#this is mostly about endure actually
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m1ckeyb3rry Ā· 11 months ago
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wattpad is so crazy because users will leave comments expressing nothing but pure disdain and anger for whatever reason (y/nā€™s characterization, the decision to include original characters, temporary ships and subplots, etc)ā€¦like at a certain point i start to wonder if they realize that no one is forcing them to read anything šŸ˜­
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flowerbloom-arts Ā· 4 months ago
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Hi, question, and if you can pardon my french; What the FUCK was this bit doing here in Flaming Moe (s22 ep11)?????
Like. Like I don't get it??? I love it to smithereens but I can't. Like. Understand. Why Seymour did this? To Chalmers? And pulled his tie and called him Gary while clearly flirting? At school? And then Chalmers calls him a Casanova? In an episode where he's dating the new female music teacher??????
I feel like I just saw a flash of Cthulu and I'm trying to comprehend him by drawing what I saw but it doesn't goddamn work so I keep rewatching the clip over and over and I'm trying to wrap my head around this sudden homoeroticism when the A plot of this episode is about gay people but the B plot with Seymour is? Very straight?
I dunno I'm just rambling. I can't get enough of these two. The original screenshot is under the cut.
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yuripira4e Ā· 6 months ago
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I want to preface this post by saying that I love the cat king as a character, especially one that has such a major impact on Edwin and his relationship with his queerness and learning to be okay with it; HOWEVER, I also believe that everyone that genuinely believes he should be a love interest for Edwin should read this. (Also if you just like the cat king as a character and want to understand his character better and why his and Edwinā€™s relationship is not something that would be healthy or ā€œrealā€ for either)
#dead boy detectives#edwin payne#the cat king#i do not ship them but I donā€™t want to hate on those who do (mostly) I just want to kind of inform people of the creators meaning for their#Relationship because I keep seeing people saying they hope they get together in s2 and itā€™s really confusing to me#Their relationship stems from the cat kings own narcissism and predatory behavior and Edwinā€™s need for someone to push him into under#Standing that his queerness doesnā€™t have to be torture and can be something giddy#even if he doesnā€™t return those feelings#The cat king does like Edwin but he doesnā€™t know anything about him. He likes the game and then he likes the kindness heā€™s shown despite#Knowing the cruelty heā€™s presented to Edwin#Queerness and preformance always go hand in hand#Heā€™s a older secretly insecure character#Edwin is the younger#genuinely kind character that shows him that projecting his hurt will never get him what he wants#Itā€™s about the isolation of queerness and the walls put up and the coping mechanism used to protect yourself even at the risk of hurting#Those just like you. That kiss from edwin was to say ā€œIā€™m sorry your loneliness had caused you to be cruel. Itā€™s the easiest way to feel.#And while I cannot and will not give you what you want or need#you deserve to feel happy and not like you have to gain the attention of uninterested people#I canā€™t even explain all my thoughts about their dynamic itā€™s just so much itā€™s just about the predadation from older queers because of#The trauma theyā€™ve endured and the cycle of hurt and the way we can break the cycle with kindness while also protecting our youths by#Healing those traumas#Something the cat king learns and accepts#Off topic but I donā€™t like people defending their age gap because#Yes; Edwin is 86#but he died with a teenage boy brain and then spent 70 of those years in hell where he certainly was not getting his brain developed while#The cat king has possibly hundreds of years of sentience and experience. The power imbalance is not if yā€™all. And that part of their dynami#Is actually very clear I think but some people didnā€™t catch it?? Or didnā€™t care??? Idk man
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chibi-scone Ā· 5 months ago
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Still funny how people were like "no actually the ofmd finale was GOOD those of you who don't like it are just too stupid to understand" or whatever like brother the fandom disintegrated
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thebluestbluewords Ā· 1 year ago
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Teeth are overrated anyway
+
"Congrats." Mal says quietly. She does, in fact, know how to have some tact, sometimes. "Heard you made the team."Ā 
Carlos rolls his head to the side so he can talk to something that's not the tightly curled space between his own knees. "I punched a kid so hard he threw up." he says softly. Like it's a confession.Ā 
"And? I bet that fucker deserved it."Ā 
"Not really."
In Malā€™s expert opinion, they all deserve it. Every kid who shoulder checks them in the hall just because they're there, every girl who won't look at Evie while she crushes their test scores, everyone who comes to Mal when they want something and ices her out when they don't, they all deserve it. Every kid who's ever taken a sharpie to their doors to tell them how worthless they are, they deserve it tenfold, and if one of them took a punch to the gut while wearing practice armor, it's nothing compared to what Mal would do to them given half the chance.Ā 
"I promise you, they really did," Mal says. "You punched one kid. I've punched how many now?"Ā 
Carlos laughs. It's not funny.Ā  "Fourteen."Ā 
Right. Out of all the ways theirĀ families fucked them up, he got the obsessive kind of guilt tracking. Preventative evidence, because the adults who want them gone will totally listen to a timestamped, cross-referenced spreadsheet of all the times they've actually fucked up, instead of whatever imagined crimes they're actually going to get sent back over. The spreadsheet's very existenceĀ is incriminating, and it could be bad if it gets into the wrong hands, but anybody who's able to get into three layers of password-protected sub-folders deserves the hex they'll get for snooping, and will probably feel too guilty (hopefully) to use it properly against them anyway. It wonā€™t matter. The adults who care about them won't be able to override the ones who fabricate crimes they didn't even do, and one spreadsheet, even with locked timestamps for every edit, won't do much against a royal word.Ā 
Whatever. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms.Ā 
"Fourteen," Mal echoes back. "That's a lot fucking more than one, and I'm still here."Ā 
HisĀ head makes a solid noise against the wood. "You're different. People like you."Ā 
Mal can't stop the scornful noise she makes at that one, but she can pick her next words wisely.Ā 
Tread carefully, fearless leader. There's no coming back from this one.Ā 
"I think," she says slowly, inching her way closer. "That you are severely overestimating how much people like me, fleabrain."Ā 
Carlos makes a soft noise. He's listening, which is score one for Mal.Ā 
"I'm not some perfect princess who never does anything wrong. Obviously."Ā Fourteen classmates with black eyes and bloody noses. Fourteen people who won't speak ill of her crew again.Ā Ā "I just keep trying, and I guess the Auradonians here are too stupid to realize that we're a bunch of lost causes. Their mistake, right?"Ā 
"Right," Carlos whispers. "They're the ones who keep making mistakes."Ā 
Hm. It's the right energy, but maybe not quite the right words.
"We deserve better than their scraps," Mal says, low and serious and warming to her cause now. "We deserve at least as much as they give their own stupid children, and if their noble-born brats can keep fucking up over and over, then we deserve at least as many chances as they get. We deserve our place here, and if they haven't kicked me out after punching fourteen people. they're sure as shit not going to kick you out over punching one."Ā 
"Right."Ā 
Mal can feel the heat of Carlos's body next to hers now, so close they could be touching. "Of course I'm right. And besides, why would they let you on the team if they're going to kick you off right after? It'd be a drain on their time and resources, and they're not gonna waste energy on us if they don't need to. You're stuck on that team whether you like it or not, dumbass."Ā 
Carlos laughs. It's not exactly a happy sound, but it's closer than before. "I didn't want to join. I fuckin' hate organized sports."Ā 
"Ah, like how I didn't want to join the equestrian club, and Evie dragged me to the meeting under false premises and wouldn't let me leave without petting a horse?"Ā 
"Like that," he agrees, and finally tips his head onto Mal's shoulder. "I didn't want to do the second round of tryouts, but they're down a man since Aza broke his ankle, so Coach called everyone on the backup rotation in for a test scrimmage."Ā 
"Let me guess, some shithead tried to pull shit because you're tiny, and you rage slammed him into the fuckin' dust?"Ā 
Mal can feel the warm gust of his sigh on her neck this time, and it feels like what home must be for other people. "Yup. Pretty much."Ā 
Weird.Ā 
ā€œI thought coach was all about controlling your power," Mal says, thinking out loud from a half-remembered conversation sheā€™d had with Jay a few nights ago. ā€œGuess he's some sort of filthy hypocrite who only means that for the big guys, huh."Ā 
Carlos shakes his head. His hair is a soft, static-y mess that sticks to her cheek from the friction. She's going to be pulling handfuls out of her mouth later, but it's fine for now.Ā  "Nah. He wants people who aren't afraid of full contact. Apparently he's playing some sort of psych-out game with one of the other teams, and he's pretty sure I'm unassuming enough that they'll never see it coming."Ā 
"So he wants you to punch more people?" Mal asks incredulously. She may be bad at teams, and organized sports, and anything that involves running for more than a few minutes at a time, but a school-sanctioned chance to punch people might be worth making a stink about starting a girl's team over. "Sounds like a fuckin' sweet deal to me."Ā 
ā€œIā€”ā€œ Carlos starts.Ā 
Somebody pounds on the closet door, and his mouth snaps shut so fast Mal can hear the click.Ā 
"Hey, if you two are done having a heart-to-heart in there, some of us wanna get to dinner on time!" Jay calls through the door. "Toss me out some shoes if you're skipping and I'll tell Verne you're both sick."Ā 
Mal shoves open the door without waiting, and is rewarded with a satisfying 'oof' as the handle hits Jay in the stomach. "We were almost done, dumbass. You can't wait five minutes for us to strategize the best way for me to get in on this school-sanctioned hitting people shit?"Ā 
Jay grins down at her, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Nope." he says brightly, popping the 'p'. "Dinner waits for no man, and I'm not missing out on bread just cause you two decided it was the right time to have a gossip sesh in my closet."
