of positivity and hope for improvement but in the privacy of your hotel room he crumbled. He buried his face in your neck muffling just how low his expectations for this season are. You tried to convince him it was too early in the seasonā€”the first race weekendā€”to make that decision but, he was too in his feelings to see reason.Ā 
Oscar was disappointed in himself for placing 18th. When he took off his helmet after returning to the garage, you could see the doubt in his skills lingering through his eyes. You pulled him to sit with you as you continued to wait for the second session to begin and gently reassured him that this wasnā€™t an accurate representation of his skills; Formula One is a massive change from Formula Two. Oscar nodded at your reassurance but you could tell he was still freshly in shock at his ā€œterribleā€ performance so your logical advice wasnā€™t believed.Ā 
On race day, however, you found your positivity dip as well. Oscar DNFā€™d on lap 13 and rage filled the spot that optimism used to inhabit. The Australian was handling his retirement better than you were; he brushed off everybodyā€™s apologies and went straight to reviewing his data and watching Landoā€™s raceā€”you, however, wanted to snap at any of his mechanics that walked by. It wasnā€™t like Landoā€™s race was any better if you could call what he was doing a race. Slow pit stops, six pit stops at that, the fast lap gamble failure, finishing last, and being two laps down from the race leaderā€¦Zak took one glance at you and quickly made himself scarce.
You rode back with both of the boys to the hotel and nearly cried for them with how down the mood was. On the walk to your rooms, Oscar attempted to exchange goodbyes with you and Lando before you cut him off.
ā€œUh-uh, nope,ā€ you shook your head, ā€œI pre-ordered dinner for us. Come eat?ā€
Oscar stuttered, ā€œO-oh? I donā€™t want to intrudeā€“ā€
ā€œOscar Jack Piastri,ā€ both he and Lando winced at the sound of his full name, ā€œIā€™m not going to let either one of you go to bed on an empty stomach. Youā€™re going to eat dinner with me and Lan and youā€™re going to drink several glasses of water so I can make sure youā€™re properly rehydrated. Understood?ā€
ā€œI would love to have dinner with you guys,ā€ Oscar blinked at you in fear, ā€œAlso, how do you know my middle name?ā€
You laughed as you unlocked the door, holding it open for both of the boys as you walked in, ā€œI had a wonderful conversation with your mother, of course.ā€
ā€œWhen did you meet my mom?!ā€
australia ā€¢ 2023
You were on the edge of losing your voice as you screamed and cheered with Nicole Piastri and Adam Norris for both of the McLaren boys and their double points finishes. The two drivers finishing in the midfield felt like the team had figured something out for Oscarā€™s home race (if you ignored how almost half of the drivers retired their cars). The Piastriā€™s invited everyone to a local restaurant to celebrate Oscarā€™s first points in Formula One, but before you and Lando headed out, the two of you nearly lost your minds.
The two of you forced him to pose with his car and take several pictures with it, strongly suggesting that he smiles big and wide for the camera. Fernando and Lewis walked by and burst into laughter, claiming that you and Lando were treating Oscar like a child. So, obviously, the two of you committed to the bit. You guys cooed and called Oscarā€™s name, clapping and jumping to pretend like he was a toddler whose attention needed to be grabbed to have him look at the camera. The rookie cringed in embarrassment, cheeks burning red as he tried to convince you guys to stop making a fuss over him.
Lando gasped, sickened at Oscarā€™s words, ā€œOscar! How could you say such a thing to your mother and me? We only want to celebrate our boy!ā€
You nodded furiously in agreement, nearly breaking character at the dumbfounded look that rose to the Australianā€™s face.
ā€œWhat the fuck,ā€ Oscar blurted out, yet he continued to smile for your camera.
ā€œOh my god!ā€ You said appalled, ā€œLando did you teach our son that foul language?! I told you not to curse in front of the baby!ā€
instagram ā€¢ bakewithyn ā€¢ april 6th ā€¢ melbourne āš‘
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bakewithyn: happy birthday oscar šŸ„³ thereā€™s no birthday gift like scoring your FIRST EVER POINTS in f1 at your HOME race but !!! iā€™m super happyyy you enjoyed the šŸØ cookies i made for you (lando helped ig šŸ˜) šŸ¤—šŸ¤—šŸ¤—
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šŸ“Œ yninstagram ps! these are limited edition cookies at my bakery for oscar piastri day!!! first come first serve until sell out! all proceeds go to the australian koala foundation as it was oscarā€™s personal request šŸ˜‡
āž„ user charitable king shit fr šŸ‘‘
āž„ user FUCK i wish i was rich enough to visit/live in monaco
āž„ user don't worry, they're nearly sold out already and the bakery opened three hours ago !!!!
nicolepiastri these were so tasty! i wish i had your baking skills
āž„ yninstagram tysm mama piastri !!! i'm blushing
āž„ user mama piastri???? im crying
user the koala photo with the bow šŸ˜©
āž„user what r u talking about?? i only see a picture of oscar with a bow?
āž„ user fr i only see oscar šŸ˜µā€šŸ’«
user "lando helped ig" what did he do? look pretty the entire time you baked LMAO
āž„ landonorris actually i was allowed to put the ingredients in the bowls AND preheat the oven too šŸ˜¤
āž„ landonorris and i always look pretty wtf
āž„ user omg...yn gave him the toddler tasks šŸ’€šŸ’€šŸ’€
oscarpiastri the cookies were so good! they nearly tasted better than my first points felt
āž„ yninstagram omg high praise from the man himself šŸ¤Æ
āž„ oscarpiastri had to fight my sisters to make sure they didn't only leave me with crumbs
āž„ user oh i understand that eldest sibling battle
āž„ user my little sisters bite i think they have rabies
āž„ user oh what a shame. euthanasia is an option šŸ¤—
miami ā€¢ 2023
The energy after Miami was rightfully terrible. The car is shit; Lando lost a position from where he qualified to make him P17 and Oscar maintained his P19. Itā€™s hot, and humid, and everyone in the garage is miserable. McLaren is a family. When the boys donā€™t do good, everybody understands and feels their pain. Nobody likes seeing the boys with frowns on their lips and sadness in their eyes, but itā€™s becoming a usual appearance during this season. So to turn those frowns upside down, you went on a hunt for some cold treats. You got Lando a frozen lemonade and Oscar an ice cream sandwichā€”itā€™s a safe choice, you hadnā€™t necessarily thought about asking him what kind of ice cream he prefers.Ā 
You found Oscar staring at the wall, eyes focused forward but his mind somewhere else. You tapped him gently on the shoulder, offering him a small smile when he looked at you. He tried to offer you a smile of his own but couldnā€™t manage to hold it for more than a couple seconds. You presented the ice cream sandwich to him and he looked at you in surprise, as if he couldnā€™t believe you would give it to him.
ā€œF-for,ā€ his voice cracks awkwardly, ā€œFor me?ā€
You hummed, ruffling his hair and taking a seat on the couch next to him, ā€œNo, for the King of England. Yesā€“for you Oscar.ā€
He thanked you shyly and quickly began to unwrap the packaging, munching away happily. You took a second to text Lando your location and inform him of the frozen lemonade waiting for him, and when you turned to look back at Oscarā€”the kid was a mess. He wasnā€™t even a quarter of the way through the dessert sandwich and youā€™re convinced he managed to spill more of it than he ingested. The ice cream was painted across the lower half of his face and dripping down his handsā€“you caught a drop of it with a napkin before it fell and stained his shirt.
