#which in their heads means it's bad for women

[iphnh]

Hello, @papirouge. I'm going to try to explain my thoughts to you in a roundabout way, but I think doing so can help prevent knee-jerk reactions. I promise what I'm saying will all connect to your concerns--just bear with me.

Idealism vs Materialism

Idealism and materialism are two ways of analyzing history.

If someone analyzes history in an "idealist" lens, that means they study ideologies--they'll ask questions like what were the cultural values, mythologies, and religions of this time period?

If someone analyzes history in a "materialist" lens, that means they study material reality--they'll ask questions like what opportunities and risks did people have for acquiring resources?

For example, if we analyze the American Revolution with an idealist lens, we would conclude that democratic ideals were the driving force behind the revolution. If we analyze the American Revolution with a materialist lens, however, we would conclude that rich landowners in the American colonies did not want to pay taxes to the king anymore and so funded a rebellion. One interpretation looked at ideology, while the other interpretation looked at material reality.

I personally use a materialist lens when I study history. While ideologies are certainly interesting and important to study, I just don't think they're usually the root cause of anything. For me, ideals are ultimately interpretations of material reality, which makes them a side effect rather than a cause of human behavior. Of course, the truth is more complicated than that, but, for the most part, I lean towards a materialist view of history.

Liberalism vs Leftism

Liberalism uses an idealist lens of history while leftism uses a materialist lens.

Liberals focus on the different values and religions people have, and points to these ideologies, as explanations for major world events. They believe that history is ultimately altered by changes in people's ideologies.

Leftists, on the other hand, focus on the different resources, risks, and opportunities that people have, and point to these realities as explanations for major world events. They believe that history is ultimately altered by changes in people's material reality.

For example, a liberal would say that Europe colonized Africa out of an hatred for Africans, and the best way to end colonialism is to end European hatred of Africans. In their worldview, Africa was ultimately colonized because of an ideology

A leftist, on the other hand, would say that Europe colonized Africa for its resources. The hatred that Europeans feel for Africans is very much real, but it came after the desire to steal resources. In their worldview, Africa was ultimately colonized because of material reality.

Liberal feminism vs Radical feminism

Liberal feminists have an idealist view of sexism. They believe that sexism is a result of men's hatred for women and the only way to end sexism is to end men's hatred for women. In their worldview, women have been systemically oppressed globally as a result of an ideology.

Leftist feminism (often called "radical" feminism) uses a materialist view. Leftist feminism believes that while men's hatred for women is very much real, it came after the desire to control women's ability to reproduce, which creates the ultimate resource: human life. In their worldview, women are ultimately oppressed because of material reality.

My issue with liberalism, especially with liberal feminism, is that it's ultimately reliant on circular logic ("men are sexist because of sexism"). What I appreciate about leftist feminism is that it finally gives an answer to why women have been oppressed globally without relying on circular logic.

How this relates to Palestine

What my original post was trying to say is that radical feminists on tumblr, who tend to have a leftist/materialist approach to politics, were choosing to adopt a liberal/idealist approach to politics when it came to Palestine. This was very bizarre and ultimately disappointing to me.

The liberal/idealist approach to Palestine, and imperialism in general, is to (1) say that the dispute is over ideology/religion and (2) say that the solution is changing ideology/religion.

The leftist/materialist approach to Palestine, and imperialism in general, is to (1) say the dispute is over resources, and (2) say the solution is to increase the risk and minimize the opportunity to commit genocide over resources.

So for leftist/radical feminists to say "oh the solution is ~sisterhood~" (an ideology) was very bizarre and disappointing. I saw only two posts that made that statement, but they both had 100-500 notes, which irritated me.

But I want to make this clear -- it irritated me precisely because it is a liberal view of the genocide. It is precisely because of how much I like a leftist/radical view that I was disappointed when I spotted liberal analyses among otherwise leftist/radical feminists.

I also want to emphasize that radical feminism is not a cult, and so debate happens frequently, and no one, even big icons like Dworkin, are spared from debate. I feel comfortable criticizing Dworkin's framework (which I think is ultimately a good framework, just not one that works for genocide) and I do not see it as a sign that I need to abandon ship altogether. I don't think any ideology or religion has a perfect teacher, and I think it's actually very dangerous to think that one does.

I am very sorry for how long this got lol, but people have so many misconceptions about radical feminism that I felt it was necessary to provide actual definitions to avoid knee-jerk responses.

I've never had a major disagreement with radical feminist positions until a few days ago. The argument that war is solely between men and women are "the ball," as Dworkin explained, is not an analysis that applies to all wars, and certainly not to wars of occupation and genocide.

I've seen several radfems use this framework to say/imply that Israeli and Palestinian women should join together in sisterhood, and that the genocide is really just between the men. This is, quite frankly, a ridiculous analysis. And what does it even mean? What would "sisterhood" here even look like?

I need to read what other radical feminists have said about war, but it's such a strange analysis for an otherwise Leftist movement. Empty calls for sisterhood are usually something I see liberals do, so why are supposed Leftists making the same argument....and about a literal genocide.

[batsplat]

hello!! i think you don't talk that much about tennis here, but this year i’ve been watching singles matches from roland garros and wimbledon and omg, it’s super fun!!! my grandfather used to be a big tennis fan and to be honest, i only started paying attention this year because i deeply miss him but omg!!! i've been missing in one of the best sports!!

well, my question is if you have any advice on how to start watching tennis! like, I know how the scoring system works, but for example, are there basic things you feel one should know? lore? matches that everyone absolutely should watch?

i know it’s a lot of work to answer all this, but thank you whether you respond or not! prob everyone tell you this, but wow you really are fantastic!

your brain >>>

i can’t even count how many things i’ve learned since following you!! at the risk of sounding parasocial, i really do have a lot of love for you <3

oh everything about this ask is so sweet!! I'm glad you've had fun watching the slams this year, I think it's quite easy for me to get down on the sport but it really is fantastic. and oh yeah absolutely, this is like. my speciality topic. forget all the other shit, when it comes to tennis I know my stuff

because of the disparate nature of tennis, it's hard to just give easily distilled lore, though I will be peppering a bunch of information and like, infamous matches + moments throughout the post that are quite common touchstones within the tennis fan community. this should also be quite a good time to get into the sport: we have a few smaller tournaments, then the olympics, and then it's immediately big tournaments leading up to the last slam of the year, the us open. the general aim of this post is to just provide a little bit of context for what you're seeing, some useful bits and bobs to get started, without delving too much into the actual tennis itself - but please feel free to ask about those bits too!!

I'll also give a little bit of history on the key players in both tours, starting at the inception of the open era. modern tennis as an actual professional sport has existed since 1968 (though obviously tennis has a far more extensive history we're not going to get in here) - and since then, we've had the gradual development of the formalised elements of the sport like the introduction of a rankings system in 1973, the creation of the women's tennis association also in 1973, the constant tension with the four slams, and so on and so on. which, yeah, all of this is plenty interesting, but in this post I'll mostly limit myself to providing a general lineage of the big name players of either gender from the inception of the open era onwards. the 1920s wills/lenglen one-match rivalry is a conversation for a different day

so yeah, a multi-part guide with a bunch of stuff I think should be useful. these parts can all be read independently, so really just take out whatever's useful for you - no need to read the whole thing:

how it works: the basic details of how the tours and calendar are set up

where to watch: a broad overview of where you can access tennis

how to get started: some general stuff about how to navigate the sport

women: a very, very quick who's who of women's tennis in the open era, kinda the biggest names and then a little more on the top of the game right now

men: you'll never guess

matches to watch: this is not necessary to get into the sport, but I have still provided a few picks from youtube that felt like they fit the general remit

in conclusion: got to have one of those y'know

I've also put a few other things below the cut:

some non-match tennis content and resources, a mix of more fun + casual stuff and where to go for a little more analysis of what you're watching

me going through the women's rankings and giving like, the first thing that pops to mind about the first 35 names

me doing the same with the men but trailing off after 20

just a list of players I think could be fun to look out for

I'm aware that my 'please don't feel overwhelmed' guide may feel overwhelming. again, you do not need to know or remember all of this when you are starting out. the most important thing is to watch matches and to figure out what you enjoy - none of this is mandatory. tennis is very much a buffet sport. pretty much everyone keeps up with the slams, but beyond that you will find fans who are super into challenger tennis, those who are dedicated to supporting every british scrub from rank 28 to 428 in the world, those who consider themselves specialists on two matches from the early 1980s. some are super big doubles fans, which is unfortunately something I will mostly leave out in this guide but is absolutely worth checking out! lastly, and this is really important: you do not need to keep up with tennis all the time! again, most fans generally will tune in for the slams, probably for the masters/1000s, but if you're not keeping up with every 250 it is fine. it isn't homework, the commentators are there to provide context for everything you've missed. all the information I've provided below will hopefully be useful in following the sport more closely but none of it is necessary. there is no required viewing in tennis, just find the bits you vibe with and go from there

HOW IT WORKS

right, thank god we're not starting with the scoring system, but the macro organisation of the sport is also *rubs temples*. once more with feeling, you do not need to remember most of this stuff to enjoy the sport. the rankings points per round thing? honestly, especially how often they faff about with the specific number of points for stuff, I too have to look these up a lot of the time. I usually just check the live rankings sites after certain rounds like everyone else (best site for this for both genders is an unofficial one because of course it is, if you want to find men's entry lists for various tournaments then go to 'dartsranking.com' here (don't ask) and if you want to find women's entry lists then they will come to you in a dream when you are ready to perceive them)

the tldr here is that you have the four slams, you have a bunch of tour-level events, the most important of which are the masters/1000 events and the tour finals, and then you have other stuff going on. also, the tours are thinking about completely uprooting and quite frankly vandalising this whole system so don't get too attached to it

right so, basically the main organisations in tennis are: international tennis federation (itf), association of tennis professionals (atp), and women's tennis association (wta)

the itf is basically like... it technically is responsible for the four grand slams, aka australian open, roland garros, wimbledon and the us open, but those four slams also all have a lot of individual power because they're the most important events in the sport. it's also stuff that's below tour-level tennis (aka atp/wta) but above national level competition... plus they're responsible for team events like the davis cup (men) and the billie jean king cup (formerly fed cup, women)