"Ow," Mal grumbles, unfolding herself from the floor. "Fuck you, who told you that gossip sesh was a word people actually use?"Ā 
Jay steps back to let her out, still grinning infuriatingly. "Lonnie."Ā 
Mal's going to sneak into that girl's room and dye all her clothes pink.Ā 
No, she'd probably like that. Purple, then. An unflattering purple. One of those periwinkles that's so blue it doesn't deserve to share a name with the perfect purples that Mal herself wears. Perfect.Ā 
"I'm going to make you both suffer," Mal informs him. "I'll dye all your clothes black."Ā 
"Ooh, you think I'd look hot goth?" Jay shoots back, reaching past Mal to give Carlos a hand up. "Do your worst, killer. I already bribed your girlfriend. She said I'm her favorite model now."Ā 
"You did not."Ā 
"Did so."Ā 
"Nobody bribed me with anything!" Evie calls from the boy's bathroom. "Jay's a better model than you because he knows how to hold still, M."Ā 
"Nobody ever asks me to model," Carlos grumbles. Unlike Mal, he looks like he's comfortable standing upright, which is deeply unfair. "I'd be great at it."Ā 
Evie sticks her head out of the bathroom. She's holding a hot curling wand to her hair, but her makeup is already on and impeccable for their teacher-studentĀ dinner tonight. "That's because you're already my favorite, baby. No matter how many people you've punched."Ā 
Carlos flashes her a tiny, blink-and-you've-missed-it smile. Itā€™s worth it. All the time in the world would be worth it to see that smile again. ā€œThanks, E."Ā 
"Yeah, for nothing," Mal grumbles, twisting back and forth until her back pops. "What am I, moldy fish heads? I just spent half an hour twisted up in a closet, I want good girlfriend credit too."Ā 
Evie laughs. "The fact that you call it girlfriend credit means you could never really stay in that closet, babe. You get all the girlfriend points."Ā 
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unproduciblesmackdown Ā· 9 months ago
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speaking of the horrors brian goosebumpsphantomoftheauditorium is still So funny for being like yeah i'm a ghost i know i'm a ghost. & he's befriended the horror fan menace duo who are giggling clutching each other like omg omg okay. we're fine. we're breaking into the school at night to investigate the horrors aaaa what if there's a ghost eek ok ok!!! & brian ghost who knows he's a ghost is like omg guys aaaa stopppp ;;m;; suffering thee Most but he's not putting on an act to conceal his phantomly destiny. he's just like that
#it's brian colson i believe (unless it's colsen. but i think colson) but clearly this is clearer#the book was killing me & i'm telling you brian especially. his whole thing is being So nervous about everything all the time#which maybe that's meant to be due to [you Did die; alarmingly] but it really does just seem like Mostly personality#the cadence & content of the exchange where he's bemoaning getting paint on his clothes off to the side lays me tf out#just the dynamic like brooke & zeke are Speculating abt Schemes & Ghosts & being hilarious too; here's tina joining in; also magical#while multiple times people just completely in stride And in earnest respond to brian's complete focus on his paint stains issue#goosebumps the musical#also getting Thank You For Being A Friend points like enduring the deadly trapdoors & mystery of; for all he knew ig; a whole other ghost#he has no stake in that beyond just genuinely helping out / providing what moral support he can lol#and You Know What They Say. you probably could've revealed your ghost status & destiny & Just Asked lmao#but maybe he was too nervous like think i'll have to Haint Style Steal Your Breath or sm shit b/c that's easier than a ghost reveal convo#is that a george costanza style approach? i have never seen a full seinfeld episode. no limits to the time/effort/complexity in avoiding#some comparatively more minor issue / hurdle? i understand the like archetypical achievement character of all time in that for sure....#like yeah they Are alarmed by the apparent ghost / apparent guy who wants to kill them / you as Actual Ghost but they roll w/it too#cracking open goosebumps of all time The Ghost Next Door...#i also need to crack open (press play) goosebumps the musical phantom of the auditorium original studio cast recording again soon#brian's pleeease let this be a normal field trip to brooke & zeke's beep beep seatbelts everyone! dream team for real#completely innocuous haunting except there's a separate totally unrelated guy taking a totally counterproductive approach to things....#scooby doo villaining it will Not bring the meddling kids!! if i act scary to said kids they'll learn anything besides that I'm scary!!!#bring emile back here like yeah we'll cover for you for real though. appeal to tina's theatre devotion like become frenemies to friends fr#goosebumps ghosts you Do just fulfill your Purpose & then Transcend but brian was just a guy hanging out prior. could do that again
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adore-gregor Ā· 7 months ago
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my football team is so hopeless
#not dortmund lol i mean the club i play at myself#it makes me want to quit ngl#there are just so many things i'm fed up with#at times it's not fun anymore#i like playing football but there's just a lot wrong with this team#but i'm mostly just hanging around because i don't want to let my coach down like he cares and genuinly seems like a good coach#the only thing which gives me a bit of hope#and i hate letting people down šŸ˜… that and also i hate giving up#but i have never seen a team more hopeless or felt more hopeless playing a sport šŸ˜…#and he apparently thinks i'm kind of important to the team which i kind of get but also it doesn't really make a difference...#we're just so hopeless i canā€™t turn this around lol#i always start and i hope it continues but there's not much i can do#we just have too many people who don't care last match so many have given up#some of our team just refuse to run or move at some point it's awful#like why can't you try#we always loose so high like what's the point but still don't give up#besides that the endurance (and also sprint speed) of most is awful which could be trained to a point#but whenever the coach tries to do that almost no one shows up šŸ’€#and i usually play wing or outside midfielder but i'm supposed to also be a defender apparently what#whenever we get a goal on my side and i'm not back in defence someone moans at me like that's my fault#i get working back but i canā€™t be everywhere especially when some people don't move#and i actually try to get the ball foreward or try to get the ball back in the front because i don't give up when we're behind#i want to score goals and not settle with loosing and only sit back to do defence anymore#naturally there will be open spaces when i try to do that but how is giving up better even when it's hopeless we could still try scoring#and i can't be everywhere they should try my position they would never last 90min running like i do#besides i'm already exausted each week from my training before like i do sports 2-3 hours 6 or 7 days a week#unfortunately i have to because once again i'm trying some entrance exam (for sports to become a teach in sports and english hopefully)#asides from that i don't like most of the people at my club šŸ˜… it feels a bit like highschool again and i didn't like highschool#so many are ignorant and judgemental#like the girl i told you about with her comment about the cleaning lady instead of wanting to clean up her stuff herself šŸ™„
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orcelito Ā· 1 year ago
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Every time I see the word "mid" now I think of Midvalley and "Mid-man"
Yes Vash's little nickname is him calling Midvalley "mid". Which is part of why it annoys Midvalley so much lmfao. But when you have a name like THAT, can Vash really be blamed?
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icharchivist Ā· 2 years ago
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something about Dracula Daily that canā€™t leave my mind this year is how much i remember when it started last year, there were so many people saying stuff likeĀ ā€œyou all are getting into it right now while itā€™s new and everything and youā€™re making it trending, but youā€™ll see everyone is going to drop it eventually, none of you have this commitment for so many monthsā€
and while people did drop out, obviously, the activity of this littleĀ ā€œbook clubā€, of the people who didnā€™t drop out, still made it trend up until the very end, there were enough people who were still motivated enough to read this book in this format that it carried on all the way to November
and now itā€™s starting again. now people who were sad they didnā€™t jump on the bandwagon last year AND people who loved the ride so much last year theyā€™re participating again (and it being kept spicy thanks to the Re:Dracula podcast) are STILL participating to this tumblr bookclub enough to make it trend.
