#welcome to ow hell

[msmc-796-official]

-I managed to finally contact the HRA division with me to stop firing at your people. For the love of Christ-the-Buddha get your asshole commander away from me she won't stop screaming slurs in languages I don't understand at me over the comms channel we're stuck in

Who in the-?! Oh, wait, shit, that's right, I forgot you were still awake in there. Christ-the-Buddha Almighty, that scared me.

Are you sure that's still Kennedi screaming? She (or, rather, her unconscious - and hopefully not lifeless - body) and her molten wreck of a Caliban have been with us at MSMC-148's drop site for like two hours now, waiting for pickup. Slipshod managed to pry your casket outta that slag heap you used to call a Genghis Mk. 1 and get you connected to a "life support" of sorts on one of their backup generators, but if you can still hear Kennedi's voice screaming bloody murder at you, then your systems might be fried worse than we thought. (No clue if that sort of thing is fixable or not...)

Hopefully the Albatross will be here soon. Our distress beacon is still up and running, and they should more than have our coordinates by now. We'll all be out of here soon. (I hope.)

-- Angel

[itbeleeeee]

instead of obsessively refreshing election info I will instead be playing Overwatch so I will mentally be bashing my head in with a brick either way, it's just that in one scenario I am holding the brick and the other is there are bricks being thrown through my window, computer screen, everyone else is holding a brick waiting to throw at someone else, and in a few days a brick might fall from the sky and kill us all except for the people who don't believe the brick was real.

[spaceandbones]

is there any merit at all in a Nights Watch/Widlings oppositional arctic research outposts AU because I think you can carry over msot of the major themes and also a lot of gay sex

[lustkillers]

Would love to see some content for Simon from Dinner in America or Colin Gray, you’re more than welcome to pick the subject matter, preferably female reader

｡ﾟ･ ୨୧ . i owe you a black eye and two kisses.

⊹₊ ⋆ summary. - oh, how he's missed his girl during his time away.

⊹₊ ⋆ pairing - simon / john q x fem!reader

✶ c.w. - nsfw freaky deaky time!! hard?dom simon, sub!reader, unprotected sex (WRAP IT UP.), p in v, car sex (in a volkswagen beetle...), public sex, STOMACH BULGE!!! facial, throat fucking-ish, degradation—but also praise, cowgirl position, overstimulation, hair pulling, very cutesy fic... (let me know if i missed anything!)

⊹₊ ⋆ note - back from the dead (laziness) and kicking it!! i hope i did this request justice as i haven’t written in so long… WHOOPS. its been literally ages since i wrote smut so i apologize if i’m rusty as hell doing this… PLEASE FORGIVE ME. anywho… LUSTKILLERS IS SO BACK BABY 🙂‍↕️

requests are open! <3

THE night was cold and you couldn't be more bored out of your mind. the windows of your red volkswagen beetle were down, the distinctive smell of the car gas filling the air around you. your leg bounced, the keys that consisted of plenty of keychain accessories clinking against each other, and your eyes traced over the rusty, tall fence that you probably counted all the diamond-shaped holes between each steel bar. how long have you been here? an hour? hour too early?

at the rate of biting at your own cheek unconsciously, there was probably a dent that was left inside your cheek from how much you've bit down on it. turning your palms over was a nightmare; your hands glistening with sweat from anticipation. you wanted to look the best. you wanted everything to be perfect.

you couldn't even remember how he ended up here; maybe you blocked it out. slightly tragic on your end, watching as your boyfriend was cuffed and put into the back of a cop car, the last thing you experienced together was your fingers loosely holding a cigarette for him. that feeling left you empty... and a bit sexually frustrated, due to the fact that he had promised to fuck you real good after his performance.

a masculine silhouette stood at the goddamned fence that you loathed, your eyes shooting up at the whirring sound of the mechanical fence sliding to the right, leaving the figure to leave. you let go of the cigarettes that laid in the cupholder, your slippery hands moving to unlock your car.

with a frustrated yell, you quickly wiped your hands on the seats on your car, restoring the dryness that easily helped you unlock your god forsaken car. you opened the door, ducking under the slight top ledge that you've hit your head on plenty of times. you were giddy like a child receiving their gifts on their birthday– squealing as you shut the door behind you and stood in front of the driver's side door, bouncing on the tips of your toes, and a smile spread across your face.

simon had that stupid smirk on his face, scruff all over his face, and his hair slightly grown out from the last time you saw him. he also had the same clothes on from the last time, the green jacket and black pants with the boots. it felt like the first time all over again, and god, that outfit made your pussy throb, and your knees were moments away from bucking and landing onto the dirt ground.

"didn't i tell you to get rid of that goddamn car? looks stupid, the ladybug print and all." simon said gruffly, a slight smirk creeping onto the corners of with lips, his siren-like eyes peering down at you.

you looked up at him with a slight pout and doe eyes, "i think it looks cute." you mumbled in defense. his eyes gleamed with a predatory look on you. cute, he thought. but what left his lips was just a mere scoff, his smirk turning into a smile... which was still somehow intimidating if you think about it.

"looks like a kiddie car, that's what it looks like." he taunted, making you playfully roll your eyes.

you huff, "i'm gonna punch you in the face... leave a black eye while i'm at it." your voice taunting, yet not really sincere. he only chuckled in response, "c'mere." he moved towards you, his lips swinging down to kiss yours, kissing away the pout that now disappeared.

his rough, big hands wandered towards your ass, gripping it with no intent of letting go. simon's kisses were one of a man deprived of lust and yearning, and he wasn't planning to let your breathe for air. his hands roamed around your backside, his feet pushing you back towards the silly-looking car, his right hand pulling at the door handle, swinging the door open.

simon's eyes opened from the kiss, his frustration growing from the lack of the backdoors your car had. he let out a groan, his lips unlatching from yours, his jaw clenching as he softly moved you aside, bringing the drivers seat forward so you two could hop in the back. his pants strained against his bulge, and the whine that left your lips made it even worse.

"give me a moment doll, your car is pissing me off." he grumbled, watching his head as he hopped into the small car, with you behind him, closing the door. he was sitting with his legs spread, you in front of him with little to no space at all, on your knees, which were already feeling rough from the material of the bottom the car.

you and simon made no time to push down your pants, his hands unbuckling the shiny belt that clinked once it unfastened from his waist, and your hands helped slide them down, his thick, long cock springing free, and you could've sworn your eye twitched at the sight. with the way he looked down at you and the non-existent space you left between your face and his cock, the feeling between your thighs released itself like a flood; your thighs pressing together in instinct.

"god, if you don't hurry it up, i might take matters into my own hands." he groaned out, swallowing dryly as his hands gripped at your hair; making you squeak out a quick 'sorry,' and your tongue quickly laid flat against the side of his cock; a hiss escaping simon's pretty lips. "fuck," he groaned.

you worked your way around his cock, your head bobbing up and down, trying your best to keep eye-contact with him as you bobbed. spit drooled down the sides of your mouth; the liquid pooling at the base of his cock, slowly sliding down his strained balls; the sounds of his grunts and low groans filling the small car.

he felt your right hand shift towards your sopping pussy; mewls leaving your lips as you rubbed your clit, heightening your senses, but also making you focus less on working his cock. simon noticed it, his grip on your hair turning into a makeshift lever, the control reeling to him as he started to guide your head up and down, his cock spearing at the back of your throat, hitting past the uvula. the feeling made you gag, spluttering more spit around his cock, the sight being messy as ever. he pulled your head from his cock, your right hand leaving your clit in response, and as your lips left his cock, it making you gasp out in air; your eyes watering from the intense throat-fuck that was definitely going to leave you sore, along with your poor legs that were soon to fall victim to his fucking.

"si, give me a moment–" you squealed, making simon laugh as he pulled you up onto his lap, laughter leaving from both your lips. "tryna get me put in jail again, doll? fuckin' in front of the prison i just got out of?" he smirked, his forehead touching yours.

"not my fault, si– oh!" you hum in response, which quickly turned into a gasp– which finally turned into a moan, his cock knowingly filling your tight walls. his hips piston upwards, his cock hitting the deepest part of your cunt. his hands held at your hips, guiding you up and down on his cock, creating a white, creamy ring around the base.

the car windows immediately fogged up, heat and sweat glistening on both your bodies, the occasional cocky laugh simon let out settled into your ears, making you shiver. your hips worked at a sensual speed, grinding and bouncing, alternating between the two, moans spilling from your lips.

his lips shut your moans up for a bit, before pulling away and murmuring, "so pretty bouncing on my cock, like the slut you are." he smiled against your shoulder, placing a kiss against it as he looked at you, babbling and panting. "feel that?" he whispered, pressing down on the bulge his cock made in your stomach, immediately making you start to crumble.

you looked at him, your hips started to falter and grow slower, your legs tired and your thighs shaking as the pressure built up, waiting to burst out. but you tried to keep your pace going, your hands on his chest as you whimpered.

your lips tried to form a sentence, only letting out broken words. "c–cum... i needa– hmph!" you cry out, feeling the vibrations of simon's chuckle. "can i–?" you whimpered, moments away from crying in frustration.

his lips captured yours once again, making you come undone. you came around his cock, clenching as your thighs tried to close at the feeling; high-pitched moans leaving your lips as you were sent into a fruitful bliss. "haah–! t-thank you, si!" you sigh, your hips stuttering, still lazily grinding, praying to god that simon finds his release, or you'd probably lose it.

simon groaned, nearing his release as he fucks up into you, your overstimulated pussy weeping and soaking. "m'gonna cum," he exhaled, and at his words– he came, but he planned to cum on your face, his hands making quick–but safe work, one shot of cum shooting inside your cunt, and when you blink, you're already on your knees, hot spurts of his warm cum hitting your face, your eyes closing. he let out a hoarse breath, "that was fuckin' tits," he laughed, hunched over. his cock started to soften, his hands making quick work and grabbed the cigarette pack and paper towel that sat inside the cup holder. he ripped a piece of paper towel, wiping your face... decently clean, but it was the effort that counted.

your eyes fluttered open to look at him, a smirk on his face as a lit cigarette hung from his lips, his rough hands cupping your face and stroking his thumb across your fucked-out cheeks. "you're one of a kind, y'know that?" he let out a sigh, fixing your clothes back on you, and pulling you up to straddle him again sharing a kiss, which tasted like cigarettes, but you didn't mind. you never had a problem with him and he never had a problem with you. the world revolved around you both and nobody else. his eyes twinkled at the sight of your eyes, and his face softened.

"ditto." you whispered, smiling.

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

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

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

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

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

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

MASTERLIST HERE

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

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

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

Life debts.

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

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

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

He will never be able to wash them clean.

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

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

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

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

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

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

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

They were late.

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

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

The stupid, greasy fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

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

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

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

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

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

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

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

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

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

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

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

But you owed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

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

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

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

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

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

Take your trouble somewhere else.

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

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

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

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

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

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

The Kizuki.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

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

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

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

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

Or so he tells himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

Step.

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

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“This can’t be your dream life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Read that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“You look like shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

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

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

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

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

“Dunno. Curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As long as it was more than this.

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

———

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

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

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

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

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

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

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

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

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

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

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

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

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

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

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

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

A cop-out, is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True love.

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

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

He wants out.

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

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he turns and leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in love with Sanemi.

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

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

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

You won’t.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe; you were safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter how much he wanted to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will rot you from the inside, out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, you just did.

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

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

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

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

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

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

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

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

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

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

“You don’t owe me anything —“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want more, and he needs you, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More. He needs more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am ready -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he needs to see you, first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

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

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

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

But he can try.

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

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[somnoir]

How to pull a Batman by J. Constantine

John Constantine wouldn't say he was quite fond of children. He's not fatherly by any means so he knows that he's not suitable for raising children. It's just that he somehow ends up with a young girl at his front door (how she found the house of mystery, he's not sure). The little girl looked normal but she felt off. Too drenched in death to be a run-of-the-mill child. Her red hair seemed to turn into flames at the tips, and her eyes were eerily teal and glowed. Everything about her seemed wrong.

"Hello." She murmured, "Clockwork told me to come find you."

And she was just blinking, looking utterly uncanny as John reluctantly welcomed her into the house. "Master of Time?" He hesitated, knowing that amongst the many powerful beings he'd met the ancient of time had been one of them. A mirthful entity who seemed amused by the chaos and order of the multiverse. 

"He told me to give you this!" The girl fished out a glowing green paper from... y'know, he's not sure. 

And in mocking calligraphy the words:

"You owe me :). p.s. there's more."

was directed at John like a fucking signal. 

Great... Being indebted to the cosmic entity of time has made him a father.

He thought it'd happen one time. Just once. Little Jasmine was adept at the occult and got along well with ghosts, often playing peacemaker when one of them tried bothering Constantine. She was concerningly liminal for a twelve-year-old child, but she brushed it of for the fact that her siblings were either halfas or very liminal. Was he concerned, admittedly yes. 

It wasn't until there was a pounding at the door again did he start praying to any god willing to listen. But no. The sentient house practically dragged him through the halls and led him to where Jazz was eagerly waiting, a grin on her face. 

"My baby brothers are here!" She excitedly says, eyes practically sparkling as she grabs him by the hand. 

"Slow down, darlin'. They won't bloody leave if we slow down." He sighed in exasperation, before pulling the door open. Two pairs of eyes stared into his very soul, making his breath hitch.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was Clockwork sending him?!

"Danny! Dan" Jazz squealed, dragging the two halfas into the house. One with green eyes and another with red. 

"Clockie wasn't kidding when he said he's a sad guy in a trench coat." The one with green eyes muttered, still floating and staying close to Jazz and his twin. 

"Clockwork slept with that?" The red-eyed one unabashedly judged. "Another fruitloop..." The boy snarled.

John Constantine could already predict the future at this point.

Daniel and Dante take to the house immediately, haunting it to their hearts content.

In the course of four years, the hellblazer drowns in the depths of fatherhood, making sure that no one could find out about his children. No. Not even Batman.

He'd be damned (even more) than let anyone involve the best parts of his life in contingency plans and whatnot. 

His kids grow up to be a rowdy and peculiar bunch.

His eldest, Jazz, was turning out to be one hell of a magician. Especially in necromantic arts that he's tried not to touch many times.

The twins, Danny and Dante were little hellions that made him want to tear his hair out. Its later on when Clockwork comes to visit their children (because its joint custody now) that he's informed that one is the crown prince of the realms and to be king upon the expiration of his mortality, and the other was an alternate version of him and was dubbed the world destroyer. 

His fourth child and second daughter had come in the form of Sam, who had popped up in the house and was decorating it with plants he from different dimensions. Also, she was apparently a green witch that now had the powers of the spirit known as undergrowth. The house was green.

His fifth child came in the form of a boy with a red hat and a laptop clutched against his chest. Tucker had seemed so harmless and sweet compared to his older siblings... until John found him performing ancient egyptian rituals and casually hacking into the Pentagon for fun. 

His last (Thank god) daughter was a zoomie toddler. Little Elle had arrived three years after Jazz did. A five year old with such intense wanderlust that he was tempted to buy one of those harness leash thingies parents had their children wear. Also, like the twins in which she was the clone of, she was one hell of a child being directly connected to the speed force.

So in conclusion, John Constantine was the father of three children on the verge of becoming Ancients, a highly intelligent girl with a very deep connection to death, the successor of fucking Undergrowth, and a boy who could effortlessly hack into government systems whilst being a pharao-in-training. 

Batman must never know.

In the far future, John Constantine battles it out with Bruce Wayne, who's children thought it was a good idea to start flirting with his hellions.

Constantine: TO HELL WITH YOU IF YOU THINK IM LETTING MY PERFECT JAZZY PANTS DATE YOUR FLIPPY SON!

Bruce: SHE'S GOOD FOR HIM!

Constantine: YEAH WILL IS HE GOOD FOR HER?!

And then it gets worse once John catches the Red Hood displaying some ghostly courting behaviour towards Dan. And he's just.

Constantine: Tell your children to back off.

Bruce: You think I haven't tried???

Then comes Danny and Tim with their unhinged behavior. Constantine isn't even mad about the fact that his son is dating one of the Bats. He's just concerned about the chaos with these two.

Bruce: okay, that one is not allowed. How do we get them to break up?

Constantine who's already witnessed Danny making plans to brutally murder Ra's for some spleen: Yeah, no. Good luck with that one.

By the time it's just Sam, Tucked, and Elle, he's praying it's not one of the Bats.

He really is.

Tucked is emmersed in his work but that didn't stop him from befriending Bart Allen and the current Kid Flash. Time travel is the one they usually discuss. (Dante and Constantine were very much on the same page when it came to keeping them just friends.)

And then Sam somehow ends up catching the attention of a daughter of Zeus. By this point, Constantine was preparing to fight god again and would have to ask his ex for a favor.

He's just so happy his precious princess Elle was being a sweet fifteen years old and wasn't daring crazy people.