(atp matches are shorthand for men's matches and wta for women's, even when we're talking about slams. nobody cares that much)

slams are best of five sets for the men and best of three sets for the women. all other events these days are best of three. why is there this gender disparity in format in slams? because pretty much nobody is interested in changing it :) sucks because it's such a unique aspect of men's slam tennis but that's where we are

the atp is responsible for all the other events for the men, and the wta is responsible for all the other events for the women. so basically you have slams, which are the most prestigious things you can win the sport. below that, you have several different tiers of events that the 'top' players still play but aren't quite as important. the slams and all these other events do contribute to the same ranking system though

so the four slams give you 2000 points apiece if you win one of those bad boys (you get points for each round you win, so for instance 400 points if you get to the quarterfinal), and provide you with atp/wta points. it's seven rounds to win a slam, 128 player main draw, plus there's also a three round qualifying for lower ranked players. these are two week events and they're the ones players dream of winning when they're wee shits with delusions of grandeur

the next tier is masters events on the men's side and wta 1000 on the women (honestly often colloquially they're referred to as masters there too). the winner gets... you guessed it, a thousand points (last year we still had events called '1000' that provided '900' points and 500 events that gave you 470 and 250 that gave 280 points, because the wta does literally hate us). they used to mostly be one week but now we're getting more and more two week masters, for reasons. some of these events include both genders, some are for just one of the genders, some are in canada (they do the men in montreal and women in toronto one year and then switch the next)

then you've got 500 events, then 250 events. they're still plenty prestigious for most players, but of course it depends... for some players, winning a 250 is the best day of their life - for others, it's really just a warm up event for something more important

anything lower than that may still be handled by the tour but it's not a 'tour-level event' and top players won't play them. so on the women's side you have 125s and on the men's side you have *drum roll* challengers

if YOU are in the top eight of the year's rankings at the end of the season (referred to as 'the race') then you get to go to the year end championship technically more complicated than this in the atp but let's not!! also called the tour finals. this one's got a round robin system followed by semis and a final, you get points per match for a maximum of 1500. it's kinda a reward for consistency too, not as valuable as a slam but it's the next tier

there's also the olympics, which is like? almost all players would rather win a slam tbh - but I think for a lot of players olympic gold would be the next big thing. it depends though! it's very individual how much that means to you in tennis, and for instance this year because it's on clay between the grass and hard court swings, a lot of players are skipping it. you don't get ranking points for them either

ranking points are updated on a rolling basis, so they drop off after 52 weeks. the official rankings are released every monday (though obviously there's also the live rankings) and they determine what players can enter what event... plus seedings

the points distribution, ta da:

so the thing about tennis is that it's basically just... always on. no break! starts in january, the tour finals are october/november-y - and if you're REALLY feeling withdrawal symptoms, itf's are going on all the time. especially the top players (who expect to go deep in the events they enter) won't enter events every week, and you generally expect weeks right before or after slams to have fields with lower rankings. the 'big titles' are slams, masters/1000s and tour-level finals - and when those are on, that's the only tour-level event happening. most of the masters/1000 are 'mandatory' for players of a certain ranking, but there's a bunch of exceptions there we're not going to get into. 250s and 500s are often happening in the same weeks as other 250s and 500s. a normal amount of tournaments for top players per year is like... 17 to 25 I'd say

the other big element of the tennis calendar is the surfaces, which the tours are organised around. now, basically throughout the year, you do have hard and clay events going on at itf/challenger/125-level - but at the tour-level, it's more regimented than that. let's start with what the surfaces are:

hard - has increasingly become the 'default' surface for tour-level tennis, though it was not always thus. made out of... hard stuff... asphalt, concrete, y'know. lot of different types of hard court, in various colours too, for both indoors and outdoors tennis. you've got very slow and very fast ones and everything in between. tricky to slide on, though men do that a lot these days

clay - made out of crushed brick. generally orange, but can be grey. generally the slowest and highest bouncing surface, though again there's also variation there. in geographical terms, players from continental europe and south america generally grow up on this stuff - if you're from elsewhere, it's usually hard. you can slide on this stuff!! it gets everywhere

grass - used to be the tennis surface but now is kinda novelty value and confined to a small stretch of the calendar. the fastest surface, low bouncing. you can slide on this - but beware, players don't really grow up playing on this (even the bri ish) so is extra likely to cause injuries

and the way it maps onto the tennis calendar in like... very rough terms...

okay. okay so we start on hard court! for the australian swing, leading up to the australian open in like january-ish. there's also generally some events going on in asia in the lead-up to ao

then... right. february, you've got men's events indoors hard in europe and outdoor clay in south america. and there's women's events indoors hard in europe and outdoors hard in the middle east. look. ignore february for now

then everyone goes to the sunshine double (indian wells/miami), back to back masters in the states for four weeks starting in march. outdoor 'hard' (indian wells is infamously slow)

then it's clay season! so ignoring those like. three events at the start, almost all of this happens in europe. all of the events apart from the wta 500 stuttgart is outdoors. and then you've got roland garros in may/june!

and then we switch to grass, where there's only three weeks to lead up to wimbledon! these events are in britain, germany and the netherlands

and then. okay. so. you've got one more grass event but you ALSO have the july clay swing. this doesn't lead up to any big events, it's just sort of there. they're trying to get rid of july clay because #they hate whimsy and fun

also you have the olympics during that time when they're on, typically on hard but this time on clay

then you also start having hard events at the same time, and eventually everyone goes to two masters, first in canada then cincy. outdoor hard

and THEN you get the us open, the final slam of the year, again on hard court, in like august/september

and then. and then. everyone just goes wherever. asia, america, europe, indoor hard, outdoor hard... even a rogue wta event on clay scattered in there

and eventually there's the tour finals! so on the men's side, it's in turin, where they've got a longer term contract - the tour finals move around, but only every few years

on the women's side, they're now in saudi arabia, which... discussion for another day, at least they're polite enough to let us know where it's happening more than two days in advance

as an example, here's what wta events are going on in july:

so, generally speaking there has been a process of surface homogenisation over the last few decades, where court speeds and all that have become more similar to all the other courts... like unless you're casper ruud, if you're a top player on one surface you will be able to perform to a reasonable standard on all of them. but it does matter! every player has courts where they're better or worse, preferred conditions and places where they're relatively weak - even the greats of the sport. relatively dominant world number one iga swiatek just flopped out of wimbledon. 24 slam winner novak djokovic kinda sucks at monte carlo. this is a question of playstyle and how it interacts with the conditions, of weather, ability to move on certain surfaces... etc etc. and the tennis does look different... this is one of those things you do just get the more you watch it I reckon

it's even just very basic stuff! because grass is faster than clay, serves are more dangerous there - and also it's harder for players to make it to the ball in time, so rallies are on average shorter. it used to be super extreme that grass was the territory of servebots and super aggressive players, and clay was ultra defensive grinders. now it's more complicated than that but *wiggles hand* everybody still has their Thing

HOW TO WATCH

*sigh* yeah this is the tough one

okay. so this really depends on where you are, and unfortunately there's no getting around the fact that the rights situation is an absolute disaster in this sport. first of all, each of the slams are their own thing, and often have different deals with different networks/streaming services. so for instance in britain, you can can watch the australian open and roland garros on discovery plus and wimbledon on the bbc and the us open using vpn to a different european country's more affordable streaming service in a language you can speak on sky sports. my understanding is the situation in the states is a nightmare

with the tours, which is most of the year, regardless of location you can watch men's tennis on tennistv, their custom streaming service that also provides replays of... almost all matches in the last few years and a strong selection of matches from the years before. it's not exorbitant fees, but it's also not cheap. again, depending on location, there may be other options available like tennis channel *sigh* and skysports *stares into the middle distance*. with the women......... okay, so you can use vpn to select countries (or just live there I suppose) and then buy wta.tv, which is quite possibly the worst streaming site to have ever been created. they do also have a list of broadcasters by country

I don't really know how to sugarcoat this because like... it's a nightmare. it just is. and if you want to watch a player you like in qualifying, well then, good luck. I do have to bring up for completist's sake that you can use betting sites where you pay in a one-time fee of like ten quid to watch any match live without commentary, including the ones that are otherwise available nowhere else but apparently do have cameras on them. which is.... obviously terrible. but well, icl, I do use it. for below tour level, challengers tv on the men's side does actually exist and works great! no commentary though in almost all cases. for 125 events... I do think they're mostly on wta.tv now? which. about time. some itf events are available on the itf website. the other option we all have to go for sometimes is... alternative streams. the way to go about this for the uninitiated is googling 'reddit sports streams', go to a recent-ish post, click on one of the links they provide, and work from there. of course, you can't watch replays with this - but especially as an entry level fan, that's often the place to start unfortunately

you can also watch match highlights! men's tour-level highlights posted by the tennistv youtube channel are generally speaking quite good. the highlights that the wta compiles are. *takes deep breath* *stares into distance* well. they do exist. sometimes. with slams it's all over the place, so like the australian/us open actually provides great 'extended highlights' quite regularly (and even uploads full matches!!) whereas the roland garros youtube channel might as well be telling you 'fuck you' in french for two and a half minutes for all the viewing value you get out of their highlights. wimbledon is almost as bad an offender - and both also relentlessly copyright strike anyone who is rude enough to attempt to advertise their product for them

^one of the best slam matches in years. an instant classic. exactly three minutes of highlights. the blandest caption on this planet. let's all kill ourselves in french

another thing that's worth bringing up: start times on a tennis schedule are very much vibes. you can generally trust the first match of the day on any given court to start when it's supposed to, except if the weather has something to say about it. there's also some 'not before' times or evening sessions, where generally the schedulers hope that all the preceding matches will already have finished by then. otherwise, you are dependent on how long the players before that have decided to take. this can be frustrating, especially when you're setting an alarm for 4 am and were kinda hoping you didn't do so for nothing. match notifications aren't a bad idea!! and sometimes you just have to see if you can vibe with whatever's on. also, anon you said you were watching roland garros and wimbledon.... okay, look, this can always be an issue (except in indoor tournaments obviously), but I PROMISE you the rain situation isn't usually THAT bad

listen. the thing about tennis is that it doesn't necessarily want you to watch it. but you can beat it