ā€œJesus, Oscar!ā€ you scolded him, ā€œI look away for two seconds and you make a mess!ā€
Oscar shrugged at you, feigning innocence, but you saw the staple redness of embarrassment begin to tint his chubby cheeks. You snapped your fingers in remembrance before you moved to rifle through your purse, Oscar staring at you with wide eyes as he continued to snack away. You exclaimed in delight, showing off a pair of wet wipes you remembered to bring with you. Oscar accepted the offered wipes and you watched carefully to make sure he removed all the smudges of ice cream from his hands and face.
ā€œHi, lovely girl,ā€ Lando approached you, throwing himself onto the sofa next to you. He gave you a soft kiss on the lips and temple before grabbing his now lemonade slushy and taking a look at Oscar.
ā€œWoah, mate,ā€ Lando teased, ā€œDid you lose in a fight against the ice cream sandwich?ā€
Oscar rolled his eyes and ignored Lando as he finished cleaning up. Once he was done, you gathered all of the dirty wipes on the table to be thrown away. You and Lando both watched Oscar as he ate the rest of his snack in fear of another mess occurringā€”and, then you had a bright idea. Leaning forward, you took a dry napkin and tucked it into the collar of his McLaren polo, creating a makeshift bib.Ā 
ā€œLando, remind me to get our son ice cream in a cup from now on!ā€
twitter ā€¢ may 14th
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instagram ā€¢ landonorris ā€¢ may 23rd ā€¢ monte carlo āš‘
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landonorris: does it still count as a date night if your boy and his best friend are building legos in the next roomšŸ¤Ø
tagged bakewithyn, oscarpiastri, logansargeant
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user "your boy" WTF DOES THAT MEAN ā€¼ļøā€¼ļøā€¼ļø
user they're building legos before the race weekend starts šŸ¤§
user has oscar been staying with lando since last week?
āž„ user i thought he was just sleeping over for one night šŸ§
adamnorris does this make me a grandfather?
āž„ user what the hell is happening
āž„ landonorris um? surprise haha šŸ˜€
bakewithyn it's a great date night! it's comforting knowing ozzy's in the next room over
āž„ bakewithyn i have separation anxiety :)
āž„ landonorris me too omg this was my best idea ever
āž„ user this is like a reverse 13th reason- it's like my 1st reason i'm glad to be alive
āž„ user ozzy šŸ« 
landonorris logan and osc just went silent. chat, should i be worried?
āž„ user i'll bet my life savings that one of them has a lego shoved up their nose šŸ˜¬
āž„ user when kids go quiet it's never good !!!!
qatar ā€¢ 2023
You cried an embarrassing amount of times this weekend. Your son won his first sprint race in his Formula One career, and his fatherā€”your boyfriendā€”was up there on the podium with him to celebrate. It seems like you have to make another special dessert for your bakery to celebrate both of your boys, but you can worry about brainstorming ideas when you stop crying into Andrea Stellaā€™s shoulder in the middle of the pit lane. Youā€™re sure that your face will be posted all over Twitter in a couple of hours.
A part of you wished that Lando had won the sprint race, just as he probably wanted the same thing. But, as both of you made eye contact with each other over Oscarā€™s head, the Australian rambling endlessly as he hugged his trophy on your hotel room floor, both of you knew that there was no better outcome this weekend than Oscar getting a taste of victory. Landoā€™s win will come in due time. A P2, P3 finish on Sunday was just the proof everyone needed of McLarenā€™s improvement and the threat they may pose to Red Bull next year.Ā 
sĆ£o paulo ā€¢ 2023
You had the Grand Prix playing on your phone as you did some prep work for the bakery. The race ended and you couldnā€™t help but feel happy, yet relieved for the race to be over for different reasons. Lando had a wonderful drive today, and Oscar had the opposite; you were just glad it wasnā€™t a DNF for him.
You had only just begun wiping down the counters when the sound of the post-race show is interrupted by the ringtone you have set for Oscar. You paused quickly, scooping your phone up to answer.
ā€œHi, Ozzy,ā€ you cooed gently, ā€œHow are you feeling? Sorry about your race buddy, that was unfortunate.ā€
ā€œIt happens, I guess. I feel like shit, mostly. Like I let the team down.ā€
ā€œNo way, Oscar! Youā€™re not letting anybody down. Your race result today wasnā€™t the result of your skills, it was the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a racing incident. If anybody tells you differently, let me know. Iā€™ll rip their vocal cords out.ā€
Oscarā€™s laugh crackled through the receiver. ā€œYes, mum. Iā€™ll let you know. I really want some of your chocolate chip cookies, theyā€™re the perfect bad race remedy.ā€
ā€œWell, Iā€™m flying out in a few hours to meet you guys in Brazil so I can celebrate Landoā€™sā€”sorry, excuse meā€”your fatherā€™s birthday with him. I think there may be some time for me in my schedule to make some cookies with you.ā€
ā€œReally? We should make some for Lando too! Wait, before you leave, I left his birthday giftā€”ā€
ā€œā€”In our apartment, I remember! I already packed it in my luggage, I wouldnā€™t forget.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re the best, seriously.ā€
ā€œMhm, I know. Also, we should share some of these cookies with Charles too, his radio message made me cry.ā€
ā€œOkay, he can have one cookie.ā€
ā€œOscar Jack,ā€ you said dryly.
ā€œYes, sharing is caring or whatever. He can have like...two.ā€
instagram ā€¢ bakewithyn ā€¢ november 13th ā€¢ las vegas āš‘
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bakewithyn: happy birthday to lando norris. he's a pretty cool guy, a great dad, and the perfect boyfriend. love you lots, baby, and i'll love you forever xxx
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user wait is this a pregnancy announcement šŸ˜Ø
user this is giving engagement reveal
charlesleclerc bro. if i didn't know you guys i would think your caption was serious šŸ˜£
āž„ bakewithyn get pranked LOL XD
āž„ user oh i feel like i just got catfished
āž„ user wait so lando didn't propose nor did he put a baby in her šŸ˜’
āž„ user I WANTED A BABY NORRIS
āž„ user oscar exists? he's literally their child
oscarpiastri no fr i thought i was about to learn i had a sibling otw from this post
āž„ bakewithyn ozzy we would've told you???
āž„ landonorris you literally bought the card for me
āž„ oscarpiastri a boy can hope for a younger sibling can he not :(
āž„ bakewithyn so close šŸ˜š no you can't! hope that helps xo
āž„ landonorris sorry osc, it's your mum's decision šŸ¤·ā€ā™‚ļø
āž„ user does this mean lando wants an actual kid
mclaren admin was terrified ngl šŸ˜…
āž„ mclaren i thought you really posted an engagement and pregnancy reveal without letting me know šŸ˜­
āž„ landonorris sorry admin, i'll keep you in the loop in the future
āž„ user landoyn engagement soon??????
twitter ā€¢ november 18th ā€¢ las vegas āš‘
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twitter ā€¢ preseason 2024
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miami ā€¢ 2024
Lando had you pinned to the wall in his driver's room, with his hands tangled in your curls and his mouth devouring yours. Your moans are muffled into his lips as you grind against his thigh. You tried to multitask, struggling to pull his driverā€™s suit down. Lando lifted you slightly, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist and neither of you cared to pull away at the sound of your foot hitting his P1 trophy and knocking it over. One of his hands fell from your hair to grasp at the smooth brown skin of your neck, his palm acting as a warm weighted choker on your throat and you broke away from the kiss to moan.Ā 
ā€œFuck, Landoā€”get naked,ā€ you whined desperately, ā€œwe donā€™t have much time for you to tease me right now!ā€
Lando laughed as he moved to press kisses along your jawline and behind your ear. You felt his lips part on your skin, his breath ghosting over you causing goosebumps to rise, but itā€™s not his voice you hear.