(Damian was being rather suspicious...)

[yuwuta]

RODEO STATION, 1 — MEGUMI FUSHIGURO 

A collection of you and Megumi, through the years, through Gojo’s eyes. 

content, warnings: friends to lovers, fluff, sort of canon-adjacent, satoru adopts megumi and tsumiki, reader has a cursed technique but it’s not mentioned in depth here, really just you and megumi falling in love and gojo watching

word count: 1.1k

part i: first years, jujutsu tech. fits in the timeline around when nobara first joins the class

When Satoru first finds him, Megumi has two conditions. First, that Tsumiki would be kept safe and happy, and far away from the Zenin clan if they weren’t going to be good to her—safe and far away from all jujutsu society if Gojo could help it; and that she would never have to worry about feeding herself or Megumi ever again. Satoru agreed right away, he would have done that without the request. 

For his second condition, an eight year old Megumi looked Satoru straight in the eye and told him that he would absolutely not be separated from you. Satoru thought it was cute, sweet, in the bratty, and naive but determined kind of way that seemed to be everything that kid stood for, and Satoru couldn’t fault him for it. Megumi’s evident childlike adoration of you aside, Satoru saw potential in you, too, so he accepted Megumi’s conditions, happy to welcome the two of you to the world of sorcery. 

It’s not until a week before you both start at Jujutsu Tech, that Satoru really asks Megumi why he wants you here (never mind the fact that you had already also made up your mind about being a sorcerer, and if there is anything that Satoru has learned about you in the past decade, it’s that: one, you have the magical ability to make Megumi do anything you say; and two, you’re incredible persuasive and very stubborn). Megumi doesn’t look him in the eye when he answers, fidgeting with his melting ice cream instead when he says, “Well, she saved my life.” 

Satoru doesn’t tease when he hears this, only digging his spoon in for a scoop of Megumi’s toffee butter, smiling to himself when the cold hits his tongue, because he’d heard the message loud and clear: Megumi believes he owes you his life, and to keep yours protected, he wants you by his side.

Satoru quickly learns that Megumi truly has his work cut out for him as he watches you burst through a top-floor window of a high-rise building, falling carelessly with the object of your mission—a special-grade cursed object—clutched in your grasp. Second later, there’s a loud explosion, as the ugly head of a large cursed falls limp in the hole in the broken glass that you’d left behind. Satoru chuckles when he sees you smile, and the faint cheer of weeeeeeeee as you fall. He knew you were wild and stubborn by the way you bossed Megumi around without a care, but seeing you in action proved that you were also in your own league of crazy, a fantastic sorceress in the making. 

To his left, Yuuji gapes wildly as he looks up, shielding his eyes with his hand, and then flinching back when Nobara bursts through the ground floor door, not without a nail going flying into the curse that had been chasing her. She looks angry, then wide eyed, then up to where Yuuji and Megumi were also staring and starts squealing alongside him. 

“Gojo-sensei, what are you standing there smiling about—do something!” Nobara shouts, pointing an accusatory finger up in the air at your flying body. 

Yuuji gasps again, like he’d just figured out the consequence of you falling from a building, spewing on his own cries, “Hey, seriously, what the hell are we doing—she can’t fly,” he shouts, turning to shake his sensei, then pausing, “Wait, Fushiguro, can she fly? You know her.” 

“Idiot,” Nobara spits, “If she could fly then she’d be flying, not falling.”

“Then why aren’t we doing any—you know what, I think I can catch her,” Yuuji boasts, rolling up his sleeves, prepared to position himself underneath your descending body, and that’s when Satoru steps in, extending an arm in front of his students. 

“You all worry too much,” he smiles, lifting his blindfold just enough to look the pair in the eye, and tilt his head up slightly, “Besides, Megumi’s handled it.” 

Three heads turn back up to the sky, where you’re no longer in freefall, instead have had your shoulders snatched by Nue’s talons. You’ve still got that wild smile on your face, wider now as you descend much more elegantly via Megumi’s shikigami. Nobara and Yuuji wince as Nue’s wings flap widely when you’re set on the ground. You shift the box with the cursed object to one hand, reaching your free one around to pet the bird’s feathers. It crows happily, and Satoru snickers, much to Megumi’s dismay. You always did treat his shikigami like pets. 

“Hey, you’re okay!” Yuuji cheers, eyes sparkling, “What’s in the box? A sword—actually, I don’t want to know. If it’s another finger, keep it away from me.” 

“Hand it here,” Nobara demands. You’re happy to hand over the box and have another hand available for petting Nue. 

Satoru watches fondly as Yuuji and Nobara fuss over the box. They should probably exercise more caution, but he’s there, so the worst can’t happen. Meanwhile, you step closer to Megumi with Nue fluttering behind you. 

“You’re the one who told me there would be no need to get involved,” Megumi says, voice soft, hands falling comfortably at his side. 

“I said that you wouldn’t have to get involved with the curses,” you correct, standing on your tiptoes to nuzzles your head into the bird’s feathers, “I said nothing about not getting involved with me.” 

Satoru does his best not to choke out a loud laugh as Megumi’s face becomes increasingly pink when you reach forward to pinch his cheeks, his grumbling drowned in the sound of Yuuji and Nobara’s bickering. Satory sighs, content. He cares for all his students, but there’s a certain weight lifted on his shoulders knowing that when it came to you, there was truly nothing to worry about—Megumi would always be there for you. Honestly, he thinks Megumi might fight him to protect you if it came down to it. 

That thought does bring an audible chuckle to his lips, Megumi’s pinched expression calling to him, “What are you laughing about?” 

To which Satoru only hums, sticking his hands in his pockets. Megumi’s eyebrows furrow deeper, but it’s quickly dissolved when you catch his attention again, saying your farewells to Nue before giving Megumi the okay to let him recede into his shadows. 

“Oh, nothing,” Satoru chirps, turning to lead the group back to Ichiji’s car, “Come on, who’s still up for revolving sushi!”  

Cheers follow him as the veil dispels. You question Yuuji about whether or not you think the restaurant will have grilled eel, and Nobara pretends to throw up, arguing that eel is the worst, that you all should stick to hand rolls instead. Megumi stays quiet, walking on your outside, and humming along with all of your suggestions, and Satoru can’t help but wonder whether or not you knew that Nue had been out from the moment you’d stepped in the building. 

Honestly, he thinks Megumi might win that fight—might win any fight if it meant being with you.

[hxney-lemcn]

Time for a Break — Housewardens x gn! reader

summery: it's the end of the year and you have nowhere to go...

tw: slight angst (Riddle, Idia, Malleus)

wc: 1.7k (~230 per character)

Master List

With nonstop overblots, exams, homework, studying, and keeping your friends in line, you hadn’t even realized that the end of the year was approaching rapidly. You could barely take in your end of the year grades before coming face to face with the fact that you have nowhere to go while everyone gets a summer break. Didn’t you deserve a break too? You felt like you were going to collapse and evaporate if you didn’t sleep in a bed that doesn’t have lumps. In a fit of despair, you go to the only person you can think of.

❥ Riddle Rosehearts

Okay…so you are not allowed to come home with him. His reason for saying no is vastly different from his mothers reason. He doesn’t want to cause you any more stress, or have to hear his mother’s insults that she’ll inevitably spout towards you. No, instead he helps you ask Trey. Although Trey’s home already is a full house, his family welcomes you with open arms. All his siblings overcrowd you (no matter how much Trey tries to stop them), his parents ask many questions to get to know you better, and you end up sharing a room with Trey. All the while, you can’t help but think about Riddle, wishing you could find a way to get him out of his own personal hell. Over time, you and Trey visit Riddle, your only meetings being through his window. Every so often you’d bring Riddle a sweet treat that you learned how to bake either from Trey or his parents. As much as you enjoy having a break with such a lovely family, you can’t help wanting for the next school year to happen. Not for the school work, or the overblots (hopefully there won’t be any the upcoming year), but because you’ll get to see Riddle again, not through a window or with hushed whispers. But in person, speaking to each other freely once more. 

❥ Leona Kingscholar

When you hinted about not having anywhere to go, hoping that the lion would take the bait and let you stay with him, he just ignored you. Didn’t even pretend to act like he was listening to you. Squinting your eyes, you stood up from his bed, announcing that Malleus might be willing to take you in…you couldn’t get far before Leona grabbed your wrist, pulling you into him and holding you close. Who said you could go and stay with that overgrown lizard? Wasn’t it obvious you were staying with him? You were scared of meeting his family, they were royalty and Leona had spoken bad of them. You had met his nephew, and little did you know that the boy had talked his parents ear off about you and Leona for a day before finding a new topic. Leona’s brother and sister in law welcomed you to their palace with open arms, greeting you warmly before excusing themselves. It was a bit to get used to, trying new foods, sleeping in a bed that was way too luxurious, being treated like royalty, becoming a nanny…yeah. You now realized one of the reasons why Leona dreaded coming back. As much as you adored Cheka…he could be a bit much. Overall, it's not the worst place to stay, but it would feel a bit lonely without Leona or Cheka around. 

❥ Azul Ashengrotto

Oh boy…were you both that far in your relationship already? No? He’s just overthinking it? Okay, this was fine. He was a host after all, and he did owe you for basically saving his life…and being the one he loved. His only problem? His mother. As much as Azul loved his mother…he could not have her sharing his baby photos with you. He’ll have to work overtime over the summer to make sure that doesn’t happen (who is he kidding he can’t say no to his mom). How are you going to stay entire months under water? Who do you think he is? He’s got stocks of underwater breathing potions. When you meet his parents, you don’t have time to think before you’re swooped into a giant hug (probably the best damn hug you’ll ever get too). Then Azul is added to the hug and you're both being squished together. His mother loves you instantly, cooing over you both, feeding you some of the best food you’ve ever had while telling you embarrassing stories of Azul when he was just a little fry. Once again, you start seeing him in a new light, a much softer and loving one. He always tried to show you his gentlemanly and suave side, keeping just how soft of a person he was locked deep down, but you wouldn’t have him any other way.

❥ Kalim Al-Asim

What do you mean you have nowhere to go? Weren’t you coming to his place? He would be honored to have you as a guest! Just think of all the sleepovers, dates, game nights, and kisses! Actually, he might’ve gone crazy if he was away from you for such a long time. Kalim’s family doesn’t mind either, they don’t even notice one more person in their extravagant palace. Instead of just being swarmed with siblings, you’ve got cousins and distant relatives around you as well. They have both good and bad intentions, some scheming on how to get closer to Kalim, and others scheming on how to get you to play hide and seek. Kalim is practically bouncing off the walls as he drags you down the halls on his grandiose tour. Laughing heartily over the feast his family calls dinner, then taking you on a breathtaking carpet ride above the Scalding Sands. Each day is a different adventure, and Kalim is the one leading you hand in hand into what awaits you both. Poor Jamil, Kalim only got ten times more impulsive as he tries to show you everything he loves (and buy you anything you eye for a second too long). Also…you are in a bit of danger being seen in public so close to Kalim and with how he shows how much he cares about you…

❥ Vil Schoenheit

Do you think he’d let you stay at Night Raven College for months on end without supervision? You’re crazy. Just be prepared to be in a giant mansion alone for a bit. Vil goes without seeing his father for weeks on end, and he himself has a busy schedule. He’d love to take you with him, but unfortunately the media is as savage as a pack of wolves and would shred you apart without second thought. You didn’t mind too much, as long as you could get away from school for just a minute. With those warnings in mind, you were surprised to be greeted by servants taking your luggage to a spare room (right next to Vil’s) then being treated to a fantastic dinner with Eric, Vil’s father joining you two. Even Vil seemed surprised, asking his father about his latest movie. Eric only laughed, stating that he wanted to meet the person who caught his son's attention. You never felt too alone in the mansion, you’d get ready in the morning with Vil, seeing him off, doing your own thing for the day, and ending the night with a home prepared meal or going out to eat if Vil was feeling extra. On his days off, Vil would take you out, sometimes it would be to a spa, going shopping, or you forcing him to take a break and relax at home and watch some movies. You don’t think you could go back to that wack job of a school after getting a taste of luxury.

❥ Idia Shroud

What. You want to go home with him? You do know where he lives right? You’d be totally isolated from all your other friends…you still want to come home with him? He supposes Ortho would be happy to have you around…fine, he just doesn’t like how excited his parents get when he asks for permission (after all he lives in a very secret location). He’s a bit overwhelmed at first, it seems like such an intimate scenario. You’re going to be living with him in the same house in a super secret base in the middle of nowhere. When you arrive, Idia tries not to shove you into his room and lock the door because his parents are non stop pestering you. Asking you about how you met Idia, how he was doing, and about you and your world. Thankfully for Idia, they had to rush back to work quickly, giving you a warm welcome and telling you to ask for anything if need be. To your surprise, Idia watched you like a hawk (and that’s the times you knew of). S.T.Y.X. was a dangerous place, and he’d be damned if he lost you like he lost Ortho. Be prepared to be trapped in a room lit with blue led lights and playing video games and watching anime until you feel your brain melting. Please bring some vitamin D…you’re not going to get enough sunlight. 

❥ Malleus Draconia

Don’t worry child of man, he already has a room in his palace ready for you. Do you really think he was going to let you stay all alone (with Grim but okay) at Night Raven College? Of course not. You’re his precious child of man, he’ll make sure you get nothing but the best. Of course…he had to make sure his grandmother warmed up to you. You are a human after all, and she hasn’t had the best experience with them. Not to mention how his people will view him for bringing a commoner human into the castle and given the royal treatment. He doesn’t care. In fact, Malleus didn’t even think of such a thing, not until Sebek brought it up. When you arrived you felt overwhelmed as the servants bowed (you almost forgot that Malleus was standing next to you). He tried staying by your side for as long as he could, but as future king, he had many things to attend to. This left you on your own a bit, and you got acquainted with Maleficia. At first she terrified you, but over time you both warmed up to each other and Malleus found himself jealous with how much time you spent with her compared to him. All the while she found it amusing that her grandson was so hung up on a human…but she also found it heartbreaking. A fae falling for a human never had a happy ending, but she’s glad to know you’d take care of him well.

[sigilcatt]

Hii

Sebastian x Reader where they don't have enough data so they just ask if they can pay w/ a kissy?

zomg this is so cute???

{reader is GN}

So far, the totality of this expedition sucked.

Signing up to fetch some stupid crystal for your freedom sounded like a flawless idea, sure. If you dismissed the plethora of creatures making an effort to kill you along the way. (Not like the people who sent you here cared, mind you.) You were chastised for any mistakes, even though they refused to even inform you about the opposing dangers to begin with. It was more of an…inconvenience if you happened to fail.

Regardless, between having to avoid possesed lockers, shadowy figures, and whatever those god-awful anglers were, you thought you were pretty damn good at this.

You’d managed to stay alive so far, approaching yet another door, this one marked “43.”

Hopefully this one would be easier than the last..

Gently slipping a thin, blue keycard inside the reader that had been installed into the door, waiting for it to hiss open with a scowl on your face. The door parted and swept aside, revealing yet another dark hallway before you.

Dammit, You thought with a groan, fumbling around in your bag to retrieve your flashlight. It was already low on juice, and of course, you had no batteries on you. Just your luck. Shaking it awake, the warm golden light illuminated the absolute mess of the corridor; large crates looked as if they’d been violently thrown across the room, one even appeared to have left minor damage to one of the many thick pipes lining the walls to your left.

Plus the considerable ragged clawmarks that laced the floor, but it was better to ignore those, no?

Taking a few deep breaths, you forced yourself to stray deeper into the space, your light scanning over each and every crevice. You weren’t about to risk letting anything jump out at you.

Except for the vent grille, apparently.

An earsplitting smash reverberated throughout the chambers as it rammed against the nearby wall, bouncing back for a mere second before collapsing onto the floor.

“What the hell-?!”

Out of shock, you dropped your flashlight, the generous amount of light you’d been given now gone as it rolled away from your feet. As you scrambled to pick it back up, a voice echoed through the vent opening.

“Got something for you.”

You narrowed your eyes at the small gap, quickly realizing who it was with frustation bubbling in your gut.

Sebastian. That 10ft sea monster that lingered around these areas, offering you useful supplies in exchange for data. You rolled your eyes with a sigh as you got on your knees, wincing with discomfort as you made your way through the vent to see him.

Of course it was him. Who else would it be? As much as he annoyed you with his unwarranted attitude and sass, he was still…nice to be around. Made things less lonely.

“Ah, you, welcome back.” He greeted, though of course laced his voice with sarcasm. “Really thought you’d be dead by now.”

“I’m more capable than you think, Seb,” You retorted, crossing your arms as you glared up at him, almost actually insulted he doubted you.

His long, grey, scaly tail sat curled against the wall, his selling items neatly attached to it. He scowled right back at you, demonstrating his usual toothy grin as his fins twitched slightly. “Sure.” He hissed softly.