HOW TO GET STARTED

okay, the obvious one, and the bit you've already done: just start watching some matches!! slams are a good gateway drug. also, the next few months are gonna be super hectic - you don't even have the relative 'lull' of july clay because it's all prep for the olympics. then you've got two masters leading directly to the us open. there's plenty of matches to watch!! most of the top players will be at the olympics, basically everyone will be at the masters and then at the us open

for one week events, you have a lot of matches at the start of the week before the field gradually thins out, and then you get just the final on sunday. for two weeks, it's a bit more complicated than that, but you still generally will end up with a final on sunday

again, you don't need to watch everything! seriously, I imagine the number of matches can feel a bit overwhelming, but there's plenty of tournaments where I watch like. one match on a thursday and nothing else that week, and if it's on the main feeds then the commentators will tell me all I need to know about what's been going on

and yeah, pick a few players. if you've got a bit of a range - especially in terms of their ranking - they're also likely to be competing in different events and give you someone to get invested in most weeks if you so choose. plus, if you're just there for one player, they may just flop for six months and go on a seventy match losing streak. can get pretty dire. give yourself a few players to orientate yourself week by week... I used to have scoring notifications turned on for a bunch of players (also to let you know when they start), now I just let their results come to me in a dream

we'll be getting into this in a moment, but with the men it's always important to remember that legally speaking, only three men are allowed to win a slam at any single point in time. which means that for your sanity it's probably a good idea to just pick one of those blokes to be a fan of so you have someone to actually provide you some joy in life. the other top ten players are kinda filler material in terms of the Big Narratives of the sport, but some of them do make it to late stages of slams quite regularly and have even been known to win some masters, so you might want to pick from that pool too. beyond that, you're getting into territory where there's a lot of fun blokes who generally have a big run in them somewhere, but it's also considerably less predictable and they are more likely to just. lose a lot. but also, the small successes there are more fun to celebrate!!

with the women... well, listen, we're in a situation where the big events on a tour level currently do feel a bit more dominated by top players than the slams do - cf how we've had two matches this year between the worlds numbers one and two and none of them have come at the majors. given the wta has more or less left its chaos era, you're quite unlikely to have 'random' players winning slams, though generally speaking they may be more likely to make the late stages of the slams than on the men's side. what this tour really has plenty of is depth! I'd still recommend getting into one of the top 3-4 players on tour, all of whomst are slam winners - but there's only two multiple slam winners you feel relatively confident about racking up at least a few more, whereas the other two still have a bit more to prove in that regard. beyond that, you do have to embrace a little more volatility to enjoy the women's game to the fullest extent. if you've watched the channel slams, you'll have been introduced to a player who would have been considered a 'scrub' a year ago (a term of endearment, at least to me) but made back to back slam finals in the midst of her strongest career season. #realtennisunderstanders will know this didn't completely come out of nowhere, but for a lot of viewers it will have!! the beautiful thing about this tour is that you can hope for something that isn't just more of the same - you too can pick a random scrub and experience the thrill of them making a round four in a slam out of nowhere

basically, with both genders, my suggested approach would be finding a realistic slam contender who might actually win shit for you, find maybe one or two lost causes you can get upset about whenever they give you false hope, and then pick up a bunch of scrubs at random because they charmed you that one time they won a three and a half hour match in the first round of a 250

there's also a bunch of non-match tennis content that you can check out! I shoved it under the 'read more' because this was getting too long, but you have a mix of youtube channels, podcasts, writers to check out, specific pieces, websites... that kinda thing. I'll say this again below but really my number one rec is daria kasatkina's tennis vlog to get the insight into what life is like for a top twenty player. plus, her and her girlfriend are lovely. so

WOMEN

right, first a brief history of the big names, starting from the open era (1968):

at this time, the big names were billie jean king (known dyke, one of the key figures in founding the wta, cf 'the original 9') and margaret court (known homophobe, statpadded her slam count total with a bunch of australian open titles when nobody bothered to make the trip to australia which still feeds into some deeply annoying modern goat debates). you've got the breakthrough of goolagong (one of the most important players in the 1970s, from an aboriginal family back in the time when the government was removing aboriginal children from their families - really would recommend reading up on her story). these players all won a bunch of slams, very successful

in the late 1970s you get the emergence of navratilova and evert, who have the most prolific rivalry in tennis history - and they are the dominant names throughout the 1980s. interesting and layered rivalry, both in terms of their interpersonal relationship (which has gotten very warm since they've retired) and in terms of the tennis - with navratilova the attack-oriented serve and volleyer taking on evert the defensive baseliner. unfortunately, they now spend much of their time being transphobic on twitter dot com

the next big name to break through is one of the contenders for the title of goat, steffi graf, miss forehand who started winning slams in the late 1980s. a bit shy, a bit introverted, a bit withdrawn with a father who can politely be described as 'a piece of work', she was dominating the sport to an insane extent - she's still the only player to have won a 'golden slam', all four slams + olympic gold in a single year, which she did in 1988. then comes monica seles, even younger, a power player with two hands on the forehand as well as the backhand and seemingly the player who could finally take on graf. seles won three out of four slams in 1992 (she lost wimbledon in the final to graf) - but then, in 1993, she was stabbed while playing a match by a fanatical graf fan. while she survived the attack and was eventually able to return to the tour, even managing to secure one more slam, the crime irrevocably altered the course of her career. it's still considered the single biggest 'what if' in tennis history. graf dominated for most of the nineties... the other big names are sanchez vicario, who won a bunch of slams but also lost a lot of slam finals vs graf + seles, as well as hingis, an extraordinarily precocious talent with a few fun controversies and plenty considerably less so, who ended up having her career marred by injuries

turn of the century is when we get the emergence of the williams sisters, venus and serena, both of whomst are all time greats - and serena has perhaps the strongest goat case of any single player in the women's game. the two made a huge impact on the sport both on-and off-court and they are in that rare categories of athletes who can be considered 'bigger than the sport'. of course, we're not going to do that history justice here - and there's all manner of talking points like the indian wells boycott as a result of how the crowd treated their family (allegations of match fixing with obvious racist under/overtones) and how instrumental venus in particular was in bringing about equal pay in slams. on the court, both separated themselves from the pack in their athleticism in all domains - venus has the all court game with the mix of aggression and craftiness, and serena is a powerful baseliner with probably the best serve of all time in the women's game. beyond their singles slam tallies, they also are one of the all time great doubles pairings, winning fourteen slams as a team (this did used to be more common, cf navrat's doubles slam count)

many wta fans consider the noughties pretty much... peak of the sport, a golden age - this is the bit people tend to get nostalgic about. it's partly the tennis itself, partly the state of the competition, the Big Characters and all their drama.... apart from the williams sisters, you had the belgian rivals: henin, who was seen as cold and ruthless and a bit of a cheat, with a lethal one handed backhand, quick feet and a great serve considering her height, and clijsters, with her big groundstrokes and her distinctive way of sliding on hard court and how she was considered cheery and kind but also flaky and too much of a choker to ever finish the job. those two had a whole history with each other, as childhood friends from opposite sides of the belgian linguistic divide who became very much not friends.... were on very different on-court and off-court trajectories. then you've got a few more americans, many of whomst were also active in the nineties... davenport who smacked the ball like crazy, capriati who was known for being a semifinal choker until she wasn't - one of those players who captivates you with how much of themselves they leave on court. then kuznetsova, with a fun if inconsistent game and some banger matches, particularly memorably vs serena, mauresmo who had a stunner of a one handed backhand, these days she's making herself unpopular as roland garros' tournament diector, sharapova, the prodigy to break through and suddenly beat serena in a wimbledon final (basically never beat her again lol) who... uh. yeah! lore! she's got plenty of that! also jelena jankovic, who was world number one but never won a slam. still known for the single most important reaction image in the sport:

you use this attached to some dumb fake quote, typically about how players today just don't cut it. an important element of sports discourse is, of course, nostalgia for some kind of mythical era vastly superior to the present - get in on the game early

the 2010s is like... a mess... serena is still super successful, sharapova is still a major factor, but you also have a bunch of other big names. muguruza! halep! azarenka! wozniacki! kerber! kvitova! in no particular order! some are still around, some have retired recent-ish, some are now back after having been suspended for doping. as a cohort, I feel like they're generally treated as kind of underachievers, but all the ones I listed DO have at least one slam to their names. also many Characters in this camp!

next big thing is naomi osaka, who is currently on four slams (first sealed at us open 2018). her first slam was sealed in a massively controversial final against serena that is hard to summarise in a pithy way - but the controversy is all about officiating and serena's disagreement with the sanctions the umpire was applying. it had nothing to do with osaka - who is a fun character with a great understated sense of humour, but also is a bit of an introvert and ended up quite overwhelmed in the situation with the vocal crowd response. since then, osaka's torn up a few more hard court slam draws, though her other results aren't like,,, really in line with those slam results? and she ended up a bit disillusioned with tour life, which is tied to another big controversy we're not getting into here about her refusal to attend press conferences at rg '21. then she got pregnant, but this year she's back! jury's out about whether she'll become a regular feature at the top of the game again, but her recent r2 at roland garros against swiatek was promising in that regard. one of those players where the sheer power of her groundstrokes can make you gasp, one hell of a serve, so so much raw talent that she's now attempting to coax out again

for a while, the most important player in the woman's game was ash barty, who ended up on three slams and a good run of weeks at the top of the rankings. an australian with obscene amounts of natural talent at all manner of sports, she was short enough to make her serve freakishly good, a powerful forehand and a nasty slice... but always with a complicated relationship to the sport. after winning the australian open in 2022, she retired out of the blue, in what has to be one of the shocking announcements we've had, like... ever. given the sport had been fairly chaotic in recent years, there was a bit of an expectation that the world number one ranking was going to be beset by similar levels of chaos. with barty gone, removed from the top of the rankings after the very next event, were we going to get another five different number ones in the year to come? was it just going to be a free-for-all? will we all be number one for 15 minutes?

well, no. off the back of her third consecutive tournament win, iga swiatek ended up inheriting the title. she'd already won a roland garros title as a teenager (the weird covid-y autumn 2020 one where she just like... terrorised the field, scary scorelines) - and after a slightly rockier 2021, she was already in the process of putting together a fearsome 2022. there was always the concern the new pressure of becoming world number one might affect her... but if anything, it spurred her on even further. she ended up accumulating a 37 match win streak, the longest in the women's game in the 21st century - which also took her to her second roland garros title. she's on five slams total now

she's been number one since then except for a brief period late last year when aryna sabalenka briefly replaced her

which brings us to the current game:

especially on the non-slam level, there are definitely a few big names right now who you'll see win a lot of titles - or at least show up in the late stages. I've already mentioned iga (igatha) and aryna (sabs, sublanko) (long story)

iga is a class apart from the field outside of slams, has by now won a shit ton of titles, often by like... brutalising the field. her biggest asset is her phenomenal movement, best in the game. the forehand is... unusual (odd grip and with very high topspin by women's standards), big big weapon but can fall apart - but on the plus side that's meant people are finally paying attention to her very lovely backhand. can be a bit tactically rigid, generally too few in-match adjustments

very intense on court! less so off it, kinda an introvert, big on reading, tiramisu, that kind of thing. her polish fanbase can be a teensy bit. insane. (honestly the non-polish ones are also a lot.) on clay she's in a class of her own - four of her five slams are at roland garros, and I fully expect her to reach the double digits at that particular slam. her slam results have been a bit disappointing outside of that, minus her one us open title in 2022, which in itself is a reflection of the expectations people have for her. she's also very good on hard, though the grass situation is currently a bit sketch. always a force to be reckoned with, though! struggles the most with big flat hitters (rybs, penko, noskova, alexandrova, kalinskaya, idk, that type. apart from those first two who are consistent Problems, generally speaking she does get the better of them more often than not)