There were so many messages about howĀ ā€œyouā€™ll see youā€™ll get tired of it so quicklyā€, and yet people made it a yearly commitment
thereā€™s something so endearing about that
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ouclematis Ā· 2 months ago
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i hated meakashi hen because it hit close to home.
#like.#OH DAMN...#like. i don't think she's like truly in love with satoshi anymore.#sure she does have a crush on him and all. but it's mostly cause she's obsessed with him since she's deprived of actual love in her life.#she just happens to be in a traditionalist conservative family who is made an unfortunate target for her grandma's abuse and hatred towards#her. but mostly. the guy she just met while after being rescued by a bunch of punks who are trying to gang up on her she's been using as a#metaphor for salvation is being insulted.#because to her. he's the only one that did not take advantage of and abuse her. despite her having a burning hatred for satoko. i also do#think that the hatred stems from some sort of like. inability to grieve with the abuse she endured in a healthy way#it's like. shion. you do realise you endured in a boarding school right. and like your grandma put your hands around your neck and tried to#kill you with the choking right? it's evident enough. i don't need to se it in your eyes. you're masking it well enough because we know#that you're hurting. we can see it.#like#she always. was obsessed with satoshi cause he was nice to her. and made the topic of her obsessions cause in her eyes. he was a saintly#angel. when in reality. he's just an abused boy.#but the difference is with how she percieves him and satoko. is that she is percieved as the devil from shion in meakashi. and wants to#teach her a ā€œlessonā€ for i don't know. grieving about her abuse hurled towards her by her male family member in particular and that ticks#her because she's like trying to prove a point about herself. will explain this when im less tired and suicidal so.
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kirexa Ā· 9 months ago
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ā€Ž
#I panic whenever I think about myself recently#about adhd and autism and whatever... im rather sure im misdiagnosed or just somethings wrong because i feel no difference off or on meds#everythings always so hard. it never changes with meds or whatever.#is it weird that i always end up hungry? my stomach is really loud right now... i ate a normal amount today. why wouldnt it be enough?#im worried because if i dont have adhd#have i been misdiagnosed quite literally my whole life? and if i have#then whats /actually/ wrong with me?#i just want life to stop feeling like a chore. everything is way too difficult. i never have motivation. i lose interest in things easily.#like how i started pkmn#i just dont have any interest in playing it even though i want to#its so hard for anything to keep my interest. persona 5 was so surprising. i could never imagine spending 180 hours on a game again#i want to enjoy a game. i wanted to enjoy sdv. i never even got through an ingame year before playing felt more like a chore.#it shouldnt be like that... right..?#twst is happy. it feels like a chore sometimes to do lessons and battles but its mostly good.#Danganronpa and yttd are also good. they kept my attention. i hate that so many things cant keep my attention#i just get bored so easily and i hate ut#im like if floyd was as strong as idia and had azuls endurance and sucked at video games and wasnt even that smart. what are my talents?#do i have any? ....I don't remember#i have some things that are... unique. but talents? not..#no*#i was thinking earlier if i remembered any good memories with my family and honestly? no#im sure i have some good memories#but the bad outweighs the good and my memory is very poor#...theres probably a reason my memory is so bad. i dont want to think too hard about that#k vent#i almost hit tag limit anwjakw
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randycider Ā· 1 year ago
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will never forget the time when I was in 8th grade and had the flu for the first time EVER, and I was out for a week and the only thing I did was watch the entirety of Johnny Test, nothing else
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peachdues Ā· 6 months ago
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COMPASS
bad boy!Sanemi ā€¢ gang AU ā€¢ NSFW
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A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? Itā€™s more likely than you think.
This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemiā€™s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.
Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ā€˜s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemiā€™s self hatred and his scars.
CW: 24k ā€¢ explicit sexual content ā€¢ MDNI ā€¢ gang-related violence ā€¢ mentions of blood and broken bones ā€¢ mentions of murder/death ā€¢ loss of virginity ā€¢ creampie ā€¢ vaginal fingering ā€¢ some angst
I have plenty more of this AU written, so if yā€™all want more, just let me know šŸ«”
There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.
The first is simple: once youā€™re in, youā€™re in.
Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but donā€™t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.
And donā€™t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. Thereā€™s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one youā€™d had before. No separation. Youā€™ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, youā€™re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.
This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that heā€™d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira ā€” the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.
The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that heā€™d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.
Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies ā€” mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.
And then thereā€™s Sanemi: the debt collector.
Largely monetary debts ā€” collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.
But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money ā€” it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.
Life debts.
In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.
Their executions had been quick and without fuss ā€” or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.
But even though the spray of their brains hadnā€™t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemiā€™s hands.
He will never be able to wash them clean.
But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences ā€” for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom heā€™ll do anything ļæ½ļæ½ļæ½ be anyone ā€” if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.
The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).
And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is donā€™t get attached. Keep your circle small so thereā€™s less collateral to be used against you ā€” against the organization that owns you.
This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.
For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.
But then heā€™d chosen your bookstore to hide in and thatā€™s when everything falls apart.
ā€œFuckinā€™ Christ,ā€ Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.
They were late.
The job was simple, and well within Sanemiā€™s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzuiā€™s joints that heā€™d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldnā€™t get elsewhere.
He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldnā€™t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but heā€™d be lying if he said he didnā€™t relish the chance to smash the pervertā€™s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction heā€™d felt when heā€™d thrown open the steel door of the Maedaā€™s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as heā€™d begged for mercy Sanemi hadnā€™t been hired to give.
The stupid, greasy fuck.
By the time heā€™d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the verminā€™s back as he sobbed). But heā€™d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.
And thatā€™s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maedaā€™s small warehouse, Uzuiā€™s payment split into two rolls that heā€™d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members heā€™d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then theyā€™d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.
Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But heā€™d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.
Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.
Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.
Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty ā€” disquietingly so.
Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.
Sanemiā€™s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. Itā€™s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.
He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.
One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits ā€”
A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.
The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.
The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.
ā€œPigs!ā€ The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. ā€œPigs!ā€
ā€œShit,ā€ Sanemi growls. No doubt Maedaā€™s bruised ego sold them out. He shouldā€™ve taken the time to smash the assholeā€™s phone.
Heā€™ll be dealt with later ā€” and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.
Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corpsā€™ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.
So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He canā€™t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.
He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.
He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.
The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.
Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there ā€”
A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.
No good.
ā€œFuck.ā€ It isnā€™t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While heā€™s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadnā€™t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options ā€” the side streets to the left and right.
Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasnā€™t fully fucked himself.
Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street ā€” one that borders the cityā€™s western wing.
Itā€™ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.
He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop ā€” a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.
But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other ā€” the storeā€™s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerkā€™s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.
He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.
Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.
Itā€™s now or never. And, because heā€™s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.
ā€œYou got someplace I can hide?ā€
ā€”ā€”-
You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.
His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.
Sanemi Shinazugawa.
You know him; youā€™d known him most of your life, even if youā€™d never spoken to him. Youā€™d gone to the same school in your youth ā€” all thirteen years of it, in fact. Heā€™d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.
You know heā€™s from the Silo ā€” a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.
But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.
It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.
Hence, its presence in the Silo.
So you hadnā€™t been surprised when youā€™d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before heā€™d even graduated high school.
You shudder to think what he had to have done ā€” what heā€™d become ā€” in order to achieve such status and notoriety.
If heā€™d been anyone else, you wouldnā€™t have helped; you wouldā€™ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.
But you owed him.
Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.
But one afternoon, when youā€™d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, sheā€™d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.
Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.
But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though heā€™d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, heā€™d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parentsā€™ home.
Youā€™d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sisterā€™s white-haired savior. Theyā€™d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but heā€™d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was ā€œno big deal.ā€ As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.
His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.
Youā€™d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.
Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerkā€™s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.
There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.
A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isnā€™t stupid enough to try and shift.
One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.ā€œYou havenā€™t seen anything suspicious?ā€
ā€œIā€™m sorry, sir. I donā€™t know what you mean.ā€
The cop grimaces. ā€œYou havenā€™t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like theyā€™re running?ā€
You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. ā€œIā€™m afraid youā€™re my first customer of the day, sir.ā€
The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.
Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counterā€™s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.
But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.
ā€œTheyā€™re gone,ā€ you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.
Thereā€™s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.
In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But itā€™s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.
That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well ā€” at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.
However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.
But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.
He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle heā€™d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.
You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.
He has scars heā€™d not had in your youth ā€” jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.
A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.
ā€œCanā€™t thank ya enough,ā€ he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. ā€œYou really saved my ass ā€”ā€œ
ā€œGet out of my store.ā€ You order, your voice hard. ā€œTake your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.ā€
Sanemiā€™s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.
ā€œAs you wish, Princess,ā€ and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. ā€œJust need somethinā€™ for the road.ā€
He snags a small novel ā€” a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.