ā€œLando, they need us for picturesā€”OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK,ā€ yelped Oscar, the sound of his hand smacking over his eyes reverberating around the room.
You shrieked in surprise, pushing your boyfriend away from you as you speedily readjusted your clothes. Lando positioned himself in front of you, his back facing you allowing you a little more privacy as he speedily fixed his suit around his waist.
ā€œLearn how to knock, kid,ā€ Lando huffed, no shame found in his words, ā€œYou interrupted my winning celebration.ā€
You screamed in dismay, slapping the back of Landoā€™s head and Oscar began to stumble out of the room, bumping into the doorframe as he still covered his eyes.
ā€œYeah, knock in the future, I understand,ā€ Oscar sounds like heā€™s about to cry, ā€œI feel like I just saw my mum and dad having sex!ā€
instagram ā€¢ bakewithyn ā€¢ may 12th ā€¢ mama's house āš‘
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bakewithyn: LOOK AT MY SON šŸ„ŗšŸ„ŗ PRIDE IS NOT THE WORD IM LOOKING FOR šŸ—£ļøšŸ—£ļøšŸ”ŠšŸ”Š (happy mother's day to all the beautiful mamas x)
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oscarpiastri did dad get you anything šŸ™ƒ
āž„ user šŸ‘€šŸ‘€šŸ‘€
āž„ landonorris well i would've if SOMEBODY told me we were celebrating this year šŸ¤¬šŸ¤¬šŸ¤¬šŸ¤¬
āž„ oscarpiastri i didn't know i *had* to tell you
āž„ user wowwwww lando
āž„ user shameful honestly šŸ˜•
markwebber happy milf day
āž„ markwebber *mother's day sorry typo
āž„ bakewithyn what the fuck ā˜ ļøā˜ ļøā˜ ļø
āž„ user that was not a typo mark
āž„ user sir u are not slick LMAO
āž„ bakewithyn i mean...oscar wouldn't mind a step dad, his fatther didn't get me anything today :(
āž„ landonorris AYO BABY PLEASE šŸ§Žā€ā™‚ļø
oscarpiastri you know what would be an even better mother's day gift? getting a puppy šŸ¤­
āž„ bakewithyn we are not getting a puppy ozzy.
āž„ landonorris should've clued me in osc i might've convinced her for you
āž„ oscarpiastri :[
monaco ā€¢ 2024
Youā€™re about to crash THE FUCK out. At first, it was a little half-joke. Oscarā€™s home race in Australia, his 1/16th home race in China, and his 3/16th home race in Italy. You originally thought his tweet about ā€œsearching for his Monegasque rootsā€ was cute, but you didnā€™t expect Charles Marc Herve Perceval (Demon Spawn) Leclerc to step into your playing field.
Who the hell does he think he is? Offering to adopt your son? And, Oscar is going along with it? And, the Miami Grand Prix account making a ā€œCertificate of Adoption?ā€ You started to like Miami after Lando won there; and now theyā€™ve betrayed you. Every fan jumped on the bandwagon, thinking that this was the most adorable thing to happen. Like Oscar hasnā€™t been your child the minute he stepped foot into the MTC in Silverstone. Like he didnā€™t give you a Motherā€™s Day present? The Monegasques have some nerve; you were close with Charles and Alex but, now theyā€™ve encroached on your and Landoā€™s territory. Youā€™re committing several murders today.Ā 
You laughed hysterically when Oscar joined Lando and you for lunch, mentioning that Charles and Alex invited him to eat with the rest of the Leclercs at family dinner after qualifying. You agreed to let him but not without making sure Charles and Alex are qualified for the job. Lando also cornered you in the kitchen and persuaded you to allow Oscar to go; swaying you with the idea of a real date night. You never realized just how much time you guys spend with your son. Whenā€™s the last time you guys had a break from being ā€œmum and dad?" It was an appealing offer, but you were serious about clarifying expectations to the thieving couple.
twitter ā€¢ may 25th ā€¢ monaco
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instagram ā€¢ bakewithyn ā€¢ may 25th ā€¢ date night āš‘
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bakewithyn: a little night off from parenting was needed x
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user okay mamiiiii
user all parents deserve to relax !!!
oscarpiastri do you even miss me ā˜¹ļø
āž„ user damn he goin through it
āž„ charlesleclerc i literally just got him to smile and now he's crying again šŸ˜’
āž„ landonorris your mum and i love you lots osc
āž„ oscarpiastri :]
alexandrasaintmleux take full advantage of having no children in the house šŸ˜ˆšŸ˜ˆšŸ˜ˆ
āž„ charlesleclerc leo will keep him distracted for as longggg as possible šŸ˜
āž„ user lando only needs about three minutes šŸ„±
āž„ user wow that's a really long time fr
oscarpiastri mama y papa
āž„ user mama y papa
āž„ user mama y papa
āž„ user mama y papa
instagram ā€¢ landonorris ā€¢ june 16th ā€¢ daddy's home āš‘
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landonorris: father's day done right. my child and his mother made a cake for me, family photo slide two, and my son slide three. what more can a man want.
tagged bakewithyn and oscarpiastri
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user this man never misses a chance to call himself daddy
user too fucking funny šŸ¤øšŸ¾ā€ā™€ļøšŸ¤øšŸ¾ā€ā™€ļø
bakewithyn happy father's day, daddy xxx
āž„ user OHMYGOD šŸ˜–šŸ¤¢šŸ¤®
āž„ user on my internetā‰ļøā‰ļøā‰ļø
āž„ landonorris even happier now x
user this new wave of parents concerns me...
oscarpiastri the cake was good wasn't it???
āž„ landonorris it was perfect, seriously
āž„ oscarpiastri i know you both said there's no way we'd get a puppy but hear me out i've thought of something better
āž„ oscarpiastri working on giving me a younger sibling :]
āž„ user YES BABY NORRIS ā€¼ļøā€¼ļøā€¼ļø
āž„ landonorris @/bakewithyn ?
āž„ bakewithyn ask me again in a couple of years
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homunculus-argument Ā· 7 days ago
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Oh hey random storytime:
My mother had a dog of a fairly unusual breed, the kind breed whose existence I hadn't even heard of before the breeder became a family friend. This specific dog was a zero brain cell masterpiece specimen, so while he was fucking stupid, he had an impressive enough pedigree that it would have been a waste to not take him into dog shows, maybe win a few prizes and have him sire pups.