^our current numbers two and one, sabs on the left and igatha on the right. I quite like iga's top because from the right angle it looks a bit like a piano and I like pianos - but on running doesn't believe philosophically in providing people a chance to 'buy' their 'product', so to the best of my knowledge this kit was never available to buy. tennis: a sport that is so profoundly shit at capitalism it comes around to being kinda marxist

sabs is a POWER player, but with a fair amount of spin to her strokes when compared to many of the other wta 'bashers'. smooth and elegant and easy power production is overrated as shit - sometimes you want to see a player who is visibly putting effort into smacking that ball. she puts so much of herself into every single shot, and you do NOT want to be that ball when she's on it. very expressive on court, a fun character off it, the type of player to really show her emotions. for her, the mental side of the game tends to be a massive talking point. despite her current slam tally of two (ao '23, '24), a lot of her fans would very much feel she should be on several more than now - and a big reason for that is a pattern of underperforming/choking in big matches late in slams, typically in the semis but also in last year's us open final. the tennis is there, but the ability to always deliver on it? eh. it's a cruel sport

the other massive hurdle for her was her serve. she developed such a severe case of serving yips that during the australian swing of 2022, she ended up clocking double digit numbers of double faults in single matches. she ended up working with a biomechanics specialist to fix the issue - and it's still one of the sport's loveliest fairy tale stories in recent years that she ended up winning her first slam in the place that had caused her such heartache the year before. she started the final with a double fault, and went on to win it in the best slam final (either gender) we've had this decade. she might still be fighting her demons, but at least you do know she won't stop fighting

speaking of the ao '23 final: elena rybakina (lena, ryba, rybs), the player sabs beat to win it. ryba is... I don't think it's fair to say she came out of nowhere to win wimbledon in 2022 because she had reached a slam quarter the year before, but she certainly was a bit of a surprise. a little bit of controversy surrounding that title, given ryba is a russian-born citizen of kazakhstan who switched nationalities because she was promised support by the kazakh tennis federation - and wimbledon that year had banned russians and belarusians (this was a one time thing, and in the end no other tournament went the same way). there was also a little bit of... *sigh* discourse? about how little she emoted when winning the title, which kinda led to a weird set of presser exchanges where she ended up crying when the emotion finally overcame her and she kinda went 'well you got what you wanted' and then everyone clapped? like, literally

anyways, she backed it up by reaching the ao '23 final, won a couple more big titles last year, and seems to be particularly lethal when facing iga. that being said, her other slam results have been quite poor since then - and she was seen as the clear wimbledon favourite this year in the second week but failed to convert it into another slam. she's also been hampered by various illnesses, remains to be seen if that remains a consistent problem in her career. still feels like she's got a little bit to prove in that regard. she's very tall, an icy demeanour on the court with an excellent serve and big, flat groundstrokes that are particularly effective cross court. also she has a sister who tags along sometimes and very much emotes

and then there's coco gauff, who had her main tour breakthrough very very young and is still only twenty. had her big title breakthrough last summer in the american hard court swing, won a lot of matches and ended up winning that us open. since then it's been... a bit more of a mixed picture. she's a great athlete, very very fast, and that athleticism is her single biggest strength. the backhand is a thing of beauty. the forehand is not a thing of beauty. partly due to her unorthodox grip, it's a bit of a catastrophe at times - very liable to breaking down entirely, and her slam was won working around that weakness. iga has a painful 11-1 head to head against her in large part for that reason. coco's also got a powerful serve, but it's... not in great shape right now I don't think? but the other big thing she's got going for her is how damn tough she is - like especially this year when the tennis hasn't always been there, she's managed to knuckle down and get a lot of incredibly gritty wins. she's survived a lot of 'ugly' matches, has somehow scrapped and clawed her way through plenty of them... though yeah, doesn't seem like she's particularly happy with her camp at the moment. no question about her dedication or talent, but it remains to be seen whether the forehand will end up imposing a ceiling on her ultimate potential

barbie k has earned a promotion to this bit of the post by just winning her second slam at wimbledon! you get to this section if you win two slams this decade, I reckon, and barbora krejcikova (barbie, barbs, mother krej) is now a multiple slam champion in singles as well as doubles (where she is very, very successful). she's a late-ish bloomer who really only started performing in singles in 2021, and still remains a bit of a mystery in her performance patterns. czechia is a powerhouse in the women's game that has produced a lot of top players, some crafty ones with a ton of variety and some bashers - and krej is in the former camp. she has a real fun game in part as a result of her doubles expertise: she slices! she moonballs!! a LOT!! kinda quirky way of hitting her forehand, a lot of arm extension, but the backhand is the real beauty. clever player even when she can't string it together consistently on the singles court... had a dip in results after winning a final against igatha early last year (her second time doing so in a matter of months - given iga's fearsome reputation in finals in particular, this is particularly impressive). who knows, she might disappear again after this... but well, you always know she has this kind of a run in her. she's a proper fan of the sport herself and you'll frequently spot her watching women's matches from the stands in her off time

in conclusion, the current women's game is great. I have no clue who's going to win the us open. there are about a million fun and interesting players I've left out of this narrative summary. pick up your local scrub today

MEN

again, starting with a broad historical overview:

right right around the switch to the open era, the biggest name is rod laver, who is still the only bloke to win a calendar slam (all four slams in one year). the main stadium at ao is named after him, as are a bunch of other things. they trotted him out in 2021 when it looked like djokovic would win the calendar slam, but, well, he did not. there's also rosewall who won a bunch of slams... the era also includes arthur ashe, the first black man to win a slam title (did it three times). eventually, in the mid seventies you get the emergence of jimmy connors, who ended up being around forever and ever - famously a dickhead, one of the backhands of all time and an early adopter in the two handed squad

you also get the emergence of bjorn borg, the iceman, who was like. super popular with his looks and magazine shoots and exorbitant exhibition fees, very very intense about his tennis, steely baseliner. eventually burned himself out and retired young, which also negatively affected his rival - the tempestuous young john mcenroe, known for his temper tantrums (he of "you cannot be serious") and being a magician on the court, who tended to behave himself around borg and borg alone. he believes he never quite recovered from borg deserting him so early, though he did amass quite a nice collection of slams

early eighties and we're throwing in a mats wilander into the mix, a baseline grinder in the classic mould who you may be familiar with if you've ever followed tennis through eurosport - plus boris becker, who won wimbledon ridiculously young, a highly gifted serve and volleyer, who spends his days now going to prison for tax evasion. two more eighties players while we're at it: the hardy ivan lendl, a man with a big forehand and an icy demeanour which is SUCH a cliche I hate myself for using it, and stefan edberg, the best type of serve-and-volleyer because he really was more about the volleys than the serve

and then!! the nineties!! well, a little bit before the nineties, actually, is when a new crop of american talent come through - four players who were going to define that decade of men's tennis. michael chang was the first one to break through, and did so very young - still the youngest slam winner in the men's game at seventeen years old. a short bloke who based his defensive game around his speed and consistency, he never quite managed to replicate that initial success, but was still a major factor in the game for the decade after that. also, check out chang's autobiography if you want to learn more about nineties tenn- oh, what's this I'm hearing? really? huh, that's not what I was expecting going in, but fair enough! right, okay then. let me try this again: check out chang's autobiography to learn about how to live a good christian life and why sex before marriage goes against the teachings of jesus christ our lord and saviour (and also a little bit of tennis). then you've got jim courier, an american who excitingly did not suck at clay (funnily enough three of these four did win one slam on clay, it's really just sampras who SUCKS), big fighter, one of those americans with big forehands, y'know how they are. also one of the best retired player commentators and interviewers, really knowledgeable and good at explaining shit. courier also used to be in the same training academy as agassi and was kinda the less favoured one so he loved to beat agassi in a five set final to win his first slam

the other two are wunderkind andre agassi who hated the sport most of the time, and pete sampras, a genius of the game who had a far healthier relationship with the concept of tennis. the world's best returner against the world's best server, the intrepid baseline with the fearsome running forehand versus the cool serve-and-volleyer with one of the greatest serves in the game. sampras defeated agassi when everyone thought agassi would finally win his first slam, and he became a bit of a professional bogeyman for agassi. very much the rivalry of the decade, big contrast in personality as well as style. sampras won fourteen slams (but was very much not one of those americans who could play on clay), agassi had a bit of a messier time of it but still ended on a respectable eight - and remains the only man in history to win a 'career super slam', aka all four slams, olympic gold and the year end championships (nadal was missing yec, federer and djokovic gold - these olympics are presumably djo's final chance to complete the set)

agassi and graf eventually got their happy ending with each other. when he retired from the sport, agassi focused on his true calling and became a professional wife guy

anyways, they did also need someone to win the clay slams in that era, for which you do get a bunch of different blokes - but the most successful of these is kuerten, who brought a lot of aggression to his clay court game (this would become way more common since). big heavy groundstrokes, lots of topspin, you know how it is

early noughties is a bit chaotic, sampras and agassi are still winning a bit, there's a few names who are kinda limited to being successful on clay, lleyton hewitt looks like's gonna be the next big thing but isn't (still wins two slams). eventually you get the emergence of the big three/four

the first guy to show up is roger federer, who was kinda seen as a very talented flop, lots of potential he wasn't delivering on, until he finally put it all together and started winning absolutely everything. one of the serves, especially given his height, all time great flat forehand, very good slice. got even better at the net in his later years. the one handed backhand is a shot people like for aesthetic purposes, but it could be a liability. swiss. after he got rid of the ponytail, he was eventually seen as sort of synonymous with like. elegance. gentleman's sport idk

after a few years of federer winning everything, rafa nadal emerged as an ultra good teenager. kinda became the federer kryptonite. he's especially good on clay... okay, yeah, understatement, greatest of all time on the men's side on that surface, a lot of records that are going to take a lot of beating. like it's hard to overstate how good he is at roland garros, won the thing fourteen times. lefty, seen as a big fighter, got the sleeveless shirts, big big forehand with big big spin, fast. did branch out from the whole clay thing to also win all the other slams a bunch

that was the big rivalry for a while, until two players shoved themselves into the conversation (born a week apart): novak djokovic (nole) and andy murray. djokovic wasn't quite as early a bloomer as nadal, struggled a bit more physically early on, won a slam in 2008 and was consistently at the top but it really clicked in 2011 when he just won like. basically everything that year. didn't lose a match until roland garros. from serbia, childhood affected by the war... prone to some pretty dubious nationalism. a counterpuncher with one of the all time great backhands, ridiculously flexible, also ridiculous mental strength. was unpopular as the intruder in that nadal/fed rivalry that a lot of tennis fans seem to really be into, also federer in particular used to be real bitchy about him (kinda faded over the years). but like, don't bother booing him! it makes him better!