You ignored him, browsing his wares with tired eyes. You approached his tail, ripping off a silvery flashlight and examining it. Without a second thought, you stuffed it into your bag and began to leave.

“Where are you going?” Sebastian scoffed. Abruptly, his wide tail clasped over the vent opening, preventing you from leaving. “You haven’t paid. You must actually be stupid, huh?”

“You owe me!” You exclaimed, throwing your arms into the air. “You scared me and made me drop my first flashlight. Now its’ broken, thanks.”

“Oh dear, really?” Sebastian hissed, feigning concern in his voice.

You groan in frustration as the sarcasm hit you, yanking your bag open to find any data you’d collected along the way. You were hoping to get this interaction over with, if he was going to be this sassy.

“Oh..damn..”

You stared into your palms, which held a few scraps of data, some of which were even broken during your travels. Whatever it was, you definetly did not carry enough to afford anything.

Sebastian laughed softly, seemingly observing this as well. “Too bad, then. That’s really embarrassing, I might add.”

“Wait, seriously?!” You clamored, desperate to leave here with something. “I can figure something out!”

“We had a deal. One you agreed to, in case you forgot. Either you pay, or you get nothing, sweetheart.” He added the taunting nickname with a scoff, reaching to take your bag from you.

You leapt away, knowing he’d tear it to pieces with his claws, even if he was trying to be gentle. Which he wasn’t, of course, but still.

“Wait, wait, I can-” You protested. An idea struck you suddenly. Not a very easy one, but it was something, at least. Oh well, what did you have to lose besides your life and freedom?

Sebastian pulled his hand away, narrow eyes boring into you as he waited for you to finish.

“How would you feel about some sort of…romantic gesture? Like, I don’t know, a fucking kiss or something?” You offered, preparing to be screamed out of the room.

But, to your surprise, that didn’t happen. He simply kept that narrow-eyed glare. At first, you thought he might not have heard you, so you drew in a breath to speak again. “I mean, come on. You think I can’t tell you at least like my presence a little? You’ve given me discounts and let me just sleep in here whenever.”

It was silent for a minute. The events you’d listed were true, however. You could recall moments when you’d just been so drained that he reluctantly allowed you to use his tail as some sort of pillow to rest with, along with the discounts on items he claimed were just him being in a “good mood” at the time.

“That desperate, are we?” Sebastian laughed, his voice yanking you out of your daydreams. He thought on your proposal for a few agonizingly long seconds before letting out a deep sigh. “…Fine.”

You let out a breath you didnt know you’d been holding, practically gripping your newfound flashlight as if it were your only lifesource. (It might as well be, considering your conditions, honestly..)

You opened your mouth to continue, though all that escaped you was a startled gasp as Sebastian lifted you off the ground. Cold, sharp claws grasped onto you with a gentleness you didn’t know he was capable of as he held you, level to his scaly face.

Your hands grabbed onto whatever part of his claws you could in order to keep yourself from falling as you stared at him with wide eyes.

“So?” He remarked with a frown. You cleared your throat with a deep breath. “Right..”

You leaned in further, pushing your hands against the side of his face as support before pressing your lips against him. Your body seemed to heat up as you did so, finding an odd sense of comfort as you let it linger for a few extra seconds.

“Mmh.” A satisfied hum escaped Sebastian as he gently curled his claws further around your body. Though the fear of falling wasn’t an issue for you right now. All you could seem to think about was the current situation, and the way it made you feel.

Eventually, you pulled away, wiping your mouth as you cleared your throat. You stared up at him, taking in the slight smirk being thrown your way.

“Good enough for you?” You asked, your voice softer than usual.

“Very,” He sighed, placing you down carefully. Your legs trembled as your feet finally touched the ground, due to the being held midair like that, and also maybe the fact that you had just kissed a sea creature you were told to avoid at all costs.

You tightened the hold on your flashlight as you stared off into space, thinking on your recent actions. Of course it earned you something, but holy shit.

In an attempt to take your mind off this, you sat down, arms wrapped around your legs as the lack of energy finally got to you. Sitting against the wall, you let out a sigh.

“Could I stay for a bit?”

“…For a few hours.” Sebastian exhaled, arms crossed as he glanced down at you.

You smiled, a silent ‘thank you’ as you let the well-deserved sensation of rest overcome you.

This was going to be an odd story to tell when you got back.

so sorry if this is shit, /gen , I haven’t written in forever , plus im much better with hcs 💔

[navybrat817]

Fall for Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky doesn't think he's good enough for you, but still wishes he could be your guy. Word Count: Over 1.4k Warnings: Longing, insecurities, "just friends" (for now), Steve is a good friend, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: We'll call this a Friday Feels inspired by a nonnie.❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was a special kind of torture for Bucky to watch the person he loved flirt with someone else.

To be fair, he couldn't say for sure that you were flirting. Being friendly? Yes. You had a warm and welcoming personality, the kind he was drawn to the moment you two crossed paths months ago. One of the things he loved about you was how genuine you were. It was only natural that you pulled others in as well. Your compassion, charm, beauty, everything called to him.

You were the whole package, inside and out.

“What the hell am I doing here?” He muttered. He hadn't wanted to go to the bar, but Steve assured him it was a hole-in-the-wall sort of place. Not a lot of patrons on a night like this. Somewhere no one would bother them. He added at the last second that you were going.

Bucky grabbed his leather jacket to go as soon as those words left Steve’s mouth.

Instead of having a drink with you like he wanted or just talking, he simmered in silence in a booth while you stood at the bar. He narrowed his eyes as the guy you were talking to moved an inch closer. A bit too close for his liking.

Steve said his name was Will. They had met each other at some point in passing. Short blonde hair and a trimmed beard. Ex-military, but still built like he had a war to fight. Behind the guy’s blue eyes lurked pain, guilt, and regret that most would miss due to his general stoic demeanor. Bucky could relate all too well to horrors that haunted even the strongest of men.

But when Will looked at you, his eyes lit up. They held a sense of longing. Hope.

Once again, Bucky could relate all too well because that was how he looked at you.

“You’re doing that staring thing again,” Steve said, grabbing a beer from the bucket and setting it down in front of him. “Just talk to her.”

Bucky took a swig, but didn't take his eyes off you. He was afraid if he looked away that Will might convince you to leave with him. “Talk to her about what?”

His best friend sighed. “You know what.”

Steve knew how he felt about you. Talking about his feelings wasn't easy, but he had to tell his best friend. And it wasn't the first time Steve encouraged him to speak up. He said you had the right to know so the two of you could figure out how to move forward, whether as a couple or just friends, instead of dancing around it.

But how could Bucky admit how he felt when he didn't deserve someone like you?

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said.

“Bullshit.”

“We're friends,” Bucky stated. The words tasted as bitter as the beer he sipped. No, not bitter. He couldn't feel that way just because he had a piece of you when he wanted all of you.

Was he selfish for that?

He nearly shattered the bottle in his hand when you giggled at whatever Will said. Something akin to jealousy settled in his chest and he had no right to feel that way. The two of you weren't together. You were single and didn't owe him a thing.

But he knows if you gave him a chance, he’d treat you well. Better than any other guy before him. He would do his best to make you happy. Maybe that wasn't enough.

“Will is a good guy, but he isn't you, Buck. You’re still one of the best guys I know,” Steve said.

“You don't have to kiss my ass, punk,” he muttered, immediately regretting it. He was only trying to help and God knows he had done more than enough for him over the years.

Steve shook his head. “And you don't have to feel sorry for yourself, jerk.”

“I’m not,” he whispered. Maybe he was. He was sorry for so many things.

As if you sensed his sadness, you looked over your shoulder and met his gaze. You smiled at him, the kind of smile that stole the very breath from his lungs and made his head spin. He wanted to believe it was a smile you reserved only for him. And the softness in your beautiful eyes, he imagined he could see his future in them.

Could you see the endless love he had for you in his?

His heart ached when you turned away and put your hand on Will’s arm. Of course, you were attracted to the guy. Why wouldn’t you be? The thought of you kissing him though, being intimate with him? He felt sick enough to finally look away.

Bucky glanced at his distorted reflection in the beer bottle. A long time ago, he would've called himself handsome. Not because he was full of himself, but because he knew himself then. He knew how to walk the line between confidence and cockiness. He was full of life and wonder once. Now the weight of his sins showed in how he carried himself.

Sins you never judged him for.

“Jamie? Are you okay?”

Steve nudged him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He was so lost in his mind that he hadn’t heard you call out to him. He should’ve known since you were the only one who called him Jamie. When he looked up from his seat, he saw that you were no longer standing next to Will as he was still at the bar. And there was nothing but concern in your gaze as you set your drink down on the table.

“What? What happened?” He asked, not smooth at all.

Your eyes flickered to Steve and then back at him. “I asked if you’re okay. You don’t look too well.”

“Not feeling so great,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. “This place…”

“Oh,” you said, sliding into the booth beside him. He inhaled, your sweet scent soothing the pain in his heart and making it race all at once. “Well, why don’t we head out? There’s no reason to stay if you don’t want to stay.”

He gently smiled. You were always willing to go with the flow and change plans if things ever got too loud or too much for him. “I’m fine. Besides, you just got your drink and you haven’t had a chance to play pool with Sam or Natasha,” he argued. He didn’t want to spoil your night.

You put your hand on his arm, but it seemed different than when you touched Will’s arm. This was tender, soothing. “If being here is making you uncomfortable, then I don’t feel like sticking around. They’ll understand. Steve, please, back me up on this.”

“She’s right. You two should go,” Steve said, conveniently leaving himself and the others out of the equation.

Bucky spared Will a glance, who was now talking to the guys he went into the bar with. He swallowed hard before the next words left his mouth. “What about your new friend?”

“You are my friend, Jamie,” you said. He winced inwardly at the reminder. Friends. You were just friends. “Don’t worry about him. Let’s just go. How about a movie at your place? Something low-key so you feel better.”

“You sure?” He asked, wondering just how eager he looked to leave with you.

“I’m sure,” you smiled, making his heart warm again.

“Okay. You convinced me,” he said. Not that it would’ve taken much. Your smile could bend the will of just about anyone.

“You know, I hear healthy conversations are also good to help people feel better,” Steve chimed in, earning an elbow to the side from Bucky.

You raised an eyebrow and slid out of the booth. “Yeah. Sure. Jamie and I can have a healthy conversation and you all enjoy the rest of the night.” You offered Bucky a hand to help him out. He didn’t want to let go. “C’mon. We have a movie waiting for us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky teased, proud of himself when you giggled.

Steve gave him an optimistic smile and he couldn’t help but return it. He wasn’t sure if Will had given you his number or if you planned to see him, but maybe he’d take a chance and tell you he had fallen for you. Maybe, if he was lucky, you had fallen for him, too.

Just maybe.

And maybe, just maybe, this could be a thing? Did Will give you his number? Will Bucky say how he feels? What's going to happen? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[starmapz]

what you know - ch3: grade a(sshole) || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. implied injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 12.1k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The sounds of metal clanging and engines revving are somehow more grating than usual as Sukuna hangs the phone back on the wall. His head rests against the smooth surface beside the phone and he lets out a deep sigh, thankful you can’t see the frustration strewn across his face. Of fucking course Uraume’s in class right now and really, why had he ever expected his uncle to pick up? If he were good for anything, Sukuna wouldn’t be a parent to his siblings while in college.

“Ryomen! I need a hand!”

He rolls his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension in his body from having no other choice but to call you, the source of all of his problems as of late, before pushing off the wall. He doesn’t say a word as he makes his way to his colleague, ignoring the man’s questioning. Just like everyone else in his life, his colleague doesn’t need to know anything about him.

The day drags on for Sukuna. He’s sluggish and worn out, covered in a sheen of sweat and grease and he can feel the oil he accidentally combed through his hair without thinking while speaking on the phone with you.

And then there’s you. Why the fuck won’t you leave his head? Why the fuck did he have to loosen and re-tighten the bolts on a set of tires because the thought of you had distracted him so much he’d tightened them a few too many times? Why had he done it on multiple tires?

As the day wraps up and he leaves the shop, the cool night air is welcome on his skin. He lets out a sigh as he begins to walk home, running a hand through his tousled hair once again. The feeling of oil coating his bare hand leaves him with a scowl and he wipes it on his coveralls, but they have enough grease on them that it hardly helps. His lip curls in disgust as he shoves his hands into his pockets, staring at the sidewalk as he makes his way back to his apartment.

The walk is too short to deliberate what the hell he’s even gonna say to you when he knows for a fact he owes you. Again. Yet that’s hardly the issue, when he knows he hurt you when he saw you last and now here he is asking for a favor. Fuck, how it pisses him off.

His hand pauses over his front door before he knows it, letting out a sigh as he unlocks the door and pushes through. He’s met immediately with the sight of you, dressed in a skirt and a beige knit sweater sitting on the couch. He goes to drop his keys on the table beside the door but pauses before they can clatter on the wood as he realizes Choso is sound asleep on top of you.

He sucks in a sharp breath, meeting your gaze. The world seems to hold its breath as you both stare at one another, completely silent.

“Hey,” your voice is smaller than you intended as you decide to break the tense silence. Sukuna’s piercing gaze flickers between you and Choso before he finally shuts the door behind him, his expression unreadable.

“They fell asleep?” He grunts.

Grimacing as he blatantly ignores your greeting, you nod. “Yeah. Choso wanted one more movie, but-” you pause, casting a glance at the young boy. “He didn’t make it long.”

Sukuna takes a step forward to look at the TV, quietly playing The Iron Giant. “That’s his favorite.”

You nod slowly, but your eyes never once leave Sukuna. He looks tired as ever again, like he hasn’t had a break in a long time, but you know better than to offer help now. That, and the way he hurt you still hangs over your head even if you aren’t upset with him.

“He really likes sad movies,” you comment in an effort to cut through the tension in the air, but it hardly helps, enveloping you in its grasp once more.

A puff of air leaves Sukuna’s nose in an acknowledging laugh. “You watched The Land Before Time didn’t ya?” There’s a hint of a smile on his face that you mirror back at him despite the lingering unease.

“And Pokemon.”

Sukuna’s brow raises as he nods. “Yeah. Dunno why, he’s always liked those three.”

In an attempt to lighten the mood, you offer a teasing smirk. “Maybe he takes after you. These are all your movies, aren’t they?”

Sukuna looks between the TV and you again, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. Staring down at his hand that he forgot was covered in oil, he huffs at the realization that it’s now on his face. “They were,” he mindlessly answers, turning back towards you. He gently sets his keys on the table, noting the fact that you have a little smirk and are very obviously staring where he just wiped his hand. Yeah, he has oil on his forehead. “D’ya mind staying while I shower? I’ll be ten minutes. I’ll carry Cho to his room after.”

“That’s fine, you could use a showe-”

“Shut- your mouth, Prom Queen,” he quietly hisses, his tone lacking the aggravation of someone truly frustrated.

You shoot him a small smile, laughing quietly as a semblance of normalcy finally returns. When he kicks off his shoes and pads quietly further into the apartment, disappearing into the washroom, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

It’s not like you weren’t expecting this to be uncomfortable, but you’d expected Sukuna to be as brash and vexing as usual, not whatever this is. The palpable tension, the somber silence and the complete and utter lack of frustration from Sukuna- it’s like you’re treading through a potential minefield, yet now you have no clue what could set him off this time. Do you even owe him that given how he snapped at you when you last saw him?

Throwing your head against the back of the couch, you sigh, deciding to give your attention back to the movie to force yourself not to get overwhelmed by your own overthinking. Choso shuffles in your arms, snoring softly as his hair falls over his face.

The sounds of doors opening and closing only a few minutes later makes your heart speed up when Sukuna emerges after a moment, dressed in a tight black tank top that hardly leaves anything to the imagination and gray sweatpants. You blink a few times as you make a conscious effort not to stare at his abs but god is it hard.

It’s almost like your mind forgets that you’re upset with him because he’s just that attractive, and that only makes your cheeks heat up because, come on. You’re better than this. Swallowing, you force yourself not to look at his bulging biceps or the veins in his forearms or the obvious six pack that the tank top doesn’t hide one bit. Why is it so tight anyway? Is he showing off?

But Sukuna hardly seems to notice your turmoil, his usual frown plastered on his face as he runs a hand through his hair, now oil-free. He closes the distance between you as he crosses the living room in two easy strides, standing tall in front of you.

“How’s Yuji?” He asks, clearing his throat.

“He’s been asleep most of the day but he didn’t throw up after I got here. He had a couple of spoonfuls of soup but he’s not hungry.”

He nods. “Good. I think.” Tense silence settles between you and you have to avert your gaze as you grow uncomfortable. “I’ll take Cho to his bed,” Sukuna mumbles, effortlessly lifting the young boy into his arms. Choso doesn’t so much as shuffle as Sukuna carries him to his and Yuji’s room. Fiddling with your neatly manicured nails, you stare in the direction Sukuna left. He’s back in only a few moments, looking relieved as ever that the day is over.

