#the second murder /and the death of the second murderer/ were VERY impactful

[aparticularbandit]

me realizing while writing this that actually none of these characters really care about anybody dying in specific.

i mean. hina cares about sakura dying. that was a pretty big deal to her. and kyoko cares about fic spoilery things.

but like.

they cared that people in general died. they cared that they were stuck in a murder game. but they weren't really friends with people. none of these people were really friends. (kyoko and makoto, sure. hina and sakura, also sure. taka and mondo, sure.)

but like. nobody cares.

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? It’s more likely than you think.

This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.

Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ‘s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred and his scars.

CW: 24k • explicit sexual content • MDNI • gang-related violence • mentions of blood and broken bones • mentions of murder/death • loss of virginity • creampie • vaginal fingering • some angst

I have plenty more of this AU written, so if y’all want more, just let me know 🫡

MASTERLIST HERE

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

The first is simple: once you’re in, you’re in.

Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but don’t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.

And don’t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. There’s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one you’d had before. No separation. You’ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, you’re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.

This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that he’d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira — the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.

The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that he’d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.

Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies — mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

Largely monetary debts — collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.

But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money — it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.

Life debts.

In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.

Their executions had been quick and without fuss — or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.

But even though the spray of their brains hadn’t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemi’s hands.

He will never be able to wash them clean.

But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences — for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom he’ll do anything — be anyone — if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.

The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).

And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is don’t get attached. Keep your circle small so there’s less collateral to be used against you — against the organization that owns you.

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.

But then he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in and that’s when everything falls apart.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.

They were late.

The job was simple, and well within Sanemi’s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzui’s joints that he’d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldn’t get elsewhere.

He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldn’t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the chance to smash the pervert’s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d thrown open the steel door of the Maeda’s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as he’d begged for mercy Sanemi hadn’t been hired to give.

The stupid, greasy fuck.

By the time he’d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the vermin’s back as he sobbed). But he’d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.

And that’s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maeda’s small warehouse, Uzui’s payment split into two rolls that he’d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members he’d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then they’d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.

Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But he’d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.

Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.

Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.

Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty — disquietingly so.

Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.

Sanemi’s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. It’s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.

He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.

One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits —

A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.

The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.

The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.

“Pigs!” The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. “Pigs!”

“Shit,” Sanemi growls. No doubt Maeda’s bruised ego sold them out. He should’ve taken the time to smash the asshole’s phone.

He’ll be dealt with later — and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.

Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corps’ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.

So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He can’t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.

He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.

He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.

The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.

Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there —

A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.

No good.

“Fuck.” It isn’t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While he’s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadn’t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options — the side streets to the left and right.

Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasn’t fully fucked himself.

Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street — one that borders the city’s western wing.

It’ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.

He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop — a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.

But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other — the store’s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerk’s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.

He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.

Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.

It’s now or never. And, because he’s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.

His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You know him; you’d known him most of your life, even if you’d never spoken to him. You’d gone to the same school in your youth — all thirteen years of it, in fact. He’d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.

You know he’s from the Silo — a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.

But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.

It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

So you hadn’t been surprised when you’d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before he’d even graduated high school.

You shudder to think what he had to have done — what he’d become — in order to achieve such status and notoriety.

If he’d been anyone else, you wouldn’t have helped; you would’ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.

But you owed him.

Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.

But one afternoon, when you’d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, she’d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.

Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.

But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though he’d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, he’d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parents’ home.

You’d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sister’s white-haired savior. They’d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but he’d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was “no big deal.” As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.

His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.

You’d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.

Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerk’s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.

There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.

A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isn’t stupid enough to try and shift.

One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.“You haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

The cop grimaces. “You haven’t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like they’re running?”

You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. “I’m afraid you’re my first customer of the day, sir.”

The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counter’s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.

But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.

“They’re gone,” you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.

There’s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.

In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But it’s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.

That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well — at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.

However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle he’d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.

You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.

He has scars he’d not had in your youth — jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.

A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.

“Can’t thank ya enough,” he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. “You really saved my ass —“

“Get out of my store.” You order, your voice hard. “Take your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“As you wish, Princess,” and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. “Just need somethin’ for the road.”

He snags a small novel — a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.

“Later,” he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. “You have to pay for —“

But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.

—-

By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. He’d met up with Uzui and forked over Maeda’s payment. Though, the Corp’s head pimp hadn’t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.

As it turned out, Maeda hadn’t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other — the driver — had managed to escape, though he’d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.

There’s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.

He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash he’d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.

He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book he’d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.

Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.

Take your trouble somewhere else.

Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which you’d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.

You know what — who — he is. In Sanemi’s world, that’s a liability.

Though, in fairness, he can’t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and it’s a coveted one. It wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude that you’d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.

What concerns him is he doesn’t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe you’re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

The Corps isn’t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.

The Kizuki.

In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.

Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadn’t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.

Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.

There are whispers that they’ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious — perhaps you’re in league with them, and you’ll hand him over the moment it’s most convenient for you to do so.

Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. You’re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.

But that’s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.

Either way, he doesn’t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he can’t afford to make.

Sanemi doesn’t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, he’ll decide how to proceed.

He eyes the book he’d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if he’s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.

Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and don’t visit home often, if ever.

Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.

Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But it’s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.

Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.

Or so he tells himself.

The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parents’ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.

He’d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, he’d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your mother’s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.

The memory of how you’d looked at him — a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when he’d met your stare head on — remained fixed in his brain for years after.

And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.

He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he can’t remember if he had. He should’ve; especially now when it seems as though he’s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.

Sanemi’s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen — instructions, only by way of an address and an amount — chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.

With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.

He wonders what will kill him first — whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because there’s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corp’s behalf.

Ultimately, he knows it doesn’t really matter. He won’t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life that’s anything but this. He’ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. He’ll die under the mask he’s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasn’t yet bonded with his skin.

But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where he’d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.

And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.

—

Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.

Sanemi doesn’t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguro’s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.

The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. He’d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.

That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.

So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.

His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.

He doesn’t know her by name — only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But it’s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps that’s because she’s looking for an escape just as much as he is.

Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.

Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.

At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. She’s licking and nipping at his lips in a way he’s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.

And, after all, he’s the one desperate for relief.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.

He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girl’s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. “We’ll be done in five.”

—-

Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.

He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.

He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that day’s sins.

The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.

Step.

A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that he’d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasn’t worth shit when they’d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

The crush of bone under the iron pipe he’d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.

Green; the color of the money he’d found stashed in a duffel, the debtor’s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.

Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstore’s front steps.

For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.

The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night you’d helped hide him from the cops.

He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and he’s pushing the door open.

His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.

That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.

“This isn’t a library,” you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. “You have to pay for the books here.”

It’s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Look — didn’t even crack the spine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. “That loss came out of my paycheck — which is scant enough.”

That piques his attention. “Didn’t you say this was your store?”

His question makes you turn pink, and you’re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. “I work here,” you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. “But I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesn’t ever come by.”

You wrinkle your nose. “So yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.”

Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.

You’re beautiful; he’s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if you’re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.

He doesn’t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.

“Fine, here,” he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.

He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

“Nothin,” he shrugs. “Just think it’s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.”

Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. “I live here, idiot.”

He snorts. “Didn’t you want outta here? Do somethin’ different?” He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours — that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.

“This can’t be your dream life.”

You don’t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.

Like he’s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.

Sanemi continues. “It’s strange for people not to want for more — to not dream about somethin’ different.”

“And who are you to say I don’t?” You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. “I have a dream of my own. Just because it’s not one you would pick for yourself doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Woah, woah, I never meant any offense.” He pushes back from the counter. “My bad.”

His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.

You slide his book across the counter. “Have the day you deserve.”

His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. “You too, Princess.”

You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you don’t see him toss another note on the counter.

He’s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. “Sir, you dropped your —“

“Nah, I didn’t,” he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.

Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.

—

His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. It’s unplanned in that he’s annoyed and it’s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.

You’re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerk’s counter startles you.

You frown. It’s him again — all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.

“This book was shit,” he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. “I want a refund.”

You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

“But it was shit,” he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didn’t create. “You let me waste twenty bucks.”

“I did nothing,” you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. “You’re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.”

You glance down at the discarded novel. “Figures,” you scoff. “He’s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.”

“Woulda been nice if you’d told me that before you let me give him my money.”

You hum idly as you cross off the log’s boxes for new releases. “I suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasn’t really paying attention to your shit choices.”

“Oh?” And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. “The Princess has claws, does she?” He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. “So, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?”

“I’m not your Princess,” you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. “Call me by my name or call me nothing at all.”

His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. “Alright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?”

The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish you’d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.

Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.

You’ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.

Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt he’d owed (their words, never yours).

Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most won’t speak about.

But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. It’s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.

Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. “Fine, here.” You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemi’s.

“Read that.”

His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. “This ain’t a book; it’s a brick.”

“It’s a classic,” you counter. “One that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.” Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Love and lust.”

His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps he’ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then he’ll leave you alone.

Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. “If you say so,” he sighs. “But if it’s shit, I’m taking my refund.” And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Regardless of your shitty little policy.”

You refuse to let him see how much he’s knocked you off-kilter. “So I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so I’m prepared.”

His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. “Worse,” he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. “You’ll owe me a date.”

He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. “Though, I might just take you out anyway.”

“You assume I’ll say yes — or are you planning on kidnapping me? I’m sure you’re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.”

Something dark flashes across his face, and it’s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.

Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.

But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemi’s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.

“You’ll say yes, Princess. You won’t be able to resist the temptation.”

“Temptation?” You force out a laugh. “And what makes you think I can’t?”

Sanemi’s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.

It’s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.

You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. “Habits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.”

You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.

——-

Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what you’d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).

Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and he’s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.

And, he’d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that he’d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. You’d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldn’t have given two shits if he’d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money — and the lengths some would go to keep it.

Yet he’d paid you back — paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.

Since that day, you’ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. You’ve managed to glean small things here and there. That he’s a Hashira, and Hashira means he’s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family — the heads of the entire organization.

That he’s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that he’s known for his swift brutality.

That he’s more than just a flirt; he’s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.

You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.

Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And he’s said to be very well-endowed.

It’s more information than you care to know, but you can’t deny that your curiosity lingers.

You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And you’ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.

—

“You look like shit.”

You startle up from where you’d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.

You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.

Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, you’d thought you’d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.

“Is that the only descriptor you know?” You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. “Is everything either shit or not-shit to you?”

Sanemi shrugs. “Pretty much,” and he holds something out to you, waiting. “Here.”

It’s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.

Your stomach grumbles fiercely. You’d foregone eating breakfast when you realized you’d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure you’d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.

The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.

But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. “Is it poisoned?”

He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, I’d pick a far more convenient way to do it — and one that didn’t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.”

Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.

Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. “It’s a thank you. For that book you recommended,” He smirks. “It wasn’t shit. It was good.”

You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.”

“You’re the one who grabbed that last book,” you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. “That had nothing to do with me.” You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “So, no date, then?”

The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. “Sorry, beautiful. I don’t actually date.” And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. “Gotta keep things casual in my world.”

The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. “And you don’t look like a casual girl.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. “You seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.”

“Experience,” he offers easily. “I know casual women.” He turns his head away before quietly adding, “And you ain’t one of ‘em.”

It’s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as you’re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you haven’t yet been able to pick apart.

You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when he’s been such a consistent pain in your ass.

Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you don’t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.

You see only the boy on your stoop; the one who’d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.

And it’s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, “So, friends, then?”

Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile — a real, genuine smile.

And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.

—-

In retrospect, Sanemi knows he’s probably fucked himself.

His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps — number Three, in particular.

But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows it’s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations he’s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesn’t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better — far safer — city.

It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.

Yet, he can’t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldn’t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.

He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though he’s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he won’t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.

It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what he’d thought otherwise, you’re not nearly as prim and haughty as you’d tried to make him believe.

You’re sweet. Genuine, in a way that’s rare for him to encounter in his world.

Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.

He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though he’s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, he’s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests — movies, shows, music — and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.

And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie you’d swiped from the store’s limited collection, he can’t find it in him to tell you no.

The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.

For starters, the neighborhood you live in isn’t the safest. It’s not the Silo, by any means, but it’s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzui’s business — another Hashira.

And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, you’d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.

He supposes he can see its appeal — you’ve certainly turned it into a home.

You’ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.

A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he can’t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once you’re distracted.

Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere — in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.

It’s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.

But it’s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.

Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock — the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though he’s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.

The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because he’s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once he’s finished.

The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.

Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring, and it’s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.

It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isn’t the kind of switch he imagined he’d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.

With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.

He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but you’re picky about your order. If it’s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If it’s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.

He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and it’s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.

In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life — namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, you’re always there to pull him back.

Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.

He can’t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He can’t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He can’t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.

Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit he’s guilty for.

It’s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But you’re the first person he’s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesn’t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.

So, he makes a promise. He won’t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they don’t.

With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.

And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

“You never told me what your dream was, y’know.” Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.

“What dream?” You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.

He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. “Your big dream — the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.”

You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno. Curious.”

“Thought you’re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.” And you shoot him a sly grin. “You ought to be careful.”

Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. There’s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, he’s the only friend you have. “I want my own bookstore.”

“Yeah?” He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. “Aren’t you practically running this one? That ain’t enough?”

“I don’t own it, though.” You frown, setting your clipboard down. “I just work here. You’ve seen my paycheck.”

And he had, having found a paystub when he’d gone snooping under your counter. You would’ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way he’d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.

His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.

“I want something that’s mine — that I own.” You continue. “I’ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to live under anyone’s thumb.”

Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.

Your cheeks heat. “I know it sounds stupid —“

“It doesn’t,” Sanemi says earnestly. “Wanting your freedom can never be stupid.”

You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that — arguably better than anyone you know.

Sanemi clears his throat. “So, a bookstore?” And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. “Consider me your first investor.”

—

Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.

By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.

You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. “Are you walking me home?”

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

You grin and it’s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldn’t do it, as often as he does. He’s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way he’s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But it’s dark and late, and you don’t have a car, and he’ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.

Better he’s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.

Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.

He wouldn’t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But you’d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.

Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.

He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if he’s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.

You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. “Did you finish that series I recommended?”

Sanemi grins. “Last night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.”

You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.

Your door gives way and you turn back to him. “‘Til next time?”

It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.

“‘Til next time,” he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.

You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.

“You never told me yours — what your dream is.”

He should leave. You’re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you — tell you the truth, at that.

That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. He’d settle for anything, really; anything at all.

As long as it was more than this.

But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. “To wake up in the morning, Princess. That’s all I can ask for.”

———

Sanemi’s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

Over the course of the last year, you’ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You’ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you can’t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

More importantly, you’ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that he’s merely involved with the notorious gang — at least, not any more than the two of you are just “friends.”

Town gossip aside, Sanemi’s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.

Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.

It’s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.

But perhaps the most significant detail you’ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while you’re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you won’t see him for the rest of the day.

It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.

Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother — Genya — to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genya’s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadn’t anyone to want those things for him.

Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect it’s because he doesn’t believe he will have one.

That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.

A cop-out, is what it is.

But his reading habits betray his darkest secret — betray the truth — and that’s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.

The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. He’s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.

He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.

But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.

You opened to the first page of of a tale — an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beast’s rose.

You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes — the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.

Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True love’s kiss, or something along those lines.

True love.

And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemi’s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.

And that’s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.

He wants out.

He wants a happily ever after. He doesn’t think he’ll get it.

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after he’d first burst into your bookstore.

It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.

Sanemi’s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.

You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.

You open the door and the flutter of excitement you’d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.

There is a bruise forming along Sanemi’s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.

The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.

Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.

“You got liniment?” He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. “And water?”

“You mean icy-hot?” You’re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.

You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where they’re propped up on the back of your chair.

You’ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).

Once, in the early days of your friendship, you’d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.

Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.

He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. You’d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.

But, you’re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.

And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.

Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.

“Need ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you don’t mind,” his voice is muffled against his arm. “I hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it — fuckin’ hurts, now.”

You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, he’d once explained. Not unless you’re bleeding out.

You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful he’s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.

Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.

“Motherfucker,” Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. “Shit stings.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss — an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasn’t been reset properly. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Your medical expertise is astounding,” Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.

“I’m not a doctor,” you shoot back. “And since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.”

You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.

“You’re in luck. It seems like you won’t die,” you say dryly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise.” You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. “And this says you’re supposed to rest — not overexert the joint.” You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don’t suppose you’re actually going to do that, though.”

He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. “You know me too well, Princess.”

You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.

You’re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just can’t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.

You wouldn’t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but there’s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.

A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.

Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” His tone is unreadable. “Like a collar, ‘cept it’s permanent.”

Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.

But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin — the one that stands for Kill — is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemi’s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.