ā€œLater,ā€ he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.
You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. ā€œYou have to pay for ā€”ā€œ
But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.
ā€”-
By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. Heā€™d met up with Uzui and forked over Maedaā€™s payment. Though, the Corpā€™s head pimp hadnā€™t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.
As it turned out, Maeda hadnā€™t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.
Right in front of two, marked cop cars.
One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other ā€” the driver ā€” had managed to escape, though heā€™d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.
Thereā€™s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.
He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash heā€™d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.
He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book heā€™d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.
Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.
Take your trouble somewhere else.
Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which youā€™d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.
You know what ā€” who ā€” he is. In Sanemiā€™s world, thatā€™s a liability.
Though, in fairness, he canā€™t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and itā€™s a coveted one. It wouldnā€™t be a stretch to conclude that youā€™d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.
What concerns him is he doesnā€™t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe youā€™re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.
Or maybe youā€™ve got an in with them.
The Corps isnā€™t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.
The Kizuki.
In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.
Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadnā€™t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.
Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.
There are whispers that theyā€™ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious ā€” perhaps youā€™re in league with them, and youā€™ll hand him over the moment itā€™s most convenient for you to do so.
Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. Youā€™re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.
But thatā€™s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.
Either way, he doesnā€™t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he canā€™t afford to make.
Sanemi doesnā€™t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, heā€™ll decide how to proceed.
He eyes the book heā€™d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasnā€™t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if heā€™s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.
Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.
ā€”
His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.
You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and donā€™t visit home often, if ever.
Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.
Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But itā€™s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.
Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.
Or so he tells himself.
The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parentsā€™ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.
Heā€™d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, heā€™d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your motherā€™s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.
The memory of how youā€™d looked at him ā€” a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when heā€™d met your stare head on ā€” remained fixed in his brain for years after.
And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.
He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he canā€™t remember if he had. He shouldā€™ve; especially now when it seems as though heā€™s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.
Sanemiā€™s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen ā€” instructions, only by way of an address and an amount ā€” chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.
With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.
He wonders what will kill him first ā€” whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because thereā€™s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corpā€™s behalf.
Ultimately, he knows it doesnā€™t really matter. He wonā€™t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life thatā€™s anything but this. Heā€™ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. Heā€™ll die under the mask heā€™s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasnā€™t yet bonded with his skin.
But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where heā€™d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.
And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.
ā€”
Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.
Sanemi doesnā€™t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguroā€™s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.
The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. Heā€™d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.
That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.
So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.
His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.
He doesnā€™t know her by name ā€” only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But itā€™s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps thatā€™s because sheā€™s looking for an escape just as much as he is.
Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.
Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.
At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. Sheā€™s licking and nipping at his lips in a way heā€™s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.
And, after all, heā€™s the one desperate for relief.
ā€œIā€™ve only got ten minutes,ā€ she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.
He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girlā€™s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.
ā€œDonā€™t worry, darlinā€™,ā€ he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. ā€œWeā€™ll be done in five.ā€
ā€”-
Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.
He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.
He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that dayā€™s sins.
The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.
Step.
A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that heā€™d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasnā€™t worth shit when theyā€™d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.
Step.
The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.
Step.
The crush of bone under the iron pipe heā€™d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.
Green; the color of the money heā€™d found stashed in a duffel, the debtorā€™s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.
Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstoreā€™s front steps.
For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.
The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesnā€™t know why heā€™s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night youā€™d helped hide him from the cops.
He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and heā€™s pushing the door open.
His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.
That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.
ā€œThis isnā€™t a library,ā€ you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. ā€œYou have to pay for the books here.ā€
Itā€™s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. ā€œI brought it back, didnā€™t I? Look ā€” didnā€™t even crack the spine.ā€
ā€œIt doesnā€™t matter,ā€ you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. ā€œThat loss came out of my paycheck ā€” which is scant enough.ā€
That piques his attention. ā€œDidnā€™t you say this was your store?ā€
His question makes you turn pink, and youā€™re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. ā€œI work here,ā€ you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. ā€œBut I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesnā€™t ever come by.ā€
You wrinkle your nose. ā€œSo yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.ā€
Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.
Youā€™re beautiful; heā€™s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if youā€™re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.
But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.
He doesnā€™t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.
ā€œFine, here,ā€ he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.
He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.
Your restlessness boils over. ā€œWhat?ā€
ā€œNothin,ā€ he shrugs. ā€œJust think itā€™s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.ā€
Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. ā€œI live here, idiot.ā€
He snorts. ā€œDidnā€™t you want outta here? Do somethinā€™ different?ā€ He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.
ā€œI donā€™t see how thatā€™s any of your business.ā€ Heā€™s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours ā€” that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.
ā€œThis canā€™t be your dream life.ā€
You donā€™t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.
Like heā€™s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.
Sanemi continues. ā€œItā€™s strange for people not to want for more ā€” to not dream about somethinā€™ different.ā€
ā€œAnd who are you to say I donā€™t?ā€ You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. ā€œI have a dream of my own. Just because itā€™s not one you would pick for yourself doesnā€™t mean itā€™s wrong.ā€
He blinks, taken aback. ā€œWoah, woah, I never meant any offense.ā€ He pushes back from the counter. ā€œMy bad.ā€
His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.
You slide his book across the counter. ā€œHave the day you deserve.ā€
His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. ā€œYou too, Princess.ā€
You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you donā€™t see him toss another note on the counter.
Heā€™s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. ā€œSir, you dropped your ā€”ā€œ
ā€œNah, I didnā€™t,ā€ he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.
Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.
ā€”
His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. Itā€™s unplanned in that heā€™s annoyed and itā€™s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.
Youā€™re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerkā€™s counter startles you.
You frown. Itā€™s him again ā€” all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.
ā€œThis book was shit,ā€ he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. ā€œI want a refund.ā€
You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.
Return-exchange only. No refunds.
ā€œBut it was shit,ā€ he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didnā€™t create. ā€œYou let me waste twenty bucks.ā€
ā€œI did nothing,ā€ you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. ā€œYouā€™re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.ā€
You glance down at the discarded novel. ā€œFigures,ā€ you scoff. ā€œHeā€™s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.ā€
ā€œWoulda been nice if youā€™d told me that before you let me give him my money.ā€
You hum idly as you cross off the logā€™s boxes for new releases. ā€œI suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasnā€™t really paying attention to your shit choices.ā€
ā€œOh?ā€ And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. ā€œThe Princess has claws, does she?ā€ He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. ā€œSo, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?ā€
ā€œIā€™m not your Princess,ā€ you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. ā€œCall me by my name or call me nothing at all.ā€
His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. ā€œAlright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?ā€
The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish youā€™d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.
Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.
Youā€™ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.
Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt heā€™d owed (their words, never yours).
Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most wonā€™t speak about.
But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. Itā€™s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.
Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. ā€œFine, here.ā€ You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemiā€™s.
ā€œRead that.ā€
His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. ā€œThis ainā€™t a book; itā€™s a brick.ā€
ā€œItā€™s a classic,ā€ you counter. ā€œOne that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.ā€ Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. ā€œLove and lust.ā€
His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps heā€™ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then heā€™ll leave you alone.
Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. ā€œIf you say so,ā€ he sighs. ā€œBut if itā€™s shit, Iā€™m taking my refund.ā€ And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.
His breath is hot against your ear. ā€œRegardless of your shitty little policy.ā€
You refuse to let him see how much heā€™s knocked you off-kilter. ā€œSo I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so Iā€™m prepared.ā€
His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. ā€œWorse,ā€ he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. ā€œYouā€™ll owe me a date.ā€
He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. ā€œThough, I might just take you out anyway.ā€
ā€œYou assume Iā€™ll say yes ā€” or are you planning on kidnapping me? Iā€™m sure youā€™re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.ā€
Something dark flashes across his face, and itā€™s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.
Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.
But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemiā€™s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.
ā€œYouā€™ll say yes, Princess. You wonā€™t be able to resist the temptation.ā€
ā€œTemptation?ā€ You force out a laugh. ā€œAnd what makes you think I canā€™t?ā€
Sanemiā€™s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.
Itā€™s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.
You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. ā€œHabits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.ā€
You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.
ā€”ā€”-
Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.
Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what youā€™d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).
Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and heā€™s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.
And, heā€™d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that heā€™d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. Youā€™d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldnā€™t have given two shits if heā€™d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money ā€” and the lengths some would go to keep it.
Yet heā€™d paid you back ā€” paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.
Since that day, youā€™ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. Youā€™ve managed to glean small things here and there. That heā€™s a Hashira, and Hashira means heā€™s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family ā€” the heads of the entire organization.
That heā€™s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that heā€™s known for his swift brutality.