Anyway, this one time we were at a smaller dog show, not really an amateur one but definitely not a huge international event. It was held outdoors on a football field(?), and not only was my mom's dog the only one of his breed in the show, they had somehow completely forgot to include him in the show's schedule. We had come all the way over here to show off a dog that didn't have a time, judges, or ring for him anywhere in the plans.
So while my mother isn't the type to Demand To Speak To The Manager when something doesn't go her way, everyone was in the agreement that the fuck-up was on the show runners' side, and they were very apologetic about such an unprofessional mistake. And they did manage to find a show ring with a slot to squeeze him in, just before the next breed was about to start.
So they made a quick announcement in the ring just before the scheduled breed was going to start, and into the ring went the breeder and mom's dog. And while they were doing their little lap, surrounded by a mostly quiet, uninterested audience, I heard some random kid's faint voice asking
What happened to that one?
And it suddenly hit me how funny this whole situation must look like with no context. Mom's dog or his whole breed were not on the printed out leaflet schedule of the show, in this specific ring or otherwise. If someone showed up now, or somehow otherwise missed the announcement (which wasn't even broadcasted in any way, just yelled out over the crowd by one guy), holy shit they would be confused.
The dog breed that was booked on that spot was samoyeds. My mother's dog was a peruvian inca orchid. Imagine being at a dog show in the right place at the right time, 100% expecting to see one of those fluffy clouds on the left, and out walks the motherfucker on the right.
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peachdues Ā· 6 months ago
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COMPASS
bad boy!Sanemi ā€¢ gang AU ā€¢ NSFW
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A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? Itā€™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 Sanemiā€™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 ā€˜s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemiā€™s self hatred and his scars.
CW: 24k ā€¢ explicit sexual content ā€¢ MDNI ā€¢ gang-related violence ā€¢ mentions of blood and broken bones ā€¢ mentions of murder/death ā€¢ loss of virginity ā€¢ creampie ā€¢ vaginal fingering ā€¢ some angst
I have plenty more of this AU written, so if yā€™all want more, just let me know šŸ«”
There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.
The first is simple: once youā€™re in, youā€™re in.
Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but donā€™t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.
And donā€™t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. Thereā€™s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one youā€™d had before. No separation. Youā€™ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, youā€™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 heā€™d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira ā€” 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 heā€™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 ā€” 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 thereā€™s Sanemi: the debt collector.
Largely monetary debts ā€” 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 ā€” 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 ā€” 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 hadnā€™t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemiā€™s hands.
He will never be able to wash them clean.
But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences ā€” for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom heā€™ll do anything ā€” be anyone ā€” 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 donā€™t get attached. Keep your circle small so thereā€™s less collateral to be used against you ā€” 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 heā€™d chosen your bookstore to hide in and thatā€™s when everything falls apart.
ā€œFuckinā€™ Christ,ā€ 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 Sanemiā€™s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzuiā€™s joints that heā€™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 couldnā€™t get elsewhere.
He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldnā€™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 heā€™d be lying if he said he didnā€™t relish the chance to smash the pervertā€™s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction heā€™d felt when heā€™d thrown open the steel door of the Maedaā€™s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as heā€™d begged for mercy Sanemi hadnā€™t been hired to give.
The stupid, greasy fuck.
By the time heā€™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 verminā€™s back as he sobbed). But heā€™d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.
And thatā€™s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maedaā€™s small warehouse, Uzuiā€™s payment split into two rolls that heā€™d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members heā€™d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then theyā€™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 heā€™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 ā€” disquietingly so.
Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.
Sanemiā€™s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. Itā€™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 ā€”
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.
ā€œPigs!ā€ The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. ā€œPigs!ā€
ā€œShit,ā€ Sanemi growls. No doubt Maedaā€™s bruised ego sold them out. He shouldā€™ve taken the time to smash the assholeā€™s phone.
Heā€™ll be dealt with later ā€” 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 Corpsā€™ 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 canā€™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 ā€”
A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.
No good.
ā€œFuck.ā€ It isnā€™t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While heā€™s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadnā€™t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options ā€” the side streets to the left and right.
Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasnā€™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 ā€” one that borders the cityā€™s western wing.
Itā€™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 ā€” a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.
But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other ā€” the storeā€™s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerkā€™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.
Itā€™s now or never. And, because heā€™s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.
ā€œYou got someplace I can hide?ā€
ā€”ā€”-
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; youā€™d known him most of your life, even if youā€™d never spoken to him. Youā€™d gone to the same school in your youth ā€” all thirteen years of it, in fact. Heā€™d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.
You know heā€™s from the Silo ā€” 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 hadnā€™t been surprised when youā€™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 heā€™d even graduated high school.
You shudder to think what he had to have done ā€” what heā€™d become ā€” in order to achieve such status and notoriety.
If heā€™d been anyone else, you wouldnā€™t have helped; you wouldā€™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 youā€™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, sheā€™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 heā€™d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, heā€™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 parentsā€™ home.
Youā€™d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sisterā€™s white-haired savior. Theyā€™d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but heā€™d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was ā€œno big deal.ā€ 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.
Youā€™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 clerkā€™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 isnā€™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.ā€œYou havenā€™t seen anything suspicious?ā€
ā€œIā€™m sorry, sir. I donā€™t know what you mean.ā€
The cop grimaces. ā€œYou havenā€™t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like theyā€™re running?ā€
You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. ā€œIā€™m afraid youā€™re my first customer of the day, sir.ā€
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 counterā€™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.
ā€œTheyā€™re gone,ā€ you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.
Thereā€™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 itā€™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 ā€” 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 heā€™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 heā€™d not had in your youth ā€” 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.
ā€œCanā€™t thank ya enough,ā€ he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. ā€œYou really saved my ass ā€”ā€œ
ā€œGet out of my store.ā€ You order, your voice hard. ā€œTake your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.ā€
Sanemiā€™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.
ā€œAs you wish, Princess,ā€ and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. ā€œJust need somethinā€™ for the road.ā€
He snags a small novel ā€” a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.
ā€œLater,ā€ he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.
You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. ā€œYou have to pay for ā€”ā€œ
But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.
ā€”-
By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. Heā€™d met up with Uzui and forked over Maedaā€™s payment. Though, the Corpā€™s head pimp hadnā€™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 hadnā€™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 ā€” the driver ā€” had managed to escape, though heā€™d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.
Thereā€™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 heā€™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 heā€™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 youā€™d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.
You know what ā€” who ā€” he is. In Sanemiā€™s world, thatā€™s a liability.
Though, in fairness, he canā€™t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and itā€™s a coveted one. It wouldnā€™t be a stretch to conclude that youā€™d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.
What concerns him is he doesnā€™t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe youā€™re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.
Or maybe youā€™ve got an in with them.
The Corps isnā€™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 hadnā€™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 theyā€™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 ā€” perhaps youā€™re in league with them, and youā€™ll hand him over the moment itā€™s most convenient for you to do so.
Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. Youā€™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 thatā€™s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.
Either way, he doesnā€™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 canā€™t afford to make.
Sanemi doesnā€™t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, heā€™ll decide how to proceed.
He eyes the book heā€™d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasnā€™t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if heā€™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.
ā€”
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 donā€™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 itā€™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 parentsā€™ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.
Heā€™d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, heā€™d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your motherā€™s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.
The memory of how youā€™d looked at him ā€” a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when heā€™d met your stare head on ā€” 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 canā€™t remember if he had. He shouldā€™ve; especially now when it seems as though heā€™s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.