has won some insane matches against fed - crowd against him, fed with matchpoints, all that shit... us open 2011! and of course, wimbledon 2019, that infamous final where federer had two championship points and that lady in the crowd held up one finger (one more point) and djo ended up winning. another beloved meme in the community (well, not with fed fans)

*extremely cold take voice* REAL fans know the 2019 final is overrated and 2014 fed/djo is the superior one. djo won that one too, tended to do that a lot in that rivalry

oh obviously also gotta mention that djokovic had the entire covid 'oh I don't want to get vaccinated look at me get deported from australia' thing going on. which means a lot of like, free speech anti-establishment nuts are super into him now. so beyond the vaccine scepticism, it also means that now any time he gets bitchy about crowds, you can't really enjoy it because it immediately sparks super weird discourse

anyway then there's sir andrew murray who was part of the 'big four' as an era and was always there but was losing a lot of semis and finals against these guys. far, far better than his three slams sound, one of the greats who got unlucky in the era he played in. moody scottish bloke, pepperidge farm remembers the english used to hate him. counterpuncher, lovely lovely backhand, the forehand was sometimes a bit. eh. and the second serve *stares into middle distance*. very smart and crafty and tactical player. just retired this wimbledon

wawrinka also won three slams in this period..... powerful one handed backhand, kinda peaked at exactly the right time because the rest of his record is not three slam worthy. interesting taste in shorts. used to have beef with fellow swiss bloke fed and also his wife? but unfortunately they patched things up years ago. dated teenage vekic when he was late twenties - there are rumours that relationship may have started when she was underage, but either way she was definitely very young. reaching the end of his career

basically, look, the big three won pretty much everything for so so so long. unprecedented length of domination by three blokes. all of them have deranged fanbases, though each of them is a different flavour of deranged? single slam winners who are either retired or close to it are del potro (insanely talented, very injury blighted), cilic (when he's on, he sure is on), thiem (the guy who the big three feared for a while, insane one handed backhand, won a silly slam final in 2020 and then was kinda struggling mentally before his wrist got fucked)

andddd let's get to the current state of the game, what the vibes are like right now:

we are. finally. I think. mostly done with the big three? federer's very much retired, nadal's on the brink, djokovic... *wiggles hand* he's been deeply mid most of this year until roland garros, where he got injured. then he came back very quickly and admittedly got bitch slapped in the wimbledon final but also, like, 63 players allowed him to reach that final? anyway the thing about the big three is you can't really trust them to actually stay down, but tentatively I do think it's mostly #over

first bloke to get through the big four stranglehold on the number one ranking since. uh. 2004 I believe? a long time. was daniil medvedev (meddy, med), who it's fair to say was a bit of an Unexpected contender for that spot. he's very tall, part of a new generation of very tall players who can actually move, used to have a good serve... unconventional technique, especially on the forehand side. unique return position (think very far back), commonly compared an octopus with his lanky limbs in odd places. a pusher who likes to win by outlasting his opponents in rallies to exhaustion/madness. smart bloke, head case on the court - quite marmite where either you enjoy the antics or think he's a dick who's apologised for his behaviour more than he's changed it. has reached a lot of slam finals, did win one (us open 2021) but also. the manner of some of his late stage slam losses is what his fans would consider 'a little bit painful'

he was part of the og nextgen... basically you had the golden gen, which was the big four and co, then the lost gen, dimitrov, thiem, all those fuckers who didn't replace the gold gen, then the next gen which was like a marketing campaign to finally replace the big three (med, AZ, tsitsipas, rublev)... still didn't work so now we're on the next next gen

the big name here is carlos alcaraz (carlitos, charlie, charlitos), this wunderkind who is known for his big forehand and dropshots and creative game and general air of like, joy on the court, also for not being a talentless flop (and came in at just the right time to not get a shit ton of scar tissue courtesy of the big three). alcaraz had a mini breakthrough us open 2021, and then the proper one 2022... a season Of All Time by a teenager. won a lot of stuff that year and then eventually won the us open, ended year number one. 2023 has brought another slam, 2024 two more slams and counting... very much the next big thing in the sport, loads of fans. he's got basically everything, offensive all-court game with a lot of tools that make him successful on all surfaces, a mix of power and finesse. sometimes his number of options can trip him up and he can be a bit of a slow starter, has also been criticised for his over-reliance on coach ferrero in terms of his tactical flexibility - but crucially he's very very good, has won a lot, will continue to win a lot

then you've got jannik sinner, an italian from south tyrol (y'know, the bit that's right next to austria, kinda pasty looking, his fans have this whole carrot situation going on). he's number one now, after winning his first slam start of the year... bit older than alcaraz but only became a shoo-in as a slam contender this year. bit more of a linear, straightforward game than alcaraz, big big forehand and big big backhand, high margin aggression but more emphasis on the 'aggression' than for either prime djo or nadal. like alcaraz, an elite returner, plus his serve has massively improved in the last year and it's now pretty lethal. has sometimes been quite physically frail, jury's still out whether he's completely overcome those issues looking at his losses this year. the alcaraz rivalry is a whole thing now.... for a while, sinner was still kinda mid against the field but always played alcaraz super close and got some big wins. now he's very good against the field too, still plays alcaraz close

just as a recommendation: if you want to get into men's tennis and want to have a good time for the next decade, you probably want to try to get into one of those two guys

MATCHES TO WATCH

this is kinda trickier to do than with motorsports because it really depends on what you're looking for? like I wouldn't say there's really any 'recommended viewing' and also because tennis is going on literally ALL the time, really the best way to get into it is just watch the new shit as it comes out.... also most tennis fans aren't watching that many replays lbr. now obviously there are freaks who are way too into old matches they weren't old enough to experience live and could provide you with detailed match recs from the nineties if you were interested, but they're very much in the minority in the fanbase and can safely be ignored

that being said! you asked for recs so I will provide recs, all from stuff that's available in youtube. weirdly enough this is like, the one thing that is better for women's tennis than men's tennis, so for new-ish matches the only men's matches uploaded on youtube are a few slam ones. I'm gonna give like, 3-4 older matches from each gender (all from this century don't worry) that jumped out at me when I checked what was available, then add a few newer ones. all easily searchable on youtube dot com

historical matches:

okay. look. I don't want to sound like I have some fixation with the concept of '2003' specifically. but if I can give you one match, just one older match to watch. it's the us open 2003 semifinal between capriati and henin. this is a match with literally everything... incredible tennis between two very different players, stylistic contrast, a crazy atmosphere, ridiculous momentum shifts all three sets, officiating controversy, booing, a player fighting through cramps, choking, a super dramatic finish, narrative implications... like it's so worth it I PROMISE

um... apart from that, let's go serena/clijsters australian open 2003, really cool match though a BRUTAL third set to watch on a psychological level. like oof... again the narratives around this match that emerged for one player specifically... cruel!! tennis sucks!! hm I'm aware this is also a 2003 match but kinda an iconic season in women's tennis idk what to tell u!!

gonna refrain from reccing henin/serena rg 2003 though if you want something super controversial...

venus/davenport wimbledon 2005!! one of THE all time great slam finals. this is a match that grabs you by the throat and doesn't let you go until the bitter end. real back against the wall stuff, going beyond your limits to somehow turn it around.... absolute classic

oh idk let's toss in serena/henin 2010 ao, I'm gonna stop myself there but it is a fun match-up lol

men!! men. I mean, if you want to get 'caught up' then I'd probably better give you some big three recs

well, look, if there's one classic men's match everyone will tell you to watch, it's wimbledon 2008 federer/nadal. icl I haven't watched it in years and can't really remember it particularly well, but I'm sure it's perfectly lovely

from the matches available on youtube..... hm well australian open 2012 djokovic/nadal is also a classic! partly because it's Very Very Long but yeah nah this one's definitely fun

oh oh federer/djokovic matches I'd go wimbledon 2014 and us open 2011! especially the latter one, along with wimby 2019 I think those are kinda the matches that define the rivalry in the popular consciousness? also it was the FIFTH consecutive uso in which they played each other, which is inherently narratively potent

they uploaded nadal/djokovic roland garros 2021! that one's great yeah, the... third set I believe is one of THE all time great sets of tennis. also again interesting arc there because it's only a few months after the rg '20 final where nadal like, bagelled djokovic in the first set

and more recent matches:

well first of all, they have the ao 2023 ryba/sublanko final on youtube and yes, OBVIOUSLY watch that. fantastic match! best slam final this decade thus far, what a classic. also, read up just a little bit more about sabalenka's 2022 australian swing before watching it to get a sense for just How Bad the double fault situation was (I'm sure the commentators do also discuss it). like again!! what a journey!!

the wta full matches playlist is an absolute blessing here. iga/aryna 2023 madrid final!! still... well okay madrid this year is also in the conversation, but certainly one of the best matches they've played. as an introduction to the pair of them and how much fun that rivalry can be to watch, definitely the place to start! yeah, what a match man

they have!!! iga vs krej!!! ostrava!!! 2022!!! final!!! I miss ostrava!!! such a good vibes tournament, important to note that iga was almost unbeaten in finals going in (apart from one final when she was still like, a toddler) - this one's a real journey and also really works to show how cool barbie k's game can be when she's actually playing well. lovely stylistic contrast, lots of quirky momentum shifts, again you're getting introduced to current players of relevance. also ostrava!!!

kerber/juvan strasbourg 2022 look you do not need to get into angie kerber in the year 2024 but... well I saw it on the youtube playlist and I can't NOT include it. it's a 250 final, it's right before roland garros, this isn't relevant to greater narratives or anything else, this is just two players fighting it out for hour after hour, leaving their absolute all in the dirt. I could marry the matchpoint

leylah/osorio monterrey 2022... again, I'm not saying they're big names or some shit, but I can't not. two of the all time great tusslers in the women's game like there are women who tussle and then there are women who TUSSLE. amazing amazing atmosphere, some ridiculous drama, scamming, lights fixtures failing, these two women going at it… they're both SUCH characters, such energy, such vibes, never give up… this slaps!!! my favourite matches are the ones that really take you on a journey

speaking of. any match in the leylah us open 2021 run lol like they've got her vs naomi vs svitolina vs angie vs sublanko.... still one of the most bonkers slam runs in recent times, if perhaps overshadowed by what was going on on the other side of the draw. but yeah truly one match of peak drama after the other, what joy

scrolling through the ao matches that have been uploaded and tried to refrain from reccing coco/kostyuk but in the fondest way possible if you want to see some awful tennis... there's nothing more beautiful on this planet than genuinely horrendous matches. like again when I say 'abysmal' it's meant as a term of endearment