“Um, are you o-” you begin, realizing too late that both you and Sukuna have begun talking at the same time.

“You can go home.”

You stare at one another with wide eyes as you both speak over one another. Laughing uncomfortably, you chew on your lip. “You don’t want to talk about…?”

Sukuna’s brow furrows. There’s his irritation. Of course he would think the best thing to do is avoid the subject entirely.

“What do you want to talk about?” He asks in an impatient tone as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Your lips part as you search for words, treading carefully now that you have Sukuna’s attention. “You were a dick,” you offer as a starter, knowing that of all of the things you could say, this wouldn’t actually bother him that much.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sukuna mutters with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re still being a dick.”

He pauses this time, narrowed eyes observing the way you’re fiddling with your nails and chewing on your lip. He sighs, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m an asshole,” he agrees. “I-” he pauses, rubbing his fingers over his eyes in exasperation. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, somewhat muffled as he rubs his hand over his face.

Your eyes widen, blinking once, twice, three times at him. In your experience with him, he usually avoided apologies and thanks, as though they taste bitter on his tongue. Even now, he seems to be avoiding the subject as best as he can, muttering it behind his hand like the weight of the word is too much to bear.

“I didn’t get everything handed to me on a silver platter, you know.”

Sukuna stares out the window across the apartment. “Didn’t think ya did.”

“Then why did you say it?” You ask, tilting your head.

“‘Cause I was pissed, okay? I apologized already,” he grumbles, wanting to be done with this conversation. Everything about it makes his skin crawl between the way your brows are knit together and the hurt that glimmers in your eyes to the way you look so small and uncertain in front of him. God, the way his throat tightened when he saw his little brother asleep on top of you too, his hair stood on end in discomfort at the feeling.

He doesn’t know what to make of you and he hates that he pushed you away only to need you. To need your help. To embarrassingly need to call you three times and grovel for you to look after his brothers that only you know about because you just keep slithering your way into his life. He wants to blame it so badly on you being a pain in the ass, but you’re not. You’re kind. You’re kind and thoughtful and you’re only here because you’re a good person.

You’re still here even after he treated you as though you were replaceable, because you’re a better person than he could ever be.

Sukuna sighs loudly in exasperation, rubbing his temples. “Just… fuckin’ ignore me, okay? I was just taking shit out on you.”

“Like a dick.”

Sukuna lowers his hand from his face, staring at you with narrowed eyes. “Do you just really want me to say I was a dick?”

You tilt your head with a saccharine sweet smile. “Mhmm.”

“Does it really make that much of a fuckin’ difference?”

“I want to hear you say it.” Your tone has a teasing sort of charm to it that has him huffing and puffing in front of you.

“You gonna forgive me if I do?”

“I’ll think about it,” you grin back at him.

“Fuck, fine. Fine. I was a dick.”

You giggle as the burly man scowls at you, crossing his arms over his broad chest again. Once your laughter subsides, you offer a more sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry too, Sukuna. I shouldn’t have pushed you to begin with.”

His brow twitches as you apologize. He can’t in his right mind figure out why you think you would need to apologize for his outburst when really you weren’t all that pushy. The last thing he needs right now is to get stuck in this conversation that feels as though it’s physically bringing him pain for any longer than necessary, so he lets it go with a hum.

“Did the brats give you a hard time?”

You shake your head, relieved as the tension fades and Sukuna takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, legs spread as he slumps into the cushions. “Yuji was crying when I got here, but he quieted down pretty quickly. Choso seemed a bit worried but he helped me cook and just wanted to watch movies,” you twist your body to face him as you speak.

He sighs, an elongated curse falling from his lips as he stares at the ceiling. “I owe ya. I already paid the sitter, but I’ll-”

“Don’t worry about it!”

He stares at you like you’ve grown another limb. “What? This shit took up your whole day.”

“I like spending time with them,” you insist with a shrug. “They remind me of simpler times.”

“What if you get sick?” At this point, Sukuna is reaching for something, anything, so that you’ll give in to him. But that’s just not who you are, is it? You’re selfless and kind, and you won’t accept anything he throws at you and that thought absolutely wrenches his gut. It twists in a type of discomfort that’s becoming entirely too familiar and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Then I get sick. Oh well,” you shrug again, shooting him that same sweet smile from earlier.

A muscle in his jaw tightens as he stares at you. “Are you always this much of a pain?”

You scoff humorously. “I don’t take your money and I’m a pain?” Your tone is teasing as you lean towards him.

“A pain,” Sukuna emphasizes the word as he stretches an arm along the sofa, his fingers draped along the back near your face. “That’s how shit like this is supposed to work. I pay you, you look after the brats.” He looks expectantly at you.

Your eyes soften as you realize just how different your views of the world are. Of course Sukuna wouldn’t expect someone to help them out of the goodness of their heart if it was just something he’d never experienced before. In his eyes, everything is transactional. You know he hates the idea of asking for help as well, so you can only assume that he would want to return the favor if it means it isn’t a plea for help. It’s an exchange of services. It makes it easier on his ego.

“Consider it a thank you for turning in the visual portion of our project on time,” you insist, trying to worm your way carefully between the thin line that separates this being help and this being an exchange.

“What?” He lifts a brow in disbelief, crimson irises narrowed as he observes you. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense. That’s my project, too.”

“Well-” you pause, staring down at your manicured nails. “I honestly just thought you hadn’t made it on time.”

His finger taps the back of the couch by your head. “What gave you the idea I just wouldn’t turn my own project in?”

“Well you didn’t show up to our second meeti-”

“Y’know what?” He flicks your forehead with a mischievous smirk, all thoughts of repaying you gone from his mind. “Forget I asked. Don’t answer that.”

You pout at him, bringing a hand up to rub your forehead although it didn’t hurt. “Dick.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whine about it,” he grumbles, but he’s smirking as he eyes you. You can’t help but giggle at his behavior, something about it comforting as Sukuna relaxes into the cushions. He mindlessly rolls his neck, leaning back as silence falls over you.

The sound of cars outside and the quiet dialogue from The Iron Giant is nothing but background noise as you bask in the comfortable air of the still apartment. Being around Sukuna feels almost nostalgic in a sense- sure you had only been apart for a week and a half, but after ‘getting over him,’ as Shoko put it, it almost feels like a warm hug.

It’s a shame it can never last as long as you’d like, as you catch a glimpse of the window and realize it’s dark. Afraid of intruding, you get to your feet and make your way to the door. “I should head out,” you tell him. His eyes follow you, though he gives no other indication of hearing your words. “Will I see you in class on Friday? We get our grade for the project.”

“Nah, not if the brat’s sick. Just email me our grade.”

Your lip twitches downward, and you can only pray Sukuna doesn’t notice. He gives no indication that he does, so you do your best to plaster a look of understanding on your face. “See you around?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything more, still spread across the couch. He’s so tall and bulky that somehow the three-person couch looks too small for him, it may as well be a feat.

“Later, Kuna!” You trill in a sing-song voice as you make your way to the door.

“Night, Prom Queen,” he huffs, a humorous sneer to his tone.

–

Although he’s stuck at home with Yuji, Sukuna sends you a couple of emails updating you on him. The first one caught you off-guard but it warms your heart that he seems to want to talk to you beyond the project. Each email causes your chest to flutter a little more but you don’t entertain the thought that it’s anything more than physical attraction. There’s no point, really, when you can’t seem to go a single day without upsetting him in some manner.

Not that Shoko seems to agree with that sentiment.

“Hey!” She calls as you wait at your usual spot to make your way to the lunch hall.

“Hey, Sho!” You reply cheerily.

“So are we not best friends anymore, or…?” She asks, narrowing her eyes.

Incredulously, you blink at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t text me to tell me how last night went.”

“Oh, with Sukuna?”

With a deadpan stare, she sighs. “Girl, don’t act stupid.”

Harsh. “Sorry, it was pretty late when I got back, I would have otherwise!” You apologize with a wry smile. “It’s not all that interesting anyway. I just looked after the kids until he got back and then I went home.”

“You’re impossible. That’s obviously not what I’m asking about,” she groans, pushing you further as you beat around the bush of the situation. “You literally haven’t seen him in like a week and a half because he was such a prick, puh-lease tell me he apologized. You better not let him step on you.”

You sigh, giving in to her nosiness. “Yes, he apologized. I think it caused him physical pain,” you giggle to yourself.

“Good,” she snorts, “he deserves it for hurting you and he’s lucky I haven’t smacked him yet for breaking your heart.”

“He didn’t break my heart,” you roll your eyes as the two of you find your way to your usual table at the lunch hall.

Shoko takes her usual seat across from you. “No of course not, you were just sulking for fun.”

“I thought you were supposed to be my best friend?” You ask in an effort to derail the conversation as Haibara and Nanami take their seats beside you.

“That’s why I’m grilling you over that asshole in the first place,” she grins.

“That’s why you shouldn’t be giving me a hard time,” you counter but she just shoots you a sweet smile as Gojo and Geto arrive. Even she won’t subject you to their form of torture when it comes to teasing.

Nanami clearly catches on to what’s going on from where he sits beside you. Leaning over, he keeps his voice down as his observant mahogany eyes take in that you seem fairly bright today in comparison to the last few days.

“He apologized, yes?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t be afraid to ask for my help, okay?”

“I’m fine, Ken, I promise,” you insist. Satisfied, he smiles and pulls out his lunch. You do the same, pulling out a container of fruit and a panini sandwich. For the first time in just under two weeks, you don’t feel a miserable wrench in your chest as you stare at the sandwich.

–

It’s no surprise when Friday rolls around and Sukuna doesn’t show up to class. Yuji is sick, and that’s his priority, as it should be. You feel a pang of disappointment but it’s heartwarming just how much he cares for his little brothers when he comes across as cold and indifferent a majority of the time. Even if he’s a bit rough around the edges, there’s a certain charm to the quiet and docile moments you’ve shared since working with him.

You can hardly sit still through the class as you await your grade, easily the most stressful part of projects worth this much. Your entire scholarship hinges on each of these massive projects and tests and you can’t risk the consequences of failing.

Ten minutes before the end of the lecture, just as the professor is about to go over the project, the door slowly inches open, and a tall and broad-shouldered student slips in with his hood up. The professor is used to it by now and doesn’t say a word. Rather than heading to his usual seat, the student quietly slips into the seat beside you, nudging you softly. He pulls down his hood and your eyes light up at the sight of your project partner.

“You made it!” You whisper, grinning up at him. Your stomach flutters as he smirks, setting his forearm on the back of your chair as he leans closer to you. Heat radiates from his body as his breath fans your neck, warming your skin despite the shiver that runs up your spine.

“You looked like a kicked puppy when I told ya I needed to stay home, so I pulled some strings.”

You tilt your head to look at him, feeling your breath hitch when you realize just how close he is to your ear. Your cheeks undeniably heat up as you force yourself to stare at the front of the class. “I didn’t look like a kicked puppy. I was just… hoping you could make it.”

“Yeah, well, can’t have the Prom Queen thinkin’ I don’t show up now, can I?”

Your cheeks are burning so hot you think your head might be spinning and it’s only when he finally leans back into his own chair that you realize you were holding your breath. Rubbing a hand over your face in an effort to cool your cheeks down, you cast a glance at Sukuna.

He’s manspreading right into your personal space, leaning back into his chair as he listens to the professor with a look of indifference. In a rare circumstance, he looks more well-rested than usual and seems fairly at ease. His leg isn’t subtly shaking and his eyes aren’t darting down to his watch as he debates when to leave for his next shift. For once, he isn’t Sukuna with two jobs, two dependants, and the world on his shoulders, he’s just a student.

Your heart aches at the realization that he’s so drained from the weight of the world that it’s only in rare moments like this one that you see more of the real Sukuna. A man who smirks and teases, who relaxes into his seat and simply lets life go on. He’s not always cold and tense, there’s a side to him that only those lucky enough to get close to him get to see and the worst part about this realization…

… is that you want to see more of it. Not out of the goodness of your heart and a want to do something nice for someone deserving, although that is a part of it, but for selfish reasons.

Fuck. Shoko is right. Shoko is right and you’re hopelessly crushing over the notoriously hot campus asshole.

You swallow hard, pulling your gaze forward as you realize you’ve been staring. Chewing on your lip, you hardly put together that the professor is passing out project grades until he stops in front of your seats. You blink a few times to reorient yourself.

“You two surprised me immensely as a pairing,” he begins. Although you weren’t paying attention, Sukuna is well aware of the fact that the professor had been dismissing other students as he passes out grades, opting to bring yours up last. He can only assume that means one thing and he’s already smirking. “Although I would prefer you keep the in-class chatter to a minimum-” he pauses to shoot a glance at Sukuna, who’s now huffing with a glance to the side as the smirk falls from his face, “-this is by far the best iteration of this project I’ve seen in all my years of teaching.”

Your jaw hangs ajar, eyes wide as you process his words. Sukuna’s smirking again, hardly seeming shocked.

“Your thesis is worded eloquently and explores the depths of the meanings of each painting, while your visual portion is stunning and displays an understanding of the importance behind each piece to the artist,” he explains. The cocky grin on Sukuna’s face doesn’t leave as he outstretches his arm onto your chair. “This is the first time I’ve ever given out a perfect score, and for that reason I’d like to have you both present your work in front of the class.”

You pale, shooting a fearful glance at Sukuna. He seems mildly irritated by the thought, but shrugs, returning your glance. “Whattaya say?” He asks, his calm facade faltering as he takes in your expression. Crimson irises flit between your eyes as you slowly shake your head.

“I don’t know,” you hesitate meekly, not loving the idea of standing before a lecture hall of students, under far too many pairs of watchful and judgmental eyes.

His gaze drops to the way you’re fidgeting with your fingers, just as you had when you were nervous a couple of nights ago as he puts together that this isn’t something you’re comfortable with. It’s not like that isn’t written across your face right now, but it’s abundantly clear to him through your actions that this isn’t just discomfort, you’re genuinely nervous.

“We’ll do it,” Sukuna says. Your head flips towards him, eyes wide in disbelief as he makes the decision for you.

Before you have a chance to protest, the professor claps his hands together. “Great. I’ll have you present at the end of class next Friday. You don’t have to prepare anything fancy but I will make sure you get extra credit for this.”

You have half a mind to wish he started by mentioning the extra credit portion, you certainly would have hesitated less, but it doesn’t change just how badly you don’t want to do this.

As the professor walks away, you whirl around to face Sukuna. “What the hell, Sukuna?” You whisper-yell, though there isn’t anyone in your vicinity.

He chuckles. “Pick your jaw up off the ground, you’ll be fine. I’ll be there the whole time with you, yeah? I can do as much of the talkin’ as you want.” He leans towards you, setting a hand on the table in front of you both. “‘Sides, you weren’t gonna say no to extra credit. We both know that.”

You chew on your lip, brows knit together as you stare down at your hands, mindlessly fiddling with your nails again. “I guess you’re right.”

The tattooed man lets the silence hang for a moment as he contemplates how shy you’ve suddenly become. You’re meek at times, but this is almost perplexing to him given how bold and saccharine you are towards him when he isn’t purposely pushing your buttons. “So let me get this straight, you were Prom Queen but you don’t like talkin’ in front of people?” Sukuna tilts his head in thought as he shifts to lean on his forearm, edging closer to you.

“That- That felt different,” you insist, leaning forward on your palm as if mirroring his actions. Your eyes trail away from him and Sukuna narrows his eyes.

“I don’t get how that shit’s any different. Aren’t there less people in this class?” He asks, bringing a hand up to scratch his chest. Your eyes flicker over to watch the movement, as though anything is more interesting than actually looking up at him.

“Well, yeah- but-” you pause, your leg now beginning to bounce. Clearly you’re bothered now, but Sukuna can’t wrap his head around what’s made you so shy suddenly- you who so boldly walked your way into his life. He knows people perceive him as scary at a glance, yet that never stopped you. Hell, you hang around Satoru Gojo of all people and Sukuna doesn’t get that either, finding his boisterous presence loud and irritating, but he’s fairly sure that makes you part of a group that would normally be considered popular.

So what in the hell are you so scared of? He doesn’t understand.

“But what?” He pushes, leaning closer to you.

You can feel his breath fanning your face again now that he’s leaning closer to you. It only serves as another distraction and you already can’t seem to find your words. “I- I don’t know, Sukuna!” You huff, pulling back a bit to cross your arms over your chest and put some distance between you.

Sukuna's face twists in confusion, frustration etching itself into his features. “C’mon, it’s easy extra credit. What’s got you so worked up?” He asks with a hint of a sneer as he grows impatient with your avoidance of the subject.

“You wouldn’t get it.” Your voice is firm and there’s a hint of ice forming at the edges of your words that surprises your project partner.

“Try me,” he grunts, leaning as far forward as he can without his chair tipping over.