A chill snakes down your spine. You’d had your suspicions, of course, you’re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.

Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you can’t see his face. “Guess it’s fitting, since I’m their dog.”

There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You don’t know why you’d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.

Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.

“It’s barbaric,” you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you aren’t someone he can confide in.

But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. You’re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.

He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.

You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. You’ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways — you’ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.

But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.

Intimate.

Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone — the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.

But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps it’s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.

You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.

Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.

Yet, you don’t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.

You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.

Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I would’ve done without ya.”

You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. “Oh please, I’m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.”

A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.

“No,” he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “No, you’re more than that.” His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. “Much more.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’ll lean in; if he’ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.

And then he turns and leaves.

You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you can’t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: you’d wanted to kiss him.

And for a moment, you swear he’d wanted to, as well.

An old rumor, one you hadn’t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.

The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.

Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You don’t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And what’s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt toward anyone.

You’re in love with Sanemi.

It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; it’s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when you’re desperate and aching.

It’s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks you’re actually worth something.

You’ve never really known love before. But it’s because you’re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is — what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you can’t.

You won’t.

—

Three rules. That’s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.

Don’t speak. No patterns. And don’t get overly attached.

It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corps’ rules. Number three, in particular.

Until you. Until the day he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in.

Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. He’d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And he’d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.

Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.

He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.

But now, he’s too deep; Sanemi knows he’s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.

Until this moment, he imagined he’d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when he’d let himself blur it.

As it turns out, he’d been dead fucking wrong. Because he’s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary he’d set for himself when it came to you.

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

You huff, impatient. “I want you to fuck me.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — as though you haven’t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.

If he didn’t know you were dead serious, he would’ve laughed in your face. And that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

You’re a virgin; he knows that, because you’d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer he’d brought over for your weekly movie night together.

Admittedly, he’d been surprised. You were beautiful — not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didn’t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he would’ve thought you’d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.

As it turned out, you’d never been in a relationship, either.

Between long gulps of your drink, you’d asked him to fix it and he’d turned you down — his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasn’t the type to sleep with someone who couldn’t fully consent.

So he’d let you down — but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure he’d never fully known what home truly felt like.

And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.

He’d boldly kissed you twice more after that night — one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.

The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.

One of Sanemi’s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadn’t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When she’d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.

They’d found her in the kitchen of the small home she’d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.

Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.

Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.

Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadn’t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.

He hadn’t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, she’d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.

The hours passed by in a blur once Kocho’s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didn’t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when he’d begun walking in its direction.

He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldn’t bother you —

His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.

Despite the late hour, you’d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.

Safe; you were safe.

Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.

You’d broken away long enough to ask, “S-Sanemi — what —?”

“Shut up,” he’d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. He’d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet you’d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.

He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though he’d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.

You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense he’d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up — to let him in.

And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.

His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare — completely bare — beneath your hoodie.

That you’d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that he’d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.

But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.

Without a word, he’d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.

He’d sent a text only a few minutes later — a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.

He hadn’t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.

So, yes, he’s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, he’d never allowed himself to go further than that.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And it’s because he knows he can’t cross this last line — can’t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.

“You’re better off asking someone else, Princess. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me.”

Never mind that you’re already tangled up with him — but he’s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he can’t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.

“I don’t want to ask someone else,” you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.

A low growl of your name is his warning. “You don’t know what you’re asking —“

“It’s you I want. I don’t care what the rumors say, I don’t care what anyone thinks — including you.”

The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. “And I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.”

He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never — but he wants to shake the sense you’re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.

Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months — so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And he’s pent up. He hasn’t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.

Really, it’s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing — no one — has come close.

More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there aren’t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where he’s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.

But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization he’s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.

He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.

He will rot you from the inside, out.

His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that — he’s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.

You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he won’t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.

Sanemi won’t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.

Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or you’re used as a weapon against him.

In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.

He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.

You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and that’s how he knows this is wrong.

Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.

You’re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.

And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once you’ve had your fill.

(A lie, but it’s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)

But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious — far too precious to him to continue to indulging.

He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.

A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.

He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell can’t ever be yours.

Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.

He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.

“You want me?” He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.

His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “You want to say you’ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?“

Your eyebrows knit together. “Sanemi, that’s not —“

But he can’t stop his venom. “Bragging rights, that’s all you’re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories — the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.”

“Stop it,” you bite, and your eyes harden. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

You’re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m not acting like an asshole. I am one.”

Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. “I know you want to believe you are, but you’re not —“

Sanemi’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. “Is that so?” You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. “Then maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.”

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard father’s son, and that he’d be no different, no different at all. He’s a brute, and you don’t want that, you don’t want him —

“You can do whatever it is you want,” you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemi’s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. “Do to me what you like; I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.

It isn’t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, he’s only shown you he’s entirely capable of doing so.

It’s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that you’d do it with a smile not unlike the one you’re wearing right now, soft and earnest.

Fuck, you just did.

And it’s that realization that has Sanemi’s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.

You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front he’s put forth crumbles to dust.

He is a monster, but not for the reasons he’s used to justify this ugly display of his. He’s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable — an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.

Worse, he’s done the one thing he’d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.

He’d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

He recoils from you like a kicked dog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’ll go,” he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t —“

Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. “I want you to stay.”

“You don’t owe me anything —“

“It’s not about owing you,” you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. “I want you. I want this.”

You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.

“You deserve someone else,” Sanemi can’t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. “Better.”

But you’re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. “There is no one better; I only want you.”

Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. You’re an idiot.

You can’t possibly believe he’s as good as it gets. He’s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things he’s done and what he’ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.

He will hurt you; it’s in his nature. It’s unavoidable. He can’t be what you deserve.

But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.

Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.

This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemi’s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash you’d be better off leaving out on the street.

The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemi’s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh he’s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though you’d been burning and he was your balm.

Ironic, considering he’s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.

But there’s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.

Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though he’s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.

You want more, and he needs you, too.

His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.

One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.

He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful you’d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. “Let me — please.”

Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.

Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. He’d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.

But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest — have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?

“Holy shit,” your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.

Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire — rich, hot need for him.

Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. “Come here.”

He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until he’s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.

More. He needs more.

He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.

Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other — including his with the Corps.

Sanemi’s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.

The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this — you.

As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.

He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.

“Beautiful,” he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. He’s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isn’t a picky man; he’ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.

But you? Celebration isn’t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.

He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that won’t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.

He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemi’s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.

He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.

Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.

He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.

With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’m not in any rush.”

“N-now?” You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.

“Not yet,” he groans against your mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I am ready -“

“Not like that,” he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.

“Found you,” he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.

He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.

You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.

A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. “Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Can’t hide from me now, sweetheart’.”

He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where he’s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.

One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.

A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. You’re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.

The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.

He won’t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when he’s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where you’re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how you’ll move under him; how you’ll moan.

His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.

You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.

Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, you’re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.

“Sanemi! I think — oh, I think I’m -“ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.

He smothers a curse into your skin. You’re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.

Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“There. Feel how wet you are?” His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.

“For you,” your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesn’t feel like he could get drunk on it. “It’s all for you.”

His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. “That’s right,” and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. “Because you’re mine.“

It’s not fair. But he wants to pretend like it’s true, if only for a while.

Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.

He’d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, he’d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasn’t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.

The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.

But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. “Here.”

His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers he’d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.

“Go on,” he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. “Taste how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of what’s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight — whether that’s something or nothing — you will never be just friends again.

Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.

He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.

Finally bare, he’s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.

He doesn’t have a condom but he’s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. He’s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who he’d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, he’d always been sure to have protection on hand.

Children are a gift, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.

But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesn’t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.

“It might hurt a moment,” he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. “But I promise I’ll be gentle — as gentle as I can.”

You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, he wants to say. You shouldn’t, and you should run far away from this — from me.

But Sanemi knows you won’t just as much as he knows he doesn’t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.

He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemi’s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.

The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.

Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. “Fuck.”

His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.

The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.

The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.

Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where you’re concerned.

Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, you’re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.

With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.

His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.

Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.

“There you go, that’s it,” his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.

He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.

“Ready?” His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.

There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isn’t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.

Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.

You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single “Please.”

With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.

You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.

But then Sanemi’s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand he’d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.

Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way you’re constricting around him so tightly it’s nearly painful.

It’s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but he’s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. He’d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.

With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.

You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.

He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.

He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.

When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows you’re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.

His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.

And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.

He starts slow. He doesn’t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.

Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.

Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemi’s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.

One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.

His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

“Tighter,” he gasps. “Hold me tighter. Please.”

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.

And then he’s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until you’re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.

His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. “Talk to me, angel,” the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. “Tell me how you feel — tell me what you want.”

You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.

The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You can’t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.

“Closer!” You gasp. “I — I need you closer.”

He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesn’t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants — he needs — to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.

Sanemi’s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. “Deeper,” he confirms between throaty groans. “You want me deeper?”

You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.

He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.

So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.

The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemi’s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.

Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.

It’s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.

Really, he can’t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. You’ve come before with your own hand, but this — this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.

You try and tell him you’re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’ve got you.” And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.

“I’ll take care of you, sweet girl,” he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. “Just keep your legs around me.”

Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.

With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.

You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. “Sanemi —“

“It’s okay,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. “It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.”

Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

“You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you —- that’s it.” He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. “Yeah, yeah. You’re my fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

A single wail of his name is your only response, but it’s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.

“You are,” he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

You’re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.

The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.

Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.

But he needs to see you, first.

“Look at me,” his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly you’re right back at that edge, only this time, you’re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.

“S-Sanemi —!” It’s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.

Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Sanemi’s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. “Fuck!“

He’ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.

But he’s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet — all because of him.

He is selfish and he is weak; it’s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.

Sanemi’s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.

He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.

He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good.” He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.

One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster he’s always known he was —

“I love you,” and then you’re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. “I love you, Sanemi.”

It would’ve hurt less if you’d shot him.

Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.

Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.

He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.

It hits him, then. You aren’t waiting for an answer — you said it only so he would know, and you’d not expected anything in return.

All you’d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesn’t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you — including him.

He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.

He pants as he breaks away. “‘M gonna pull out — might be uncomfortable for a second.”

You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemi’s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.

A low whistle blows past his lips. “Damn, I made a mess outta you.”

For a moment, Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.

His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. “Let me clean you up.”

Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. “Don’t leave — not yet.” You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. “Please, can you just hold me for a bit?”

Sanemi’s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He can’t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know the source of your anxiety — or that you didn’t have reason for it. Sanemi isn’t known for lingering.

But this is different — you’re different. You’re not some temporary distraction. You’re everything. His everything.

“Shhh,” he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. “I’m staying right here, sweet girl. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.

Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemi’s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.

He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way he’s disregarded every rule, every boundary he’s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade he’d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the rubble.

What he does know is that there’s no putting things back to how they were.

His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.

But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.

Perhaps that is what you’ve done to yourself, and you’re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.

He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.

But he can try.

He mouths I love you against your hairline — he does not voice it, not yet, though it’s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[matan4il]

Every once in a while, the magnitude of the Hamas massacre hits me all over again.

I'm not sure most people get it even now.

In absolute numbers, it is one of the three deadliest terrorist attacks in human history (second or third worst, depends on which estimates you trust for the Camp Speicher massacre), but if we take it in relation to the size of the population in the attacked country (which we should, because terrorism by its very nation seeks to victimizes through psychological trauma the entire target population, and not just those who were physically affected during the attack), then what Hamas did IS the single deadliest terrorist attack in the entirety of human history.

But it's even more than that.

Never, in any other attack, have the terrorists taken over as much land as Hamas did on Oct 7. ENTIRE TOWNS were under complete control of the terrorists, some for SEVERAL DAYS (I specifically remember watching a report on one town, where combat with the terrorists was still taking place on Oct 11, meaning on day 5 of this terrorist invasion into Israel). ENTIRE TOWNS WERE OCCUPIED. BY TERRORISTS. There's not a single Hollywood action movie dealing with such a scenario, because NOTHING OF THIS SCALE HAS EVER HAPPENED BEFORE. Imagine waking up and hearing in real time that the northern half of the American states Washington, Idaho and Montana has been taken by terrorists, who are driving through the streets freely, as they murder, pillage, rape, torture, maim, burn and kidnap people, and almost no one's there to stop them.

And then imagine the world expecting the US government to just... let the terrorists retreat to the other side of an international border in the north, after having murdered over 40,400 American, most of which are civilians, almost 183,000 more injured, and while taking with them across the border over 8,450 American hostages, to God knows what awful fate, for how long, or if they will even ever come back alive. Entire communities and regions would be devastated, without knowing if they'd be able to rebuild. The total would be more than 230,000 Americans directly impacted (I've adapted the real numbers from Oct 7 to the size of the American population... Remember the horrendous 9/11 attack, which saw 2,977 victims killed and a few thousands more injured, and think of what would be the emotional punch of over 230,000 direct victims).

Imagine expecting the US to let that go, and allow those terrorists to continue existing and ruling the land on its northern border. Imagine expecting the US to do so while this terrorist organization openly declares that it will repeat this large scale massacre whenever possible, until the entire country is destroyed.

And please don't come at me with "Fine, Israel can react, but not like this." Unless you have the military expertise to explain exactly how Israel can protect its people from this attack ever being repeated, and to free all our hostages, without civilian casualties (despite Hamas intentionally using them as human shields, and even directly causing Gazan deaths), unless you can translate the vague "not like this" into something practical, some actual guidelines on how this urban war could have been fought differently, even though there's no historical precedent to support that this is possible, "not like this" is just wishful thinking at the expense of the safety and right to live of Israelis.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[thebiggerbear]

"I took care of that asshole for you." "I don't like the sound of that." - Soldier Boy Prompt Response

Summary: When Ben mentions something to you in the middle of battle, your attempt at a little levity turns the conversation in a direction that probably would have been better kept off of Comms during a mission.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Reader; Soldier Boy x Female!Supe!Reader

A/N: Prompt from @dumplingsjinson. This came out of nowhere, I have no idea what it is, and yes, I did pick on Hughie a little bit. After Season 3, he deserved it a little. 😜

Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

Warnings: Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy; explicit mentions of violence/blood/gore; mentions of death & dead bodies; explicit language; a smidgen of dirty talk; implications

Word Count: 2132

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel

SB Taglist: @deans-spinster-witch; @birdiellie; @heartlessdelusions; @nancymcl; @brightlilith

@muhahaha303; @just-levyy

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

You can also read on AO3

"I took care of that asshole for you." "I don't like the sound of that."

“You got six more on their way up to you,” you warned Ben before dodging and knocking out the three security guards you were currently battling. You could hear reinforcements thundering up the stairs to your op partner.

“Good,” Ben grunted in your earpiece. “Now we’re in for a good fucking time.” You heard the brute force of his strength impacting human flesh from the sounds of loud blows and sickening crunches echoing in your eardrum. You rolled your eyes at Ben’s comment and held your breath as you popped out of the area you were in and appeared next to him on the fifty fourth floor. You immediately joined the fray.

“There you are, doll. Here to join the party?” Ben gave you a smirk as he knocked several men across the room with his shield.

“I wouldn’t call this a party.” You lifted your arm in his direction and a small beam shot out, killing the man who had been approaching behind him with a gun. “But yeah, I’m here. Let’s do this and get it done.”

Ben turned to see the dead man fall in a crumpled heap and then smirked even wider at you. “Lead the way, dollface.”

You did just that, busting into the stairwell and racing up the stairs. Ben was right behind you. 

You both encountered rashes of security response teams in between floors that you worked together to take out. You heard a gun click behind you but before you could react, Ben knocked the weapon from the man’s hand and then bashed his head against the concrete wall, leaving behind a very big stain of blood and brain matter. 

Ben turned to you, his green eyes stormy and dark. You knew that look by now even if you hadn’t just seen what you did; it usually preceded a murderous rage Soldier Boy would go into if anyone was stupid enough to really piss him off. And that didn’t even begin to touch what would set off the nuke inside his chest.

“I took care of that asshole for you.” He inclined his head in the dead man’s direction.

You screwed up your face in mock disgust. “Yeah, I don’t like the sound of that.”

The jade storm you were staring at lightened slightly and a very dirty smirk adorned his face instead. “One of these nights, you’re going to take me up on that offer, doll.”

You snorted and used your forearm to wipe some blood off of your face. Great. Now he’d never stop trying to talk you into it. “That ass belongs to me and you know it,” he’d always tease, wearing that same filthy grin, before you’d tell him that wasn’t happening and proceeded to distract him in other ways. 

“Uh, if you two are done doing whatever kind of gross and perverted flirting this is, you’re about to have another welcome party in the next forty five seconds,” Hughie spoke in your ear, sounding uncomfortable and thoroughly repulsed.