(I feel bad for just including a terrible coco match so of the ones on youtube the one I'd rec is maybe us open 2022 vs zhang? but like her coach's catchphrase is 'winning ugly', it really isn't a bad thing or meant as a drag)

from last year's rg, muchova/sabs and muchova/igatha are both very much worth a watch, both for the drama and the tennis

moving on to the men... well look, again, it's just a few of the slam matches on youtube not the tour level, which does kinda limit the ones I can offer you. probably the one I'd go for first and foremost is alcaraz/sinner uso 2022? defo the best match those two have played, super high quality, big big big momentum shifts, the third match between the two of them in fairly short succession which really helped in terms of like. narratives and shit. and again, these two are definitely The Guys going forwards, so you kinda want to be vibing with one of them I reckon

uh.... okay sure, alcaraz/djokovic wimbledon final last year. I still think there's a little bit of gaslighting in the tennis community about how good this match actually was (not as bad as what people do with their cincy match last year, mind) but well it's long and dramatic and long! also you do have like, the generational contest and all that stuff... it's A FINAL FOR THE AGES according to wimbledon's youtube account and who am I to argue with them

man these men's matches.... there's some sentimental faves for me personally but I shall not include them. apart from that, the youtube selection is honestly quite poor. maybe alcaraz/tiafoe 2022 us open

lmao altmaier/sinner roland garros 2023, sure, that was funny. making that one of like ten matches you've uploaded... never change roland garros, never change (please do change)

anyway listen there's a lot of fantastic men's early slam rounds that clearly nobody ever bothers to upload, I'm not really feeling any of the choices they have here. if you have tennistv and access to actual tour matches, then I'm more than happy to give recs for some of my faves there

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

congratulations! you are now caught up on 'tennis'. you've done it! that's all there is to know. job done

anyways, look. like I said at the top, it's tough to give a sort of concise 'lore' intro, because the thing about tennis is that there's always going on. and the 'always' element is the good bit!! it really is all about the variety, it's going into tournaments with an open mind, it's definitely not just gravitating around a few top players. we could get into plenty of old matches and old drama and old unsung heroes... an endless litany of minor beef, both very recent and slightly less recent, that may one day be lost to time. like tears. in the rain

last point as I wrap up this worryingly long post - obviously, if you have any questions on anything technical or historical or just like. hot takes. please feel free to send an ask. talking about tennis is fast and free and easy if you've been a part of that world for way too many years. but the main thing is to just watch and forge your own hot takes! it's easier to get the hang of than it looks from the outside - and from my years of observational studies, once it hooks you, it sure does hook you. have fun!!

congratulations! you have accidentally clicked to find the 'read more' section!

this is the section of 'shit I decided would make the main post not streamlined enough, but still felt like was relevant enough to include here'. basically, what I've thrown in here is a bunch of non-match stuff you can check out in your journey getting into the sport, my quick fire 'hey here's some players you can check out' list, as well as a relatively brief take on some players I haven't already covered above. like a teensy little intro.

anyway, to the non-match content:

dasha's vlog: okay. so daria kasatkina is currently ranked top fifteen in the world and for the past year or so her and her girlfriend (retired figure skater natalia zabiiako) have been releasing a vlog of her life on tour. genuinely dasha is doing more than the troops (certainly more than the wta) to actually promote the tour... the vlogs consist of like. her travelling, her training, her and her girlfriend chatting to other players and interviewing them (mainly women but men too depending on the event), the matches... and also dasha and natalia just being incredibly cute. they're in a mix of english and russian with english subtitles. fun, gives you a sense of both how fun and how not fun life can be for professional tennis players (plenty of depressing losses), an inside look in pretty much all the major tournaments... and you do get introduced to a smattering of other players. she recently won eastbourne so happy ending to that one!!

various tennistv videos: unfortunately, the wta does not produce similar content. they have a lot of match highlights, but they also have like. compilations. 'meme' videos for a given value of the word. 'funny moment' compilations. these vary in quality, some stuff will make you cringe, but unlike Certain Organisations at least they're trying. so for instance you have a video from rome 2021 that's a mix of people falling over on clay and throwing racquets and complaining about shit and also djokovic staring out at the endless rain. or specific features like atp players reacting to videos of amateur players playing tennis, y'know, that sort of thing

gill gross: so you want to learn a little more about how tennis works, maybe some match tactics or common discourse points? gill is a good place to start I think, most of it should be relatively accessible and watchable. there's monday match analysis videos, which tend to be the finals of the week before on the men's side, individual match analysis videos especially during slams, and mailbag episodes - those are the ones I'd start with. unfortunately, most of the content is focused on men's tennis, though gill does also talk about women's tennis in the mailbag episodes. available both in youtube form and podcast version

tennis abstract: this isn't really 'content' per se, but it's the resource that I thought I might as well include here and does include a very interesting blog proponent and some very eclectic content. basically, tennis kinda sucks in providing you with stats, so some enterprising minds just do it themselves... tennis abstract might not be the friendliest website to get on with at the start, but I think it's worth checking out just to give yourself a bit of a sense of what's out there. how you measure tennis! you can compare players by a bunch of different metrics, like how many return games they're winning per match or average time per match. there's also the individual player sections, which lets you filter their results by various criteria... and then there's the individual match charts and the data based of those, which is entirely volunteer-produced match coding to give you far more in-depth stats than the general tour product (which I have done a bit of myself, it's fun!!)

tennis podcasts: right, I'm gonna be honest I'm not really a regular listener to any of these for various reasons so I can't REALLY vouch for them. you have no challenges remaining, quite well-known journalists with that; there's the tennis podcast, which... controversial, they easily annoy me too, but around slam times the media day + daily podcasts are pretty good content, quite surface level but good entry level probably? there's the body serve, which I think is quite good, it's just got an editorial slant towards certain players I'm not big on. there's backhands and compliments, which is a fan podcast by female fans... just about atp tennis though. I'm not really the target audience for this one, but if you want something quite casual and fun, think this could be good! tennis & bagels is pretty good, they're only this low down because they're not currently regularly posting. talking tennis is very much a mix of content but one I regularly check out, again more on the analysis side of things, but yeah!

I also can't really vouch for this content myself - but I should mention that morgan riddle, the girlfriend of top twenty atp player taylor fritz, is a social media influencer on both instagram and tiktok. I'm not active on either platform so I only really see what she posts second hand, but well it'll be stuff relating to her boyfriend and also fit checks for watching tennis, I suppose? I do know people who enjoy her stuff, think it's quite good!

tennis majors: I'm a little loathe to include this because the site is basically a patrick mouratoglou pr outlet that moonlights as a serious news site? and look. mouratoglou we are not getting into here, but he's a very annoying famous coach. site's got some good content though. also tennis.com which is another news website that's like. fine. I don't really check it a lot tbh, good as a starting point I reckon

players tribune has a few pieces by tennis players - iga, jpeg, foe... obviously not that many but the ones who have contributed a piece are well worth checking out!! for a bit more thoughtful content

popcorn tennis: this is a blog that updated irregularly with a mix of opinion pieces, player profiles, and match reports. another one where I easily get irritable at a lot of these pieces, but that's sort of the point with think pieces innit

some more technical analysis on thread of order, which unfortunately again is heavily biased towards men's tennis. there's match analyses, generally of big finals, but also some really interesting pieces on technique. this one on forehands is probably like... a bit much for entry level fans, but it should be quite accessible as a read! then you've got the sadly discontinued matt racquet blog, which still has an archive worth checking out - mix of match analyses and more big picture think pieces. here's a good accessible one on the early 2022 men's top ten with their strengths and weaknesses displayed in a video game-y way, obviously a bit out of date both in terms of who it includes and what it says about them, but... good as a starting point of how to think about this stuff. also, I love radar charts

on the same site, there's also this on the equal pay debate with regards to best of five versus best of three at slams, and what still remains the best analysis out there of why alcaraz's drop shots are so incredibly effective. again, less on women unfortunately, but some pieces that withstand the test of time on why iga is so damn good (x, x). also, the good old What's Wrong With Tennis piece from 2020, many of the same things are still wrong with tennis now

as long reads go, this piece on federer from the time of his retirement is pretty hard to beat in terms of what tennis writing is out there. does a good job of capturing why people go so crazy about the guy, a very engaging read. also liked this piece in the guardian about return positions from last year, and back when 538 was a thing they had a few interesting tennis articles. and yeah, again, tennis abstract is a super useful site but the blog is also fun analysis, good up to date stuff especially on players who are finding more success and like... explaining what's changed, the pieces on demon and boulter this year for instance are worth checking out. and here's an essay on talent and prodigies and losing again and again.... not too long but quite thoughtful and I vibe with a lot of it. plus giri nathan of the defector is one of the best current tennis writers

and if you're on twitter, the number one follow recommendation I'd give is @/josephwofford - when he's active, he does a lot of fantastic live analysis of matches and post-match threads. definitely not a neutral fan, but the passion and eclectic selection of faves is the best element. plus, you'll never believe this, there's actually a pretty much fifty fifty gender balance. here, giri nathan did an interview with him entitled 'an interview with the biggest tennis sicko I've encountered at the us open'. my type of guy

there's also like, fan-produced wta content on youtube, but it's a real mix between stuff that's done with love for the tour with all its quirks and stuff that feels very mean-spirited, misogyny central, so it goes. not always easy to distinguish between wta drama (fond) and wta drama (look at these bitches). anyway there is some kinda nice stuff out there.... like idk naomi osaka 'funny moments' or iga swiatek 'being a meme for 4 minutes straight' or aryna sabalenka 'funny moments', that sort of thing

not going to get into a tennis bibliography here, but if I had to recommend one tennis-related book it'd always be agassi's autobiography. will probably always be my favourite sports autobiography, and I promise you that you do not need much of a tennis background to find it a worthwhile read