That heā€™s more than just a flirt; heā€™s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.
You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.
Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And heā€™s said to be very well-endowed.
Itā€™s more information than you care to know, but you canā€™t deny that your curiosity lingers.
You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And youā€™ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isnā€™t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.
ā€”
ā€œYou look like shit.ā€
You startle up from where youā€™d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.
You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.
Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, youā€™d thought youā€™d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.
ā€œIs that the only descriptor you know?ā€ You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. ā€œIs everything either shit or not-shit to you?ā€
Sanemi shrugs. ā€œPretty much,ā€ and he holds something out to you, waiting. ā€œHere.ā€
Itā€™s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.
Your stomach grumbles fiercely. Youā€™d foregone eating breakfast when you realized youā€™d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure youā€™d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.
The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.
But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. ā€œIs it poisoned?ā€
He rolls his eyes. ā€œIf I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, Iā€™d pick a far more convenient way to do it ā€” and one that didnā€™t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.ā€
Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.
Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. ā€œItā€™s a thank you. For that book you recommended,ā€ He smirks. ā€œIt wasnā€™t shit. It was good.ā€
You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. ā€œYou sound surprised.ā€
ā€œMaybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re the one who grabbed that last book,ā€ you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. ā€œThat had nothing to do with me.ā€ You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. ā€œSo, no date, then?ā€
The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. ā€œSorry, beautiful. I donā€™t actually date.ā€ And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. ā€œGotta keep things casual in my world.ā€
The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. ā€œAnd you donā€™t look like a casual girl.ā€
You resist the urge to cross your arms. ā€œYou seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.ā€
ā€œExperience,ā€ he offers easily. ā€œI know casual women.ā€ He turns his head away before quietly adding, ā€œAnd you ainā€™t one of ā€˜em.ā€
Itā€™s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as youā€™re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you havenā€™t yet been able to pick apart.
You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when heā€™s been such a consistent pain in your ass.
Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you donā€™t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.
You see only the boy on your stoop; the one whoā€™d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.
And itā€™s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, ā€œSo, friends, then?ā€
Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile ā€” a real, genuine smile.
And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.
ā€”-
In retrospect, Sanemi knows heā€™s probably fucked himself.
His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps ā€” number Three, in particular.
But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows itā€™s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations heā€™s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesnā€™t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better ā€” far safer ā€” city.
It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.
Yet, he canā€™t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldnā€™t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.
He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though heā€™s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he wonā€™t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.
It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what heā€™d thought otherwise, youā€™re not nearly as prim and haughty as youā€™d tried to make him believe.
Youā€™re sweet. Genuine, in a way thatā€™s rare for him to encounter in his world.
Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.
He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though heā€™s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, heā€™s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests ā€” movies, shows, music ā€” and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.
And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie youā€™d swiped from the storeā€™s limited collection, he canā€™t find it in him to tell you no.
The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.
For starters, the neighborhood you live in isnā€™t the safest. Itā€™s not the Silo, by any means, but itā€™s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzuiā€™s business ā€” another Hashira.
And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, youā€™d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.
He supposes he can see its appeal ā€” youā€™ve certainly turned it into a home.
Youā€™ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.
A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he canā€™t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once youā€™re distracted.
Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere ā€” in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.
Itā€™s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.
But itā€™s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.
Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock ā€” the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though heā€™s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.
The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because heā€™s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once heā€™s finished.
The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesnā€™t matter whether youā€™re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.
Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadnā€™t realized heā€™d been harboring, and itā€™s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.
It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isnā€™t the kind of switch he imagined heā€™d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.
With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.
He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but youā€™re picky about your order. If itā€™s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If itā€™s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.
He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and itā€™s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.
In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life ā€” namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, youā€™re always there to pull him back.
Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.
He canā€™t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He canā€™t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He canā€™t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.
Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit heā€™s guilty for.
Itā€™s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But youā€™re the first person heā€™s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesnā€™t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.
So, he makes a promise. He wonā€™t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they donā€™t.
With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.
And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.
As though the metamorphosis hasnā€™t already set in.
ā€”
ā€œYou never told me what your dream was, yā€™know.ā€ Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.
ā€œWhat dream?ā€ You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.
He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. ā€œYour big dream ā€” the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.ā€
You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. ā€œWhereā€™s this coming from?ā€
ā€œDunno. Curious.ā€
ā€œThought youā€™re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.ā€ And you shoot him a sly grin. ā€œYou ought to be careful.ā€
Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. ā€œIā€™m serious.ā€
Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. Thereā€™s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, heā€™s the only friend you have. ā€œI want my own bookstore.ā€
ā€œYeah?ā€ He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. ā€œArenā€™t you practically running this one? That ainā€™t enough?ā€
ā€œI donā€™t own it, though.ā€ You frown, setting your clipboard down. ā€œI just work here. Youā€™ve seen my paycheck.ā€
And he had, having found a paystub when heā€™d gone snooping under your counter. You wouldā€™ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way heā€™d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.
His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.
ā€œI want something thatā€™s mine ā€” that I own.ā€ You continue. ā€œIā€™ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldnā€™t need anyoneā€™s permission.ā€
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. ā€œI wouldnā€™t have to live under anyoneā€™s thumb.ā€
Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.
Your cheeks heat. ā€œI know it sounds stupid ā€”ā€œ
ā€œIt doesnā€™t,ā€ Sanemi says earnestly. ā€œWanting your freedom can never be stupid.ā€
You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that ā€” arguably better than anyone you know.
Sanemi clears his throat. ā€œSo, a bookstore?ā€ And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. ā€œConsider me your first investor.ā€
ā€”
Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.
By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.
You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. ā€œAre you walking me home?ā€
ā€œTch. Donā€™t I always, when I can?ā€
You grin and itā€™s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldnā€™t do it, as often as he does. Heā€™s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way heā€™s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But itā€™s dark and late, and you donā€™t have a car, and heā€™ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.
Better heā€™s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.
Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.
He wouldnā€™t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But youā€™d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.
Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.
He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if heā€™s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.
You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. ā€œDid you finish that series I recommended?ā€
Sanemi grins. ā€œLast night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.ā€
You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.
Your door gives way and you turn back to him. ā€œā€˜Til next time?ā€
It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.
ā€œā€˜Til next time,ā€ he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.
You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.
ā€œYou never told me yours ā€” what your dream is.ā€
He should leave. Youā€™re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you ā€” tell you the truth, at that.
That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. Heā€™d settle for anything, really; anything at all.
As long as it was more than this.
But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. ā€œTo wake up in the morning, Princess. Thatā€™s all I can ask for.ā€
ā€”ā€”ā€”
Sanemiā€™s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.
To wake up in the morning, Princess.
Heā€™s full of shit and you know it.
Over the course of the last year, youā€™ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.
Youā€™ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you canā€™t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.
He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.
More importantly, youā€™ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that heā€™s merely involved with the notorious gang ā€” at least, not any more than the two of you are just ā€œfriends.ā€
Town gossip aside, Sanemiā€™s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.
Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.
Itā€™s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.
But perhaps the most significant detail youā€™ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:
He wants out. Dreams of it, even.
This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while youā€™re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you wonā€™t see him for the rest of the day.
It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.
Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother ā€” Genya ā€” to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genyaā€™s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadnā€™t anyone to want those things for him.
Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect itā€™s because he doesnā€™t believe he will have one.
That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.
A cop-out, is what it is.
But his reading habits betray his darkest secret ā€” betray the truth ā€” and thatā€™s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.
The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. Heā€™s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.
He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.
But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.
You opened to the first page of of a tale ā€” an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beastā€™s rose.
You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes ā€” the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.
Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True loveā€™s kiss, or something along those lines.
True love.
And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemiā€™s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.
And thatā€™s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.
He wants out.
He wants a happily ever after. He doesnā€™t think heā€™ll get it.
And, above all, he dreams of love.
ā€”
If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after heā€™d first burst into your bookstore.
It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.
Sanemiā€™s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.
You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.
You open the door and the flutter of excitement youā€™d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.
There is a bruise forming along Sanemiā€™s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.
The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.
Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.
ā€œYou got liniment?ā€ He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. ā€œAnd water?ā€
ā€œYou mean icy-hot?ā€ Youā€™re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.
You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where theyā€™re propped up on the back of your chair.
Youā€™ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).
Once, in the early days of your friendship, youā€™d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.
Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.
He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. Youā€™d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.
But, youā€™re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.
And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.
Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.
ā€œNeed ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you donā€™t mind,ā€ his voice is muffled against his arm. ā€œI hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it ā€” fuckinā€™ hurts, now.ā€
You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, heā€™d once explained. Not unless youā€™re bleeding out.
You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful heā€™s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.
Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.