Your hands move gradually from their position crossed over your chest to hug your frame as your expression turns from one of frustration to a more solemn one. “It’s because I was Prom Queen that I don’t like talking in front of people.”

“Hm?”

“It was a pretty big thing at my school, so some people were jealous, and others were pushy, it’s not like in the movies,” you shrug, as if that’s any sort of explanation in Sukuna’s eyes. Confusion dances across his narrowed red irises and you sigh, letting your guard down. “I don’t know, some girls got pretty jealous, and some people were a bit pushy trying to get my attention and it just ended up being an embarrassment. It was just a lot and I don’t love being in front of groups anymore,” you shrug.

Sukuna sits up straight, staring down at you with a scowl. “Aren’t they supposed to wanna be you or somethin’?” He asks with a frown.

“I mean, they did.”

He supposes you have a point, his observant stare taking in the way you shrink into yourself. “Well this ain’t high school and those assholes aren’t here. Don’t worry about it,” he shrugs in an attempt to reassure you. You finally meet his gaze again, a look of uncertainty painting your wide eyes. “No one is stupid enough to talk about ya like that with me beside you.”

A small smile pulls at your lips and Sukuna’s heart stumbles. He blinks a few times at the feeling in an effort to push it away, focusing instead on the way your eyes brighten. Fuck, that’s not helping him either. He coughs lightly into his elbow, rubbing a hand over his face as you smile shyly at him.

“Thanks, Sukuna. You’re kinda sweet sometimes, in your own way.”

He scowls. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from deep within your chest at his scrunched nose and frown, but you don’t give him an answer, beginning to pack up your bags. Sukuna huffs when you begin to pack up, facing forward with his chin leaning on his palm.

“Hey, thanks for coming in to get our grade.”

He raises a brow. “I didn’t do it for you.”

You pause, gripping your textbook in your bag as you cast a glance at Sukuna. His usual aloof expression has returned, no indication of your prior teasing found on his face.

“What happened to emailing you our grade then?”

Sukuna’s eye twitches as he watches you, returning your stare. “It was a joke.”

Your lips quirk upwards. “Right, how could I forget? It was so funny,” you mock him, reveling in the way he’s on his feet the next moment, the chair scraping across the floor as he glares at you with all the irritation he can muster, that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He sneers, taking a step towards you. He towers over you, shoving his hands into his pockets as your cocky demeanor shifts, your eyes widening when he leans down until his face is mere inches from yours. Your breath hitches as he chuckles darkly when he gets the exact reaction he wants from you. “You were all talk two seconds ago, what happened?”

“I- um-” Getting your bearings, you shove his chest playfully. “You’re a dick,” you mumble.

Sukuna doesn’t move an inch when you shove him, a grin plastered across his face. “Thought we were done with callin’ me a dick,” he teases.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “Yeah, until you decided to be one again.”

Sukuna’s sharp pupils flicker between your eyes for a moment before he stands up straight. Your heart beats in your ears as you’re freed from the close proximity. “Yeah, whatever you say,” he chuckles, calmly smirking at you. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, letting out a breath of air. “I gotta get back home. Uraume only had an hour to watch the brats.”

Tilting your head, you blink up at him, a hand over your chest to slow your thundering heart. “How’s Yuji?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Better than Wednesday. He’s still got a fever, though.”

“I hope he feels better soon,” you say, hesitating as you take a chance. “Let me know if you need me to watch them.”

Sukuna’s expression is unreadable as he examines you, gears visibly turning in his mind. Without another word, he slings his backpack over his shoulder and throws his hood back up, pausing to look at you before he leaves.

Sighing, he pushes his hair from his forehead beneath his hood. “I swear this’ll be the last time. I got offered a shift Sunday.”

He doesn’t voice his question to watch the kids, it’s an unspoken question because he doesn’t want to ask. The question puts him in a position where he’s asking for help and he so badly wants that not to be what this is.

You smile softly. “I’m free on Sunday.”

Pulling his airpods from a case in his pocket and putting them in his ears, he grunts. “Come by mine Sunday at 8:30.”

You purse your lips. “At night, right?” You ask, your gaze following after the man as he casually descends the lecture hall to the door. “At night, right?” You ask, this time louder to get his attention over his music.

Sukuna heard you the first time, shooting you a sly smirk just before he leaves.

Well, fuck that.

–

With a backpack slung over your shoulder filled with textbooks and study materials, as well as your GameCube, you sigh as you click the buzzer button for Sukuna’s apartment. As you wait for one of the three siblings to let you in, you shiver at the chill air. It’s far too early for you to be awake on a Sunday and your body agrees as you find yourself yawning every few seconds.

Between the cool fall air and the early morning, you couldn’t be bothered to dress in your usual preppy style, opting for a cute deep red hoodie with hello kitty on it and a pair of leggings. It’s still cute, but it’s a contrast to your blouses, skirts and heels.

When the door loudly buzzes, you make your way inside with your hood up over your hair, yawning as you rub your tired eyes. Before you can even knock on the door, Sukuna opens it, leaving your fist stagnant in the air. You drop it by your side, staring up at him through your lashes.

Sukuna’s in his polo shirt that seems so out of place on him you would almost assume he was someone else. “Blue’s not your color,” you comment with a yawn. His amused smile at your tired expression twists in offense at your comment.

“Morning to you too, dick.”

You giggle at his teasing. “You got me up early, I’m allowed to be one.”

“Oh, my bad, you fuckin’ princess,” Sukuna scoffs, an air of playfulness surrounding his words that makes you giggle more. He opens the door to let you into the apartment, his gaze trailing your outfit. It’s not your usual attire but something about how different it is on you while still suiting you stirs something within him. The bigger hoodie draping over your body makes him wonder what his own clothes would-

What the fuck is he thinking? He shakes his head, shutting the door and glancing over to the hall where the pitter patter of small feet sounds. Yuji goes running up to Sukuna, a bundle of blankets wrapped around his tiny form. “Don’t go, big brother.” His voice is lower than usual, clearly still sick as he clings onto his brother’s leg.

Crimson eyes flicker down to the little bundle of blankets. “I’ll be back soon, Yu. Play some MarioKart or whatever.”

Yuji’s curious eyes search the room at the sound of MarioKart. You pull down your hood and wave as he spots you. His eyes widen and he gasps, running up and hugging your legs now. You grin down at him, ruffling his unkempt hair.

Sukuna scoffs. “See? You won’t even know I’m gone.”

“Come play with us!” Yuji insists at the sound of his brother’s comment, still clutching your knee as he turns to plead with his brother.

Sukuna’s hardened indifference cracks, something akin to guilt or sadness flickering in his eyes for a split-second. It’s such a short moment that you wonder if you imagined it. He sighs, crouching down in front of Yuji. Even crouching, he’s still monstrously tall and dwarfs his little brother. You suppose that’s what happens when you’re almost seven feet tall and made of solid muscle.

“Maybe later, kid.” He ruffles his hair just as you did moments ago and gets back to his feet. “I owe ya one,” he sighs, brow furrowed as he stares off to the side with a tight jaw.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask-” you pause, a mix of emotions flooding you as you contemplate dropping the question, but ultimately decide it’s worth it. “I could use a hand studying for history.” You chew on your lip. “You know, just if you have time, no big deal if you don’t!” You smile sheepishly.

Sukuna’s eyes flicker between yours, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, sure.” He turns away, trudging to the door. “Be back at 5:30,” he mumbles before he’s gone. You sigh at the sight of the shut and locked door, turning your groggy attention to Yuji, who coughs into his bundle of blankets at your feet.

It’s a miracle you aren’t sick already, and you hope that miracle stays with you again today.

You’re able to study while the boys play games throughout most of the day once Choso wakes up. They’re easy to look after and they add a certain brightness to your day that only they can, reminding you of just how simple life is when you don’t have three projects due and finals on the horizon.

There’s a weight in your chest at the thought of managing that workload alongside two jobs and two kids, something you find yourself pondering often, but if Sukuna won’t accept your help, then what more can you do? Sure, you’re helping him now, but you know he won’t let this go without repayment, which you would happily take in the form of a study buddy. While that’s likely less stressful for him than cash, it’s still another sliver of his already limited time taken up.

“I’m hungry,” Choso mumbles, looking at you as if he didn’t scarf down the lunch you made only a couple of hours ago.

A lopsided smile dons your face as you contemplate making dinner or letting him know to wait for Sukuna, but if he’s hungry, who are you to say no?

“What would you like?”

“Cereal!” Yuji excitedly calls from where he sits on the floor, stifling a cough when his voice cracks.

“That’s not dinner…” Choso mumbles, brow furrowing in thought as he looks at his younger brother, who’s been so picky while he’s been sick that most of their meals have been the same few things that he can stomach. “What about mac and cheese?”

Yuji takes a moment to think, before he decides this is acceptable and nods excitedly.

“I’m sure I can make that happen,” you agree, getting to your feet to peruse the kitchen that you’re growing more accustomed to. Yuji stays in the living room, the sounds of a terrified Luigi echoing throughout the apartment as Choso follows closely behind you. You’ve noticed over your time with Sukuna and his brothers that Choso seems to have a penchant for cooking and loves to help. It’s too cute and your heart swells each time he finds a way to lend a hand while you cook.

Plus, you get a helper, which means less work. It’s a win-win situation, really.

As you work your way through the kitchen, boiling water and letting Choso salt and stir the noodles before pouring them into a casserole dish, you sprinkle cheese between and over the noodles as you wait for the oven to eat up, explaining each step along the way for Sukuna’s brother. Stirring the cheese into the noodles along with some herbs and spices, you tilt your head at the dish.

It’s almost ready for the oven, but not quite.

“Do you have breadcrumbs?”

Choso stares up at the pantry shelves. “Uhh…” He pushes around a few boxes before shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you have bread?”

“Yeah, but it’s old.”

“Old like mouldy or old like stale?” You ask with a thoughtful expression.

“Stale.”

“Perfect!”

Choso wrinkles his nose as he hands the loaf of bread to you. It’s in moments like these that his resemblance to his older brother really becomes apparent.

“I’ll show you how to make breadcrumbs,” you grin. Choso doesn’t seem to have a grasp on what you need breadcrumbs for when mac and cheese’s ingredients are literally listed in the name, but he still watches with intrigue anyway. You cut up the slices of bread into tiny pieces, throwing them in the oven until they’ve dried out, and then tossing them over the mac and cheese and placing the extra crumbs aside.

“Trust the process, Cho.”

He tilts his head curiously as you place the mac and cheese on a rack in the oven. “Trust the process?”

“It means… it may not make sense to you in the moment, maybe it’s messy or confusing, but the end result will be more than worth it.”

“Oh. Okay. Trust the process,” he parrots, before making his way back to the living room just as his brother is sucking up a ghost with a vacuum in Luigi’s Mansion.

While the meal bakes, you grab your history textbook again and get some more studying in. It doesn’t take long for the timer to go off and Choso comes running up with wide eyes to stare at the prepared meal. Yuji follows slowly in his bundle of blankets, happily taking a bowl as you warn them both it’s hot.

“So?”

With a mouth full of macaroni, Choso smiles. “Trust the process,” comes his muffled happiness. The boys chow down on what you assume will be their dinner given that Sukuna should be home soon, and Choso returns to help you clean up.

He grabs a ziploc bag to place the extra breadcrumbs in, holding it open for you. Just as you’re pouring the food into the bag, the front door swings open and you jolt in surprise, causing bread crumbs to go flying.

Sukuna drops his keys on the table by the door, his eyes scanning the room as he spots Yuji before his aloof expression crumbles when he arches a brow at the absolute mess that his kitchen is. Your cheeks heat up as you and Choso stare at him with guilty expressions.

Really, you should be blaming Sukuna for scaring you.

“I’m not fuckin’ cleaning that,” he grumbles, walking slowly over the mess of cables in the living room as he pulls his shirt up over his head in the most ungodly slutty way you could possibly imagine and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes from the sight of his toned back.

Of course, you always knew Sukuna was muscular, but seeing it first hand makes it hard to shake the image from your mind. He could be hung on the wall of a museum, his muscles are so sculpted, rippling with every movement and decorated in tattoos that suit him so well he could be an actual god and you wouldn’t even bat an eye.

Choso pulls you from your thoughts as they border on inappropriate, by tugging at your sleeve.

“We should clean.”

“Right!” You squeak, shaking the image of shirtless Sukuna as best as you can from your mind as you stare at the scattered mess.

“Okay let’s… start with the counter.”

It doesn’t take too long to clean up the mess and there’s still enough bread crumbs left over for Sukuna to make something if he wanted, so it could have gone over worse.

Speak of the devil, he rounds the corner wearing a black muscle shirt with a metal band logo you don’t recognize scrawled across the front and sleeves cut so deep it hardly counts as a shirt, like he’s showing off or something. You don’t even want to begin to think about the fact that he’s wearing grey sweatpants as well like some sort of tease who probably just threw on the first thing he saw and it didn’t even cross his mind how stupidly hot he is.

You avert your eyes, attempting to keep your cheeks from heating up any more than they already have. Sukuna crosses the living room to the kitchen in a few long strides, peering at the floor in search of crumbs.

“The fuck even happened over here?”

“You scared me when you opened the door,” you mumble, leaning back against the kitchen counter where your textbook is resting.

“So you threw shit everywhere?”

Your brow furrows at his accusation. “I just fumbled a bit and spilled what was on the pan.”

“Mm.” Sukuna’s gaze scans the kitchen until he finds the macaroni and cheese casserole sitting just behind your textbook. With a hint of a smirk, he takes a step forward, so close to you that his body heat warms your skin, his abs and chest just barely brushing against the plush of your breasts as he dips his finger into the dish.

Pulling his arm back, he slyly locks eyes with you, not bothering to take a step back even as you press your spine into the counter. He slips his finger between his lips, sucking the cheese from it with a pop!

Your eyes are wide as you look up at him, caught between him and the hard countertop behind you like a deer in the headlights, frozen. If you move even an inch, he’ll be pressed up against you, and- don’t let your thoughts spiral again.

Sukuna smirks, lidded eyes smug as though he’s got you just where he wants you, amused to pull such a reaction from you. He’s become increasingly aware of the effect he has on you and everything he’s been doing has absolutely been on purpose, even if you don’t know it. He’s making a show out of his muscles, getting close to you, sucking on his finger, all to get a rise out of you.

He’s not sure he understands it himself, but he loves your little reactions. He loves the way your eyes widen, your breath hitches, and your muscles tense as though you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. He’s sure it all boils down to lust, but he’ll make the most of it while he has you here.

He clicks his tongue after a thoughtful moment. “Not bad. The breadcrumbs are a nice touch.”

“T-Thanks,” you stammer quietly. Sukuna chuckles lowly as he finally gives you space, turning to open the fridge and grab a protein drink. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, bringing a hand up to slow your pounding heart.

“You stickin’ around to study?”

“I- um-” you pause, clearing your throat in an effort to calm your flustered state. “If you have time, that would be great. I mean, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. The brats are quiet while you’re around.” He brings the protein drink up to his lips, downing it in one go and tossing the bottle into a bucket in the corner of the room as though he’s done it a thousand times.

With the boys distracted by the GameCube, Sukuna sits down at the table in the back of his apartment with you and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Scooting his chair closer to you, his eyes scan the page you’re on.

“Is this for History 209?” He asks, briefly flipping to the textbook cover.

You nod.

“Mm.”

Sukuna briefly scans the upcoming pages before diving into explanations of the textbook, from memory. He clearly has a fondness for history that seems to come naturally to him as he explains anything you ask questions on without needing to even glance at the textbook. It’s like second nature to him.

“What years did the cold war take place?” He quizzes without so much as glancing up at you as he flips through the textbook pages without reading at all as though it’s a picture book.

“Uh-” You stare up at the ceiling. “1952 to 89?”

“47 to 89. Tell me about the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

“Um- Cuba felt like the US was about to invade, so they asked the Soviet Union to install missiles in-”

“Who asked?”

“Cuba?”

Sukuna glances up at you, his expression unimpressed. “No shit. What leader?”

“Oh. Castro.”

Hours pass by and you hardly even notice until your eyes begin to grow heavy and your yawning sets in. Sukuna gradually begins leaning further on his knuckles over the table, launching question after question at you without even a lick of help from the textbook. It would almost be impressive, if you didn’t already know how smart Sukuna is.

“How did the modern revolution affect the environment?”

You chew on your lip, the last bit of energy you were working with fizzling out suddenly as you’re left staring blankly at the table, completely burnt out.

Sukuna’s been only half paying attention for the past few minutes, growing equally as worn out and unable to focus as you are, though he hasn’t noticed just how spent you are given his inattention. It’s not until you don’t respond that his attention snaps to you, staring off into space.

He glances over your features, eyes dropping to your oversized hoodie. His thoughts stray to places they shouldn’t be again, so he wills himself to look back at your eyes, but the way you’re chewing on your lip-

It’s then that he realizes how close you are. Over the course of the past couple of hours, Sukuna has leaned further forward in his chair and you’ve scooted closer in an effort to look at the pages of your textbook while he explains. It’s weird, the way the close proximity seems to draw him in, as though he belongs in your space, but he knows better. He knows you exist in different worlds.