Sanemiā€™s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen ā€” instructions, only by way of an address and an amount ā€” 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 ā€” whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because thereā€™s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corpā€™s behalf.
Ultimately, he knows it doesnā€™t really matter. He wonā€™t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life thatā€™s anything but this. Heā€™ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. Heā€™ll die under the mask heā€™s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasnā€™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 heā€™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.
ā€”
Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.
Sanemi doesnā€™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 Iguroā€™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. Heā€™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 doesnā€™t know her by name ā€” only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But itā€™s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps thatā€™s because sheā€™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. Sheā€™s licking and nipping at his lips in a way heā€™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, heā€™s the one desperate for relief.
ā€œIā€™ve only got ten minutes,ā€ 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 girlā€™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.
ā€œDonā€™t worry, darlinā€™,ā€ he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. ā€œWeā€™ll be done in five.ā€
ā€”-
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 dayā€™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 heā€™d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasnā€™t worth shit when theyā€™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 heā€™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 heā€™d found stashed in a duffel, the debtorā€™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 bookstoreā€™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 doesnā€™t know why heā€™s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night youā€™d helped hide him from the cops.
He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and heā€™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.
ā€œThis isnā€™t a library,ā€ you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. ā€œYou have to pay for the books here.ā€
Itā€™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. ā€œI brought it back, didnā€™t I? Look ā€” didnā€™t even crack the spine.ā€
ā€œIt doesnā€™t matter,ā€ you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. ā€œThat loss came out of my paycheck ā€” which is scant enough.ā€
That piques his attention. ā€œDidnā€™t you say this was your store?ā€
His question makes you turn pink, and youā€™re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. ā€œI work here,ā€ you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. ā€œBut I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesnā€™t ever come by.ā€
You wrinkle your nose. ā€œSo yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.ā€
Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.
Youā€™re beautiful; heā€™s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if youā€™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 doesnā€™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.
ā€œFine, here,ā€ 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. ā€œWhat?ā€
ā€œNothin,ā€ he shrugs. ā€œJust think itā€™s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.ā€
Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. ā€œI live here, idiot.ā€
He snorts. ā€œDidnā€™t you want outta here? Do somethinā€™ different?ā€ He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.
ā€œI donā€™t see how thatā€™s any of your business.ā€ Heā€™s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours ā€” that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.
ā€œThis canā€™t be your dream life.ā€
You donā€™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 heā€™s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.
Sanemi continues. ā€œItā€™s strange for people not to want for more ā€” to not dream about somethinā€™ different.ā€
ā€œAnd who are you to say I donā€™t?ā€ You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. ā€œI have a dream of my own. Just because itā€™s not one you would pick for yourself doesnā€™t mean itā€™s wrong.ā€
He blinks, taken aback. ā€œWoah, woah, I never meant any offense.ā€ He pushes back from the counter. ā€œMy bad.ā€
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. ā€œHave the day you deserve.ā€
His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. ā€œYou too, Princess.ā€
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 donā€™t see him toss another note on the counter.
Heā€™s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. ā€œSir, you dropped your ā€”ā€œ
ā€œNah, I didnā€™t,ā€ 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.
ā€”
His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. Itā€™s unplanned in that heā€™s annoyed and itā€™s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.
Youā€™re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerkā€™s counter startles you.
You frown. Itā€™s him again ā€” all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.
ā€œThis book was shit,ā€ he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. ā€œI want a refund.ā€
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.
ā€œBut it was shit,ā€ he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didnā€™t create. ā€œYou let me waste twenty bucks.ā€
ā€œI did nothing,ā€ you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. ā€œYouā€™re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.ā€
You glance down at the discarded novel. ā€œFigures,ā€ you scoff. ā€œHeā€™s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.ā€
ā€œWoulda been nice if youā€™d told me that before you let me give him my money.ā€
You hum idly as you cross off the logā€™s boxes for new releases. ā€œI suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasnā€™t really paying attention to your shit choices.ā€
ā€œOh?ā€ And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. ā€œThe Princess has claws, does she?ā€ He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. ā€œSo, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?ā€
ā€œIā€™m not your Princess,ā€ you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. ā€œCall me by my name or call me nothing at all.ā€
His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. ā€œAlright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?ā€
The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish youā€™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.
Youā€™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 heā€™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 wonā€™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. Itā€™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. ā€œFine, here.ā€ 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 Sanemiā€™s.
ā€œRead that.ā€
His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. ā€œThis ainā€™t a book; itā€™s a brick.ā€
ā€œItā€™s a classic,ā€ you counter. ā€œOne that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.ā€ Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. ā€œLove and lust.ā€
His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps heā€™ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then heā€™ll leave you alone.
Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. ā€œIf you say so,ā€ he sighs. ā€œBut if itā€™s shit, Iā€™m taking my refund.ā€ 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. ā€œRegardless of your shitty little policy.ā€
You refuse to let him see how much heā€™s knocked you off-kilter. ā€œSo I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so Iā€™m prepared.ā€
His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. ā€œWorse,ā€ he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. ā€œYouā€™ll owe me a date.ā€
He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. ā€œThough, I might just take you out anyway.ā€
ā€œYou assume Iā€™ll say yes ā€” or are you planning on kidnapping me? Iā€™m sure youā€™re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.ā€
Something dark flashes across his face, and itā€™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 Sanemiā€™s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.
ā€œYouā€™ll say yes, Princess. You wonā€™t be able to resist the temptation.ā€
ā€œTemptation?ā€ You force out a laugh. ā€œAnd what makes you think I canā€™t?ā€
Sanemiā€™s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.
Itā€™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. ā€œHabits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.ā€
You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.
ā€”ā€”-
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 youā€™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 heā€™s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.
And, heā€™d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that heā€™d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. Youā€™d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldnā€™t have given two shits if heā€™d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money ā€” and the lengths some would go to keep it.
Yet heā€™d paid you back ā€” paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.
Since that day, youā€™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. Youā€™ve managed to glean small things here and there. That heā€™s a Hashira, and Hashira means heā€™s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family ā€” the heads of the entire organization.
That heā€™s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that heā€™s known for his swift brutality.
That heā€™s more than just a flirt; heā€™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 heā€™s said to be very well-endowed.
Itā€™s more information than you care to know, but you canā€™t deny that your curiosity lingers.
You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And youā€™ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isnā€™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.
ā€”
ā€œYou look like shit.ā€
You startle up from where youā€™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, youā€™d thought youā€™d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.
ā€œIs that the only descriptor you know?ā€ You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. ā€œIs everything either shit or not-shit to you?ā€
Sanemi shrugs. ā€œPretty much,ā€ and he holds something out to you, waiting. ā€œHere.ā€
Itā€™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. Youā€™d foregone eating breakfast when you realized youā€™d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure youā€™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. ā€œIs it poisoned?ā€
He rolls his eyes. ā€œIf I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, Iā€™d pick a far more convenient way to do it ā€” and one that didnā€™t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.ā€
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. ā€œItā€™s a thank you. For that book you recommended,ā€ He smirks. ā€œIt wasnā€™t shit. It was good.ā€
You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. ā€œYou sound surprised.ā€
ļæ½ļæ½Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re the one who grabbed that last book,ā€ you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. ā€œThat had nothing to do with me.ā€ You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. ā€œSo, no date, then?ā€
The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. ā€œSorry, beautiful. I donā€™t actually date.ā€ And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. ā€œGotta keep things casual in my world.ā€
The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. ā€œAnd you donā€™t look like a casual girl.ā€
You resist the urge to cross your arms. ā€œYou seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.ā€
ā€œExperience,ā€ he offers easily. ā€œI know casual women.ā€ He turns his head away before quietly adding, ā€œAnd you ainā€™t one of ā€˜em.ā€
Itā€™s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as youā€™re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you havenā€™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 heā€™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 donā€™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 whoā€™d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.