ā€œMotherfucker,ā€ Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. ā€œShit stings.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re lucky itā€™s not broken,ā€ you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss ā€” an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasnā€™t been reset properly. ā€œAt least, I donā€™t think it is.ā€
ā€œYour medical expertise is astounding,ā€ Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.
ā€œIā€™m not a doctor,ā€ you shoot back. ā€œAnd since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.ā€
You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.
ā€œYouā€™re in luck. It seems like you wonā€™t die,ā€ you say dryly. ā€œBut youā€™re going to have a nasty bruise.ā€ You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. ā€œAnd this says youā€™re supposed to rest ā€” not overexert the joint.ā€ You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. ā€œI donā€™t suppose youā€™re actually going to do that, though.ā€
He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. ā€œYou know me too well, Princess.ā€
You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.
Youā€™re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just canā€™t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.
You wouldnā€™t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but thereā€™s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.
A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.
Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.
ā€œUgly, ainā€™t it?ā€ His tone is unreadable. ā€œLike a collar, ā€˜cept itā€™s permanent.ā€
Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.
But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin ā€” the one that stands for Kill ā€” is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemiā€™s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.
A chill snakes down your spine. Youā€™d had your suspicions, of course, youā€™re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.
Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you canā€™t see his face. ā€œGuess itā€™s fitting, since Iā€™m their dog.ā€
There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You donā€™t know why youā€™d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.
Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.
ā€œItā€™s barbaric,ā€ you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you arenā€™t someone he can confide in.
But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. Youā€™re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.
He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. ā€œThank you,ā€ he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.
You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. Youā€™ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways ā€” youā€™ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.
But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.
Intimate.
Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone ā€” the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.
But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps itā€™s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.
You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.
Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.
Yet, you donā€™t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.
You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.
Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. ā€œThanks again. Donā€™t know what I wouldā€™ve done without ya.ā€
You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. ā€œOh please, Iā€™m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.ā€
A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.
ā€œNo,ā€ he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. ā€œNo, youā€™re more than that.ā€ His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. ā€œMuch more.ā€
For a moment, you wonder if heā€™ll lean in; if heā€™ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.
And then he turns and leaves.
You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you canā€™t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: youā€™d wanted to kiss him.
And for a moment, you swear heā€™d wanted to, as well.
An old rumor, one you hadnā€™t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.
The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.
Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You donā€™t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And whatā€™s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything youā€™ve ever felt toward anyone.
Youā€™re in love with Sanemi.
It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; itā€™s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when youā€™re desperate and aching.
Itā€™s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks youā€™re actually worth something.
Youā€™ve never really known love before. But itā€™s because youā€™re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is ā€” what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you canā€™t.
You wonā€™t.
ā€”
Three rules. Thatā€™s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.
Donā€™t speak. No patterns. And donā€™t get overly attached.
It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corpsā€™ rules. Number three, in particular.
Until you. Until the day heā€™d chosen your bookstore to hide in.
Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. Heā€™d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And heā€™d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.
Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.
He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.
But now, heā€™s too deep; Sanemi knows heā€™s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.
Until this moment, he imagined heā€™d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when heā€™d let himself blur it.
As it turns out, heā€™d been dead fucking wrong. Because heā€™s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary heā€™d set for himself when it came to you.
So, Sanemi only gapes at you. ā€œWhat?ā€
You huff, impatient. ā€œI want you to fuck me.ā€
You say it like itā€™s the most obvious thing in the world ā€” as though you havenā€™t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.
If he didnā€™t know you were dead serious, he wouldā€™ve laughed in your face. And thatā€™s how he knows heā€™s fucked.
Youā€™re a virgin; he knows that, because youā€™d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer heā€™d brought over for your weekly movie night together.
Admittedly, heā€™d been surprised. You were beautiful ā€” not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didnā€™t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he wouldā€™ve thought youā€™d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.
As it turned out, youā€™d never been in a relationship, either.
Between long gulps of your drink, youā€™d asked him to fix it and heā€™d turned you down ā€” his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasnā€™t the type to sleep with someone who couldnā€™t fully consent.
So heā€™d let you down ā€” but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure heā€™d never fully known what home truly felt like.
And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.
Heā€™d boldly kissed you twice more after that night ā€” one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.
The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.
One of Sanemiā€™s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadnā€™t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When sheā€™d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.
Theyā€™d found her in the kitchen of the small home sheā€™d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.
Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.
Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.
Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadnā€™t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.
He hadnā€™t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, sheā€™d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.
The hours passed by in a blur once Kochoā€™s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didnā€™t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when heā€™d begun walking in its direction.
He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldnā€™t bother you ā€”
His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.
Despite the late hour, youā€™d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.
Safe; you were safe.
Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.
Youā€™d broken away long enough to ask, ā€œS-Sanemi ā€” what ā€”?ā€
ā€œShut up,ā€ heā€™d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. Heā€™d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet youā€™d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.
He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though heā€™d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.
You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense heā€™d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up ā€” to let him in.
And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.
His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare ā€” completely bare ā€” beneath your hoodie.
That youā€™d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that heā€™d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.
But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.
Without a word, heā€™d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.
Heā€™d sent a text only a few minutes later ā€” a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.
He hadnā€™t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.
So, yes, heā€™s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, heā€™d never allowed himself to go further than that.
No matter how much he wanted to.
And itā€™s because he knows he canā€™t cross this last line ā€” canā€™t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.
ā€œYouā€™re better off asking someone else, Princess. You donā€™t want to get tangled up with someone like me.ā€
Never mind that youā€™re already tangled up with him ā€” but heā€™s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he canā€™t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.
ā€œI donā€™t want to ask someone else,ā€ you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.
A low growl of your name is his warning. ā€œYou donā€™t know what youā€™re asking ā€”ā€œ
ā€œItā€™s you I want. I donā€™t care what the rumors say, I donā€™t care what anyone thinks ā€” including you.ā€
The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. ā€œAnd I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.ā€
He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never ā€” but he wants to shake the sense youā€™re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.
Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months ā€” so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And heā€™s pent up. He hasnā€™t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.
Really, itā€™s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing ā€” no one ā€” has come close.
More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there arenā€™t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where heā€™s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.
But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization heā€™s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.
He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.
He will rot you from the inside, out.
His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that ā€” heā€™s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.
You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he wonā€™t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.
Sanemi wonā€™t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.
Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or youā€™re used as a weapon against him.
In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.
He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.
You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and thatā€™s how he knows this is wrong.
Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.
Youā€™re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.
And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once youā€™ve had your fill.
(A lie, but itā€™s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)
But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious ā€” far too precious to him to continue to indulging.
He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.
A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.
He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell canā€™t ever be yours.
Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.
He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.
ā€œYou want me?ā€ He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he canā€™t stop. Not when heā€™s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.
You shouldnā€™t; you canā€™t.
But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.
His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. ā€œYou want to say youā€™ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?ā€œ
Your eyebrows knit together. ā€œSanemi, thatā€™s not ā€”ā€œ
But he canā€™t stop his venom. ā€œBragging rights, thatā€™s all youā€™re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories ā€” the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.ā€
ā€œStop it,ā€ you bite, and your eyes harden. ā€œYouā€™re acting like an asshole.ā€
Youā€™re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.
ā€œHate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but Iā€™m not acting like an asshole. I am one.ā€
Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. ā€œI know you want to believe you are, but youā€™re not ā€”ā€œ
Sanemiā€™s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. ā€œIs that so?ā€ You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. ā€œThen maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.ā€
Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.
Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard fatherā€™s son, and that heā€™d be no different, no different at all. Heā€™s a brute, and you donā€™t want that, you donā€™t want him ā€”
ā€œYou can do whatever it is you want,ā€ you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemiā€™s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. ā€œDo to me what you like; I donā€™t mind, as long as itā€™s you.ā€
All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.
It isnā€™t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, heā€™s only shown you heā€™s entirely capable of doing so.
Itā€™s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that youā€™d do it with a smile not unlike the one youā€™re wearing right now, soft and earnest.
Fuck, you just did.
And itā€™s that realization that has Sanemiā€™s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.
You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front heā€™s put forth crumbles to dust.
He is a monster, but not for the reasons heā€™s used to justify this ugly display of his. Heā€™s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable ā€” an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.
Worse, heā€™s done the one thing heā€™d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.
Heā€™d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.
But this is worse. He has frightened you.
He recoils from you like a kicked dog. ā€œI didnā€™t mean to scare you.ā€
He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.
He clears his throat. ā€œIā€™ll go,ā€ he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. ā€œā€˜M sorry, I didnā€™t ā€”ā€œ
Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. ā€œI want you to stay.ā€
ā€œYou donā€™t owe me anything ā€”ā€œ
ā€œItā€™s not about owing you,ā€ you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. ā€œI want you. I want this.ā€
You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.