“Sounds like something you told Butcher while licking his balls before he turned that tight ass of yours into the Lincoln Tunnel,” Ben fired back.

“What are you talking about? That doesn’t even make sense, you ass.”

You shook your head in disgust at the exchange, not really listening to Hughie’s predictable and offended response, and you were about to head up the stairs when Ben’s hand grasped your shoulder and turned you around. He leaned in, murmuring into your free ear, “I forgot we were on comms.” You knew that was his roundabout way of apologizing. “I meant what I said, doll. Think about it. For now, I just can’t wait to get this shit over with and be back in that sweet pussy of yours, right where I belong.” Normally, that would disgust you rather than turn you on, but Ben always had a way of painting a picture with the dirtiest fucking words that somehow had you aching for it to become a reality. So much so that everyone and everything else would cease to exist in your world temporarily until it was indeed made a reality. Mallory put you two together because you would be the strongest team to be able to go up against Homelander and Vought. She never expected that you two would become more than partners on ops. You couldn’t begin to count the amount of times you’d popped yourself and Ben out of an op to get busy elsewhere once you were distracted, and she’d had to warn you both that if you didn’t cooperate, the deal would be off the table. To which Ben would then push you back onto said table, or desk, or whatever flat surface in the room, forcing her to roll her eyes and exit the room, leaving you both to demolish the place in a frenzy until you both were popped out of there by your own self.  

Hearing your heartbeat pick up in response to his statement, Ben gripped your cheeks with his bloody fingerless gloves, rubbing a thumb tenderly over your bottom lip. You could feel the wetness he left behind and you should be grossed out, but then his lips were suddenly on yours and as so often happened when that occurred, your head got a little fuzzy and your brain turned off. You shoved him into the concrete wall, causing a loud cracking sound, but neither of you cared to look. Instead, you had jumped up into his arms and began grinding against him as you dug your teeth into his lip and pulled, making him chuckle into your mouth. 

You were then pushed up against the wall, your hands held above your head in one of his, causing another cracking sound. The darkness in his gaze was back, but this time for a whole other reason. He covered your mouth with his and you couldn’t help but moan, twitching against his hold that only seemed to tighten. His other hand disappeared in between you, working at the fastenings of his suit. If he would just let your hands free, you could help him with that and have it done much faster.

“Guys! Guys! GUYS! HEY!” Hughie yelled into your earpieces. You both broke apart, wincing at the sudden pain in your ear drums. 

“Fuck!” Ben yelled as you grit your teeth. Ben had released you and both of you held your hands to your ears. 

“Welcome party in twenty seconds! Focus!”

Ben recovered first. “I’m going to fucking rip your spine out when I get back there, you snivelling little shit!” 

Hughie’s audible gulp was heard on the line.

You were still waiting for the reverberations in your ears to stop. “Shit,” you whimpered. Okay, yeah, you both had gotten a little carried away just like you usually tended to do and you needed to focus on the mission at hand, but damn. Had that really been necessary? The amount of pain in your ears confirmed that no, it fucking hadn’t.

Ben gripped your chin and forced you to meet his eyes. The fire that had been there before cooled slightly but it still burned brightly. “We’ll finish this later,” he promised in a quiet murmur, giving your hearing a moment to recuperate which you really appreciated. He even tenderly stroked the skin in front of your ears. “Better?” He asked after a few seconds had passed.

You nodded, still wincing slightly as you held one hand to your right ear. “Yeah. Thanks.” He gently placed you down on your feet and you took an uneasy step forward, him catching you before you could fall. While you and Ben both had super hearing, yours was a little extra — a very fucked up side effect of the Compound V in your system. So someone yelling in the same room as you was harsh on your eardrums and made you want to claw at your head. Someone yelling in your ear was pure fucking torture and literally rocked your world. Which was why now your equilibrium was temporarily fucked.

“Hughie,” you hissed. “If you ever do anything like that again, I’m going to rip your dick off and shove it so far down your throat, you’ll shit it back out. Which, from what I hear, should be an easy feat considering you’re used to having one up your ass. Do you understand me?”

Another audible gulp was heard down the line. “S-Sorry. It’s just, you guys are in the middle of the mission and you’re about to—”

“Hughie,” you snarled.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A proud smile graced Ben’s face as he helped you back to your feet but you were in no mood to smile back. You held a hand to your head, feeling a headache coming on thanks to what just happened. You then felt Ben’s lips at your temple. “You sure you’re okay?”

These fleeting moments of tenderness that Ben would show you still always managed to surprise you. But it was also one of the reasons you had let him into your bed and your heart (though he didn’t know about that last part yet and probably wouldn’t for some time if you had your way). You could take or leave Soldier Boy 99.9% of the time, but Ben — Ben you stayed for. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, laying your head down on his shoulder and closing your eyes for a moment. You felt his hand rubbing your back and you relaxed at the heat you felt through the fabric of your suit. 

“Guys,” Hughie interrupted more softly this time. “Sorry to break this up but you’ve got ten seconds until the next welcome wagon shows up.”

Your eyes snapped open and you lifted your head. “Exactly why are we doing all of the heavy lifting on this one again?”

Ben chuckled as he pressed a kiss above your right ear and then moved to pick up his shield from where he’d dropped it when you pushed him before.     

“We need to get a sample of the newest batch of V that Vought is cooking up so we know if—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupted Hughie. “I remember. You just make sure Mallory remembers that after this, Ben and I are on an extended vacation.” Ben gave you an approving smirk.

“Ah, okay.”

“I mean it, Hughie. Or I’ll be popping into places you and everyone else do not even want to fucking imagine. Termite will look like the shitty little prequel that couldn’t, compared to what I can do.” And you would make good on your threat, too. You and Ben deserved a break. They’d had you doing shit like this for nearly four months now. This was the most dangerous op yet but they’d perfectly timed it when Homelander and his group of Subpar Supes (as you called them) would be on a government-sanctioned mission out of the country. That didn’t mean that Homelander couldn’t get back here immediately if he was notified of a security breach in the Tower. Especially if he knew Soldier Boy was involved. 

You heard another door slam open two flights above you and you let out a tired sigh. You only had a few more levels to go until you reached the Labs. And thanks to Supe stamina, you didn’t tire easily so a couple of more caches of guards that Vought could pull out of its large steel ass were nothing. But damn if you didn’t want this op to be over with already and you and Ben were on a tropical beach somewhere that you had popped both of you to. 

The footsteps thundered down the stairs as the guards rushed to engage you and you glanced over towards Ben. His smirk grew as he tensed and got ready for battle. “Come on, doll. Let’s have a little more fun before we blow the joint.”

You huffed out a laugh and got ready yourself, your hands beginning to glow as you held them out in front of you. “There you go with your words again,” you teased.

He appeared next to you, holding up his shield in front of you both. “The only one you’re going to be blowing tonight, doll, is me.”

You rolled your eyes at his ridiculous joke but before you could respond, you heard in your ear, “Gross.” You couldn’t help but snicker along with Ben right before the guards attacked. Well, that’s what the little shit got for nearly cracking your eardrums before. He was just lucky that you hadn’t popped over to him, backhanded him to cause him the same amount of pain he had caused you, and popped back to Vought. As for Ben, well…you were going to make damn sure he kept his promise to you, on all counts.  

A/N: 🤷‍♀️

dividers by @firefly-graphics

[adventures-in-mangaland]

More Dead Boy Detectives Fic Recs

Since my last fic rec post got a great response and I've read some excellent fic in the meantime, here is a new list with more recs!

The Case of Richard Rowland by RB (BlueflowersandWings)

Charles' dad hires the Dead Boy Detectives to solve his murder. It's. Traumatic. The writing and characterisation are excellent and heartbreaking and the case is intriguing. I have many theories! Cw for domestic abuse, child abuse and homophobia.

we all have a hunger (series) by Anonymous

I couldn't choose! They're both so good! The first is from Crystal's PoV as she tries to figure out what happened to Niko. It also features some wonderful Crystal & Edwin bonding, an absolutely gut-wrenching speech from the latter and The Sandman cameos. The second in the series is an Edwin-centric (so angsty!) case fic featuring Accidental Child Acquisition, greek gods, the Cat King and a happy ending. Superlative writing in both.

Terrible, Horrible, No Good and Very Bad by hibye

Feelings realisation as Charles pines for Edwin and tries not to show it because he has to be sure he's in love. Terrific, very funny writing and Charles is a precious himbo. Excellent payoff too.

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? by DontOffendTheBees

Charles and Edwin investigate a mystery at St Hilarion's and discover a gut-wrenching secret. Compelling and brilliantly written.

I'll let you go if you kiss me goodbye by shadowquill17

Idiots in Love meets Friends with Benefits and Misunderstandings. Edwin breaking his own heart for no reason is very accurate and Charles gets a cool queer mentor.

the spooky thing about penis ouija by skadii

College AU! Everyone's alive and Charles and Edwin have been besties since middle school. This is another Oblivious!Charles fic; he's like a well-meaning golden retriever trampling Monty in his clueless wake. Also, the gang perform a seance and Edwin is a ghost-sceptic, which is hilarious.

after the insects have laid their claim by lolotr

Charles finds out that Edwin's body was never found and will not let that stand. Has a kind of gothic romanticism I really love and a nice in-universe explanation for the "Charles and Edwin can only feel each other" trope.

The author has written lots of other great fic, including a very cute librarian!Edwin and single dad!Charles human AU with bonus Crystal/Niko.

A Form of Genius by Neous (Greyality)

Charles shows off for Edwin. Crystal Suffers. Idk, it's just cute.

the taste in your mouth by greenaerie

When Esther hurts Charles, Edwin decides to take up the Cat King on his original offer. Interesting exploration of dubious consent, shame and guilt. The author is fairly sympathetic to the Cat King, while also exploring Edwin's complicated feelings, including the impact of his upbringing, general repression and, yes, coercion on his first time. It's not exactly explicit, but take care if those are tough themes for you!

The Manuscript of Real People by paraph

Slow burn Boarding School AU where they're both alive and it's also the 70s. And they were roommates! I have been longing for a fic like this. All the jock/nerd romance tropes, complicated by discussions of bullying and Charles' (perceived) proximity to Edwin's bullies. Edwin is an orphaned scholarship student, so it's also a kind of role reversal and touches on themes of class and poverty. Minor cw for sexual harassment as the Cat King/Thomas is also there (sorry catwin fans).

When We Walk Together We Tend to Walk Alone by UneducatedAuthor

Charles meets Death and gets to say goodbye to his mum. A sweet concept and it's nice to see Death of the Endless getting some love!

Marriage is a Payne by Ace_of_Turtles

Arranged Marriage and Omegaverse AU featuring the boys agreeing to get married to spite/escape their awful parents. Not explicit and fairly light on the a/b/o details, in case that's a squick for anyone.

job officially jobbed by vernesatlas

Charles decides the answer to the handjob question requires a practical demonstration. Very funny and well written and the title is excellent. All the kudos.

Try, Try Again by Asidian

Alterative ending to episode four. After the Night Nurse, Edwin makes a second attempt to comfort Charles. Heartwarming and sad.

The Risk and Rewards of Communication by Opossum_Subatomic

Another alternative ending to episode four featuring Edwin coming clean about the Cat King. So well written. I feel like this is going to be a fandom classic.

take your chances (win or lose her) by ObsessedWithFandom

Charles decides to check in on his mum. Some very sweet established relationship fluff followed by discussions of domestic abuse and family feels. The ending opened up some amazing possibilities for future fics! Highly recommended.

The same author has also written the ghost of the past that you live in, which is an excellent in-depth exploration of Charles' bisexual awakening and trauma-related repression.

Anyway, I'm going to try to make this a regular thing, so please send me more recs!

[ineffable-endearments]

The Crow Road by Iain Banks

I finished The Crow Road and had a little time to think about it. I'll put my thoughts under a Keep Reading in case anyone is trying to avoid spoilers.

As I speculated before, I think it's likely that The Crow Road is more related to Good Omens in philosophy than in plot. I mean, it's not that the plots necessarily have nothing in common, and we could be very surprised in the end of course, but now that I've read the whole book, its philosophical commonalities with GO are both apparent and kind of inspiring. Also, if I were a writer, I'd be more interested in dropping hints about what themes are important than telegraphing my whole plot ahead of time.

So here, I will describe the book and point out themes that I believe may reappear in Good Omens 3.

This is a long post. If you read it, make a cup of [beverage of choice].

Update on 4/20/2024: I made a second post: The Crow Road and Good Omens: Further-Out Thoughts

Below are mentions of suicide, death/murder, and sexual acts.

The Crow Road centers around a character named Prentice McHoan, a university student in Scotland who starts to sort out his complicated relationship with his complicated family as he explores the mystery of his uncle Rory's disappearance. Although the book is mostly from Prentice's perspective, the narration jumps around in time with the McHoan family. There are quite a lot of important characters to keep track of; the bare-bones summary I put below doesn't even include some of the important ones. I wanted to make the summary even shorter and simpler than this, but the truth is that this book is not short or simple, and if I made the summary any simpler, it might be downright misleading.

There are at least three major cultural aspects of The Crow Road that I am inexperienced with: the overall culture in the 1950s-1980s (I was born in 1988, so of course wasn't here for the relevant decades), the international experience of the Gulf War (again, born in 1988), and the history and culture of Scotland itself (I'm USAmerican with only reading as a source). As a result, I'm sure there are important dimensions to the book that I've missed. If someone has a different perspective taking some of these things into account, I'd love to know about it.

Also, keep in mind, there is a great deal of descriptive writing in this book. There are a lot of pages about the geography of Scotland, and about Prentice as a kid, and about Prentice's father and uncles hanging out together in their youth, and about various family incidents, and about Prentice spending time with his brothers and friends. At first, these passages seem to just make things more confusing, and in my head, I accused them of being "filler." But they definitely serve a purpose. They're a way of showing and not telling the characters' attitudes and relationships to each other. More importantly, because we get to actually live these experiences with the characters, they are what give all the plot points below their deeper emotional impacts. In other words, the everyday experiences give the plot its deeper meaning. They resonate with one of the core themes in the novel: that our experiences in life, rather than any supposed existence after death, are what matters.

The Crow Road's story is like this:

Prentice is rather directionless in life, and he seems to have trouble investing any energy in his own future as he moons over his unrequited feelings for an idealized young woman named Verity. Soon, Verity ends up in a romance with Prentice's brother, Lewis, and Prentice feels that Lewis "stole" her from him. Prentice has also become estranged from his father, Kenneth, over spirituality. Prentice believes there has to be something more after death because he feels it would be incredibly unfair if people didn't get anything other than this one life; Kenneth is not only a passionate atheist, but is offended by the notion of an afterlife.

Prentice's uncle Hamish, Kenneth's brother, has always been religious, although his religion involves a number of bizarre and offbeat ideas of his own, with inspiration from more traditional Christian notions. Prentice is not really sure about this ideology, but he's willing to talk to Hamish about it and even participates during Hamish's prayers, whereas Kenneth is openly scornful of Hamish's beliefs. Hamish interprets this as Prentice being on "his side."

Prentice has a few opportunities to go back and talk to his father, and is begged to do so by his mom, Mary, with whom his relationship is still good. Mary doesn't want either of the men to give up their inner ideas about the universe; she just wants them to agree to disagree and move on as a family. Prentice says he will visit, but he just keeps putting it off and off and off.

Prentice acquires a folder containing some of his missing uncle Rory's notes in the process of hooking up with Rory's former girlfriend, Janice Rae, who seems to have taken a shine to Prentice because he reminds her of Rory. Using the contents of the folder, Prentice wants to piece together the great literary work that Rory left unfinished, which Rory titled Crow Road; however, it becomes apparent that Rory didn't turn his concepts into anything substantial and only had a bunch of disconnected notes and ideas. He hadn't even decided whether Crow Road would be a novel, a play, or something else. The few bits of Rory's poetry for Crow Road read are bleak and depressing.

Prentice also spends a lot of time with a young woman named Ash. They've been good friends since childhood and seem to have a somewhat flirtatious dynamic now, but they aren't in a romantic relationship; mostly, they drink and hang out together. Ash tells Prentice bluntly to get his life back on track when she finds out he's failing at school, avoiding his family, and engaging in shoplifting. She is a voice of reason, and when Prentice insists to her that he's just a failure, she reminds him that actually, he's just a kid.

Prentice's efforts to figure out Rory's story or location stagnate, and he continues to fail at school and avoid his father. He then receives word that Kenneth was killed while debating faith with Hamish. In fact, Kenneth dies after a fall from a church lightning rod, which he was climbing in an act of defiance against Hamish's philosophy when it was struck by lightning; Hamish is convinced that Kenneth had incurred God's wrath. Ash is there for support when Prentice finds out about the death.