^dasha and natalia... look up photos of them I promise you it's a good scrolling experience

and here's my lil list of players I'd consider giving a watch, see what you vibe with. I haven't included any top five players - you will be brute force introduced to that lot anyway - and generally not players that I consider... surefire bets to reach/remain at the top of the game. they're still mostly relatively high profile! a bunch of different playstyles, career trajectories, personal stories, and so on... again, this is just a bit of a random list and only very loosely correlates to players I myself root for, but I reckon I still stand by the names here in terms of giving you a good range of interesting players with interesting stories:

paolini, kasatkina, zheng, krecjikova, fernandez, collins, ostapenko, svitolina, m. andreeva, garcia, kenin, andreescu, osorio, haddad maia, avanesyan, bouzkova, putintseva

davidovich fokina, de minaur, musetti, tiafoe, korda, etcheverry, baez, machac, arnaldi, norrie, sonego, hanfmann, munar, berrettini

okay, some more wta players - so so many you could get into here but I've just tried to give the top 35 like. a few lines of summary (not including anyone already featured above):

this would feel like a bizarre sentence to type out a year ago, but I suppose the first player you have to mention here is jasmine paolini! how did that happen! at age 28, her game has suddenly Clicked and she's won a 1000 title, plus become one of the few players in history to have gotten to back to back slam finals at roland garros + wimbledon (the 'channel slam'). short, somehow generates some crazy power, plus she's such a scrapper and grinder, a lot of determination and spirit to her game.... she's having fun, you're having fun watching her, who knows what she does from here

jessica pegula/jpeg - billionaire's daughter, late bloomer, perpetual slam quarterfinalist, injury blighted season, plays doubles with gauff a lot, big fighter, deceptively good... like you don't always know what makes her so dangerous, she's not super powerful or super fast or super anything really. but the strokes are consistent and fairly powerful and she's incredibly tenacious

qinwen zheng - reached her first slam final at ao this year, and she's been tipped as a big star for a while now, also very much got the celebrity juice and lovely magazine shoots and all that. the results are still quite inconsistent though, we'll have to wait and see. tall with a quirky serve motion, big forehand, really likes to take the ball on and step in, still trying to kinda bring it all together

maria sakkari - the most beautiful biceps in the game, very fit (in every sense of the word), also kinda quirky technique that's like... effortful, quite tense. renowned for being a massive choker but won her second title last year. she's one of those players it's super rewarding and fun to be a hater of, less rewarding and fun to be a fan of. so don't do that

danielle 'danyell' collins - announced her retirement so she's going to be gone by end of the season, but since then she's had some very impressive results including a 1000 title. plus a lot of great matches. she's a bit of an underdog hero, no sponsor and all that, also a number of physical ailments that makes it hugely impressive what she's achieved. struggles with rheumatoid arthritis and endometriosis. known for her powerful game and her KAMANNN yells

jelena ostapenko (aljona/penko) - 2017 rg champion. don't try and predict her results, you just won't know. WHACKS at the ball, amazing angles, distinctive return position (way way too close sometimes lol), can generally be counted on to generate some drama. gets into a lot of fights with electronic line calling. very much a force of chaos in the women's game, check her head to head with world number one iga swiatek. doesn't have a sponsor and comes up with some memorable outfits

daria 'dasha' kasatkina - I Was A Fan Before I Knew She Was A Dyke. a pusher, little firepower but WILL run for every ball, loops and slices it back. very very very slow serve, great returner though. it's a very sad serve. tends to get overpowered especially by top players, and is probably a bit too defensive these days. it's definitely not a game for everyone, but idk if you're into different ball flight trajectories and a lot of running, she's a good watch. plus she does play some very long matches. when you have players who are shite at serving and great returners, you tend to get a lot of matches where they're either handing out or on the receiving end of bakery products (6-0, 6-1 sets) (because the serve becomes little more than a neutral point starter on average, so the bit that matters is who's winning off the ground)

ludmilla samsonova (samsung/samsonite) - ... she's top twelve? oh, I checked and I'd forgotten she reached two 1000 finals last year, those were great runs fairs. another player who's quite honestly a mystery, goats some stretch of the calendar and then has a series of horrific chokes. big power player, I like the shape of her groundies

madison keys (madi) - she brings a certain kind of 'approaching tennis like it's baseball' vibe to the tour, going by some of her balls' trajectories, got to rate it. boy can she smack that ball though, pretty cool when she's actually getting it between the lines. has broadly underachieved career expectations, got to one slam final that was Not a good experience for her, seems lovely as a person so a lot of people root for her. retired from the best match of the tournament this wimbledon :( (against paolini)

emma navarro - another billionaire's daughter, possibly didn't exist before last year. honestly, I haven't watched enough of her matches to have a great read on what her deal is... but now she's top twenty

ons jabeur - trailblazer as a tunisian tennis star, reached three slam finals and didn't really show up for any of them. (like, psychologically, she didn't literally skip them.) a magician on court with a game that some would call creative and others undisciplined. got nicknamed the 'minister of happiness' in tunisia and outside of it, but has been fighting a lot of demons - injuries, the slam final chokes, her desire to become a mother and so on. a lot of people are cheering for her but her window may have passed (dude, seriously, not a good fan experience, don't get invested)

anna kalinskaya - oh yeah another flat hitter who igatha has struggled with. got to a 1000 final this year... look I hate to do this but I suppose I should mention one of the main associations people have with her right now is that she started dating men's number one sinner this year

marketa vondrousova (maky) - another mystery. has some big runs in big tournaments and then disappears. won wimbledon last year, has barely won a match on grass before or since... one of those crafty czech players, y'know. fun game to watch when it's on! lovely lovely slice, just an incredible amount of tools at her disposal, some of those angles pheww.... really likes her cat

marta kostyuk - had a breakthrough very very young, things have been tougher for her since then... not made easier by the impact of the russian invasion of ukraine. outspoken on the subject. last year things increasingly clicked in her game, started winning against t10 players, deep run at ao this year. bit of a messy game at times but she's a fighter

victoria azarenka (vika) - two time ao winner, already got mentioned above. fantastic returner, spottier server, lovely lovely backhand. gotten involved in some classic wta drama over the years. still goes on some deep runs, but reaching the end of the career

donna vekic - breakthrough young, had a hard time since, now 28 and was a first time slam semifinalist this wimby. a few things you could get into here which would take more time, but really an engaging watch. some of her down the line and inside out shots... man, they can make you gasp

beatriz haddad maia - do you want to watch four hour long matches with fifty thousand momentum shifts? boy do I have a tennis player for you. pusher with a serve, definitely a fighter, makes for some epic matches... not having a great season. a Dedicated brazilian fanbase

leylah fernandez - us open 2021 runner up as a teenager... her run to the final was genuinely bonkers, one three set classic after the next. it's all been messier since then and with her height and game the worry is she'll always be underpowered. she is SUCH a vicious fighter with a charming grin after the fact... a great character and a henin fan (taste) but yeah... can be frustrating

caroline 'caro' garcia - okay so look. she has her good seasons and her off seasons and her last good season was 2022. she's very aggressive, very.... uncompromising, including in her return position, sometimes it works out and.... it may also not. had past familial coaching drama. mentally a bit up and down. when she wins she has this whole 'fly with caro' thing where she runs around like a plane. but so help me lord I resisted leading with this - quite possibly one of the hottest women on this planet and when she speaks with that french accent paired with one of history's cutest smiles... in the most feminist way possible. call me

dayana yastremska - she's top thirty...? another mystery, had a breakthrough young and then struggled, ukrainian also impacted by the war, also a character you can sometimes get some quality Drama out of

linda noskova - still very young... very powerful, beat iga at ao, one of a million good czech players. jury's out as to what her potential is

ekaterina alexandrova - madrid specialist! well, no, not really, but she's definitely a bit of a peaky player.... flat hitter, very nice stroke production

diana shnaider - still quite young, HUGE forehand (like. huge. huge), bandana!! looks cool, cool kid, left college to turn pro, still need to see where the ceiling is

yulia putintseva (poots) - again, her results.... nobody can explain them, but boy can she be a joy to watch. also, and I cannot stress this enough, A Character. beat iga at wimbledon (she did also win a warm up event so not completely random). sometimes gets involved in the messiest matches on the planet

elina svitolina - bit of an old school pusher! a counterpuncher, even! very strong record against her fellow pushers. she came back from having a kid last year, been having quite a successful comeback though she would have been hoping to win last wimbledon (got to the semis). underpowered, felt like her ceiling was slam semis but y'know... great fighter and match player. also vocal on ukraine

mirra andreeva - baby goat! younger sister to erika, who is currently still in scrub land. mirra made rg semis, she's had some big runs. very much a Tennis Fan who studies a lot of old matches, very crafty, tactical game, deeply charming but also has a temper and is not adverse to the odd tantrum. might lack the weapons to 'make it'

anastasia pavlyuchenkova (pavs) - kinda a perpetual slam quarterfinalist, but she made the rg '21 final. she really works at it, I suppose quite workman-like game (some creative descriptions here)... out with injury for most of 2022 but she was back at it last year. she's sweet!

katie boulter - bri ish. uh. kinda been having good results this past year.... hate to do this again but she's dating de minaur. very low margin game and now does hit the court a few more times? um. bri ish. beef with fellow brit harriet dart

elise mertens - round three streak slam goat!! unfortunately the streak is very much broken, and she's - uh I thought she was old but apparently she's only 28 oh god. never mind! hugely successful doubles player, kinda fun creative game

karolina muchova (karo, mucky) - dude. if only she could not be injured for more than two minutes. reached the roland garros final last year, lovely matches against sabs in the semi and then against iga in the final. this is for the connoisseurs, you can get all pretentious here, really for the lovers of slices and lovely looking strokes and nice touch and feel and unfulfilled potential and all that shit. crafty czech player y'know. plays guitar, should be playing for our team (dykes)

okay I think that's probably enough for now

I'll do a few of the men too... this one's got fewer main protagonists so I'll limit it to twenty. the problem with men's tennis is that these guys are all relevant but basically none of them are likely to win a slam like. ever. just to warn you

right. first one we haven't covered in the rankings is alexander zverev. the main thing you should know about zverev is that he has been accused of domestic violence by two different women. one of the women never went to the authorities, the other ended up settling in german courts. the atp has done nothing about this, the players haven't spoken out - and if anything, the most prominent players in the sport, the beloved big three, have either defended him or said it wasn't any of their business. quite a few of the most popular players, including rublev and thiem, are close friends with him. many have explicitly declined to speak out. as a player, he's tall, big serve, great backhand, mediocre forehand, should use his offence more but resorts to a lot of pushing. he used to be seen as a sure fire world number one and slam winner, and came within a set in the 2020 us open where he was up two sets to love (this was a while before the allegations came out). he got injured badly in 2022, last year was his comeback season, this year he's been playing well but losing slam matches from winning positions. one of the most tedious strains of tennis discourse equates his playing style/mental strength to his morality or attributes his lack of slams to karma, but I have no interest in doing so. he's a very good player who may win a slam, he might have too much mental scar tissue and might be gatekept away from them. if I had to bet on any player I've listed here to snatch one, it'd be him. he also shouldn't be allowed to play