ā€œYou deserve someone else,ā€ Sanemi canā€™t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. ā€œBetter.ā€
But youā€™re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. ā€œThere is no one better; I only want you.ā€
Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. Youā€™re an idiot.
You canā€™t possibly believe heā€™s as good as it gets. Heā€™s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things heā€™s done and what heā€™ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.
He will hurt you; itā€™s in his nature. Itā€™s unavoidable. He canā€™t be what you deserve.
But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.
Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.
This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemiā€™s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash youā€™d be better off leaving out on the street.
The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemiā€™s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh heā€™s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though youā€™d been burning and he was your balm.
Ironic, considering heā€™s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.
But thereā€™s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.
Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though heā€™s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.
You want more, and he needs you, too.
His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.
One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.
He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful youā€™d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.
ā€œDonā€™t,ā€ he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. ā€œLet me ā€” please.ā€
Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.
Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. Heā€™d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.
But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest ā€” have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?
ā€œHoly shit,ā€ your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.
Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire ā€” rich, hot need for him.
Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. ā€œCome here.ā€
He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until heā€™s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.
More. He needs more.
He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.
Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other ā€” including his with the Corps.
Sanemiā€™s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.
The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this ā€” you.
As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.
He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.
ā€œBeautiful,ā€ he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. ā€œSo fuckinā€™ beautiful.ā€
He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. Heā€™s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isnā€™t a picky man; heā€™ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.
But you? Celebration isnā€™t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.
ā€œYou feel so damn good,ā€ he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.
He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that wonā€™t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.
He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemiā€™s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.
His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.
He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.
Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.
He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.
With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. ā€œWeā€™ll take it as slow as you want. Iā€™m not in any rush.ā€
ā€œN-now?ā€ You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.
ā€œNot yet,ā€ he groans against your mouth. ā€œI gotta make sure youā€™re ready first.ā€
ā€œI am ready -ā€œ
ā€œNot like that,ā€ he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.
ā€œFound you,ā€ he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.
He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.
You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.
A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. ā€œUh-uh,ā€ he tuts. ā€œCanā€™t hide from me now, sweetheartā€™.ā€
He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where heā€™s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.
One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.
A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. Youā€™re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.
The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.
He wonā€™t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when heā€™s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where youā€™re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how youā€™ll move under him; how youā€™ll moan.
His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.
You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.
Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, youā€™re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.
ā€œSanemi! I think ā€” oh, I think Iā€™m -ā€œ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.
He smothers a curse into your skin. Youā€™re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, itā€™s too soon.
ā€œNot yet,ā€ he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.
Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.
ā€œThere. Feel how wet you are?ā€ His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.
ā€œFor you,ā€ your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesnā€™t feel like he could get drunk on it. ā€œItā€™s all for you.ā€
His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. ā€œThatā€™s right,ā€ and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. ā€œBecause youā€™re mine.ā€œ
Itā€™s not fair. But he wants to pretend like itā€™s true, if only for a while.
Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.
It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.
Heā€™d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, heā€™d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasnā€™t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.
The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.
But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.
ā€œJesus Christ,ā€ he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. ā€œHere.ā€
His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers heā€™d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.
ā€œGo on,ā€ he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. ā€œTaste how fuckinā€™ perfect you are.ā€
The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.
Fuck, youā€™re trying to kill him.
But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of whatā€™s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight ā€” whether thatā€™s something or nothing ā€” you will never be just friends again.
Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.
He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.
Finally bare, heā€™s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.
ā€œAre you sure?ā€
You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.
He doesnā€™t have a condom but heā€™s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. Heā€™s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who heā€™d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, heā€™d always been sure to have protection on hand.
Children are a gift, but heā€™d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.
But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesnā€™t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.
ā€œIt might hurt a moment,ā€ he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. ā€œBut I promise Iā€™ll be gentle ā€” as gentle as I can.ā€
You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. ā€œI trust you.ā€
You shouldnā€™t, he wants to say. You shouldnā€™t, and you should run far away from this ā€” from me.
But Sanemi knows you wonā€™t just as much as he knows he doesnā€™t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.
He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemiā€™s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.
The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.
Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. ā€œFuck,ā€ he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. ā€œFuck.ā€
His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.
The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.
The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.
Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where youā€™re concerned.
Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, youā€™re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.
With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.
His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.
Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.
ā€œThere you go, thatā€™s it,ā€ his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. ā€œThatā€™s my girl.ā€
Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.
He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.
ā€œReady?ā€ His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.
There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isnā€™t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.
Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.
You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single ā€œPlease.ā€
With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.
You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.
But then Sanemiā€™s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand heā€™d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.
ā€œIā€™m sorry,ā€ he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. ā€œIā€™m sorry. Iā€™m sorry.ā€
He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.
Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way youā€™re constricting around him so tightly itā€™s nearly painful.
Itā€™s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but heā€™s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.
Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.
Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. Heā€™d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.
With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.
You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.
He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.
He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.
When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows youā€™re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.
His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.
And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.
He starts slow. He doesnā€™t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.
Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.
Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemiā€™s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.
One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.
His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.
ā€œTighter,ā€ he gasps. ā€œHold me tighter. Please.ā€
Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.
And then heā€™s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until youā€™re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.
His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. ā€œTalk to me, angel,ā€ the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. ā€œTell me how you feel ā€” tell me what you want.ā€
You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.
The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You canā€™t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.
ā€œCloser!ā€ You gasp. ā€œI ā€” I need you closer.ā€
He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesnā€™t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants ā€” he needs ā€” to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.
Sanemiā€™s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. ā€œDeeper,ā€ he confirms between throaty groans. ā€œYou want me deeper?ā€
You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.
He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.
So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.
The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemiā€™s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.
Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.
Itā€™s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.
Really, he canā€™t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing heā€™s ever heard.
Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. Youā€™ve come before with your own hand, but this ā€” this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.
You try and tell him youā€™re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.
But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.
ā€œIā€™m here, baby, Iā€™m here. Iā€™ve got you.ā€ And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.
ā€œIā€™ll take care of you, sweet girl,ā€ he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. ā€œJust keep your legs around me.ā€
Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.
With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.
You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. ā€œSanemi ā€”ā€œ
ā€œItā€™s okay,ā€ he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. ā€œItā€™s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.ā€
Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks heā€™s ever heard.
A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.
And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.
ā€œYouā€™re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you ā€”- thatā€™s it.ā€ He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. ā€œYeah, yeah. Youā€™re my fuckinā€™ girl, arenā€™t you?ā€
A single wail of his name is your only response, but itā€™s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.
ā€œYou are,ā€ he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. ā€œMine. Youā€™re fuckinā€™ mine.ā€
His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.
Youā€™re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.
The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.
Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.
But he needs to see you, first.
ā€œLook at me,ā€ his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. ā€œLook at me, Y/N.ā€
Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly youā€™re right back at that edge, only this time, youā€™re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.
ā€œS-Sanemi ā€”!ā€ Itā€™s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.
Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.
ā€œThatā€™s it baby, thatā€™s it,ā€ Sanemiā€™s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. ā€œFuck!ā€œ
Heā€™ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.
But heā€™s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet ā€” all because of him.
He is selfish and he is weak; itā€™s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.
Sanemiā€™s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.
He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.
He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
ā€œFuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckinā€™ good.ā€ He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.
One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. ā€œYou okay?ā€
You donā€™t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster heā€™s always known he was ā€”
ā€œI love you,ā€ and then youā€™re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. ā€œI love you, Sanemi.ā€
It wouldā€™ve hurt less if youā€™d shot him.
Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.
Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.
He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.
It hits him, then. You arenā€™t waiting for an answer ā€” you said it only so he would know, and youā€™d not expected anything in return.
All youā€™d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.
He doesnā€™t deserve any of it.
Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesnā€™t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you ā€” including him.
He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.
He pants as he breaks away. ā€œā€˜M gonna pull out ā€” might be uncomfortable for a second.ā€
You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemiā€™s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.
A low whistle blows past his lips. ā€œDamn, I made a mess outta you.ā€
For a moment, Sanemi canā€™t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.
His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. ā€œLet me clean you up.ā€
Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. ā€œDonā€™t leave ā€” not yet.ā€ You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. ā€œPlease, can you just hold me for a bit?ā€
Sanemiā€™s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He canā€™t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.
Heā€™d be lying if he said he didnā€™t know the source of your anxiety ā€” or that you didnā€™t have reason for it. Sanemi isnā€™t known for lingering.
But this is different ā€” youā€™re different. Youā€™re not some temporary distraction. Youā€™re everything. His everything.
ā€œShhh,ā€ he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. ā€œIā€™m staying right here, sweet girl. Iā€™m not goinā€™ anywhere.ā€
He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.
Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.
Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemiā€™s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.
He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way heā€™s disregarded every rule, every boundary heā€™s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade heā€™d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isnā€™t quite sure what heā€™s supposed to do with the rubble.
What he does know is that thereā€™s no putting things back to how they were.
His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.
But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he canā€™t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.
His eyes widen. Thereā€™s his answer.
Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.
Perhaps that is what youā€™ve done to yourself, and youā€™re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.
He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.
But he can try.
He mouths I love you against your hairline ā€” he does not voice it, not yet, though itā€™s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.
And heā€™ll get there, maybe.
In time.
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marxism-transgenderism Ā· 24 days ago
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From the ages of 14-18 I went to rocky horror live performances that a local group did monthly pretty regularly. It was supposed to be 18+ but nobody gave a shit. I still have a pic of me getting a crazy lap dance from some 30something divorced dude. Fun story until you remember I was 15.
I started going pre coming out as transfem and kept going well after. Some others came once or twice but there was only one other trans girl who regularly went. She was very nice to me. She occasionally said some self hating things that a lot of transfems say at one point or another, especially when isolated. But she was a light to me in that place.
I got preyed on there a couple of times. Men and women. Nothing really happened as far as I can remember but I endured behavior I shouldn't have. And I kept coming back.
I have some good memories. A lot actually. It was one of the few places I could experiment with makeup and women's clothes. I made a lot of friends there and brought many too. I still remember nearly all the shout alongs. But it still fucked me up. Pretty much my only model for transfemininity was the tim curry transvestite rapist alien written by a transmisogynistic theymab who's songs we were singing.
I don't really have a point to this other than i hate the discourse surrounding the movie. I hate the lauding of it as a fundamental queer classic like it's something we all need to uphold and protect and not just a bad movie a bunch of mostly white theatre freaks formed groups to shout along at. I hate that the praise it receives by tme people and the dismissal of any criticism makes it so the only practical position that transfems can take is this sucks and you should quit bringing it up.
The way people talk about it you'd assume it's one of the most liberatory pieces of media of all time. But i came up in that type of space and I gotta tell you it's not much differentā€”both in terms of the rampant transmisogyny and the acceptance of gender non conformityā€”than the experience i had at an official queer youth group non profit that kept up a clean look or the stories I've heard from those who came up in gay bars at an older age than I did. Its really not that special.
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alexanderwales Ā· 4 months ago
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A fantasy worldbuilding idea on what to do with making humans special:
Humans have comparatively insane endurance. Most other species are like cats, spending only 4-6 hours a day "active", which includes time spent playing, working, eating, and interacting with others. The remaining 18-20 hours are spent sleeping or in light rest. Humans putting in eight hours of work every day seems insane, and it seems even more insane when they realize that there's an additional eight hours of cooking, eating, socialization, and play. Human armies aren't feared because they have powerful warriors, they're feared because they can do a fifteen mile march in a day. Humans don't produce the best goods, but because they work so many more hours in a day, they can produce a lot more.
There are a few consequences of this. For one, most of the fantasy races will tend to stay pretty close to their homes, given that travel takes time. If they do travel, that travel has to be in the form of either swiftly moving places in a limited time (e.g. with horses) or a form of travel that allows them to be in "light rest" mode (e.g. lazing about in a wagon). The elves might have grand ships that allow six different shifts of elven sailors, because that's the only way they can keep up with a human navy, and this would obviously have all kinds of cool downstream implications.
In a city that's not dominated by humans, you might either get a "high intensity" four hour block where all business gets done, or alternately, depending on physiology, you might have elven shopkeepers sleeping on their feet, only stirring when someone comes in with some business, and of course there's a limit on how many customers an elf could handle in a day, and some etiquette about not entering a shop unless it's going to be worth the elf's limited time.
I'm continually picturing my cats, who actually do sleep or rest for about twenty hours out of the day. They have a way of lifting their head to see whether a noise or vibration warrants their attention, then settling back down with a huff when it turned out to be a noisy human. This is, in my mind, very close to being elf behavior already.
But if all fantasy races are going to have limited endurance, then I do think it's important to have it be implemented in different ways depending on the species. Here are some ideas:
Elves are like cats, lazing about, extremely fast and agile in their high-power moments, but mostly yawning and stretching, conserving energy for the times of need.
Dwarves have a more strict and structured four hour stretch, which cannot be broken up. Once they're roused for the day, that's it, they have to make the most of it, and this is one of the reason that they disdain delays, dithering, and other things that don't make productive use of their precious four hours.
Orcs go through a personality shift when they're in "waking mode", and while they never actually sleep, a dormant orc is physically smaller, listless, and difficult to engage in conversation. In a first contact scenario, it might be possible to regard these as two separate species, or to imagine that one "form" is male and the other female.
Gnomes have relatively rapid alternating cycles of sleep and wake, with their four hours of activity stretched across the day in half-hour chunks. Gnomes workmen often fall asleep in the middle of crafting, then lift their heads from their benches and continue on as though they had only been asleep for seconds rather than several hours. (For this reason, gnomes often have fire-stoppers built into their homes and workplaces that will quench their flames if they nod off in the midst of work. It also limits their ability to work with flame in general.)
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seriallover Ā· 3 months ago
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Sexual behavior and the things you are into are seen through your Moon, Venus and Mars Yoni animal.
E.g. 1. GoatšŸ SheepšŸ‘: bitting, leaving marks, multiple ejaculation, rough and sensual.
2. Snake šŸ : restriction, asphyxiation, bondage, like to doing slow, for a long time, VERY sensual, eye contact can definitely be a big turn-on.
3. Mongoose : aggressive (not in the BDSM way, more in a dominant/protective manner) and very patient. Prefer the ā€œclassical rolesā€, traditional type.
4. Bull šŸ‚ Cow šŸ„: can have a praise kink or a breeding one, attracted to big chest/boobs.
5. Horse šŸŽ : prefer to be the ones who initiate and like to do it fast, without much planning or organization. They are wild, have great endurance, and can last very long. Strong knees, they may enjoy immobilizing their partner with their legs. They prefer being on top and love riding.
6. Rat šŸ€ : the horniestšŸ˜­for PP the rat is female and she tends to be more dominant in relationship, for Magha the rat is a male who has a breeding kink. Rats usually donā€™t have self control over their sexual desires and can even die from having sex (the actual animal, not the human šŸ˜†or..?They are most likely to be into orgies and threesomes, and are also very fertile.
7. Lion šŸ¦ : lions are selective with their partners. They are passionate and sensual, needing to put on a show every time they have sex. They are aggressive, loud, and rough, preferring to be the dominant partner. Proud and craving praise, they enjoy messy, all-over-the-place intercourse Love to be teased and thrive on working for their partner's attention, embodying the hunting type.
8. Dog šŸ• : are usually submissive, love to bite, and can be somewhat aggressive (especially Ardra). They are loud and prefer 'angry/make-up sex.
9. Tiger šŸ… : all about showing off and hunting; the "prey-predator" dynamic is what turns them on. Also, the female Tiger in reality eats more than she needs, and it still isn't enough for her, so people with this yoni can become nymphomaniac.
10. Monkey šŸ’ : they crave a lot of sexual attention, enjoying being the dominant one and sometimes showing exhibitionist tendencies. They prefer quickies and feel comfortable having sex only in the 'right places'ā€”meaning nice, comfortable, and hygienic rooms or bedsā€”for Sharavana (sex talk).
11. Buffalo šŸƒ : shower/bathtub sex, into polygamy, rough, sadistic sex. For Hasta, they focus on using their hands and tongue more, turned on by dirty/sex talk, foot fetish.
12. Elephant šŸ˜ : they tend to prefer slow, leisurely intercourse, enjoying the process and displaying protective tendencies. As they mature, they become more open and less frivolous, often developing an interest in tantric sex.
13. Cat šŸˆā€ā¬› : turned on by eye contact, docile, prefer longer foreplay, donā€™t like to rush, and everything needs to be handled with care and softness. Like the snake, they enjoy hugging the other person tightly, almost crushing them. And like all the predator yonis, they usually enjoy performing oral on their partner.
14. Deer šŸ¦Œ : prefer to be 'hunted,' usually they arenā€™t the ones who initiate sexual intercourse. Sensual and mostly focused on procreating, they enjoy sex more when they are in a relationship.
This is based on what Iā€™ve read, my experiences, and the people Iā€™ve asked. If youā€™ve had different experiences or feel differently, feel free to share. Like all my observations, it may not apply to everyone. As you can see, each animal has both male and female versions, so the kinks may vary depending on the gender of the animal.
Works both ways, whether giving or receiving
Check D1 and D9
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