With Ash's help, Prentice returns to his hometown again to help manage Kenneth's affairs. Prentice speaks with a very shaken Hamish, who is handling Kenneth's death with extreme drama and making it all about his own feelings. Hamish tells Prentice that Kenneth was jealous that Prentice shared more in common with Hamish's faith than with Kenneth's lack of faith. However, this isn't really true, and as he contemplates his father's death, Prentice begins to internalize one of the last things Hamish reported that Kenneth had argued: "All the gods are false. Faith itself is idolatry."

As the chapters go on, Prentice is compelled by some of the meaningful items related to Rory that he discovers in his father's belongings. He gains a renewed sense of purpose trying to solve the mystery of where Rory went and what happened to him. Among the interesting items are an ancient computer disk of Rory's that Prentice can't access with any equipment he can find; Ash uses her connections in the US and Canada to find a computer expert who can finally open the files on it. This takes quite a while, since the disk has to be mailed and Ash's connection is investigating the disk only in his free time.

Prentice also discovers that his feelings for Verity have changed. He no longer feels angry with Lewis for "stealing her." At first, Prentice's narration describes this as his feelings "cooling" as a result of the trauma of losing his father, but interestingly, this soon means Prentice gets to know Verity as a sister-in-law without getting caught up in jealous romantic feelings. Verity gets along well with the family, and Prentice is actually happy to discover that she and Lewis have a baby on the way. Prentice's relationship with Lewis improves greatly as well, partly because he is no longer jealous and partly because he realizes he does not want to lose Lewis, too.

Ash's connection who was looking at Rory's computer disk comes through and sends the printed contents of the files to Prentice. The files reveal to him that Rory likely knew Prentice's uncle, Fergus, murdered his wife by unbuckling her seat belt and crashing their car. Rory had written out a fictional version of events and considered using it in Crow Road. I'm not clear on exactly how certain Rory was about Fergus's crime, or whether Rory would have intentionally reported Ferg, or whether Rory even had enough proof to publicly accuse Ferg of murder, but people would likely have connected the dots in Rory's work and become suspicious of Ferg. For this reason, Prentice believes Ferg murdered Rory as well.

Prentice confronts Ferg. He doesn't get a confession and leaves Ferg's home with no concrete proof of anything; Ferg denies it all. But Prentice is soon physically assaulted in the night, and it seems Ferg was almost certainly the culprit, because he hadn't been home that same night, and he had injuries (probably from being fought off) the next day. A day or two later, Ferg's body is found unconscious in the cockpit of a plane, which crashes into the ocean. It's uncertain whether this was a suicide, but Prentice suspects it was. Rory's body is then soon recovered from the bottom of a waterway near Prentice's home, where Ferg had sunk it years ago.

As the mysteries are solved, Prentice realizes his feelings for Ash are romantic love. However, it's too late, he thinks, because Ash is about to take a job in Canada, where she may or may not stay. Prentice also hesitates to approach her because he's embarrassed about his previous behavior, venting all his angst about Verity and his father. He isn't sure she would even want to be in a relationship with him after that. But the very night before Ash leaves, she kisses Prentice on the cheek, which leads to a deeper kiss. They finally connect, have sex, and confess their mutual feelings. Ash still goes to her job in Canada, but says she'll come back when Prentice is done with his studies that summer.

The relationship's future is somewhat uncertain because something could come up while Ash is in Canada, but Prentice is hopeful. The book ends with Prentice getting ready to graduate with his grades on track as a history scholar, fully renouncing his belief in an afterlife while he acknowledges the inherent importance of our experiences in our lives now, and enjoying his time with Lewis and Verity and his other family members.

What's the point of all these hundreds of pages?

Well, look at all of the above; there's definitely more than one point. But the main point I took away is that we get this one life, with our loved ones in this world here and now, and this is where we make our meanings. There is no other meaning, but that doesn't mean there's no meaning at all. It means the meaning is here.

It's not death that gives life its meaning. It's the things we do while alive that give life its deeper meaning.

The Crow Road is described (on Wikipedia) as a Bildungsroman, a story focusing on the moral and philosophical growth and change of its main character as they transition from childhood to adulthood ("coming-of-age novel" is a similar term that is interchangeable, but more vague and not necessarily focused on morality/philosophy). And, indeed, all of the plots ultimately tie into Prentice's changed philosophy.

After his argument with Kenneth, Prentice feels childish and humiliated, and as a result, he refuses to go back home, which leads to a spiral of shame and depression. Kenneth dies and Prentice realizes it's too late to repair the relationship, which also leads him to realize it's what we do in life that matters, and that therefore, his father's argument was correct after all.

At the end of the novel, Prentice outright describes his new philosophy. However, I can't recall one specific passage where Prentice describes the process of how he changed his mind (if anyone else can remember something I missed, do let me know). There is, however, a moment when his narration indicates that Hamish seems less disturbed by his own part in the incident that led to Kenneth's death and more disturbed by the notion that his beliefs might actually be true: there might actually be an angry, vengeful God. In other words, Hamish's philosophy is selfish at its core.

My interpretation is that when his father died, Prentice realized three things: how utterly self-serving Hamish's devout faith is, how Kenneth's untimely death proves the importance of working things out now rather than in an imaginary afterlife, and how much profound meaning Kenneth had left behind despite having no faith at all. After these realizations, a determined belief in an afterlife no longer makes our lives here more profound like Prentice once thought it did.

Also, it's worth noting that this incident changes Prentice's idea of partnership, too. He loses interest in this distant, idealized woman he's been after. In love as in the rest of life, Prentice lets go of his ideals, and in doing so, he makes room for true meaning, both in a sincere familial, platonic connection with Verity and a sincere intimate, romantic connection with Ash.

But what about the sex scene?!

Yes, indeed, at the tail end of the story, Prentice and Ash have sex and admit they want to be in a relationship together. Prentice's narration describes them sleeping together and having intercourse not just once, but many times, including some slow and relaxed couplings during which they flex the muscles in their private parts to spell out "I.L.Y." and "I.L.Y.T." to each other in Morse code. This is relevant because earlier, they had been surprised and delighted to discover that they both knew Morse code; it isn't a detail that came from nowhere.

I didn't get the impression that this scene was trying to be especially titillating to the reader. It was mostly just a list of stuff the characters did together. I felt the point was that they were still anxious about being emotionally honest, a little desperate to convey their feelings without having to speak them out loud, and awkward in a way that made it obvious that their primary concern was the feelings, not the sexual performance. They cared about each other, but they weren't trying to be impressive or put on a show; contrast this with previous scenes where Prentice would act like a clown in front of Ash to diffuse his own anxiety. I've always thought that being able to have awkward sex and still enjoy it is a good sign.

Okay, so what does this all have to do with Good Omens?

Here's where I have to get especially interpretive. I'm doing my best, but of course, not everyone reading this will have the same perspective on Good Omens, the Final Fifteen especially. I believe similar themes are going to resonate between The Crow Road and Good Omens regardless of our particular interpretations of the characters' behavior and motivations, but I suppose it could hit differently for some people.

The TL;DR: I see similar themes between The Crow Road and Good Omens in:

The importance of mortal life on Earth

Meaning (or purpose) as something that we create as we live, not something that is handed to us by a supreme being

Sincere connection and love/passion (for people, causes, arts, life's work, etc) as a type of meaning/purpose

Relationships as reflections of philosophy

The dual nature of humanity

Life on Earth as the important part of existence is a core theme in Good Omens, and has been since the very beginning. We all already know Adam chose to preserve the world as it already is because he figured this out, and we all already know Aziraphale and Crowley have been shaped for the better by their experiences on Earth. But Good Omens isn't done with this theme by a long shot. I think this is the most important thematic commonality Good Omens will have with The Crow Road. Closely related is the notion that we create our meanings as we live, rather than having them handed to us. Isn't this, in a way, what Aziraphale struggles with in A Companion to Owls? He's been given this meaning, this identity, that doesn't fit him. But does he have anything else to be? Not yet.

Partnerships as a parallel to the characters' philosophical development also resonates as a commonality that The Crow Road may have with Good Omens. Prentice's obsession with Verity goes away when he starts to embrace the importance of life on Earth and makes room for his sincere relationship with Ash. Note their names: "Verity" is truth, an ideal Prentice's father instills in him; "Ashley" means "dweller in the ash tree meadow" in Anglo-Saxon, according to Wikipedia, and "ash" is one of the things people return to after death. Prentice literally trades his high ideals for life on Earth. We see in Aziraphale a similar tug-o'-war between Heaven's distant ideals and Crowley's Earthly pleasures, so I can see a similar process potentially playing out for him.

I don't particularly recall a ton of thematic exploration of free will in The Crow Road. However, there is a glimmer of something there: Prentice feels excessively controlled by Kenneth's desire to pass down his beliefs, and part of the reason Prentice is so resistant to change is simply his frustration with feeling censored and not being taken seriously. As the reader, I do get the feeling that while Prentice is immature, Kenneth made major mistakes in handling their conflict, too. And Kenneth's mistakes come from trying to dictate Prentice's thoughts. There is likely some crossover with Good Omens in the sense that I'm pretty sure both stories are going to take the position that people need to be allowed to make mistakes, and to do things that one perceives as mistakes, without getting written off as "stupid" or "bad" or otherwise "unworthy."

Suffice it to say that the human characters in Good Omens will also certainly play into these themes, but it's hard to write about them when we don't know much about them except that one of them is almost certainly the reincarnation of Jesus. This also makes me suspect perhaps the human cast will be 100% entirely all-new, or mostly new, symbolic of how Aziraphale and Crowley have immersed themselves in the ever-evolving, ever-changing world of life on Earth. Alternatively, if we encounter human characters again from Season 1 or 2, perhaps the ways they've grown and changed will be highlighted. For example, even in real-world time, Adam and Warlock have already, as of the time I'm writing this, gone through at least one entire life stage (from 11 in 2019 to 16 in 2024). They'll be legal adults in a couple of years, and if there's a significant time skip, they could be much older. If characters from Season 1 do reappear and themes from The Crow Road are prominent, I would expect either some key scenes highlighting contrasts and changes from their younger selves or for stagnation and growth to be a central part of their plot.

The more I write, the more I just interpret everything in circles. Hopefully this post has at least given you a decent idea of what The Crow Road is like and how it may relate to Good Omens.

I'll end this post with a quotation that feels relevant:

Telling us straight or through his stories, my father taught us that there was, generally, a fire at the core of things, and that change was the only constant, and that we – like everybody else – were both the most important people in the universe, and utterly without significance, depending, and that individuals mattered before their institutions, and that people were people, much the same everywhere, and when they appeared to do things that were stupid or evil, often you hadn’t been told the whole story, but that sometimes people did behave badly, usually because some idea had taken hold of them and given them an excuse to regard other people as expendable (or bad), and that was part of who we were too, as a species, and it wasn’t always possible to know that you were right and they were wrong, but the important thing was to keep trying to find out, and always to face the truth. Because truth mattered. Iain Banks, The Crow Road

[br-disaster]

CQL's crybaby Nie Mingjue appreciation post

I always see people talking about CQL's Nie Mingjue crying constantly, and they're right to do so, but I haven't seen those scenes compiled so I thought it would be a good idea to do it, since it's one of my favorite things about this version of NMJ.

*I'll consider the times he was tearing up too because I think they're important, but i'm only considering "full crying scenes" the ones where there are actual tears falling down his face.

*It's all in chronological order.

Episode 41 - defending Meng Yao

Why is NMJ crying? Crying is his response to everything, okay? NMJ is very emotionally invested in everything he does. He's very mad these men for saying terrible things about Meng Yao while benefiting from his labour. He's so emotionally invested in everything he does.

Is it a full crying scene? No, he tears up the entire time he's scolding the cultivators but those tears don't leave his eyes.

Episode 10 - being threatened by Wen Chao

Why is NMJ crying? Wen Chao is being very disrespectful, as he often is. And it's understandable, NMJ is hurt, his home was invaded, some of his soldiers are dead and it's overall a terrible time for everybody. To be honest, though, I think he's tearing up out of pure rage because Wen Chao just mentioned what Wen Xu did to the Cloud Recesses.

Is it a full crying scene? No. I almost didn't include this one because it's very subtle but his eyes look too shiny to be ignored.

Episode 10 - expelling Meng Yao from the Unclean Realm

Why is NMJ crying? It's a very emotional and conflicting moment on top of a terrible day, on top of a very stressful period of his life. He was betrayed by his friend who saved his life right afterwards; his home was invaded and they're at war! He has every right to cry as much as he did.

Is it a full crying scene? Hell yes, and it's glorious. They even end the episode with his miserable little crying face.

Episode 41 - Everything, really

Why is NMJ crying? Everything sucks, he's defeated and hurt in front of the man who killed his father. He didn't get his personal revenge and he didn't free the world from Wen Ruohan's tyranny either. Instead, he watched helplessly as his men were murdered and now he has to watch his former deputy mock his father's death and threaten to have Wen Ruohan damage Baxia like he did with his father's blade.

Is it a full crying scene? No, only because he's being very brave about it. I have no idea how those tears didn't fall.

Episode 41 - confrontation at Jinlintai

Why is NMJ crying? Very difficult topics being discussed here. People who are way better with words than I am have already written amazing meta on how having his worldview challenged like this affects NMJ emotionally, so I won't go there. But between the song of turmoil making him more emotionally unstable and the disdain with which JGY talks about the men he killed, evoking this very traumatic moment I just mentioned on the previous crying scene; I think it's very understandable.

Is it a full crying scene? Yes! Most of the time he's holding back tears, but you can see the one dramatic tear running down his nose (on the outside of it) on the second gif!

In conclusion: he has so much to cry about, it's surprising he didn't cry more, it must have taken so much strength (or he was just crying offscreen, which is plausible, because sadly this isn't The Nie Mingjue show and we don't see him all the time)

Anyway, I am not here to claim he's not a crybaby because he absolutely is, but on the actual show we only have 2 full crying scenes. They were so impactful it feels like much more crying happened. Fatal Journey is it's own thing so I made a separate post for those tearing up, crying and emotional breakdown lovely scenes <3

[callsigns-haze]

Memories Fade VII

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader Summary: Not so long back Rhysand lost his sister. Years after Helion and Elain can raise her memories from the past to see what truly happened to Y/n. Warning: Mentions of death and drinking, mentions of violence, murder, blood, poison, CHARACTER DEATH

Part 1 here

Previous

Back under the mountain, Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she made her way through the shadowed halls, slipping past guards and courtiers with practiced stealth. She had done this before, sneaking into Amarantha’s office to gather crucial information. But tonight, there was an added layer of urgency, a desperate need to find anything related to the Autumn Court.

Reaching the door to Amarantha’s office, she glanced around to ensure no one was watching before slipping inside. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of faelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. Y/N moved quickly, her hands trembling as she opened drawers and sifted through boxes of documents.

Papers rustled and boxes shifted as she searched, her anxiety growing with each passing second. Where could it be? She thought, her frustration mounting. She could hear the faint sounds of the revelry above, the distant laughter and music a stark contrast to the tension gripping her.

Just as she found a stack of documents that looked promising, the door to the office creaked open. Y/N froze, her heart stopping as Amarantha stepped inside, her eyes narrowing at the sight before her.

"What do we have here?" Amarantha's voice was a low, dangerous purr. "A little spy in my office?"

Before Y/N could react, Amarantha's guards surged forward, grabbing her roughly by the arms. She struggled, but their grip was ironclad, their expressions devoid of mercy.

"Bring her to the dungeon room. Immediately," Amarantha commanded, her eyes gleaming with cruel delight.

The guards didn’t hesitate. They dragged Y/N out of the office, her feet barely touching the ground as they hauled her through the labyrinthine corridors. Panic clawed at her, but she forced herself to remain calm. She couldn’t show fear. She had to be strong.

The dungeon room was dark and cold, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. The guards threw her to the floor, and she landed hard, the impact jarring her bones.

Amarantha followed them in, a predatory smile playing on her lips as she looked down at Y/N. "You’ve been a very naughty girl, sneaking into places you don’t belong. What were you looking for, I wonder?"

Y/N glared up at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response. She knew better than to reveal anything, especially now.

Amarantha’s smile widened, her amusement evident. "No matter. I have ways of making you talk. Guards, prepare her for interrogation."

The guards moved to obey, and Y/N steeled herself for what was to come. She would endure this. She had to. For Eris, for her brother, for everyone counting on her. She would find a way to survive.

As the guards bound her hands and prepared the instruments of torture, Y/N took a deep breath, drawing on the strength and love she carried in her heart. She would not break. She would not give Amarantha the satisfaction.