And itā€™s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, ā€œSo, friends, then?ā€
Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile ā€” a real, genuine smile.
And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.
ā€”-
In retrospect, Sanemi knows heā€™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 ā€” number Three, in particular.
But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows itā€™s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations heā€™s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesnā€™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 ā€” far safer ā€” city.
It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.
Yet, he canā€™t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldnā€™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 heā€™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 wonā€™t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.
It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what heā€™d thought otherwise, youā€™re not nearly as prim and haughty as youā€™d tried to make him believe.
Youā€™re sweet. Genuine, in a way thatā€™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 heā€™s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, heā€™s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests ā€” movies, shows, music ā€” 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 youā€™d swiped from the storeā€™s limited collection, he canā€™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 isnā€™t the safest. Itā€™s not the Silo, by any means, but itā€™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 Uzuiā€™s business ā€” another Hashira.
And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, youā€™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 ā€” youā€™ve certainly turned it into a home.
Youā€™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 canā€™t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once youā€™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 ā€” in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.
Itā€™s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.
But itā€™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 ā€” 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 heā€™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 heā€™s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once heā€™s finished.
The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesnā€™t matter whether youā€™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 hadnā€™t realized heā€™d been harboring, and itā€™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, isnā€™t the kind of switch he imagined heā€™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 youā€™re picky about your order. If itā€™s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If itā€™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 itā€™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 ā€” 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, youā€™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 canā€™t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He canā€™t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He canā€™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 heā€™s guilty for.
Itā€™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 youā€™re the first person heā€™s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesnā€™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 wonā€™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 donā€™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 hasnā€™t already set in.
ā€”
ā€œYou never told me what your dream was, yā€™know.ā€ Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.
ā€œWhat dream?ā€ 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. ā€œYour big dream ā€” the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.ā€
You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. ā€œWhereā€™s this coming from?ā€
ā€œDunno. Curious.ā€
ā€œThought youā€™re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.ā€ And you shoot him a sly grin. ā€œYou ought to be careful.ā€
Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. ā€œIā€™m serious.ā€
Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. Thereā€™s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, heā€™s the only friend you have. ā€œI want my own bookstore.ā€
ā€œYeah?ā€ He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. ā€œArenā€™t you practically running this one? That ainā€™t enough?ā€
ā€œI donā€™t own it, though.ā€ You frown, setting your clipboard down. ā€œI just work here. Youā€™ve seen my paycheck.ā€
And he had, having found a paystub when heā€™d gone snooping under your counter. You wouldā€™ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way heā€™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.
ā€œI want something thatā€™s mine ā€” that I own.ā€ You continue. ā€œIā€™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 wouldnā€™t need anyoneā€™s permission.ā€
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. ā€œI wouldnā€™t have to live under anyoneā€™s thumb.ā€
Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.
Your cheeks heat. ā€œI know it sounds stupid ā€”ā€œ
ā€œIt doesnā€™t,ā€ Sanemi says earnestly. ā€œWanting your freedom can never be stupid.ā€
You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that ā€” arguably better than anyone you know.
Sanemi clears his throat. ā€œSo, a bookstore?ā€ And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. ā€œConsider me your first investor.ā€
ā€”
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. ā€œAre you walking me home?ā€
ā€œTch. Donā€™t I always, when I can?ā€
You grin and itā€™s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldnā€™t do it, as often as he does. Heā€™s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way heā€™s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But itā€™s dark and late, and you donā€™t have a car, and heā€™ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.
Better heā€™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 wouldnā€™t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But youā€™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 heā€™s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.
You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. ā€œDid you finish that series I recommended?ā€
Sanemi grins. ā€œLast night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.ā€
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. ā€œā€˜Til next time?ā€
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.
ā€œā€˜Til next time,ā€ he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.
You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.
ā€œYou never told me yours ā€” what your dream is.ā€
He should leave. Youā€™re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you ā€” tell you the truth, at that.
That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. Heā€™d settle for anything, really; anything at all.
As long as it was more than this.
But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. ā€œTo wake up in the morning, Princess. Thatā€™s all I can ask for.ā€
ā€”ā€”ā€”
Sanemiā€™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.
Heā€™s full of shit and you know it.
Over the course of the last year, youā€™ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.
Youā€™ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you canā€™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, youā€™ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that heā€™s merely involved with the notorious gang ā€” at least, not any more than the two of you are just ā€œfriends.ā€
Town gossip aside, Sanemiā€™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.
Itā€™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 youā€™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 youā€™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 wonā€™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 ā€” Genya ā€” to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genyaā€™s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadnā€™t anyone to want those things for him.
Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect itā€™s because he doesnā€™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 ā€” betray the truth ā€” and thatā€™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. Heā€™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 ā€” 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 beastā€™s rose.
You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes ā€” 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 loveā€™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 Sanemiā€™s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.
And thatā€™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 doesnā€™t think heā€™ll get it.
And, above all, he dreams of love.
ā€”
If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after heā€™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.
Sanemiā€™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 youā€™d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.
There is a bruise forming along Sanemiā€™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.
ā€œYou got liniment?ā€ He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. ā€œAnd water?ā€
ā€œYou mean icy-hot?ā€ Youā€™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 theyā€™re propped up on the back of your chair.
Youā€™ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).
Once, in the early days of your friendship, youā€™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. Youā€™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, youā€™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.
ā€œNeed ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you donā€™t mind,ā€ his voice is muffled against his arm. ā€œI hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it ā€” fuckinā€™ hurts, now.ā€
You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, heā€™d once explained. Not unless youā€™re bleeding out.
You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful heā€™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.
ā€œMotherfucker,ā€ Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. ā€œShit stings.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re lucky itā€™s not broken,ā€ you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss ā€” an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasnā€™t been reset properly. ā€œAt least, I donā€™t think it is.ā€
ā€œYour medical expertise is astounding,ā€ 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.
ā€œIā€™m not a doctor,ā€ you shoot back. ā€œAnd since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.ā€
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.
ā€œYouā€™re in luck. It seems like you wonā€™t die,ā€ you say dryly. ā€œBut youā€™re going to have a nasty bruise.ā€ You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. ā€œAnd this says youā€™re supposed to rest ā€” not overexert the joint.ā€ You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. ā€œI donā€™t suppose youā€™re actually going to do that, though.ā€
He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. ā€œYou know me too well, Princess.ā€
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.
Youā€™re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just canā€™t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.
You wouldnā€™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 thereā€™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.
ā€œUgly, ainā€™t it?ā€ His tone is unreadable. ā€œLike a collar, ā€˜cept itā€™s permanent.ā€
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 ā€” the one that stands for Kill ā€” is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemiā€™s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.