Still, as you space out further, a piece of your hair falls out of place, blocking the blank and tired expression on your face, and Sukuna doesn’t even have a moment to process his actions before he moves. It’s almost delicate, the way he slowly moves the hand he isn’t leaning on to tenderly brush the strand of hair behind your ear.

His action draws your attention, and along with it a steady heat that rises to your cheeks, reaching your ears and down to your neck. Sukuna doesn’t even seem phased by what he’s done, as if it’s completely natural and something the two of you just do. As though he isn’t pushing the balance of your strange friendship, if it could even be called that.

You lick your lip as you will your thoughts to stop bouncing all over the place, trying not to read too much into his actions, but it’s hard not to when his pupils dart down to follow your tongue as it swipes your lower lip. His pupils grow suddenly, and you don’t know how not to read into that, and now your thoughts are spiraling, and you’re wondering if all of Sukuna’s actions today are premeditated or-

As if Sukuna’s only just become aware of what he’s doing, he clears his throat and sits back. His pupils shrink and he crosses his arms over his chest, placing distance between you.

“You should head home before it’s too dark.”

In the endless sea of your thoughts, all you can do is nod. Snapping yourself back to reality, you begin packing your bag and make your way out to the living room where the two boys are excitedly playing an old copy of the board game Operation after Sukuna had told them no more video games, much to their dismay.

You smile at the sight of poor bundled up little Yuji and his older brother, who clearly cares a great deal for the little salmon-haired boy. The three of them are a sweet little family. Sukuna has a funny way of showing it sometimes but he clearly adores the two boys, or he wouldn’t be doing everything that he is.

At the end of the day, he could have left them to their own devices, thrown them into the fostering system. He could have used legal means to shove them into a relative’s care. He could have done a lot of things, but you can see the way he adores them. The way he loves them so deeply and genuinely that he can’t bear the thought of seeing them thrown to the wolves like that. He’s put a great deal of his life on hold and put his health, both mental and physical, on the line to see the two boys thrive, and it fills your heart with joy.

“You know, I could just leave the GameCu-”

“No.” Sukuna gets to his feet, standing a few feet away.

Yuji and Choso’s heads simultaneously whip around as though they’ve heard the biggest betrayal of their entire lives.

At five and twelve, they very well may have.

“Awwww!”

“Pleaaase, Kuna!”

“No, that’s final.”

You shoot Sukuna an easy smile, giggling to yourself at the sight of his scowl and frustrated huff.

“Don’t get ideas into their heads,” he grumbles at you, brushing past you as you clean up the GameCube and stuff the games into your bag. He grabs some more medication for Yuji, who doesn’t complain as he swallows it with a miserable frown at the bitter taste.

You wait at the door with your bag packed as Sukuna moves around the apartment, putting the medication away before he joins you at the door.

“Thank you so much for your help with studying, Kuna,” you say as you twist the handle and make your way out the door, turning to face him just outside his apartment. He leans on the doorframe, shutting the door slightly behind him and blocking the boys’ vision of you to give you both some privacy. He’s grimacing at the nickname, but he doesn’t complain.

“It’s whatever. Just paying you back for lookin’ after the brats.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile. Of course that’s all it is. “Email me if you need me to look after them while Yuji’s still sick.”

A puff of air escapes Sukuna’s nose in a makeshift laugh. “This your excuse to have more time to study?”

You have to resist the urge  to roll your eyes at the way he so obviously is denying that he’s getting help from you. “Yeah. Yeah, it is,” you agree.

He smirks, nodding. “Tuesday at three.”

“Better be in the afternoon this time,” you tease.

“God forbid I take a night shift,” he scoffs, turning to shut the door. He pauses for a split second, turning back to you. You almost think he’s about to thank you, but either you read the situation wrong or he second-guesses himself because- “You better remember who Allen Dulles is on Tuesday.”

Your face contorts as he references the cold war and chuckles at your expression before closing the door.

Dick.

–

Friday comes sooner than you can possibly imagine as you find yourself spending late nights studying with Sukuna after looking after Yuji and Choso. Yuji returned to school on Thursday and Choso on Monday, so you’d gotten into the habit of picking up Choso from school and going back to watch them play games while you studied or worked on projects.

You couldn’t know whether Sukuna would still need help now that Yuji was feeling better, but that was the least of your concerns, because it’s Friday.

And you’ve been dreading this Friday in particular. Worse still, it felt like the world was against you all day too.

You woke up to the first snow of the season, opting to dress in a cute, white knit sweater that was fairly warm, as well as some beige leggings- not to mention all your winter gear.

And that was only the tip of the iceberg, you had to redo your eyeliner after somehow messing it up not once but twice, and then you managed to step in a puddle of mud and get your usual winter boots completely covered in dirt.

With your clean high heeled boots adorning your feet, you make your way to the school and quickly fall into step with Nanami who shares your first class of the day. He’s bundled up warmly in a long coat, a grey scarf accenting his coat. His sharp eyes turn to you as you join him, softening at the sight of you.

“Good morning,” he greets you, a kind smile pulling at his features.

You return his smile half-heartedly, giving him a brief wave. “Hey, Kento. How’re you feeling about finals?”

He hums thoughtfully. “Prepared,” he decides after a moment. “Though I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too much studying.”

“Yeah… I get that,” you agree, watching the snow condense beneath your feet with each step. Comfortable silence falls over you as the crunching of snow and the sounds of passing students fills the air. The warmth of your breath surrounds you as you mindlessly stare at the sparkling coat of flakes across the ground.

After a few moments, Nanami hums again, interrupting the silence and pulling your attention back to him. His gaze flickers between your face and your hands.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm? Yeah, why?”

Again, his watchful eyes flicker down to your hands. “You’ve been zipping up and unzipping your jacket since we began walking.”

You purse your lips, finally following his gaze down to your jacket which must have been making a grating zipping noise the whole time that you hadn’t even noticed with how caught up in your thoughts you were.

“Sorry Kento,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Just a bit nervous.”

His head tilts. “What are you nervous about?”

“I have to make a presentation in Art History at the end of the day. No one else in class is presenting.” With a sheepish smile, you proceed to subconsciously begin playing with your zipper again, too caught up in your thoughts to realize you’re doing it.

“I see. Is that what Sukuna was working on this morning?”

“You have a class with him?”

“Yes. He’s in my Accounting class early on Tuesdays and Fridays,” Nanami explains, subtly watching the way you’re messing with your zipper again, though he keeps his mouth shut.

“Oh. He was working on things this morning?”

“I believe so. It didn’t seem like he was paying attention,” Nanami shrugs. “I assumed he was working on something else.”

You let out a breath. “That’s kind of a relief, honestly.”

Arching a brow, Nanami hums questioningly.

“I still don’t like public speaking,” you quietly mumble, zipping your jacket up fully and burying your face into the fabric as your cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Hm. I see,” the blonde hums, having been there during your Prom alongside Haibara. He’s well aware of the fallout that came with being named Prom Queen. “Well, you’ll have Sukuna with you, and I highly doubt anyone would comment with Sukuna at your side.”

“Scary dog privilege,” you agree.

“Sorry?” Kento’s brow furrows in confusion, leaving you giggling.

“Don’t worry about it.”

With a shake of his head, Kento opens the door to your next lecture and puts his focus into his notes as usual. You do your best to follow suit, but if your bouncing leg is any indicator, your focus isn’t long for this world and Nanami knows he’s in for a long study session in the coming week.

–

You did debate just not showing up, but if Sukuna was working on the presentation at an early morning class, you don’t have the heart to not show up at least for him. Still, your nerves are frayed at the seams in downright unease at the thought of being the only group to present your project.

The concept of being one of the only two people at the center of everyone’s attention all for being named the ‘best’ at something brings back too many memories for you to care to admit. Taking a deep breath, you do your best to keep your eyes on the prize: the extra credit.

Sukuna was right when he said you wouldn’t turn down extra credit. You would definitely think about turning it down when it came at the cost of your dignity and sanity, but with Sukuna at your side, you think you just might be alright.

At the end of the day, you know you need to keep your grades up if you want to keep your scholarship, and more importantly your parents happy, so with a deep breath, you focus on the class to the best of your ability, pushing aside your mess of anxiety and worries.

That is, until you glance back at Sukuna’s usual seat, only to find it empty and your heart damn near stops. Your eyes widen and in the least subtle way possible, you whip your head around the class in search of him. He has to be here. He promised to handle all the talking, you aren’t prepared, you… You can’t do this alone. Surely the professor will understand that too, right?

“Before I dismiss you all, I’d like to have a couple of exemplary students come up to present the Meaning in Art project I had you all submit a couple of weeks back.”

Your heart is thundering, your breathing growing shallow as panic sets in.

“These students displayed an impeccable understanding of the art and artists they chose to study, demonstrating this understanding through both their written and visual pieces.”

Your mouth is dry, your throat tight. Where the fuck is he? He wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like this, would he? You didn’t prepare anything, you were relying on him.

“With that being said, I’d like to invite these students up to the front of the class to give a short breakdown of their project.” Your name follows this statement, along with Sukuna’s, and the class goes silent.

Your hands are trembling as you stare in dismay at the desk sitting at the front of the room where Sukuna’s art is sitting, alongside your written thesis. You swallow hard, forcing down your nerves as all eyes fall to you.

On shaky legs, you slowly make your way down to the front of the class, quietly making your way up to the professor. “I- um-” you take a breath in an effort to calm your nerves. “Can we present next week instead? Sukuna- um- isn’t here,” you quietly whisper.

“Finals are in two weeks. This is the last class for this semester.”

Fuck.

“Right. Sorry, yeah. That’s fine,” you whisper, chewing on your lip as you turn to face the class. Dozens of pairs of judgmental eyes stare back at you and if the ground opened up and swallowed you whole, never to be seen again, it would be a better fate than what you were about to do. Alone. 

“Um-” You mumble, clearing your throat as you pick up the printed thesis you wrote together with Sukuna. Surely he would walk through the door in just a few seconds, right? He would show up for you just like you did for him when Yuji was sick, right? This has to be a cruel prank.

“Speak up, please.” Your professor’s voice pulls you from the delusion that Sukuna was ever going to show up. The delusion that Sukuna ever cared.

Fuck, you just admitted to yourself that you like Sukuna.

You just came to terms with the fact that your attraction to him is more than just physical.

You’ve spent weeks defending him, even when he was a dick, but this really takes the cake.

Your chest tightens as you realize just how much he’s let you down. You want to cry, it’s a fight against your own body not to show just how nervous you are.

“For our-” You pause, staring down at the page with your name scrawled alongside Sukuna’s and a perfect score circled in red. “For my project,” you begin, taking a deep breath in an effort to push down the swirling anger, disappointment, and anxiety all threatening to suffocate you.

You launch into an explanation on the three pieces you and Sukuna had chosen, summarizing your thesis while fighting the tremble in your voice, putting every last ounce of effort you can into masking how nervous you are and avoiding the stares of your classmates.

Picking up the art Sukuna drew is when the last shreds of your dignity fall apart and tears prick in your eyes. Your voice wavers and you know everyone can tell. You can hear the whispers, the quiet giggles. You don’t know whether it’s directed at you or if they’re even paying attention to you at all, but each and every noise seems to drag you one inch closer to your own personal hell and you shrink into yourself as you attempt to explain Sukuna’s art.

Alone.

You can’t even say for sure if your words made sense towards the end of your presentation, the whole thing a blur behind tear-filled eyes and the ringing of anxiety in your ears. The only thing you do hear is your professor dismissing you. You don’t even grab your bag and you leave your project on the table, you just need out. You need air.

Your feet carry you out the door, your eyes trained on the ground as you do your best not to collide with anyone as you run for the doors. You don’t hear someone call your name in confusion and you don’t see them chase after you. So focused on fresh air, you forget how cold it is as the freezing air shocks your skin and chills your lungs.

Finding a spot beside the door outside, away from prying eyes and out of the way, you wrap your arms around yourself and wipe your tears, taking deep breaths to slow your racing heart.

“There you are. What happened?”

You blink a couple of times, trying to wipe any evidence of your tears as you lock eyes with familiar mahogany ones.

“Ken?” You barely manage to whisper his name, your breath stolen from your lungs by the anxiety rocking your body.

“What happened?” He pushes again, eyes traveling down to your trembling hands. He can’t tell whether that’s from the cold or your nerves, but like the gentleman he is, he pulls his coat off and throws it over your shoulders, zipping it up over your arms in an effort to keep you from freezing.

“He didn’t show up.”

Nanami’s lips press into a thin line, taking in your expression. You’re barely keeping it together, though the freezing air flooding your lungs is keeping your mind distracted.

With a sigh, Kento sets a hand on your shoulder. “Come back inside. Let’s get your coat.”

Slowly coming back down from your panicked state as his hand on your shoulder grounds you, you pause for a moment to take in the blonde in front of you. He’s in just a knit sweater and slacks, visibly shaking from the cold air now that you’re wrapped in his jacket.

“Shit, sorry Kento,” you mumble, letting him guide you back inside and to your lecture hall, where he takes his coat back and grabs your bags for you to avoid any prying eyes. Handing you your coat, followed by the bag he’s packed up for you, he sighs and leads the way to a secluded area of the History and Science building of the college. You don’t say a word as he sits you down on a bench.

“Are you alright?”

You nod.

“Are you lying?”

Your mouth opens to say no, but one glance at his sharp gaze tells you he sees right through you. “Were you outside my class?”

“Mhm. I wanted to make sure things went well.”

“That’s… Really kind, Nanamin. Thank you.”

He hums quietly, leaning back against the wall behind the bench. Someone walks past mumbling something to themself about failing a test, but it’s otherwise silent in the halls.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. People were laughing.” You chew on your lip, rubbing your hands over your face.

“I’m certain they weren’t. Students laugh throughout class constantly, they likely weren’t paying attention,” he points out.

You know he has a point, but it doesn’t make the situation any less frustrating and disappointing.

“I don’t know what hurts more,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to Kento, “that he promised he’d be there with me and wasn’t, or having to relive that stupid moment in high school all over again.”

Your friend grimaces. “Yes, I can imagine that wasn’t pleasant. I’m sorry.” It’s about all he can offer in the moment, but mentally he’s thinking of mentioning what happened to Gojo and Geto and watching the drama that unfolds. The white haired frat boy would relish in the idea of having an actual reason to have beef with Sukuna.

“Why don’t we go grab something to eat?” Nanami suggests in an effort to get your mind off of your horrifying presentation and, more importantly, the man that’s managed to break your heart twice now.

“I’m okay. I think I just want to go home.”

“I would prefer if you weren’t alone,” Nanami protests.

“We just ate, though.”

“We can grab dessert, then. My treat,” he insists.

Silence follows as you look up at Nanami, finding comfort in the concern swirling in those deep mahogany irises. “Fine,” you sigh, relenting finally.

With a sympathetic smile, he gets to his feet and offers you his hand, helping you get to your feet as he leads the way back out into the cold with one goal in mind.

Keep your mind off of Sukuna.

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❦ a/n ; sorry for the delay on this one!! i had a work conference all last week but had a ton of fun writing this when i got back, so i hope you all enjoyed it <3 as always, likes, reblogs, and comments are super appreciated <3

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[thefirstimagifabricator]

heheheehee look i put a title

mmmm maintenance/updates to header subtext bc wow who would’ve guessed but things fucking change lol

that was the old now this is the new

also some shit just was missing not like new addition things or wtv lol

[myclovernew]

hate you, love you [lee myung-gi]

⟢ pairing: myung-gi x fem!reader (basically replacing junhee as player 222 sorry jo yuri my queen)

⟢ fluff but a little steamy near the end...

⟢ word count: 4k

⟢ a/n: hai everyone this is my first ever fic here on tumblr and i haven't written anything in over four years so i apologize if the writing is terrible LOL squid game and myung-gi brainrot had me down BAD

the annoyingly cheerful music blaring at what felt like 7 in the morning woke me up. the last thing i could remember before falling asleep was getting into a white semi-van driven by a man in a red hoodie whose face i couldn't quite make out. so where in the hell was i now?

blinking a couple times before rubbing one eye, i slowly slid up to the point where i could feel the cold, metal backboard of the bed i was in through the thin polyester jacket i had on. that's when i realized i was in a completely different outfit than the one i had on the night before. looking around, i noticed others slowly waking, everyone in the same outfit as mine with only a slight difference. we were all numbered, and my number was 222.

a guy who was in the bed directly in front of mine started waking up at that moment, mumbling something incoherent to himself and then letting out a huge sigh. the number on the back of his jacket was 333. only when he turned slightly to his left is when i realized; i'd recognize that side profile anywhere.