She closed her eyes, whispering a silent promise to herself and to Eris. She would endure this, and she would find a way to protect those she loved, no matter the cost.

----

The grand dining hall under the mountain was a place of stark contrasts. Opulence and decadence were juxtaposed against an underlying current of menace, the echoes of power and cruelty resonating in the air. At the head of the table, Amarantha sat, her regal posture and calculating eyes taking in everything and everyone.

Rhysand sat across from her, his expression carefully schooled into one of polite interest. The dinner spread before them was lavish, a feast fit for a queen, yet he barely touched his plate. His mind was consumed with worry for his sister, Y/N.

Amarantha watched him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a predator savoring the tension. "You’re awfully quiet tonight, Rhysand. Something on your mind?"

Rhysand met her gaze, his violet eyes steady despite the turmoil within. "I was just wondering where my sister is," he said, his tone casual. "I haven’t seen her all day."

Amarantha’s smile widened, a flicker of amusement in her gaze. "Oh, Y/N? I needed her to do a job for me. She left for a week."

Rhysand’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his expression neutral. "A week? That’s quite a long time. What kind of job requires her to be away for so long?"

Amarantha took a delicate sip of her wine, savoring the taste before answering. "It’s a delicate matter, one that requires her particular set of skills. I trust her to handle it efficiently."

Rhysand nodded, forcing a smile. "Of course. Y/N is very capable."

The lie settled heavily in his mind. He knew Amarantha well enough to recognize when she was being deceitful. His sister would never leave without telling him, without making some sort of arrangement. A cold dread crept into his heart.

"Is there anything I should be concerned about?" he asked, keeping his tone light. "I can go to assist her if necessary."

Amarantha laughed softly, a sound that sent chills down his spine. "No need, Rhysand. She’s quite resourceful on her own. You should trust her more."

Rhysand nodded, though his thoughts were far from the pleasant façade he maintained. "I do trust her. It’s just that I worry. This place can be...dangerous."

Amarantha’s smile didn’t waver. "Indeed, it can be. But she’s under my protection, and you have my word she will return safely."

---

The chamber was a place of nightmares, a dark, cold cell deep beneath the mountain where screams and cries seemed to linger in the air, echoing the suffering of countless souls who had endured its horrors. Y/N had been there for five days, and the relentless torture had taken its toll on her body, but not her spirit.

She was chained to the wall, her wrists raw and bloody from the restraints. Bruises and cuts marred her skin, and each breath she took was a struggle, her ribs aching from the repeated blows. Despite the pain, she refused to give Amarantha the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Amarantha stood before her, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that," she said, her voice dripping with false admiration. "But everyone breaks eventually. Why prolong your suffering? Just tell me what I want to know."

Y/N lifted her head, meeting Amarantha’s gaze with defiance. "Go to hell," she spat, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Amarantha’s smile faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. She stepped closer, her nails digging into Y/N’s chin as she forced her to look up. "Such spirit," she murmured. "It will be a pleasure to break you."

With a swift motion, Amarantha struck Y/N across the face, the impact sending her head snapping to the side. Pain exploded in her cheek, but she refused to cry out. She wouldn’t give Amarantha the satisfaction.

"Do you really think you can endure this forever?" Amarantha taunted, her voice low and dangerous. "I can keep this up for as long as it takes."

Y/N’s vision blurred, but she focused on the thought of her brother, her friends, and Eris. She drew strength from their love, their unwavering belief in her. "You can torture me all you want," she said through gritted teeth. "I’ll never tell you anything."

Amarantha’s eyes darkened with anger, and she turned to the guards. "Increase the pain. Make her wish she’d never defied me."

The guards moved forward, their expressions grim as they prepared the next round of torture. Y/N braced herself, every muscle in her body tensing in anticipation of the agony to come.

Hours passed, each moment stretching into eternity as they inflicted wave after wave of pain. But through it all, Y/N held on, her mind retreating to memories of better times, of the love that awaited her beyond the darkness.

Finally, when she thought she could endure no more, the guards stepped back, and Amarantha approached once again. "Still defiant, I see," she said, a hint of grudging respect in her voice. "But this is only the beginning. I will break you, one way or another."

Y/N glared up at her, her resolve unshaken. "Do your worst," she challenged, her voice a mere whisper but filled with steel.

Amarantha laughed, a cold, chilling sound that echoed through the chamber. "Oh, I intend to," she promised, before turning on her heel and leaving the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

As the echoes of her laughter faded, Y/N sagged against her restraints, her body trembling with exhaustion. But even in the depths of her suffering, she clung to hope. She would endure this. She had to. For her brother, for Eris, for everyone who depended on her. She would survive.

And she would make Amarantha pay.

---

Eris paced the confines of his small, dimly lit room, the oppressive atmosphere under the mountain pressing in on him from all sides. It had been days since he last felt Y/N's presence through their bond, a connection that had always been a source of solace and strength. Now, it was as if she had blocked out her part of the bond entirely, leaving him in a state of constant worry and dread.

He had scoured every corner of the mountain he had access to, searching for any sign of her, but she was nowhere to be found. It was as if she had vanished into thin air, and the thought of her being in Amarantha's clutches made his blood run cold.

Eris clenched his fists, frustration and fear gnawing at him. He couldn’t stand the thought of Y/N suffering, but he was powerless to do anything about it. His father’s orders were clear—he was to remain under Amarantha’s command and not draw any unnecessary attention to himself or his court. But that didn’t stop the burning desire to find Y/N, to protect her from whatever horrors she was enduring.

He paused by the window, looking out at the bleak landscape beyond. The weight of the bond's absence was like a physical ache in his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him.

The door creaked open, and his youngest brother, Lucien, stepped inside, his expression grim. "Still no word?" he asked quietly.

Eris shook his head, unable to hide the worry in his eyes. "It's like she's completely shut me out. I don’t know where she is or what’s happening to her."

Lucien’s jaw tightened. "Amarantha is a monster. If she’s done anything to Y/N..."

Eris cut him off, his voice harsh. "Don’t. I can’t think about that. I need to find her, Lucien. I need to know she’s safe."

Lucien nodded, his own worry evident. "We’ll find a way. We have to."

Eris resumed his pacing, his mind racing with possibilities. "There has to be something we can do, some way to reach her. I can’t just sit here and do nothing."

Lucien placed a hand on Eris’s shoulder, his grip firm. "We’ll figure it out, brother. Y/N is strong. She’ll hold on until we can get to her."

Eris nodded, though the uncertainty gnawed at him. He had to believe that Y/N would endure, that she would find a way to survive. But with each passing day, the fear grew stronger, threatening to consume him.

As night fell, Eris lay on the narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, reaching out through the bond one last time, hoping against hope that he might feel her presence, even for a moment.

But there was nothing. Only silence.

And in that silence, Eris made a silent vow. No matter what it took, no matter the cost, he would find Y/N. He would bring her back. And he would make Amarantha pay for every moment of suffering she had inflicted.

With that resolve burning in his heart, Eris let sleep claim him, his dreams filled with images of Y/N, her strength and her unbreakable spirit guiding him through the darkness.

---

The twelfth day of torture had blurred into an unending nightmare for Y/N. The constant pain, the endless questions, and the malicious gleam in Amarantha’s eyes had become her world. She had held out, refusing to break, but today, the cruel High Queen seemed to reach the end of her patience.

Amarantha stood before her, a poisonous glint in her eye. "You’ve been quite the challenge," she sneered, holding a knife that glimmered with a sickly green sheen. "But I’m afraid your time has run out."

Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched Amarantha approach, the knife gleaming in the dim light. She strained against her chains, but there was no escape. With a swift, brutal motion, Amarantha plunged the knife into Y/N’s stomach. Agonizing pain shot through her, and she gasped, choking on her own breath.

"This knife is coated with a very special poison," Amarantha hissed, twisting the blade. "Even if you don’t bleed out, the poison will kill you slowly and painfully. Let this be a lesson to anyone who dares defy me."

Y/N’s vision blurred with tears, but she refused to give Amarantha the satisfaction of seeing her cry out. She clenched her teeth, glaring up at her tormentor with all the defiance she could muster.

Amarantha pulled the knife out and wiped the blood on Y/N’s tattered clothes. "Guard!" she called, her voice echoing through the chamber. "Fetch Eris to clean up this mess."

As the guard hurried to obey, Amarantha leaned in close, her breath hot against Y/N’s ear. "You’ve been a fun distraction, but I’m done with you now," she whispered. "Enjoy your last moments."

With that, she turned and left the room, her laughter lingering in the air like a dark shadow. Y/N’s strength waned, her body trembling as the poison began to spread. She could feel her life slipping away, but she held on, clinging to the hope that somehow, she would survive this.

Eris’s heart raced as he followed the guard through the winding, dark corridors of the mountain. The dread that had been gnawing at him for days now threatened to consume him entirely. Y/N’s presence through their bond had been faint, almost non-existent, and he feared the worst.

Lucien caught up to him, his expression a mirror of Eris’s own anxiety. "What happened? Where is she?" he demanded, his voice taut with urgency.

The guard said nothing, leading them deeper into the dungeons. When they finally reached the cell, the sight that met Eris’s eyes made his blood run cold. Y/N lay crumpled on the floor, her body bloodied and broken. Amarantha’s cruel laughter still seemed to echo in the chamber, a haunting reminder of the torture Y/N had endured.

"Y/N!" Eris cried out, rushing to her side. He fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he cradled her face. "Stay with me. Please, stay with me."

Lucien stood just behind him, his face pale with shock and sorrow. "Eris..." he began, but Eris ignored him, focused entirely on Y/N.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze locking onto Eris’s. "It’s too late," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I’m so sorry."

"No," Eris choked out, his grip tightening on her hand. "You can��t leave me. You can’t. Not you."

A weak, pained smile touched Y/N’s lips. "The Autumn Court is safe," she murmured, her eyes glazing over. "I made sure..."

Eris’s breath caught in his throat. He understood now. Amarantha had caught her trying to gather information to protect his court. Her death was a direct result of her bravery, her sacrifice.

"Don’t speak," Eris begged, tears streaming down his face. "We’ll get you help. We’ll fix this."

Y/N’s hand reached up to touch his face, her fingers cold and trembling. "I love you," she said, her voice fading with each word. "Always remember that."

And with that, her hand fell limp, her eyes closing for the final time. The life drained from her body, leaving Eris clutching her lifeless form, a guttural cry of anguish tearing from his throat.

Lucien knelt beside him, his own eyes wet with tears. "Eris, we need to go. We can’t stay here."

But Eris couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. The bond that had connected him to Y/N was shattered, leaving a hollow, aching void in its place. He had lost her, and the pain of it was unbearable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Eris allowed Lucien to help him to his feet. He gathered Y/N’s body in his arms, holding her close as they made their way out of the chamber. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he would make Amarantha pay for what she had done. For Y/N, for the love they had shared, and for the sacrifice she had made to protect his court.

A/n: Not me crying my heart out rn.....One more chapt- Or.........

Chapter 8 soon

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria

@crossfandomslut

@pit-and-the-pen

@inky-sun

@the-sweet-psycho

@why4anne

@bunnyredgirl

@rcarbo1

@pandabiiissh

@adalia-jaycee

[verdantcreek]

thinking about the reboot mw games collectively and it’s so sadly unfortunate because like. when put up against the other two, mwiii fails so visibly.

first of all you’ve got their thesis/emotional core, right. for mw19, it’s all about the personal motivation of being a solider, the cost of war on an individual. what it means to fight and discovering the importance of what you’re fighting for. for mwii, it’s about trust. the importance of knowing that your team has each others backs, the weight that it has between individuals. what happens when that trust is broken and how it’s found again through vulnerability, because that’s how you truly know you’re there for each other.

and then there’s mwiii..? you should let your sergeant kill a prisoner illegally so said prisoner, when he breaks out of maximum security prison, doesn’t kill your sergeant 4 years later? you should illegally kill people who piss you off (shepherd)? sure there’s the whole “never bury your enemies alive”, but where does that come in to play outside of the soap/makarov interaction? it’s definitely not a valid reason for price to kill an american general in his own office. they could’ve used it for graves if they wanted to take it a step further, but no— graves doesn’t betray the team again, for whatever reason. we’re expected to consider him just a much a member of the team as anyone else, and the narrative treats him as such outside of a few bristly reactions to his involvement.

secondly i take a huge issue with how characters were handled in mwiii. literally everyone is here, and there is no reason for several of them to be. alex felt like a cameo— you see him actually on screen for maybe 30 seconds. farah’s missions feel forced for the sake of her involvement. not that farah shouldn’t be in this game, but makarov’s flimsy reasoning for targeting the ulf is so clearly an excuse to involve her. it feels very random and transparent as a decision to reuse her character because she’s familiar. again with graves— why is he here? i still genuinely do not understand why they decided to retcon his death. it was a perfect arc for mwii to kill him, and him being alive adds absolutely nothing to the story. he has nothing to do in mwiii and there is zero reason for his involvement other than “people liked him in mwii and he has a cool accent.”

within the 141, it’s mostly rehashing of the growth/personality that each of them showed in previous games. none of them have an arc, except maybe price if you’re willing to call the *post credit scene* where he commits cold blooded murder a completion of an arc. gaz, soap, and ghost are static versions of themselves that simply are just … there for most of the plot. they’re not out of character or ruined, but none of them individually have anything going on that can’t be tied back to price.

i think a lot of it comes down to the way they tried to shoehorn mwiii into the original trilogy’s storyline. people loved those games, and nostalgia sells. i don’t think it’s a coincidence that makarov was a big marketing factor for this game— and that’s not to say that mw19 or mwii didn’t abuse that either, but in execution you can feel the difference. price, gaz, soap and ghost are all their own characters miles away from their original trilogy counterparts. makarov… isn’t. he’s a poorly written villain riding on the success of the original trilogy— he’s scary because he’s *makarov*, not because he’s a real threat. it’s cheap. the knockoff “no russian” mission felt insulting. it’s a callback with no real impact in the story, just simply “look! remember when we did this in 2009 and everyone loved it?”

and all of it culminates into a shit ending with shock factor that it tries to make you feel emotional. i’m not sad over this character death. i’m mad, because it’s unearned and lazy. i realize it’s a lot to ask a multi-billion dollar corporation to actually put effort into their stories, but… it’s such a let down when the previous games actually had at least an ounce of passion. i’m just still so disappointed with this game ruining what could’ve been a really interesting and unique story.

[mintedwitcher]

So I was going to reblog further on that "Scott believed Theo over Stiles" post from yesterday, only by the time I'd finished writing my addition I realised 2 things:

I was writing from a reactive standpoint. I felt a negative way about the previous reply and I let it impact how I responded, and

I ended up talking myself out of the stance that I'd started with.

So in that vein, I'm going to rewrite it here as it's own post, with the encouragement from @prettyshon10 (the OP of the previous post).

Sorry for the long intro but I wanted to be transparent about where I'm coming from here. I'll put the rest under a cut because this is going to be long.

(Edit: it got Very Long, sorry.)

The key thing to note first of all is that I wasn't giving Stiles a "free pass". I acknowledge and agree that both he and Scott mishandled the situation. However, because of the power imbalance inherent in their dynamic, with Scott being an alpha werewolf and Stiles being his Second, I do believe that there is more weight on Scott's shoulders here than on Stiles's.

The timing of the discussion alone is a misstep on Scott's part. He initiated the conversation in the rain, while they were already short on time, trying to save a girl who was dying. Stopping to have any kind of heavy conversation at that point in time wasn't going to end well, because there are simply too many details that have to be hammered out. There is too much to say, and not nearly enough time to say it all. Especially with the emotional weight of the situation on both parts.

I also say that Scott bears more weight in the moment because he is the leader of their group. Stiles might have plenty of influence with Scott, but Scott is still the leader, and so it falls to him more than anyone else to sort out conflicts within the group. That's not to say that Stiles shouldn't have come forward about it - in fact I think that Stiles should've gone to Scott first about it - but that Scott has a responsibility to their entire pack to make sure that everyone is as comfortable as possible. That is the role he's taken on among them, and in confronting Stiles the way he did, he failed in that role. (Stiles' failing is not trusting Scott to have his back if he'd told him the truth, and I desperately wish that the canon had gone deeper into the reasons why he didn't trust Scott with this. I've seen fanon interpretations that the trauma from the nogitsune could be influencing Stiles' distance, but again, that's never really discussed in canon so... it's an interesting theory, but it's another place where the show's writing fell short.)