A chill snakes down your spine. Youā€™d had your suspicions, of course, youā€™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 canā€™t see his face. ā€œGuess itā€™s fitting, since Iā€™m their dog.ā€
There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You donā€™t know why youā€™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.
ā€œItā€™s barbaric,ā€ 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 arenā€™t someone he can confide in.
But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. Youā€™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. ā€œThank you,ā€ 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. Youā€™ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways ā€” youā€™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 ā€” 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 itā€™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 donā€™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. ā€œThanks again. Donā€™t know what I wouldā€™ve done without ya.ā€
You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. ā€œOh please, Iā€™m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.ā€
A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.
ā€œNo,ā€ he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. ā€œNo, youā€™re more than that.ā€ His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. ā€œMuch more.ā€
For a moment, you wonder if heā€™ll lean in; if heā€™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 canā€™t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: youā€™d wanted to kiss him.
And for a moment, you swear heā€™d wanted to, as well.
An old rumor, one you hadnā€™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 donā€™t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And whatā€™s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything youā€™ve ever felt toward anyone.
Youā€™re in love with Sanemi.
It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; itā€™s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when youā€™re desperate and aching.
Itā€™s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks youā€™re actually worth something.
Youā€™ve never really known love before. But itā€™s because youā€™re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is ā€” what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you canā€™t.
You wonā€™t.
ā€”
Three rules. Thatā€™s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.
Donā€™t speak. No patterns. And donā€™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 Corpsā€™ rules. Number three, in particular.
Until you. Until the day heā€™d chosen your bookstore to hide in.
Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. Heā€™d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And heā€™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, heā€™s too deep; Sanemi knows heā€™s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.
Until this moment, he imagined heā€™d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when heā€™d let himself blur it.
As it turns out, heā€™d been dead fucking wrong. Because heā€™s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary heā€™d set for himself when it came to you.
So, Sanemi only gapes at you. ā€œWhat?ā€
You huff, impatient. ā€œI want you to fuck me.ā€
You say it like itā€™s the most obvious thing in the world ā€” as though you havenā€™t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.
If he didnā€™t know you were dead serious, he wouldā€™ve laughed in your face. And thatā€™s how he knows heā€™s fucked.
Youā€™re a virgin; he knows that, because youā€™d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer heā€™d brought over for your weekly movie night together.
Admittedly, heā€™d been surprised. You were beautiful ā€” not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didnā€™t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he wouldā€™ve thought youā€™d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.
As it turned out, youā€™d never been in a relationship, either.
Between long gulps of your drink, youā€™d asked him to fix it and heā€™d turned you down ā€” his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasnā€™t the type to sleep with someone who couldnā€™t fully consent.
So heā€™d let you down ā€” 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 heā€™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.
Heā€™d boldly kissed you twice more after that night ā€” 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 Sanemiā€™s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadnā€™t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When sheā€™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.
Theyā€™d found her in the kitchen of the small home sheā€™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 hadnā€™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 hadnā€™t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, sheā€™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 Kochoā€™s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didnā€™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 heā€™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 shouldnā€™t bother you ā€”
His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.
Despite the late hour, youā€™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.
Youā€™d broken away long enough to ask, ā€œS-Sanemi ā€” what ā€”?ā€
ā€œShut up,ā€ heā€™d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. Heā€™d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet youā€™d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.
He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though heā€™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 heā€™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 ā€” 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 ā€” completely bare ā€” beneath your hoodie.
That youā€™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 heā€™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, heā€™d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.
Heā€™d sent a text only a few minutes later ā€” a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.
He hadnā€™t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.
So, yes, heā€™s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, heā€™d never allowed himself to go further than that.
No matter how much he wanted to.
And itā€™s because he knows he canā€™t cross this last line ā€” canā€™t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.
ā€œYouā€™re better off asking someone else, Princess. You donā€™t want to get tangled up with someone like me.ā€
Never mind that youā€™re already tangled up with him ā€” but heā€™s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he canā€™t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.
ā€œI donā€™t want to ask someone else,ā€ 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. ā€œYou donā€™t know what youā€™re asking ā€”ā€œ
ā€œItā€™s you I want. I donā€™t care what the rumors say, I donā€™t care what anyone thinks ā€” including you.ā€
The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. ā€œAnd I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.ā€
He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never ā€” but he wants to shake the sense youā€™re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.
Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months ā€” so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And heā€™s pent up. He hasnā€™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, itā€™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 ā€” no one ā€” 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 arenā€™t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where heā€™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 heā€™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 ā€” heā€™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 wonā€™t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.
Sanemi wonā€™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 youā€™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 thatā€™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.
Youā€™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 youā€™ve had your fill.
(A lie, but itā€™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 ā€” 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 canā€™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.
ā€œYou want me?ā€ He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he canā€™t stop. Not when heā€™s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.
You shouldnā€™t; you canā€™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. ā€œYou want to say youā€™ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?ā€œ
Your eyebrows knit together. ā€œSanemi, thatā€™s not ā€”ā€œ
But he canā€™t stop his venom. ā€œBragging rights, thatā€™s all youā€™re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories ā€” the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.ā€
ā€œStop it,ā€ you bite, and your eyes harden. ā€œYouā€™re acting like an asshole.ā€
Youā€™re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.
ā€œHate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but Iā€™m not acting like an asshole. I am one.ā€
Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. ā€œI know you want to believe you are, but youā€™re not ā€”ā€œ
Sanemiā€™s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. ā€œIs that so?ā€ You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. ā€œThen 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.ā€
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 fatherā€™s son, and that heā€™d be no different, no different at all. Heā€™s a brute, and you donā€™t want that, you donā€™t want him ā€”
ā€œYou can do whatever it is you want,ā€ you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemiā€™s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. ā€œDo to me what you like; I donā€™t mind, as long as itā€™s you.ā€
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 isnā€™t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, heā€™s only shown you heā€™s entirely capable of doing so.
Itā€™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 youā€™d do it with a smile not unlike the one youā€™re wearing right now, soft and earnest.
Fuck, you just did.
And itā€™s that realization that has Sanemiā€™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 heā€™s put forth crumbles to dust.
He is a monster, but not for the reasons heā€™s used to justify this ugly display of his. Heā€™s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable ā€” an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.
Worse, heā€™s done the one thing heā€™d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.
Heā€™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. ā€œI didnā€™t mean to scare you.ā€
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. ā€œIā€™ll go,ā€ he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. ā€œā€˜M sorry, I didnā€™t ā€”ā€œ
Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. ā€œI want you to stay.ā€
ā€œYou donā€™t owe me anything ā€”ā€œ
ā€œItā€™s not about owing you,ā€ you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. ā€œI want you. I want this.ā€
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.
ā€œYou deserve someone else,ā€ Sanemi canā€™t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. ā€œBetter.ā€
But youā€™re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. ā€œThere is no one better; I only want you.ā€
Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. Youā€™re an idiot.
You canā€™t possibly believe heā€™s as good as it gets. Heā€™s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things heā€™s done and what heā€™ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.
He will hurt you; itā€™s in his nature. Itā€™s unavoidable. He canā€™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. Sanemiā€™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 youā€™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 Sanemiā€™s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh heā€™s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though youā€™d been burning and he was your balm.
Ironic, considering heā€™s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.