"lee my-" before i could even finish calling out his name, the speaker sent out feedback indicating the start of something unknown. everyone was awake at this point, walking towards the center pool of people.

that's when an alarm went off, and an automatic door let in a group of eerily mysterious people dressed in pink jumpsuits, their faces covered by black masks with either squares or circles painted on them in white.

"i would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you," one of the square guards started. i was watching from the foot of my bed, trying to scan the crowd to navigate that piece of shit. i can't believe that asshole is here too, i thought to myself while half paying attention to whatever the square guy is saying.

"everyone here will participate in six different games over six days." games? what are we in, grade school? "those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize."

now that's what i wanted to hear. when that salesman looking guy approached me a week ago, he had me play a game of ddakji, which i was a natural at. so of course i beat him on the first round. he gave me 100,000 won as a prize and a rustic brown business card with only a number on the back. i debated on calling the ominous number for days on end, but the final straw was having all 58 of my calls to that asshole myung-gi ignored. he had "borrowed" 500,000 won from me to kickstart a stock he was investing in and just never paid me back. a couple of weeks after was when i found out his dumbass had led a bunch of his stream viewers to invest in the wrong coin, causing a lot of not-so-happy, middle aged men struggling to make ends meet to go after him.

anyway, i was determined to make him pay.

a couple of people from the huge crowd started yelling out remarks, demanding for answers.

"what happened to my clothes?" "did you kidnap us?" "why are you wearing a mask?" "show your face!"

then one person started asking for their phone, insisting that they had to check the crypto market.

"player 333, lee myung-gi," the square guard had declared. my head immediately snapped up, eyes glued to the screen that had just turned on. a video of myung-gi started playing and it was him being embarrassingly bad at the same game of ddakji i had played with the salesman. i couldn't help but laugh to myself as hundreds of people watched him get slapped, how humiliating.

"current debt levels, 1.8 billion won." oh you had to be joking.

that made the measly 500,000 won he owed me look like nothing. no wonder he was ignoring my calls, the loser had absolutely no means of paying me back, let alone getting rid of his own debt.

i lost sight of myung-gi when the guards had us line up and sign what looked like a consent form to play the games. it seemed a bit excessive, but i guess they had to keep it all professional. we then had our photos taken before being led up multiple flights of pink, maze-like stairs.

all at once, three giant doors opened up to a large, sand-filled area. the guards instructed us to go in and stand behind the red line drawn on the ground. at the very end of the field was an enlarged cartoonish doll. what could we possibly be doing here?

i looked around for myung-gi again, hoping to catch him by surprise when he saw my face afters months of ignoring me.

"the first game is red light, green light," a woman's voice iterated through the speakers. red light, green light? i hadn't played that since i was a kid. "cross the finish line before the five minutes are up. if you do, you pass."

this honestly felt like a joke. why were we getting paid to play children's games?

"everyone!" i squinted my eyes to see a middle-aged man, his number being 456, run to the middle of the crowd. "everyone, pay attention!" he was waving his arms like a mad man to try and get everyone to listen to him.

"this is not just a game!" what?

"if you lose, you die!" there's no way that was true. did he mean get eliminated? they wouldn't really kill us, would they? i looked around to watch everyone else's expressions. some started visibly shaking, others shaking their heads in pure disbelief.

at that moment, the robotic doll turned around and put her hand up to her eyes.

"let the game begin."

the first "red light, green light" was said and everyone began to move. as soon as the doll stopped to look around, i stayed as still as possible. the man from earlier was still yelling at everyone to freeze, and something in me started to believe in what he was saying about the game. as i froze in place, i scanned the people around me. 239, 009, 176, 028, and 333. found you.

the next "red light, green light" played and i ran towards myung-gi. he might've been a crypto bro who practically lived at the pc cafe, but damn he was a fast runner. the next couple of "red light, green light's" went off and i was just about a feet behind him now. that's when a loud "bang" echoed throughout the hall. a gun shot. more gun shots sounded, followed by ear-piercing screams. stay still, stay still, i thought to myself.

then it went silent. everyone who was still alive was frozen in their places, not even moving when the doll said "red light, green light." my eyes focused on myung-gi. he was breathing so heavily i could hear him.

"red light, green light." the man from earlier, player 456, was the only one to move as he ran past all of us. "red light, green light." he moved a bit further, with his back facing us.

"the doll detects motion," he yelled out as he had one hand behind his back, moving it around to prove what he was saying was true. so as long as the doll couldn't physically see me moving, i would be fine.

"we're running out of time. we have to move!" shit.

"red light, green light." everyone moved then, finding someone bigger than them to hide behind. i was still behind myung-gi, who i admit was shorter than most guys here, but then again so was i. we were almost by the finish line, with a little less than a minute left.

"red light, green light." we moved again in a synced matter. but just as the doll was about to turn her head, myung-gi tripped on someone's foot. he's going to die, i thought. without thinking, i put out my arm, and grasped onto the back of his jacket.

"don't. move," i whisper-yelled, my teeth gritting against each other. myung-gi didn't make a sound.

"red light, green light," i let go and he regained his balance, the two of us crossing the finish line. i bent over, my hands resting on my knees as i tried to breathe normally again.

"y/n?" myung-gi questioned. i looked back up to him, scanning his face. as much as he was confused as to why i was here, he also looked relieved to see a familiar face.

"aren't you going to thank me?" i retorted. i did just save his life.

"oh, yeah," he said, his hand reaching the back of his head, "thank you. seriously." i sighed and gave him a slight nod. frankly, i was too exhausted and too desperate to get out of this place to even demand for my money back from him right now. he opened his mouth again, like he had something to say, but got quickly distracted by the ceiling of the arena slowly closing in. the game was over.

the guards had us all walk back into the room we woke up in. it was eerily quiet; people were scared for their lives. i just wanted to go home. i didn't even care about the money anymore. why would any of this even matter if i didn't make it out alive?

everyone made it back inside as the guards followed behind the last couple of players, stopping in front of the door they first walked out of. some of the players ran down to the middle of the floor and started kneeling to the ground, rubbing their hands profusely, begging to be saved.

"we are not trying to hurt you. we are only presenting you with an opportunity," the square guard declared.

"clause three of the consent form!" i turned around to look at the player that yelled this out. it was the same man that was helping everyone in the last game, player 456. "the games may be terminated upon a majority vote. correct?"

oh thank god. we actually had a chance at getting out of here before they had us all killed.

that's when the room went dim, and a golden piggy bank was slowly let down from the ceiling. even i was mesmerized, my eyes glued to the stacks of money falling into it. the guard then explained there was a sum of 9.1 billion won in the bank, and if we all wanted to leave now, it would be split by all current players. murmurs erupted, some people wanting to stay and play more games for the sum to rise, while others still wanted to leave.

"now, let's begin the vote."

the guards started calling out player numbers, starting from the last number, 456. the first vote was an X. each player received a tag with either an X or an O, indicating what they had voted for.

"player 333." i watched as myung-gi emerged from the crowd, and walked towards the buttons. i swear to god.

the sound of the button went off and so did a flash of blue light. he picked O.

he barely even made it through the first game without my help, yet he wanted to stay and continue playing? i scoffed to myself, he really did only care about himself.

"player 222." it was finally my turn. i walked up to the voting stand, confident in my answer. i hit the X button and received my tag. walking back to the group of other X voters, i looked over at myung-gi standing on the opposite side who was also watching me from afar. i narrowed my eyes and made a face full of utter disgust and disappointment, then looked away. in that moment, i regretted saving him at all.

the voting ended shortly, the O's winning by one point. we really had to stay and play another game. it was absurd to me, all these people being blinded by the money after seeing firsthand how one wrong move could literally get you killed.

food service happened after the voting and each person was given a meal. i walked back to my bed and opened up the metal box to find a layer of white rice, topped with an egg, sausage, and picked radish. it honestly wasn't bad at all. i was eating peacefully before myung-gi walked up, holding out his box of food and resting his arms on the foot of my bed.

"you want the radish? i know it's your favorite," i looked up at him, mid-chew of a mouthful of rice and egg. the radish was my favorite, but i was surprised he remembered that at all. without saying anything back, because i was still mad at him, i took the pieces of radish out of his box and put it in mine.

"are you mad at me?" i looked up from my food again. he could not be serious. we were making eye contact now, but the purple-ish, blue ring forming around his left eye caught my attention.

"what happened to your eye?" i asked, ignoring his initial question. i don't even know why i brought it up, i could care less about this asshole.

"don't worry about it." say less! i went back to eating my food, myung-gi still hovering, waiting for the answer to his question. i gave him a "what?" look with a shoulder shrug and seems like he took that for an answer because he turned back around and started walking away without saying another word.

i looked toward his direction ever so often after finishing up my meal. he really was a loser and didn't have anyone else here, not even someone to team up with. he sat straight up on his bed, poking at the rice with his spoon. a couple of hours passed by, and it was soon bedtime. the lights in the room dimmed and everyone was in their beds by this point. i pulled the thin cotton blanket over me and readjusted my pillow so it was leaning a bit against the bed board. i lay there on my back with my hands intertwined across my chest, closed my eyes and desperately tried to fall asleep. but it was one of those nights where your eyes were sleeping, and your body wasn't. hours passed and i was still awake. i tried turning to my side, readjusting my pillow again, but nothing worked. at a loss, i just kept my eyes open and stared at the bottom of the bed above mine.

the older gentleman to my right was snoring like there was no tomorrow, and a woman in her mid-20s to my left kept turning around every 5 minutes. even if i did manage to fall asleep, i probably would've woken up because of one or the other. that's when i heard someone nearby talking, or it was more of a loud whisper. i sat right up on my bed to figure out where the noise was coming from, only to see the source was right in front of me.

myung-gi was talking... but to himself? i slowly peeled the blanket off of myself and threw both legs over the edge of my bed. i stepped on my shoes without properly putting them on, and walked towards his bed, making sure not to make anymore noise that could wake up anyone else. i watched as myung-gi continued to blurt out sentences and random words in his sleep, but i couldn't quite make out what he was actually saying. his eyes were fully closed, but his eyebrows were at a slight furrow with sweat beading on his forehead. he looked like he was burning up. without even realizing, i reached my hand out to his forehead, hovering just an inch above it. i didn't even need to make contact with his skin to know he had a fever. i retracted my hand and bent down to my feet to fully put on my shoes before walking over to the door that led to the restroom. a guard was standing by the door and it took me a good 10 minutes for him to let me use the restroom, finally convincing him by saying it was that time of the month.

i grabbed a long piece of a paper towel, folded it, and let it run under the cold water for a bit. i walked back out the door without the guard noticing the paper towel in my hand and made it back to myung-gi, who was thankfully still asleep. i reached out my arms to place the towel on his forehead, but before i could take them back, myung-gi's hand wrapped around my left wrist. his eyes were slightly open, but i couldn't quite tell if he was actually awake or not.

"stay," he croaked, his voice coming out raspy. i stood there unsure what to do and his grasp still on my arm. "please."

well it's not like i could fall asleep anyway. i used my feet to take off my shoes and climbed into his bed, using his arm as a pillow. i cautiously turned to slightly face him, but myung-gi looked like he had already fallen back asleep. i turned back around, closed my eyes, and without even knowing it, fell asleep right then.

i felt warmer than usual as i started waking up to the same music that played when i first got here. eyes still closed, i turned over to my right side and felt even warmer. it was a nice feeling and i wanted to stay here just for a couple more minutes.

the chatter from the people around me woke me up. vision still blurry, i blinked profusely to make sure i wasn't hallucinating. i was looking straight at myung-gi, our faces almost an inch apart. his eyes were still closed and i could even hear his heartbeat; we were that close. we were also under the same blanket now, not knowing how i even got to that position considering he was hogging the thing when i first laid down.

i didn't know what to do. i didn't want to move now because then he'd wake up and i'd have to confront him. i just kept looking at his face, focusing on the bruise from yesterday, which was now a little darker in color. he didn't look like he still had a fever, but something in me wanted to check anyway. i freed my left arm from my own grip and slowly raised it up to his forehead, but before i could even check, myung-gi opened his eyes. i quickly dropped my hand and closed my eyes, pretending like i had never even woken.

fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit, shit.

then i heard him starting to laugh, myung-gi was laughing at me. i peeked one eye open and he started to laugh even harder. now i felt myself heating up. guards please take me now, just take me now. as i was about to say something, myung-gi used the blanket to cover me entirely and pulled me in even closer.

"what the fuck are you do-" i tried to get out, but my voice got muffled by the blanket as he brought me in even closer. oh my god i thought i was going to explode.

"you hiding something under that blanket?" a voice questioned from outside. i took that as my queue to stay as silent as possible.

"no, why would i be?" myung-gi answered back.

"don't talk back to me, fucker. unless you want a matching black eye." oh, so this must've been the person that beat the shit out of myung-gi yesterday. myung-gi didn't respond this time, but i could feel his arm around me loosen as the footsteps got further away. i reached for the rim of the blanket and pulled it back down enough for my face to show. that was a bad idea, because i was just about touching his chest now.

"if you wanted a hug you could've just said so," he said sarcastically, a one-sided grin forming on his face as he looked down at me.

"in your dreams," i said, all flustered. i quickly pushed myself away before he could pull anything else and practically stumbled out of the bed. i didn't even look back as i put on my shoes and walked out to regroup with the rest of the players.

they had us get into groups of five for the second game, making it a game based on team effort. i teamed up with four older guys, one of them being player 456 from earlier. i was glad i didn't end up with myung-gi this game, because honestly i didn't know how to face him after last night. but i still found myself glancing over at him throughout the game to make sure he was still alive.

we both got through the second game, but it was still silence between us. i didn't go up to him and neither did he try and talk to me. i couldn't fall asleep that night either, but i didn't dare get out of my bed.

the next game came around quickly. i stuck with the group i had made during the previous game, and we quickly got the hang of this new game. we were placed onto a merry-go-round like platform and spun around until the music stopped. the speaker would blurt out a number and the same amount of people would need to run and find a room to stay in. if the room had more or less people than the number that was said, you would die. as a group of 5, we got through teams of 3 and 6 pretty easily. but then the speaker called out 2. i looked up as everyone paired up, and i had no one. my mind went fuzzy, everyone was running around screaming and looking for their friends. i felt like i was going to faint until i felt someone grab onto my wrist and started to drag me off the platform. i picked up on the pace and ran like my life depended on it, because it did.

we ran into a purple room and shut the door. my back was pinned to the wall as myung-gi still held onto my wrist. we were both trying to catch our breath, but then he leaned in closer. my body froze and we were only inches apart again. i was looking into his eyes, then panned down to his lips, just to trace back up to his eyes again. the door clicked shut and we were stuck in here. together.

in that moment, i felt his lips touch mine. i closed my eyes as i let myself melt into the kiss. he let go of my wrist and positioned one hand at my waist while the other creeped up the back of my neck. i could feel my shirt fleeting as his fingertips made contact with my skin ever so lightly. my hands made their way up his chest as i gripped onto his shirt and pulled him in even closer, deepening the kiss and eliciting a whiny moan from him. i wanted this to go on forever.

the door made another clicking sound, letting us know we could go back out. i loosened my grip before myung-gi could get his hand up any higher under my shirt.

"we have to," i let out, mid-kiss, "go." we both came to a stop then, realizing we had to go back out onto the platform. i quickly straightened up my shirt with my hands and reached up to myung-gi's hair which was looking all disheveled now to smooth it back out into his natural middle part.

"we're not done yet," he whispered into my ear as we walked out the door, parting ways once again.

that's when i knew i'd be getting a good night's sleep tonight.

[batchilla]

False Accusations (You know I KNOW right? Chapter Two)

Let me first say thank you for all the kind reception part one received. It was … a surprise, and a welcome one.

Also, a massive thank you to @sunnie-angel for beta reading. If you haven’t read their work… Do yourself a favor and check out their masterlist!

This Chapter takes place over a few days in two mini stories., and I would appreciate being told if at any point this causes confusion. Currently how I’ve done it is as tilted segments. Content warning: this chapter has themes of sexual harassment in the workplace up to the point of groping (from an OC), and corruption. Proceed with caution. Be safe.

The morning after. You are going to murder your partner, Grayson. Perhaps with a gun. Maybe your own two hands. Or maybe you just need coffee.

It's probably the coffee thing. Coffee, then you’ll decide if you're going to kill him and how. As you sit at your table, surrounded by notes you’d made at 4am, the urge to throttle Grayson slowly subsides. You hadn’t slept a wink. You’d had a weird night. But if you were going to do this, help him find this killer… you’d need a plan for if it all goes to hell. A diversion. A plan so that if you’re made, maybe the killer will think you’re on the wrong track. A dummy investigation. But simultaneously one that you won’t overthink, so that you can devote your time and brainpower to the truth. Luckily for you, you have the perfect person to pretend to accuse. After all, your partner, Grayson, is an incredibly weird guy. 8:55 am finds you walking into the station sipping your third coffee of the morning, only to find Grayson sat at his desk. Shirt pressed, tie perfect, hair shampoo commercial glamourous yet slightly messy. The urge to murder your partner returns, just a little. How dare he be so… normal? So unaffected? How dare this man fight crime by night, and be smiling at you as he is now, chipper and bright and perfect, before 9am? The nerve. Maybe you could hit him with a patrol car and claim it was an accident. “Morning detective… Long night?”