In my initial response, I said that Scott has a "killing = bad" mentality, and I do stand by that, because from canon observation, his morality is fickle at best. He allows - and even encourages - murder when it suits him (killing Peter to "cure" himself, killing Gerard to be with Allison, killing Jennifer to save his mother) but condemns it when it doesn't (letting Jennifer go after her ritual failed, locking Peter in Eichen after Mexico, letting Deucalion and Gerard live). There are even points where his fluctuating morality doesn't make sense, such as when he refused to kill assassins who were actively targeting people he knew and loved. He persists that killing is wrong, and that murdering a Bad Guy makes you Just Like Them. But he overlooks it entirely when it suits him, when it can be justified as something that the Good Guys did. (Most notably here can be the way he overlooks Allison hunting and nearly killing Erica, Boyd and Isaac; not because their deaths would benefit him but because going against Allison would damage his relationship with her.)

It's actually a very interesting contradiction, and if Scott was an adult in the series it would be on a whole different level, but unfortunately, he's a child. Which means that his contradictions aren't exactly novel and groundbreaking, they're just... teenage conflicts. He's doing the best he can with the limited information he has, and the limited experience he has as well, and that leads to some very black-and-white thinking.

His worldview is black-and-white not as a character flaw but as a result of his age and the life he's led so far. He's still a child for the majority of the show, and so his worldview is limited by what he knows. He knows that murder is illegal and that killing people is not a good solution all the time, and that people who kill anyway are bad, ergo, killing = bad. Until he needs someone dead for whatever reason, which he can then justify to himself as "But I'm a Good Guy, and this person is a Bad Guy, and I'm going to save a lot of people from them if I kill the Bad Guy, so my actions aren't Bad because I have Good Intentions." Which is a very black-and-white thing to do. (I'm not saying this is a fault or a failing of his character, it's just an observation. This mentality also isn't specific to murder but also to many other 'immoral' actions.)

Stiles, similarly, has a black-and-white worldview for the same reasons; age and life experience. Where the two differ, however, is that Stiles has experienced more trauma than Scott has at this point of his life. So his priorities are skewed in a different lens than Scott's are. Scott is very much "Save Everyone, no matter what," whereas Stiles is more "Some people can't be saved, protect your own." Which are both very fair views to have.

Stiles watched his mother mentally decline for months(?) before she died. He was in the room with her when she died. And if the very vague timelines can be believed, he would've been around 6-8 years old at the time. There was nothing that he could do to save his mother, and there was nothing he could do to save his father from his grief after her death. I do really wish we had more lore about the Stilinski family during that grieving period, because that would likely inform the way that Stiles behaves now, too.

But what we do see from Stiles is that he is suspicious. He has one friend and he likes it that way. He distrusts anyone who gets a little Too close, especially too close to Scott. (This to me reads like a protective behaviour rather than the fanon-preferred possessive; Scott grew up with severe asthma, and Stiles likely would've been the one helping Scott deal with that throughout their childhoods.) But he's not suspicious to the point of paranoia. His suspicion is always firmly rooted in reality. He notices Matt's weird behaviour in season 2, in fact he's the only one to see Matt as a potential threat. He notices - though doesn't actually put the pieces together right away - that the kanima was familiar to him the first time he saw it. He's the one who goes through the process of actually investigating and documenting the weird shit that keeps happening to them. His pattern recognition skills are unmatched, though severely underutilised in canon.

What I'm trying to get at is that Stiles is the realist in the Scott+Stiles dynamic duo. Scott is the Optimist. Scott is the one who always wants to find the peaceful solution, who wants everyone to walk away happy and satisfied - or at the very least, alive - at the end of the day. Stiles is the one who recognises that sometimes that's just not an option. Sometimes there are going to be people you can't talk down, threats you can't just peacefully walk away from.

Their dynamic should - and normally does - function perfectly. But there are times that it doesn't, because Scott has a bad habit of ignoring or dismissing Stiles' concerns.

Which brings us (at last) back to the actual point.

Stiles had said from day one that he doesn't trust Theo. That there's something off about him. That he's not the kid they knew growing up. Scott humours it at first, but ultimately decides to make his own judgements about Theo (which is a fair choice). This, however, plants the seeds for the discord that Theo is about to sow within the pack.

(There are other instances of Scott dismissing Stiles' theories but if I get into that I'll be here for hours.)

Theo has spent all this time trying to ingratiate himself into the pack, to get into Scott's good books, and at every turn, he's met with Stiles barricading him. He's got Stiles' alarms ringing, and Stiles isn't going to drop it. So what does he do? First, he shows empathy to Stiles, by saying that he knows about Donovan - and dropping that in the middle of an already emotionally heightened moment so to deliberately keep Stiles off-balance - and then using that to plead Stiles's silence about Josh. Stiles, in response, backs off of Theo. Not entirely, but he keeps his distance, because now Theo has incriminating information about him and Stiles doesn't want Scott to know about it. Once Theo has some breathing room, he escalates. It's now not just about getting in with Scott, it's about getting rid of his overprotective packmates. So he tells Scott an edited version of the story. He lies through his teeth and Scott, the bleeding-heart that he is, laps it up. He's horrified by Stiles' involvement of course but he feels for Theo. Which is exactly what Theo wants, and exactly what Stiles wanted to avoid.

The crux of it all is the confrontation. Scott and Stiles are having two completely different conversations, and due to the timing of the moment, they can't go into further detail to untangle the miscommunication between them. So it keeps getting worse.

From Scott's point of view, he's trying to understand what would make his best friend snap so violently. He's trying to understand, to be there for his friend. He wants to help. Why can't Stiles see that he's only trying to help?

From Stiles' point of view, he's being punished. He's being pushed out and away, he's being lectured at for trying to defend himself, why won't Scott just see that he was only defending himself?

Neither of them know what the other is really saying. They both Think that the version of events in their head matches the reality, and they both walk away from that moment feeling like they've failed.

The problem - and where my own stance on the discourse is really rooted - is that the way the scene is presented, makes it look like Scott is choosing Theo over Stiles. It looks like Scott is turning his back on his lifelong friend. I'll have to rewatch the actual episode to get a better analysis of the specific placement of that scene, but that was the impression that I walked away with the first (and almost every) time I watched that episode.

To sum up: I don't think that Scott "believed" Theo over Stiles, but to the characters, it would feel that way. The problem is that fandom tends to project themselves onto the character they like more. I've seen people insisting that Scott underreacted to the situation in equal measure to the people insisting that Scott overreacted.

I think it's kind of fascinating how our personal preferences interfere with the way we interpret media.

[novankenn]

What If...

Pyrrha was also under the sway of Salem Cinder and Pyrrha love each other (Pompeii)

Scene : Forests Outside of Mistral

==> @watcher-servantsev Is it wrong that I'm imagining an almost Zaraki amount of fear. As in if they sense his aura they just imagine getting stabbed through by his blade. What's makes it even colder is that when he appears he isn't raging...his expression stoic, his stance relaxed and ready, and the cherry on top his eyes glowing in the darkness...like the deep sea

==> @cheeseeater2 I feel like Neo would work together with this Jaune. As Jaune wouldn't let her kill Ruby but he would give her hope on killing Cinder.

Pyrrha and Cinder were running blindly, hand in hand, through the dark forests of Mistral. Everything was going to plan at Haven. They were close to the second relic and Pyrrha was poised to steal the Spring Maiden's powers. Her former peers where no match for her team, and they would have soon eliminated their meddling if not for... him and her.

She could still see his eyes, shining like moonlight off the ocean. The door had been smashed inward and everything stopped when he appeared. It was apparent that her former peers had not seen Jaune in some time, as they were just as shocked as they were.

"Found you." was all he said as he drew his sword.

Even the memory of those words sent a shiver down her spine.

Then she also appeared. The sound of shattering glass, from the top of the stairs announcing her arrival. The only other figure besides Jaune, that Cinder and Pyrrha dreaded seeing. Neo was on the move a second later, snarling her teeth bared as she went straight for Cinder. Jaune made his own charge a fraction of a second later.

Mercury and Emerald instantly moved to counter the attacks. It was a mistake. Neo and Jaune were not Ruby and the others. They weren't out to defeat Pyrrha, Cinder and their allies. They were out for blood. Blood that translated to death.

Cinder!" Pyrrha screamed at her lover, as two very one sided battles, began and ended just as quickly. Mercury tried to be cocky, making a show of throwing a deadly kick. Jaune didn't even flinch as he drove his shoulder into the grey haired young man. Mercury gasped as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and grunted as he impacted the floor back first.

Jaune didn't hesitate, and drove his sword downward with a two handed thrust, impaling the would-be assassin through the chest. The blow punched straight through his aura, as easily as it did his flesh and bone. Pyrrha grabbed Cinder about the wrist and pulled her backwards away from the monster she had created.

Without pause, or a second thought, Jaune twisted his blade and ripped it free of the soon to be corpse. A pool of dark crimson spreading rapidly from underneath him. Emerald had not faired any better though her demise could be considered more humane. With her hands pressed to her throat, she took a stumbling step towards Cinder and Pyrrha, before collapsing face first to the blood slick floor beneath her.

Her former friends stood in shocked silence as Jaune and Neo closed. It was only do to Hazel's interference that saved the pair. Giving them a chance to flee. Pyrrha knew Cinder was also holding out hope that Hazel would overcome the murderous pair, but the longer and further they fled without word from him, the less and less they believed those feelings.

"Stop." Cinder gasped out. "Stop."

"We can't'" Pyrrha countered. "We need to get away. I need you safe!"

"You are safe." came a voice they thought they would never hear again. "At least for now."

"Hazel!" Pyrrha called out. Yet, when the mountain of a man stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight it was clear he had paid a high price for their freedom. "Is?"

"No. They both still live." Hazel answered as he took a few stumbling steps towards them. If it was not for his semblance he have succumbed long ago. HIs left arm was gone. Sheared off just above the elbow. His right eye was gone. a ragged vicious gash from his forehead to his chin, bisecting it completely. "Watts will be here soon to return us to our Queen."

Pyrrha nodded, and with Cinder's help they assisted Hazel deeper into the forest. To the location of their rendezvous with Arthur Watts.

It was during that flight through the night skies, with Cinder asleep, her head in Pyrrha's lap, that regret truly took hold of the former champion's heart. She had seen Jaune's strength, even through his lack of training. His strength of resolve, prior to the final fall of Beacon. His unadulterated will that allowed him to always move forward.

"Now that is all turned upon me..." she whispered to no one but herself. "I created a monster..."

[stacytea]

Maedhros during the War of Wrath

I've been thinking a lot about it lately. Here comes a big hc drop: For starters let me say, I imagine the War of Wrath as maybe not a really long conflict, at least not very long for elvish standards, but a very devastating one. Beleriand was hardly liveable at this point, so I imagine that most of the supplies they had was what the host of Aman had brought with them. Considering that, they probably started running out of things after the first couple of years of war effort. Yes, the Balar island was still functioning at this point, but I don't think they had strong enough economy to do much more than sustain themselves and I think maybe there were some rare deliveries from Valinor from time to time, but I have this idea that it wasn't nearly enough. The war was consuming way more resources than could've been provided and as the time was going on it was getting gradually worse. Like I think that at the most critical point there were deficiencies of literally everything, from food & medical supplies to clothes & weapons. They stopped sending archers to fight, because there was no material to make arrows anymore, thousands of soldiers were dying from curable injuries, because the healers (there was a very strong shortcoming of them as well) didn't even have things as basic as bandages & maintaining hygiene was nearly impossible ( don't get me started on how it impacted Elrond who I headcanon to be one of the healers there and only something like 18 in human years and had to witness something like 5 out of 6 of his patients die and there was no time to even sleep, not to mention rest, because every wasted second is a lost life and there was just an overwhelming amount of death and despair all around him, and he wasn't able to do anything about it, wasn't able to really help) So let's imagine these thousands of exhausted, underfed, miserable, war-worn, I would even dare to say - halfway dead people, who just want this horror to end.... and then there's Maedhros. Maedhros, who had survived horrors far worse back when he had been a prisoner in angband, had survived hunger that could never be compared by any means to these little food deficiencies he had to deal with now, yeah, he didn't get to eat anything in three days, so what? This guy had watched his own downfall from the front row, had slayed civilians in Doriath and Sirion instead of fighting Morgoth... And now he was back where he belonged. On the frontlines. Leading armies against the enemy. Once again doing what he knew he should've been doing all that time. I believe during the War of Wrath Maedhros was more alive than he ever had been since his husband's Fingon's death. He was literally radiating energy and charisma, his mental state was very much improved. Once again he was Maedhros the tall, the Lord of Himring a Noldorin Warlord, not some heinous murderer, not a monster. For the first time in many years he was doing something that actually felt right.

[physalian]

On Fight Scenes (Or, getting creative with your magic system)

This is coming from a reader’s perspective, not a writer’s, in what I like to see and what my thought process was when writing my fight scenes—I hate these things and can’t call myself any authority on the matter. They’re tedious and translating what’s in my head onto page is always frustrating.

This is also for fantasy and sci-fi: Fight scenes that have some magical or technological element to them, not a straight-up action story with two dudes punching each other. This includes anything from fights in Harry Potter to battling a Xenomorph to bending in ATLA to a throwdown between superheroes.

Side note: I really, truly hate “two dudes punching each other”.

—

I have a friend who loves comics, specifically DC Comics, and watches all the DCAU films. When we lived together, I often watched a lot with them. My favorite remains Constantine: City of Demons because unlike literally every other DCAU movie, it doesn’t drop the ball in the third act and devolve into a stakes-less fistfight. This dude faces *consequences*.

I’m not a comics (like actual, paper comic books) fan, but without fail, every time the setup is good, the characters are good, the first 2/3s are good with pacing and usually a mystery and passable character development like Batman: Under the Red Hood…. The last 15 minutes or so always abandon what had been a good plot for just superheroes punching each other and I get so bored. I’m invested and then they rarely deliver any payoff.

But I do like Constantine. Dude needs a nap.

Point is: On top of those fight scenes not really mattering, by the nature of what comic books are in that they can never stray too far from the status quo, or if they do, it doesn’t stay that way for long, the people who made these characters don’t get all that creative with their powers.

I think, actually, I liked Constantine so much because his stuff is rated R and it doesn’t shy away from the more realistic effects of living in a superhero society… without being gratuitous like The Boys.

I just get bored. The fight stops when the plot says so. Knockouts are arbitrary, power scaling is arbitrary. Someone can get thrown through a wall and walk it off but the villain or their buddy can come up behind them and hit them really hard on the head and that’s enough.

Anime is its own thing and would take far too much time to address here but I do want to talk about My Hero Academia real quick, following up on a previous post about tournament arcs.

Season 2 of the show has three main arcs: The tournament in the first half, and the Stain fight/final exams in the second.

For a while, the show actually seemed to take injuries rather seriously (for shonen, at least), and got insanely creative with characters’ very niche powers. In season 1, their teacher, Aizawa, gets pretty brutally beaten by a horde of villains and his powers are permanently impacted by his recovery—he can’t use them for as long as he used to, and he has a new scar.

Midoriya, too, whose powers break his bones on the regular, has consequences for overusing them, like his hands and forearms not healing properly despite superpowered medical intervention.

Power scaling, too, was fantastic…. Until the Stain fight.

I will never understand the thought process behind this logic:

“Hey let’s show how powerful Todoroki is by having him manifest an entire glacier in about 3 seconds!” *9 episodes later* “Hey let’s make this fight with a dude who only has various blades to work with super tense by making Todoroki completely nerfed in a legit life or death situation!”

Buddy couldn’t take two seconds to yell at his friends to get the fuck out of the way? Was he worried about damage to the buildings? I feel like nepotism could have spared him from some consequences if breaking a few windows meant him not getting murdered. It wasn’t like he had daddy issues over his ice powers.

The rest of the show (until I DNFed) had similar issues. Powers were as competent as the plot allowed at any given moment, which I guess is the nature of shonen, but if you’re going to go out of your way to establish realistic rules and consequences really early on, breaking them willy-nilly because it looks cool later is annoying.

Which is applicable across all fantasy sub-genres: Consistency.

I might not be the best at writing the step-by-step choreography, but damn it if I don’t know how to make sure I’m not opening up plot holes in how much damage my characters take and dish out.

—

So. How I approach fight scenes as told by Eternal Night and my sci-fi WIP.

Before anything else, establish a reason that this has to be a fight, that it has to happen now, and what’s happening beneath the combat to keep the story progressing. The plot will not stop just for fisticuffs.

A magic system is only as cool as what its characters cannot do with it, and breaking those limits ruins the magic system.

Make sure this is a fight that can only happen in this story, taking full advantage of the various powers/abilities/magic system rules, if this is meant to be flashy and grand.