But thereā€™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 heā€™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 youā€™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.
ā€œDonā€™t,ā€ he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. ā€œLet me ā€” please.ā€
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. Heā€™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 ā€” have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?
ā€œHoly shit,ā€ 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 ā€” rich, hot need for him.
Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. ā€œCome here.ā€
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 heā€™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 ā€” including his with the Corps.
Sanemiā€™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 ā€” 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.
ā€œBeautiful,ā€ he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. ā€œSo fuckinā€™ beautiful.ā€
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. Heā€™s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isnā€™t a picky man; heā€™ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.
But you? Celebration isnā€™t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.
ā€œYou feel so damn good,ā€ 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 wonā€™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. Sanemiā€™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. ā€œWeā€™ll take it as slow as you want. Iā€™m not in any rush.ā€
ā€œN-now?ā€ You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.
ā€œNot yet,ā€ he groans against your mouth. ā€œI gotta make sure youā€™re ready first.ā€
ā€œI am ready -ā€œ
ā€œNot like that,ā€ 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.
ā€œFound you,ā€ 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. ā€œUh-uh,ā€ he tuts. ā€œCanā€™t hide from me now, sweetheartā€™.ā€
He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where heā€™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. Youā€™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 wonā€™t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when heā€™s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where youā€™re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how youā€™ll move under him; how youā€™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, youā€™re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.
ā€œSanemi! I think ā€” oh, I think Iā€™m -ā€œ 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. Youā€™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, itā€™s too soon.
ā€œNot yet,ā€ 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.
ā€œThere. Feel how wet you are?ā€ 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.
ā€œFor you,ā€ your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesnā€™t feel like he could get drunk on it. ā€œItā€™s all for you.ā€
His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. ā€œThatā€™s right,ā€ and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. ā€œBecause youā€™re mine.ā€œ
Itā€™s not fair. But he wants to pretend like itā€™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.
Heā€™d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, heā€™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 wasnā€™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.
ā€œJesus Christ,ā€ he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. ā€œHere.ā€
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 heā€™d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.
ā€œGo on,ā€ he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. ā€œTaste how fuckinā€™ perfect you are.ā€
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, youā€™re trying to kill him.
But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of whatā€™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 ā€” whether thatā€™s something or nothing ā€” 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, heā€™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.
ā€œAre you sure?ā€
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 doesnā€™t have a condom but heā€™s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. Heā€™s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who heā€™d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, heā€™d always been sure to have protection on hand.
Children are a gift, but heā€™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 doesnā€™t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.
ā€œIt might hurt a moment,ā€ he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. ā€œBut I promise Iā€™ll be gentle ā€” as gentle as I can.ā€
You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. ā€œI trust you.ā€
You shouldnā€™t, he wants to say. You shouldnā€™t, and you should run far away from this ā€” from me.
But Sanemi knows you wonā€™t just as much as he knows he doesnā€™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, Sanemiā€™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. ā€œFuck,ā€ he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. ā€œFuck.ā€
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 youā€™re concerned.
Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, youā€™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.
ā€œThere you go, thatā€™s it,ā€ his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. ā€œThatā€™s my girl.ā€
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.
ā€œReady?ā€ His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.
There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isnā€™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 ā€œPlease.ā€
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 Sanemiā€™s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand heā€™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.
ā€œIā€™m sorry,ā€ he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. ā€œIā€™m sorry. Iā€™m sorry.ā€
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 youā€™re constricting around him so tightly itā€™s nearly painful.
Itā€™s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but heā€™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. Heā€™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 youā€™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 doesnā€™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 Sanemiā€™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.
ā€œTighter,ā€ he gasps. ā€œHold me tighter. Please.ā€
Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.
And then heā€™s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until youā€™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. ā€œTalk to me, angel,ā€ the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. ā€œTell me how you feel ā€” tell me what you want.ā€
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 canā€™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.
ā€œCloser!ā€ You gasp. ā€œI ā€” I need you closer.ā€
He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesnā€™t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants ā€” he needs ā€” 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.
Sanemiā€™s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. ā€œDeeper,ā€ he confirms between throaty groans. ā€œYou want me deeper?ā€
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. Sanemiā€™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.
Itā€™s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.
Really, he canā€™t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing heā€™s ever heard.
Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. Youā€™ve come before with your own hand, but this ā€” 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 youā€™re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.
But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.
ā€œIā€™m here, baby, Iā€™m here. Iā€™ve got you.ā€ 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.
ā€œIā€™ll take care of you, sweet girl,ā€ he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. ā€œJust keep your legs around me.ā€
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. ā€œSanemi ā€”ā€œ
ā€œItā€™s okay,ā€ he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. ā€œItā€™s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.ā€
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 heā€™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.
ā€œYouā€™re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you ā€”- thatā€™s it.ā€ He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. ā€œYeah, yeah. Youā€™re my fuckinā€™ girl, arenā€™t you?ā€
A single wail of his name is your only response, but itā€™s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.
ā€œYou are,ā€ he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. ā€œMine. Youā€™re fuckinā€™ mine.ā€
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.
Youā€™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.
ā€œLook at me,ā€ his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. ā€œLook at me, Y/N.ā€
Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly youā€™re right back at that edge, only this time, youā€™re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.
ā€œS-Sanemi ā€”!ā€ Itā€™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.
ā€œThatā€™s it baby, thatā€™s it,ā€ Sanemiā€™s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. ā€œFuck!ā€œ
Heā€™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 heā€™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 ā€” all because of him.
He is selfish and he is weak; itā€™s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.
Sanemiā€™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.
ā€œFuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckinā€™ good.ā€ 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. ā€œYou okay?ā€
You donā€™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 heā€™s always known he was ā€”
ā€œI love you,ā€ and then youā€™re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. ā€œI love you, Sanemi.ā€
It wouldā€™ve hurt less if youā€™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 arenā€™t waiting for an answer ā€” you said it only so he would know, and youā€™d not expected anything in return.
All youā€™d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.
He doesnā€™t deserve any of it.
Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesnā€™t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you ā€” 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. ā€œā€˜M gonna pull out ā€” might be uncomfortable for a second.ā€
You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemiā€™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. ā€œDamn, I made a mess outta you.ā€
For a moment, Sanemi canā€™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. ā€œLet me clean you up.ā€
Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. ā€œDonā€™t leave ā€” not yet.ā€ You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. ā€œPlease, can you just hold me for a bit?ā€
Sanemiā€™s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He canā€™t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.
Heā€™d be lying if he said he didnā€™t know the source of your anxiety ā€” or that you didnā€™t have reason for it. Sanemi isnā€™t known for lingering.
But this is different ā€” youā€™re different. Youā€™re not some temporary distraction. Youā€™re everything. His everything.
ā€œShhh,ā€ 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. ā€œIā€™m staying right here, sweet girl. Iā€™m not goinā€™ anywhere.ā€
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 Sanemiā€™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 heā€™s disregarded every rule, every boundary heā€™s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade heā€™d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isnā€™t quite sure what heā€™s supposed to do with the rubble.
What he does know is that thereā€™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 canā€™t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.
His eyes widen. Thereā€™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 youā€™ve done to yourself, and youā€™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 ā€” he does not voice it, not yet, though itā€™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 heā€™ll get there, maybe.
In time.
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