Oh.. This fucker. Your partner, Grayson, is the most annoying man alive. You hate how badly you have to fight the urge to grin at the sheer audacity.

She looks exhausted, the poor thing. Dick remembered the feeling, but at some point he’d adapted to running on less sleep than was by any means reasonable. He hoped she wouldn’t need to. That this would be over in a few weeks and she’d be back to getting a full eight hours. “Morning Detective… Long night?” She glares at him like he’s caused personal offence. He raises an eyebrow at her to prompt a response. Inside though, he panics. Had he done something wrong? Could she suspect? No. no of course not. But whatever she said next would surely be important. It was a test of sorts. What would she say she’d spent the night doing? Would she betray his alter ego? Could she sell the lie if she didn’t? “Just had a night in, had a little too much to drink,” she shrugs, opening her bag and removing a notebook. Casual, calm, partially true and nearly impossible to disprove short of a blood test or breathalyser, and even then there was deniability. Dick nods, and looks back down to his computer to hide the grin that splits his face in half. He knows he can’t dwell on it, knows he can’t act on it, but it’s completely unfair that she was that smooth. That helpful. She’d agreed to help him - as Nightwing - instantly. Her words about how Blud owed him a debt had played in his mind on loop for the rest of his patrol. He knew what it felt like to fly. To flip through the air at dizzying heights, gravity a mere afterthought. It was cruel, frankly, that he’d found someone who made him feel even better than that, only for her to be someone he couldn’t be with out of principle and professionalism. It wasn’t that he objected to her as a partner - short of his family, she was possibly the best he’d ever met. Frankly, if she was transferred to Gotham, the bat signal would be turned on far less frequently. And he didn’t object to rules about dating fellow officers, especially one’s partner. Objectively it made sense. But it didn’t change the fact that her smile was the best part of his day. That on the rare times she laughed he could swear he heard an angel just straight up quit its position in the heavenly chorus out of pure envy. That when she’d said she’d help he’d wanted nothing more than to grab her face and kiss her till she was breathless. But he can’t. Or at least Dick Grayson can’t. A new voice breaks him from his spiralling thoughts. “Detective Grayson.” The man standing behind his partner's desk has a hand on the back of her seat, preventing her from swivelling around. 

“We haven’t met yet, I’m Sergeant James McElroy. Seems you spent most of my first day back stuck on a stakeout.” “Pleasure.” he responds, with all the charm he’s learnt to use at galas and parties, forcing down the venom incurred by the way his partner had seemed to lose a gallon of blood at the sound of his voice, and the way she had seemed not to breath since the name was spoken.

He's not touching you. Of course not. He knows better than to do anything so blatant. It's how he’d gotten away with it for so long last time. He doesn’t touch you, or say the things he was so clearly thinking. He would masterfully walk the line between making you feel unsafe, alone, and naked, while never crossing over into anything actionable. Till one day he had. It had been in a crowded lift where he’d used the crush as an excuse to grab and to feel, whispering something vile in your ear. 

He’d figured he’d gotten away with it when you tried to tell your captain and he’d asked if you had a witness. You’d thought he’d gotten away with it too. Till a uniformed officer, Janet Rodwell, had stepped up to have your back. You should have known, really. For the second time in 24 hours you feel like a fool. But while the first time it had been accompanied with a dizzying realisation of love, this time the realisation is dark and chilling to your core. You’d thought you’d won, that it was over. But he’s back and he’s not touching you, but you feel the ghost of his hands all over. You can’t win. He’d been sent away and you thought you were safe again, but he’s back and he’s a sergeant now. Because Bludhaven, as it is, rewards men like him. You can’t bring yourself to look over your shoulder at him, so you look straight ahead, across your desk and to your partner’s adjoining one.

It's not Dick Grayson’s eyes you meet though. They aren’t cheerful, carefree and beautiful. Well, they are beautiful. But they are angry, intelligent, and fierce. You meet Nightwings gaze, and you feel the claws around your lungs relax, even if they do not recede. 

His partner did not rattle easily. Did not panic unnecessarily. 

Pinned down by the Penguin’s smugglers, he’d thought their goose had been cooked unless he could work at his true capacity, so he had shot out the lights and gotten to work. He’d taken out nine, but been unable to find the tenth, until he’d heard the struggle. 

She’d taken him down blind, without drawing her gun. When he’d asked her why she hadn’t, she’d told him she’d lost sight of him in the chaos, and was unwilling to risk it. He wished he hadn’t shot the light out so he could have seen it. 

Still, he had been oblivious. It had hit him like a batarang to the face last night, in that moment where she agreed without hesitation to help him find a serial killer. He’d known she was beautiful, and brilliant. That he had a crush. 

He’d realised last night he was in far, far deeper trouble than that. So, if she was frightened and upset by the presence of this man, then Dick would take his looming over her as a serious threat. He trusted her gut. “You haven’t introduced yourself to my partner, Detective—-” He’s cut off with a dismissive wave that boils his blood. “Oh we’ve met. In fact, she was my partner first. Until the misunderstanding.” There are many ways to snap someone out of a panic. He’s seen sheer rage do it many times. As it does now. “There was no misunderstanding,” she says, her voice firm, her teeth gritted. “Well. I want you to know-” he moves from directly behind her, to her side, leaning down over her, invading her space. Dick wanted to hit him. “I understand that what I did could have been seen as invasive, and you may have felt that I overstepped. I have completed a course, as demanded by HR, and will attempt not to cause you to feel that I have been inappropriate again.”

She takes a deep breath. He can practically hear her count in his head. He stands, moving around the desk to stand beside her, not quite a barrier but a comforting presence, or at least he hoped. “Well. Whatever occurred, we have work to be getting on with, if you don’t mind.” It takes a great deal of the restraint his training has given not to add the words ‘you bastard’, or something far more creative. “But of course. Detective. Detective.”  

Your hands shake as you sit back down in your seat. Your partner, Grayson, returns to his own, his gaze - Richard’s gaze, never leaving your face, crumpled in concern. “I don’t want to overstep… but are you alright? What … did he do?” “I…” you want to tell him, in part. Or maybe you don’t, and you want him to know without having to go through the ordeal of rehashing it all. Maybe by consulting whatever ‘oracle’ he used as nightwing. But you can’t right now. So you don’t. “I… need some air.” Your partner just gives you a comforting smile, a nod, and lets you leave without question. Wingding in the window 

It's five days later, on his patrol, when he notices it. The wingding left in her window. He stops on the roof of the building adjacent to her. As far as city roofs go, this one’s relatively nice. Someone’s placed some potted plants around, in an eclectic attempt at a rooftop garden. Some of these pots contain small pebbles as cover for the soil from the wind. Grinning to himself, he takes a handful. 

Was this a good idea? No. 

Was it deceptive? Well, no more than anything else he did as Nightwing… well, maybe a little more. 

But it hurt, holding her at arm's length, when a part of his soul he tried to ignore yearned to be as close as she would allow. He knows it’s not good. He knows it’s a violation of the utter trust she seems to hold in Nightwing. Really, it would only make things even more messy for his chances as Dick. But he wants to make her smile. Blush, even. He knows she finds him attractive, and in both contexts, but he wants more than that. Over the last week he’s realised just how much he wants to have with her, and it terrifies him. 

If it was simple lust he could deal with it.  But it wasn’t, and so here he was, about to attempt the cheesiest move known to hallmark films, just to see if it would make her laugh at him again. 

He’d managed to be professional while surrounded by highly capable, badass women in skintight clothes for most of his life. He’d had crushes before and gotten over them. He wanted everything with her. And that was not something he knew how to handle, given the mess of their situation. Dick shakes his head, snapping himself out of his doom spiral. He had a detective to meet, and a serial killer to find.

Bap. Bap. Bap. You look up from your book. You’d been getting ready for sleep, wearing your cosy pyjamas, curled up in bed with a book and a hot chocolate. You go still, listening. Bap. Bap. A pause. Then, the rap of knuckles on glass. “I ran out of rocks”

You know that voice. “With you in a moment.” You pull on a dressing gown, and take a moment to curse the fact that your slippers are rabbits before pulling the curtains aside. Nightwing is crouched on your windowsill. You lift it, stepping back as he enters through the window with all the grace of a cat. You know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed to be in your pyjamas, it's late, you had no means of knowing when he’d arrive. But he looked divine in that suit. An adonis. And you're in your old bathrobe and bunny slippers. Truely, you must have done terrible things in a past life. “Nice footwear.” Nightwing says with a smirk. Curse him. Curse his cheekbones and the way his lips look so damn inviting. “You picked up what, five rocks?” you sass right back. Nightwing makes a noise you suspect was supposed to be a scoff, but is more of a squeak. “Do you see a lot of pocket space on this?” 

“Fair.” you say, leading him out of your bedroom and into your living room. He sits on your couch, one leg spread wide, the other’s ankle resting on its thigh, as you open a drawer on your coffee table and produce your masterpiece. Nearly five metres of red string. Names, photos, dates, all studded with pins so pressed so tightly in they haven’t a prayer of accidental removal. You prop it up on the coffee table. 

Maybe your friends were right. Maybe you did need to touch grass. A line of thought for later. You look at Nightwing, who’s no longer relaxed and laying back on your sofa like he owned the place. 

Its years of maintaining a poker face in interrogations and more recently, dealing with his shenanigans that prevents you from grinning. 

He's as pale as you’ve ever managed to see him, and leaning forward now, elbow on knee and chin in hand. “Well, this is… impressive.” He sounded like he’d inhaled helium. “Shall we start with Sergeant McElroy?” you offer, smiling your best ‘there’s nothing wrong’ smile, enjoying making him squirm. “You seem to have … a significant amount of evidence against Detective Richard Grerson?” You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you take a ruler, poking your picture of him between the eyes. You hadn’t planned to do him first, you’d hoped to discuss evidence that would actually lead somewhere. 

This was still going to be fun though. You take a deep breath, and pause for a suitable level of dramatic effect, and begin your game. 

“Detective Richard Grayson. He’s my partner. He’s an excellent detective, and a good man. You might have heard of the charity he founded.” Nightwing makes a noncommittal humming noise. “But is it all too good to be true?” you ask, moving to your first notecard. “Exhibit one. He asked about the file. On its own, innocuous. But then, exhibits two through four. He’s prone to frequent disappearances on cases. He often knows a little too much about the criminal underside of Blud. Things that I have triple checked are not in any police database.”

You run a hand through your hair. “He’s a highly trained combatant. I once saw him take down nine men armed with guns, in the dark. They don’t teach that at the police academy.” “No? No.” Nightwing says, clearing his throat. “I mean yes. That is… suspicious.” “Incredibly. Which brings me to exhibit five. Now I’m no behavioural analyst or shrink. But I know my basics. Childhood trauma and instability can have… lingering impacts. I… don’t feel the need to dredge up his past, but I did look into it… and it’s grim. He was then taken in by Bruce Wayne. His relationship to his father, whatever it is, is something he’s even tighter lipped about then… everything else honestly. It’s not on the board because it’s circumstantial at best… but he has this skill of being able to hold long conversations and yet you come away not having learnt anything deeper about him.” 

He was pretty sure he’d been nodding for a good thirty seconds at this point.  

It would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much. 

The worst part was that it was all well reasoned. Practical. He had done everything she accused him of. She had just drawn a far more down to earth conclusion, that he was a corrupt cop, rather than Nightwing. 

It made sense. Too much sense. How could he shut this down without seeming invested in his own innocence? 

That isn’t what causes his lungs to burn though. No. The root of that was that even if he’d forced himself to maintain a professional - if friendly - distance from her, he would have hoped that she trusted him. 

But in this moment, looking at the evidence, looking at her holding that ruler to his photo’s face like a judge's gavel ready to condemn… he knows. He knows that she will never look at Dick the way she does as Nightwing, happy to see him, believing in his mission, ready to help as soon as he’d asked. Even if he clears himself of this crime, she would surely suspect him of others. 

He’d known it, at least on one level, ever since he’d first met her. He knows it now all the deeper, and he wants to scream. Dick Grayson will never get to tell her how truly wonderful she is.

How highly he regards her. 

How she is one of the reasons he keeps fighting for Bludhaven. 

Dick Grayson will never get to tell her that he loves her. 

But… perhaps Nightwing could have something. Because if she was his north star, then the way he’d felt when she agreed to help him had been like being engulfed by a supernova. 

If she was water, then seeing her cosy and ready for bed and smiling as she let him in through the window had been an oasis in the Sahara. 

If music was the food of love, her attempts not to laugh and stifled giggles over his peeps popcorn had been a symphony orchestra. 

But he’d never have her as himself. Not at all. Nightwing though? She at least found him attractive. Aligned with his ideology. No, he’d never feel that warmth of 10,000 stars directed at the real him. 

No, he’d never be able to be quenched by her life saving presence. 

No, he’d never feel her laughter shaking his bones as if in a musical crescendo.

But even the dimmest and most distant star gave off some light.

Even the last drop in an empty water skin was better than nothing.

Even the memory of a melody could be sweet. True, he would only ever have scraps of her affection. True, he could flirt, and perhaps go even further… but he’d never truly be with her. 

But who was a starving man to deny scraps of sustenance? He’d take what he could have and try to ignore the lingering hunger. 

“Perhaps we should discuss… another suspect?” he prompts, realising how long he’s been silent. How long she had been too, watching him with a strange, concerned look.

She nods, and moves on to their Captain.

Dick is almost relieved when some ten minutes later Oracle calls in a robbery downtown. “Well - sorry Sherlock.” He takes a picture of her board for further study. “I’ll be around next week to continue this discussion, and look over this in my own time till then. Duty calls.” “Be safe,” She says softly, as he’s halfway through the window He looks over his shoulder. “As you wish.”

Taglist: @jasontoddproblems

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If you would request to be added to my taglist, please reblog the fic. Honestly please just reblog it anyway? I worked hard on this. Nothing more demotivating than a fic getting only likes. If you want part three, reblog part two. 

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Onychinus Personal Chef I

ꩇׁׅ݊ You became Sylus' personal chef based off of pure chance. He's picky, he's annoying and he is just so damn fine. ꩇׁׅ݊ fem!reader, sylus x personal-chef!reader pt 1 of a 3 part series ꩇׁׅ݊ pt. 2 .... ꩇׁׅ݊ pt. 3 A/N: [Based on this] Shout out to @kindalonely-ngl for this idea and thank you for tagging me love. I wouldn't be me if I didn't take some creative liberties though.

Being Sylus' personal chef was never on your bingo card of life yet here you were staring down the red-eyed man with nothing, but pure loathing. That faithful day when you were just about to start closing up for the night he and his two crow masked friends walked in asking for a meal. They looked exhausted and you didn’t have the heart to turn them away. You never thought that one visit would become a daily thing. Not only did he come by daily, but he sent in multiple orders a day. The constant orders were helping your family’s small business so you didn’t complain.

This went on for months to the point where your grandparents considered him a family friend. That all came to a head when he waltz in one day offering you 'a deal you simply can’t refuse'

“You do realize it’s just me and my grandparents right? I can’t just leave them to run this place alone Mr. Qin” You usually address him by his first name, but you knew using his last name would wedge some kind of distance between you two and you wanted him to know how upset you were. You couldn’t let yourself seem welcoming at all especially when it came to this insane proposal.

“I can have new employees here to help and I will pay off the debts your family owes on this little restaurant” Your eyes widened in shock how did he know about your family debt? He grinned as he leaned down to be eye level with you. “Do we have a deal?” Your lips curled in disdain “What's in it for me?” You said through gritted teeth, Sylus could practically see the venom dripping from your lips.

And damn were your lips pretty.

Sylus was focused on your lips as he replied “Free housing and a hefty salary all while you get to cook with the finest appliances and cookware that money can buy” His gaze snapped back up to meet your narrowed eyes. “I have to live with you?”

He stood back to his full height as a chuckle seeped out of him. Damn even his laugh sounded like it could fix your finances. “You’ll be on call twenty-four seven it would be beneficial if you were already on sight dont you think?” You hated that he was right, commuting back and forth would be hell.

“Do we have a deal? Yes, no, maybe so?” Sylus bent at the waist and held out a hand almost as if he was bowing to you. You rolled your eyes and looked off to your left as you stuck your hand in his. You were shocked to feel his lips touch the back of your hand with a quick kiss. You felt your heart rate sky rocket as you pulled your hand away. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow. Leave your address with Mephisto I'll have movers sent to you by morning” With that he turned and disappeared in a cloud of black and red mist.

[naguaraquerandom]

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