Eternal Night is about vampires, thus my vampires, being immortal, can take a lot of hits and not suffer long-term consequences compared to a mortal. I adhere to a lot of classic vampire lore while also making up my own rules. They don’t have super speed, super strength, or compulsion, they just have a lot of experience and know how to use their weapons well, and can essentially go at 100% without mortal limitations of fatigue.

Basically: My vampires are only as strong as a mortal in absolute life-or-death situations, but that’s also dependent on how strong they were in life. Somebody who was a couch potato isn’t going to be as strong as a bodybuilder, and that carries over. I don’t have “younger/older vampires are supernaturally stronger” rules.

They have the same immortality risks as most versions: Stakes, beheadings, sunlight. Anything else is survivable.

Simple magic systems tend to be the most robust because there’s less rules available to risk breaking or forgetting (why ATLA's bending feels so real).

So when I was writing ENNS’s big fight, on top of making sure they weren’t all gods with their weapons—they missed shots, got tired, made bad calls—priority one was making sure I kept killing blows consistent, and when they’re temporarily “dead,” that the timing of when they revive isn’t determined by the plot.

Meaning: If I have a vampire who, idk, gets stabbed by a regular sword and it “kills” them, they have to stay “dead” for whatever amount of time I’d previously established and not wake them up early to participate in the plot again. Those are my rules and I have to work with them.

And in that way, yes the choreography is frustrating, but even if it’s an average description of a fight, I will appreciate that the writer respects their own rules and still be entertained.

With that, in the sci-fi WIP I had incredibly complex and diverse magic systems, 3 complete and unique practices split between two characters. One of which was incredibly OP.

This was a very reluctant OP character who wouldn’t use the full extent of his powers even to save his own life, often to the ire of his team who suffers the consequences of unnecessarily complicated battles when he could one-shot the enemy but chooses not to.

Internal limits tend to be stronger than external ones if you have an OP character, because they’re more believably toggled on and off without breaking the lore.

Even with OP character stubbornly making life harder for himself, he was still OP. He had two different magic systems at his disposal, and beyond his internal limits, they had two very easily exploitable external limits.

Magic system A was tied to a physical artifact he had on his person. If he got separated from it, he couldn’t use it. A is also a lot harder to use if B is also busted.

Magic system B was counteracted easily by users of Magic system A, and by the enemy military who’d developed weapons specifically to nullify those powers, and that weapon was everywhere.

Which meant my fights concerning OP character were rarely “why doesn’t he insta-kill them” it was “oh shit, he can’t insta-kill them, now he has to be clever to get out of this alive”.

One of my favorite fights was at the tail end of Book 2 where he was stuck with two of his non-powered teammates, on a ship dead in the water being overrun by the enemy. The ship had no power, the radios were dead, and the engines were fried.

He had already been sick for half the book and physically and mentally exhausted, and when the enemy arrived, they nullified the rest of his powers. All he had was Magic System A, but in his condition, it was like being asked to do long division on paper by hand, because his calculator was broken.

Dude was not having a good time.

Which meant he was basically useless, with two of his basically useless teammates, who all had to work together to get creative and clever with the tools that they had, on a ship they all knew like the backs of their hands.

So many things they would not have had to do in any other situation, with stakes so much higher because OP was powerless. The characters came first, not their powers, which I think is the most crucial ingredient to any fight you want people to keep talking about for years to come.

—

I can’t tell you how to choreograph your scenes, but I do think that why they’re fighting matters far more than what they’re fighting about, and especially in fantasy: What’s the point of writing magic if you don’t take full advantage of your magical characters?

[rekino2114]

Arei's s/o during the second trial

A/n:on this final installment of drdt daturday we have......angst well it's not as angsty and heartbreaking as the last episode I NEED TO GIVE TERUKO A HUG RIGHT NOW....don't worry I already have some ideas for some comfort fics for her

[Spoilers for all of drdt chapter 2 obviously]

It was hard to explain the emotions you were feeling in that elevator. You stood in the back with your head down and your arms crossed, you hadn't talked to anyone during the investigation, you didn't want to, the image of your girlfriend's body hanging from that swing was still fresh in your mind and the idea that you could even accidentally talk to the person who killed her made you want to vomit.

"Y-y/n are you OK?"

"......no"

"O-oh"

"Sorry eden, it's just.....she's gone"

"Don't worry, I understand. Her death hit me pretty hard so I can't even imagine what it's like for you"

".....thank you for checking on me"

"It's nothing. I promise we'll find her killer"

"......I don't know if that's gonna make me feel better"

"......."

Your conversation was interrupted by the door opening and everyone walking out. You went to your podium, and the trial started.

You stayed mostly silent during the first part of the trial only telling the secret you received and occasionally interjecting.....until David said this

"Ahahaha!!! Oh fucking fine.....i.....I killed arei, does hearing that make you happy?"

"!"

"You piece of shit, you really admitted to it"

"You.....how could you do that! You're horrible!"

"What a mess"

"How exciting~"

teruko convinced David to explain himself, and you were still shocked to hear what he had to say....but for a very different reason

"I suppose you could call me arei's murderer but it's more like I talked her into killing herself"

........what?

"You........what?"

"She already had a pretty low opinion of herself, and she was looking for validation from me. It was pretty easy to convince her she should die"

"That's.....that's-"

"Terrible! how could you possibly do that! Arei wanted to change! and you talked her into believing she couldn't!"

"And why should I care? Actually, to that matter, why should you care? Arei contributed nothing of significant value to my life or to yours. She existed as a background character for a few short days, to occasionally interject brief interruptions of bitching and now she's gone. Arei had about as much impact as a temporary weather spell, but no one cries when the sun comes out again"

You couldn't take it anymore. That bastard needed to shut up

".....I see so that's how it is.......how dare you"

"Oh, what are you mad that i-"

"How dare you lie to our faces like that!"

"........."

"Ahahaha and to think I believed you for a second, arei killed herself? Sure whatever you say!"

"Y-y/n?, what's wrong?"

"Listen to me, arei would never kill herself, do you know how many death treaths she received? Do you know how many times her sisters told her to do just that? And you think she'd do that because of you? Fuck off"

"I agree with y/n, arei wasn't the type to commit suicide plus there's too much stuff that David can't explain about the crime"

"Oh, you don't believe me? how cruel! I wanted to make this trial easier for you, you know?"

"Shut up! I'm sure teruko will find some concrete evidence to expose your lie but just know I'm not voting until this blue haired bitch tells the truth"

"Blue haired bitch? Awwww are you seeing arei's ghost? Maybe she wants you to join her"

"I was talking about you shithead, now stop lying"

"..........you want the truth uh?.......fine then I guess I'll tell you, y/n is right, I didn't kill arei, I didn't talk her into suicide, our conversation had nothing to do with her death"

"W-what?"

"Took you long enough"

"Why the hell did you lie then? Don't you know that if we vote wrong all of us will die, you too shitface"

".....I don't know if that will answer your question but if anyone was wondering............I know who the real killer is"

"E-eh?"

"What the fuck?"

"What are you on about now?"

"It's true, I was near the crime scene around the time of the murder, did you forget that? And I saw the murder being committed"

"He's probably lying again.....right?"

"But why would he?"

"W-who is it? Who killed arei?"

"Alright then, listen closely cause I'll say it one time only......the cold-blooded killer who ruthlessly took arei nageishi's life is.............. Y/N L/N!"

W-what did he just say?

"W-whaaaaaaaaaat?"

"No way!"

"Y-you bastard"

"Explain yourself"

"Very well, since teruko asked me so nicely, I'll do it. So, as you know and as ace can confirm, arei and i had a conversation in the relaxation room, after she left I stayed there for a while thinking about our discussion and when I left I passed by the playground, the rooms are right in front of each other if you remember, and there I saw....y/n right in the middle of strangling arei, of course I left immediately to not become the next portrait around here"

"....there's no way, you're lying, y/n would never, they loved arei"

"If you knew they were the killer, then why did you claim to have killed her earlier?"

"Because I was soooo distraught by the scene of y/n killing the person they claimed to love that I just felt the need to cover for them"

"R-really?"

"Nope I just wanted you all to vote wrong"

"Fuck you"

"We almost died because of your lie"

"Like I care, so what do you have to say.... you murderer?"

David looked straight at you, and you snapped, not only did this piece of shit lie to arei to gain her trust, not only did he try to get everyone killed but now he was lying again and claiming that you were the killer?

"......so that's how you want to play.... alright then, I'll play by your rules"

"How fun~"

"First of all why the heck would I kill arei? She was my girlfriend for fuck's sake"

"I dunno maybe you had an argument that escalated"

"As if I'd kill her for something like that"

"Then maybe she started attacking you first. She was pretty aggressive after all. Maybe this was all just self-defense"

"Oh, so you think I just carry around rope with me everywhere I go? She was hanged, remember?"

"Well I saw you choking her so maybe you put too much force and accidentally killed her, then when you realized what you had done, you decided to grab the rope and make it look like a suicide"

"Then why the fuck would I object when you yourself told everyone you talked arei into suicide? everyone was about to vote for you, if I stayed silent I would have won the trial"

"You said it yourself. You knew teruko was going to disprove me sooner or later, so you thought that by doing that whole scene, you would look innocent and play the part of the heartbroken partner who just lost their girlfriend. 10/10 performance, by the way, you could have given me a run for my money"

"Y-you........t-then why would I feel the need to fake the letter in eden's name, I could have used mine, and it would have probably worked better"

"Ah! You're so desperate. You're asking me these obvious questions? Anyone with a brain knows that if their name was found on the letter, it would have implicated them. Luckily for you, there was just one other person who arei trusted enough to meet with alone"

"..........son of a-"

"That's enough y/n, I have some questions too. What's the deal with the fishes at the crime scene?"

"How am I supposed to know, I'm not the killer. Ask them!"

"Y/n?"

"I. Don't. Know. I am not the fucking culprit"

"*sighs* you're both being so unhelpful"

"You want me to be helpful? Fine then. Why the hell are we trusting the testimony of the guy who NOT EVEN 5 MINUTES AGO admitted to lying to get us all killed, and might I remind you, who's secret is that he exists to manipulate everyone. We might as well trust a pathological liar at this point"

"Y/n's right, David's definitely lying again"

"Y-yeah, there's no way they'd kill arei"

"I agree with eden, y/n and arei really loved each other, I-I don't think they'd ever hurt each other in any way"

"I mean, people kill their lovers for stupid reasons all the time. If you add the killing game and arei's personality into the mix, I could easily see y/n killing her"

"......*sighs* I base my suspicions on evidence alone, not sentimentality, and right now, the only evidence we have is David's testimony. I would do the same if any of you accused him"

"T-teruko, you believe him? You really think y/n killed arei?"

".....it's definitely a possibility, one that I need to investigate"

"Are you even listening to me?!"

"I. Didn't. Kill. Arei. How many times do I have to say that before it gets through your thick skull? And I thought you were the smart one teruko"

"I didn't even say it was for sure. You have to admit it's a possibility, plus with how defensive you're getting"

"DEFENSIVE? do you know what it's like being accused of killing the person you loved. Actually you should know that feeling all too well after what happened with Xander"

"S-shut up"

"No, wait, now I understand. You're being like this because you think I'm like Xander, you think I pretended to love arei just to betray her in the end, you're projecting you own trust issues onto me aren't you?"

"........."

[Rebuttal showdown]

"I'm not arei's murderer!"

"What motive would I even have?"

"We already knew each other secret's even before this killing game"

"I have no reason to kill her!"

[Advance]

"As much as agreeing with David gives me physical pain. Like he said, the reason for arei's murder could have nothing to do with the secrets"

"Then what about the opportunity"

"The murder took place at 7:30 p.m right?"

"You're out of your element"

[Break]

"Huh? Charles? What is it?"

"I think David is lying, but when I was trying to think of evidence to prove y/n's innocence, I realized something much worse"

"Worse? That's bad!"

"What is it now-"

"Everyone Shut up! I need to think...........damn it. Teruko, we really fucked up"

After Charles explained that the murder could have happened at 7:30 am and teruko and Arturo admitted their mistakes (one way more calmly than the other) you started talking about your alibis at that time

"Most of us wake up at 8:00 am as early as 7:30 we would all still be asleep"

"Yeah. I was definitely asleep at that time"

"I don't have an alibi in the morning, neither does Charles"

"Do none of us have alibis during the time of the murder?"

"No I do"

"Hm? Y/n?"

"I woke up early to have breakfast, At around 7:30, David and Veronika were also there, and j came in a bit later, so they're all clear and should be able to confirm what I said"

"Yeah it's true I woke up early too to shake off arturo"

"Yep,yep, we were all having breakfast together. None of us could possibly be the murderer"

"And to think I was happily eating while arei was being murdered in the other room......it's so-"

"Exciting~"

".........."

".........shit"

"If y/n has a alibi, then they're not the killer"

"Not only that, but David was there too, so he can't have killed arei either, even if he already admitted to lying about that"

"S-so David lied....twice?"

"He really did try to get us all killed....what an asshole"

"So y/n's not the culprit after all"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past 30 minutes......anyway, what do you have to say you lying piece of shit?"

"Whoops! You really should have skipped breakfast that day you know y/n? Waking up early isn't even that fun"

"Shut up!"

"David, without a doubt you lied about both you and y/n being arei's murderer especially now that we know that both of you are two of the few people who couldn't have murdered her"

"Well when you put it that way, I suppoooose its in the realm if possibility that I've been lying about everything for the past 2 hours"

"Dude, what the fuck? You do know that an incorrect vote will get everyone killed right?"

"David, why?"

"If I tried to explain why, would you even believe me? After all, everyone thinks I'm some sort of compulsive liar now,like y/n said"

"Don't give me that crap, teruko has already apologized for misleading the trial by accident. And she's teruko of all people"

"I'm "teruko of all people?" harsh"

"So don't think you can weasel out of an explanation for misleading the trial on purpose....twice"

"Besides,to try and get everyone killed, yourself included....I'm sure you must have a remarkably interesting motivation. So please, do tell me. Oh, and don't say something as boring as "I want to kill myself." I have no interest in such mundane reasons"

"Please, I'm an incredibly interesting person full on joyous zest for life......the truth is......... I killed arei"

That stupid repetition made you yell at him again

"SHUT UP, NO SHUT THE ACTUAL FUCK UP. I swear If you lie again I will actually kill you"

"Come on. It was just a little joke~ it's true neither me nor y/n killed arei. I only said whatever was necessary to make you all think I or they did. Hell, I didn't even think to take the blame for her death until halfway through this trial! And I only accused y/n because they wouldn't believe me, and they pissed me off. Also, it would make a good story, don't you think? You know for the TV show"

"So you accused me of murdering arei because you felt like it?"

"Pretty much, it didn't really make a difference to me as long as you believed my lie"

After David did his whole speech about Xander being a good person (which pissed off teruko) and how he wants to end the killing game, you started talking about alibis again and Levi, hu, Veronika and teruko said which secrets were theirs finally revealing them all.

"I've started to detect that this trial is no longer about me, it'd be bestif I kept my mouth shut from now on riiiight?"

"If it's settled then-"

"Wait before he shuts up for good, I need to ask him something"

"Oh what a surprise! I thought you hated me"

"I do, but you're the only one who can give me my answer.....oh, and my previous statement is still valid if you lie I'll kill you"

"Nooooo please, I'm sooooo scared. Don't worry, I'll definitely tell the truth"

"......what were her last words?"

"Hm?"

"You know what I'm talking about. You and arei talked the night before she was killed.....what did you talk about?"

"Didn't ace already tell you? She found out about my secret and confronted me about it."

"I know that. But what happened later?"

"........."

"How did the conversation end? Was she mad? Did she yell at you? What happened exactly?

"........."

"Eden, you want to hear that too right?"

"....Y-yeah exactly"

"Tell us, David. What did she say?"

".........nothing. absolutely nothing. I didn't say anything to her, and she didn't have that much to say to me either. Arei simply got annoyed with me and left without saying anything else"

"....that's a relief-"

"You're lying again"

"Uh? How do you know?"

".......I don't, but it's a bet I'm willing to make. Arei.......she couldn't have simply left. She had to have said something, anything.....let me hear her last words"

"........why do you even care? Those weren't even her last words"

"..........."

"She died the next morning, remember? She probably said something between our conversation and her death. I'd wager her true last words were her cussing out her killer it would be very in character for he-"

"STOP IT"

"Uh?"

"STOP TREATING AREI LIKE THAT"

"........."

"None of you know what she was truly like. You all think she was some irredeemable bitch who got what she deserved. I'm tired of everyone slandering her, hell even before this game, do you know how many "you deserve better" or "i bet she doesn't even love you" I got. Everyone who found out I was dating her looked at me like I was willingly undergoing torture"

".......y-y/n"

"And even now that she's dead, you can't even put an ounce of respect on her name. You're talking about her like she's a mannequin, someone who wasn't here talking to us just a few days ago. And when you occasionally remember that she used to be a living person, you remember her like she was a piece of shit who contributed nothing but being annoying, and I'm tired of it"

"........."

"Do you even remember why she was killed in the first place? Because she trusted eden enough to meet with her, because she wanted to befriend her this bad. Tell me, would a bad person do that? Would a bad person save eden from arturo? Would a bad person die trying to befriend someone?....... Would a bad person love me like she did?"

At that point, you were practically crying, but you didn't care. They needed to know who arei truly was. You couldn't just stand there and let her memory be insulted like that. Especially now that it was the only thing you had left of her

"No matter what anyone says. No matter what she herself says. Arei was the best person I ever met. Because she knew she was a bad person and she tried to change that"

"Well she was doing a pretty shit job at it then-"

"DO YOU THINK I CARE?"

"U-uh?"

"Even if by the end of her life she was only 5% less shitty, hell even if she was exactly the same as she is, I'd still love her and consider her the best person I met. Because none of you know how hard it is to truly change. None of you know the hell she went through daily when she was with her sisters, and despite that, she still tried her best to change. None of you know how fucking admirable that is"

"Please y/n calm-"

"David! Earlier, you said that no one would cry if arei died. Well, I did, I cried. Do you know why I didn't investigate? Because I was locked in my room sobbing because my girlfriend's body was hanging off a fucking swing and everyone else is acting like normal. So I need to know. Tell me. WHAT WERE HER LAST WORDS?"

The trial room fell silent, the only noise that could be heard were the cries and sobs that came from you and eden (who started crying in the middle of your speech).....until David broke the silence

"........she said that good people don't exist"

"U-uh?"

"She said that because even people like me and eden did horrible things, good people don't truly exist, and she didn't have to worry about being one"

"W-what?"

"She said that we could be friends because we're so similar, she said that maybe in the future.......we could be less shitty together"

".....y-you're lying again a-aren't you? Y-you're just playing with my feelings"

"No I'm telling the truth"

His serious tone caught you off guard and you decided to let him finish

"What you said before, about no one truly knowing who arei really was, about everyone disrespecting her after her death and no one believing she was a good person.....that's how I feel about Xander......so I thought you deserved to know"

You stayed silent for a few seconds taking everything in, but then you asked the question you couldn't keep inside anymore

"........d-did she say anything about me?"

"........yes"

[Flashback]

"What about y/n?"

"Uh?"

"You don't think they're a good person?"

"......no..................I think they're the best person I ever met"

"....what?"

"I don't know if they're an objectively good person. Like I said, I don't think those exist, but that doesn't matter to me. In my eyes, they truly are the best person on this planet"

".........."

"Well, I guess they have to be if they can keep up with me. no matter how many times I push them away, no matter how many times I get angry at them or yell, they never left me. They're always there to hug me when I feel down. They saw me at my lowest point in life, and they never said anything negative about me, they saw how shitty I was and never for a moment did they consider leaving me......I don't think I'd be here without them......I love them so much"

[End flashback]

You cried even more, just putting your head down as your tears landed on the podium. She loved you. Her "last words" were that she loved you

"*sobs*....arei......I don't know if you can hear me.....but if you can......please know.....that I love you too.....so so much"

Everyone stayed silent for a few minutes, even eden and hu who wanted to comfort you, they all silently agreed to leave you alone for the rest of the trial as they started talking about the case again, and they did, you couldn't bring yourself to say anything, you still listened but you stayed silent........until teruko narrowed down the suspects to only eden and ace

"......teruko"

"Y-y/n?"

"What is it?"

"Are you 100% sure that only eden or Ace could have committed the murder?"

"Yes, I'm positive. They're the only ones"

"......I see........monotv can I vote?"

"Uh?"

"W-what?"

"Wait a second, you can't be serious. We don't even know who the killer is, and you already want us to vote?"

"No, only I want to vote.....alone...you can vote later"

"What does that even mean? Why?"

"Because......eden can't be the culprit.......that can't be possible"

".......y/n"

"She wanted to be arei's friend, she was just as upset by her death as I was......she didn't kill arei I am 100% sure of that"

"What's your evidence for that?"

"........I have none"

".........what?"

"I trust eden, that's all the evidence I need"

"Your trust is going to get you killed"

"And your lack of it is going to lead to you making more mistakes"

".....!"

"You said it yourself earlier in the trial, right? You want to start to trust people more. Well then, consider this a show of what trust truly is. I'll vote for Ace. "

"W-what the fuck?"

".............why are you doing this?"

"I told you before, I trust eden and.....I know this is what arei would have wanted"

"........."

".......y-y/n thank you.....thank you so much"

"H-hold on is that even allowed. If you're wrong, then aren't we all gonna die?"

"Did you forget how this works? It's a majority vote. Even if I'm wrong, the rest of you can still vote for eden. So will you let me, monotv?"

"Hmmmmm, I mean, I guess there's no rule against a person voting before everyone else. Sure I'll let you it'll be fun here's your monopad"

You did as you said and voted for Ace. Everyone looked at you, surprised that you actually went through with that, except eden, who was very grateful that you trusted her this much.

As it turns out, you were right. Ace was blackened, and he only did it because he was scared of dying.....you didn't know what to think about that so you stayed silent once again in the moments leading up and during the voting.

"Y/n......are you OK?"

".........i....i"

"Of course they aren't. They just found out who killed their girlfriend, I'm sure they must be boiling with rage just waiting to see the brutal way ace dies riiiiiiight~?"

"...........I'm so tired"

"Hm?"

"I just can't do this anymore, yelling at ace isn't going to bring arei back, it's pointless"

"But aren't you angry at him?"

"..............of course I am"

"......."

"Of course I'm angry at him, and of course I want to hate him, I want to yell at him and be happy when he dies, saying that arei is avenged, but I just can't"

"W-why? I'm a piece of shit who killed your girlfriend because I'm a coward. Why can't you hate me?"

"BECAUSE I'M SCARED OF DYING TOO GODDAMMIT!"

"!"

"Everyone in this room is, even the dead, min,Xander,arei they were all scared of dying otherwise this whole killing game wouldn't exist"

"W-what do you mean?"

"Think about it, Ace just said it, he killed arei simply because he didn't want to die, isn't that the same reason Min killed Xander? Because she walked in on him trying to kill teruko and panicked, she was scared that he was going to kill her...and so she acted first"

".........."

"The fact that every single one of us, if pushed to the brink, could murder someone simply because of the fear that that could happen to them........it scares me"

"Y-y/n....."

"That's why even if you killed the person I loved most, even If you are a cowardly piece of shit I just can't hate you because I know that in the right conditions I would have done the exact same thing"

"........i-i"

"Let's just get this over with, I'm.....really tired"

Everything that happened later went by in a flash and it felt like a nightmare, ace punching monotv, Levi saving teruko from her punishment and ace getting executed, you all rushed to the infirmary to treat levi while teruko stayed back in the trial room.

You sighed and went back to your room after everything was dealt with. you plopped down on your bed and.....did nothing, you had already cried enough for the day and there wasn't anything to do, you couldn't even sleep since it was still morning so you started to think

Arei was dead, and there was nothing you could do about it. This killing game was going to continue and you were either going to get killed or give in to your fear of death and kill someone. You felt nothing but pure despair.

"Y/n, they're the best person I ever met, I wouldn't be here without them.....I love them so much"

Arei's last words came back to your mind. She really loved you.........would she want you to give up like this?.....no she wouldn't, she'd probably slap you and call you a coward If she saw you like this.......were you really going to disrespect her like this? Were you going to give up that easily?.....no, you didn't want to...that would just mean insulting her memory. As long as there was the slightest hope that you would get out of here alive, you would follow it.

"When we get back home.....I'll make you a grave in your favorite spot alright?"

You felt the wind hit your cheek like a soft kiss. There was no open window near you or nothing that could make that kind of breeze

".....I'll take that as a yes.....have fun wherever you are and make sure to beat the shit out of ace alright? And say hi to min and xander for me I miss them too"

This time, water hit your cheeks, your own tears that you couldn't hold back anymore even if you were smiling

".........I love you too"

No matter wherever she was, you knew she was somehow watching over you, and you were going to keep living for her....that was a promise that you were going to keep no matter what.

[seleneprince]

(Inspired by @chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter drabble about Bonten and Senju's possible impact in it. Check her blog if you want to see more about the Akashi siblings)

In the Bonten timeline, Senju was shot dead with three bullets, during the Three Deities Fight. In one she was attacked by desesperate Rokuhara members who couldn't handle their defeat, in another the bullets were aimed at Takemichi and so she shielded him with her own body, sacrificing her life.

Either way, the fact remains that, in any universe where Bonten exists, Senju Kawaragi is dead in it.

In the first version, it was her long-lost brother Haruchiyo who rushes to her side as soon as she falls, ignoring the fight and Mikey and everything else around him. He's the one that holds her on her final moments, who cries as she apologies to him and says that she never stopped loving him. He screams, rages, sobs, but he doesn't let go of Senju's body one second. When Takeomi cries in front of him, murmuring how it's his fault and how it should've been him, Haruchiyo feels a murderous rage boil in his heart and replies "You're right".

In the second version, it's Takemichi who holds Senju when she dies. She speaks of the promise she made to protect him and how she fulfilled it to the end. She bleeds out in his arms and Takemichi feels how the world becomes darker after she leaves. She's already dead when Haruchiyo reaches her, shoving the other boy away to hold her. Her skin is growing cold and her eyes are closed and Haruchiyo knows that he's going to be stuck in this moment for the rest of his life. He calls for her, shakes her, desesperately wanting to see some reaction, something that indicates there's still hope. Nothing happens. Everything else happens the same, except now Haruchiyo's eternal resentment its focused on two people and not just one.

South is killed, beaten to death by Mikey, who refuses to look at Senju's body. Haruchiyo hunts all Rokuhara members one by one, ensuring the ones that killed Senju have a very slow and painful demise. Brahman is disbanded and those who aren't too traumatized by their former leader's death join Kanto Manji's lines, and eventually Bonten. Benkei and Wakasa leave the world of gangs for good, unable to look past Senju's memory now.

In Bonten, Sanzu doesn't hide his hatred for Takeomi. He never forgave him for how he treated him in his youth, but now he has a much bigger reason to resent him. They don't talk, and when they do, it's all insults and threats. Takeomi avoids Sanzu like the plague, not because he's scared, but because looking at him feels like looking at a ghost. The same pink hair, the same long eyelashes, even the same eye color. It's all too much for Takeomi.

With Sanzu it depends. Sometimes he can't even look at his reflection, the too familiar features always sending him into a spiral of grief and mad pain. Sometimes he can stare into a mirror for hours, because painful as it is, at least he can pretend the one looking back at him it's someone else. How twisted that all that remains of her it's in his own face.

Takeomi can't bring himself to sell their childhood house, even if no one lives there anymore. Being there became too painful after Senju's death so of course he moved, but losing this house will also mean losing all the memories that remain in there. Senju's former room it's the only one untouched since she left. Everything else has been fixed for other uses, like stocking supplies for Bonten, but everyone knows that particular room with sakura flowers painted in the door must be ignored. Sanzu once caught one of their newest additions trying to get a look inside and ripped his eyes off, before shooting him dead. All of it after he dragged the poor fool out of the house first, of course.

Sanzu can't stand the sounds of gunshots anymore, unless it's him who's shooting the bullets. He also hates the rain and can't even set a foot in the streets when it happens. He visits Senju's grave when he can, preferably on a sunny day, and talks to her about his day. He makes sure his visits don't overlap with Takeomi, but if they accidentally do, it's the only time the two brothers coexist in silence.

Senju's ghost never leaves them. Sanzu can only hope that, whatever awaits for him in death, he at least gets to see her once again.

[classicanalyzer]

The Acolyte - The Acolyte (Episode 8) Thoughts

"I think the Jedi are a massive system of unchecked power, posing as a religion, a delusional cult that claims to control the uncontrollable...Not the Force. Your emotions. You project an image of goodness and restraint, but it's only a matter of time before one of you snaps. And when, not 'if', that happens, who will be strong enough to stop him?... The majority of my colleagues can't imagine a galaxy without the Jedi. And I can understand why. When you're looking up to heroes, you don't have to face what's right in front of you." Senator Rayencourt.

"You poor girl. You've been through so much. The Jedi have failed you. I am going to make this right. But I need your help...I need you to help me find someone...A pupil of mine before he turned to evil." Vernestra Rwoh.

We end the show where it began chronologically, Brendok.

I love how Rayencourt makes good points about the Jedi trying to claim that they can control their emotions and present themselves as pure good with no flaws. What he said also legit sounds exactly what will happen to Anakin in the future. He's even proven right about the former with Sol given Episode 7 and the latter with Vernestra lying in the end. Props to his actor, David Harewood, for doing an amazing job.

I love how Bazil is the bad vibes checker of this show. I'm so happy that he lived.

MOTHERFUCKING DARTH PLAGUEIS! I legit said what the actual fuck when he appeared. His appearance makes a lot of sense and given how the twins were created using the Force, ofc he would be interested in them. I also love how the music used in this scene was very similar if not a reprise to the choir used in "The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise." I also legit do not care about if people complain if his age isn't similar to Legends. Well, first of all, there is no set age in Canon. And second of all, I legit do not care.

I also love the ship chase sequence. The CGI looks really well done in there. You feel the ship's weight and the impact of the asteroids.

The show also continues the theme of visions not appearing as they are. The Acolyte killed the Jedi without a (physical) weapon, however, Osha was mistaken. The Acolyte happened to be her.

Also props to Amandla Stenberg for portraying the twins so well. I felt the intense heartbreak and betrayal as Osha realized that Mae was right and the intense hatred then regret after she murdered Sol. The Bleeding of Sol's Lightsaber was so chilling to see.

GOD SOL'S DEATH HITS ME REALLY HARD. I legit got Infinity War PTSD when he told Osha "It's okay" as she was killing him (He couldn't even tell her that he loves her which broke my heart). While we all know it was an understandable accident given what happened (even their mother didn't blame Sol for thinking her attempted protection of Mae was an attack), it didn't change the fact that he killed their mother. Vernestra summed up his character pretty well (despite framing him). Sol's biggest flaw was that he loved Osha so much that he now sees the misunderstanding of killing their mother as something he had to do and covering up Brendok because of the Vergence. I do like how she knew Sol was truly good and well-intentioned despite his flaws and mistakes as she gave him a Jedi funeral.

"He was a kind, brilliant, compassionate man. And he did a terrible thing... A mistake he lived with for so long it twisted his mind. He justified every step with the love he had for your sister." Vernestra Rwoh

THE CHOREOGRAPHY IS SO GOOD! I love the Lightsaber and martial arts fighting in this show. Qimir's change to single blade stance after failing to get past Sol's indomitable defense is so good. Osha's and Mae's fist fight was also amazing and tension filled.

The reveal that Qimi was Vernestra's apprentice was smth I also guessed after Episode 6 which explains why she's in this show. I wonder what she will do when she sees him again.

Despite me knowing how horrifying Sol's death was, I can't help but feel happy seeing the siblings reunite and at peace. It was even more sadder as Mae has to forget Osha to protect her sister. Even I got sad seeing Mae forget the pledge as more of her memories got erased.

Ironically, Mae and Osha switch roles by the end of the show, with Osha being Qimir's Acolyte and Mae being utterly confused about why she's arrested by the Jedi. In a sense my guess about Mae having a redemption arc did come true...but just like the vision, just not in the way I had expected.

I really love how this show critiqued and explored the Jedi without bashing them. We see that they're truly a force of good and have the best of intentions...however those intentions can blind them to what's right in front of them. The Jedi are still sentient beings just like anyone else. We see how their complacency and desire to keep their image good blinds them to the rise of dark forces which includes the emerging Sith Order as the Grand Plan of the Sith takes shape. I had so many chills as Osha and Qimir looked at the sunset with the Acolyte theme playing.

The music in the finale is so good, especially during the fight and emotional scenes. This score really nailed it amtophseric-wise. I love the more creepy reprise of the witch coven's chants from Episode 3 during the credits.

A great season finale and season of SW TV. I really hope Leslye gets her multi-season show because the Acolyte has the potential to be an amazing multi-season show. She truly gave it her all in this season. I also trust her to make that Old Republic show as well.

"Sorry to disturb you, Master. We need to talk." Vernestra Rwoh.