alex de minaur (demon) - dude he's? tf do you mean he's number six? I've really not checked the rankings in a while, bloody hell. yeah, he used to be the next big australian sensation, the new lleyton hewitt... but like, he didn't quite have the game. very very fast, not necessarily much in the way of firepower, some midcourt finishing attempts that make you wince. used to have an awful record against top players, it's looking up now and he's using his forecourt game a lot better these days (still not great at being aggressive off the ground but he's always been quite handy at the net, just needs to get there)... having the best season of his career. got injured match point of his round four wimbledon, so had to withdraw next match - rough rough luck if he has to withdraw from the olympics too. dating katie boulter

hubert hurkacz (hubi, hubertus, I feel like I'm not really distinguishing between 'real' nicknames and 'things I personally call these players' but whatever): very tall. very very good serve. polish. not as good as iga, obviously. gets bullied a lot by polish fans (in a fond way) (I think), seen as a bit crap. comes across as nice and normal but has had a slightly mental exit in the last two slams where. well. some interesting behaviour there. lovely backhand, extremely non-lovely forehand. poor returner. a good mover, not med/AZ levels though. keeps playing longer matches than he should. very tragicomic vibes

andrey rublev: has a lot of fans, plus a lot of neutrals who also have a soft spot for him (including journalists one feels). one-dimensional game, mainly reliant on the big forehand... very poor second serve, which is one of the main thing other players exploit. got the record for the most slam quarters reached without winning one. uh, he's quite cheery off the court, vaguely emo-lite vibes I suppose, but also he does have... issues on the court with managing his temper. he takes this out on himself a lot of times, like bashing his knee and head with his racquet. fun quirk of the tennis rules: you're not allowed to damage your racquet or the court but apparently you're allowed to do whatever you want with your limbs. quite close friends with med, godfather to his daughter. he's had a poor year apart from winning madrid kinda out of nowhere (since then he's gone back to losing). a lot of like, the fun quirky videos the atp produces heavily feature him, he's very good at them

casper ruud: la la la la la la la casper ruud.... seen as a 250 clay merchant, but he won a 500 this year so it's all fixed. very much a hard work pays off kinda guy, had his breakthrough 2022 where he reached two slam finals... big forehand, great serve, the other bits of his game aren't always up to scratch, not fantastic defensively (though he's actually made Proper Improvements to the backhand, apparently it's possible) (and he's not like, taylor fritz slow). this year he's really committed to being aggressive and going after his shots and it's helped him get over last year's slump. comically, comically disinterested in playing on grass. gets involved some of the funniest and most random drama, like jaaaaaa gate (he was accused of shouting 'jaaaaa' in another player's face by said other player). big nadal fan. seems nice and normal and should be drama free but is also like? judgy. maybe that explains it

grigor dimitrov: ah yes, lostgen. there's one guy on twitter who always calls him a 'bisexual balding bulgarian', quite possibly the funniest slander name I have ever come across. he's had the balding issue fixed at least. bit of a style over substance player, the one hander is a nice shot though.... decent slice, at times flaky forehand, a lot of natural talent and a good watch in terms of athleticism. used to be called baby federer, bit of a cursed nickname. dated sharapova for certain, rumoured to have dated serena too. he's kinda nice I suppose, low drama, but like. don't bet your life savings on him actually delivering in a match is what I'll say

taylor fritz: oh he's the american number one again... also quite a one dimensional game, big forehand big backhand good serve... worst mover at the top of the men's game. also in the variety department he's sometimes a bit... yeah. he's got one type of ball trajectory and it's a good type, just don't expect him to switch it up too much. one of the og nextgen lot. in the most polite way possible, he's probably around where his ceiling is. tennis influencer girlfriend

stefanos tsitsipas: super og nextgen, he was really seen as one of The Guys back in the day... beat federer at a slam back in 2019, won the tour finals that year.... he's reached two slam finals and he's been within a set of winning one but. yeah. not happening. game's stagnated since his breakthrough - he's big on the forehand and serve but the one handed backhand is super exploitable. and the thing is, if you have a one hander it's a good idea to actually develop a slice as your defensive tool which he did... not do. deeply dysfunctional familial coaching situation. also too likely to be posting a misogyny on social media. dating fellow player and former world number two paula badosa

tommy paul: another american. he showed up drunk to a us open doubles match he had a wild card for years and years back, and the national federation cut his support. rockier rise to the top! there's like... a lot of nice bits to his game, like it's good shot making, but it's missing the top player x factor (that forehand in particular can be a liability). has reached a slam semi (that bit of the draw collapsed is all I'll say)

ben shelton: another american, but he's younger and he's seen as super promising, was a very successful college player. so might be worth investing in! he's very energetic, plays to the crowd a lot, big on vibes... big big serve. small warning, I personally think that's not a game that'll take you to the top of the men's game these days and I'm not convinced by the package, but who knows! a lot of people would disagree with me

ugo humbert: fifteen??? FIFTEEN in the world????? the fuck. well. um. he's got big weapons! he's also got french brain. french tennis players, especially the men, are known for.... uh. I don't want to say it's a nation of chokers, but I wouldn't say they're seen as the mentally sturdiest? well anyway I'm not sure how humbert got this ranking, good on him though, very good watch when he's on

lorenzo musetti (lore): oh thank god, finally a one handed backhand that's better than the forehand. stylish game. lovely slice. a working father. quite young, he's still kinda known for that 2021 roland garros match where he was up two sets to love against djokovic and ended up retiring in the fifth when he was... losing badly... listen, again, I wouldn't buy the musetti slam stocks and he is NOT consistent throughout the year, but absolutely a good watch

holger rune (holgah): sheesh, seventeenth? well, he was higher a while back! listen, he's super marmite. very close to alcaraz's age, also super promising junior, absolutely a brat, has had some very exciting early success like beating djokovic in the paris final in 2022... incredible drama queen, as are his mum and coaching set up. got a lot going on in his game, has no clue what to do with it. he's... yeah he's a character. at the moment he's not looking like he's part of the same category as sinner and alcaraz, but some would feel he'd be a welcome presence at the top of the game. accused casper ruud of screaming 'jaaaaaa' in his face. you'll either love him or hate him, but at least he's never boring

felix auger aliassime: still quite young, but god did people used to think he was gonna achieve great things... big serve, big forehand, great athlete, unfortunately the backhand is... yeah. he was also dealing with a bunch of injuries last year. had this whole coaching set up with nadal's uncle.... anyway, look there's been a lot of stagnation there. also some real scar tissue

sebastian baez (sebi): argentinian clay court specialist, from a country that produces quite a few of those especially on the men's side. very watchable tennis! quite short, not much in the serving department, uses his forehand a lot and grinds away from the back of the court proper clay court fashion. tends to be quite streaky, but boy can he put together some title runs (we're talking 250s and now one 500) - then sometimes he disappears for months

alejandro tabilo: omg he's top twenty, good for him!! already in his late twenties and like... this is probably the ceiling as his rankings goes, but it's so cool he's made top twenty. beat djokovic this year. his strongest surface is clay, but weirdly his two tour-level titles are on hard and grass. lefty, I do quite like his backhand motion, very compact. good underdog to root for who's having a career best season!

marija cicak world's hottest umpire

[the-acid-pear]

The thing about the painter analog that people don't get and makes them hate it is that at heart this isn't a serious horror story. This is pure gore not only for the sake of gore but for the sake of camp. Once I was talking of to my dad laughing at the guy who had his face sanded off and he was like yeah not new they did that in Jason already 🙄 which was later reinforced by UrbanSpook admitting this is inspired by those old 80s slasher which should tell you everything.

I'm saying this bc i saw a video pairing it with Playground and the incest game and while I don't know the second I watched a video on playground once and the difference is that that book is trying to tell a story and say something on top of the gore but the later makes it hard to care. Which is kind of the issue another "gone too far" piece of media my beloved A Serbian Film runs into where you cannot take yourself too seriously if you also want to show over the top violence or you'll lose the audience.

OF COURSE there are exceptions like Hostel, Saw and 😏 the human centipede ☺️ (cocksucker for that movie and it's more serious points, though it barely counts bc the gore is very tame save for in 2) and I couldn't exactly tell you what's the difference between what makes them work and what doesn't but still.

But I'm getting off topic I'm not here to say which media is good or not I'm here to point out the painter is not a serious story that asks you to care for the characters it's a over the top schlocky gore that asks you to go GROOOOSS or laugh at the over the top brutality it presents. Which is very standard in horror.

[specialmouse]

You know .

[countingprimes]

sometimes i see queer people make low hanging anti straight jokes, and they'll often pre-defend themselves by saying straight people don't need defending as if the queer community isn't populated by tons of straight people, straight trans people, straight ace people, straight poly people. queerness doesnt exclude exclusively opposite sex attracted people and it bothers me to see these jokes and their subsequent defenses because normative society certainly rejects these folks because of their queerness and now you are inside the queer community rejecting them for who they desire. i think about straight trans folks the most who are out here under fire from normative society who turn to the queer community for support only to be inundated with sentiments like straight people are actually the real lesser than folks, and it's easy enough to say straightness is valorized in normative society so shitting on straight people is punching up, but i can't help but be keenly aware that the queer straight people tend to be queer in the ways which are often excluded from queer community. so actually yeah i do think straight people need our protection, not heteronormative culture, but individual people? yeah. the "coming out as straight" jokes are all haha good times fuck the straights until you think about the fact that straight trans people when they come out are functionally doing that. after all how many straight trans people used to think they were cis gay people. and we, inside the queer community, turn their experiences into a mean spirited punch line designed to reject them from queer community.

like sorry i just don't think we are gonna find queer liberation by trying to figure out which group we are allowed to make fun of for having the wrong sexuality.

[muirneach]

yeah prev kinda fucked me up ngl. read it and was uncharacteristically like damn that sucks anyways back to scrolling. but then i dropped my phone on the table and stared into space for ten minutes there. i dont know man. i guess my secret dream of being the first tboy in the atp kinda took that one personally. not that this is about Me when this is about andrey being lowkey a horrible person. hes sucked for a while but now its just like. yeah okay fuck off man…

[thekimspoblog]

Demon trying to feed on my insecurities: "You're a bad driver"

Me: "Of course I am. I hate driving. Going 80 mph surrounded by tons of metal is nerve-wrecking. I try to do it as little as possible. Of course I'm bad at it"

Demon: "You're a bad writer"

Me: "Well that part's simply not true. I never claimed I was the greatest author of my generation, but when I put pen to paper I know what I want to communicate and I usually do it well. If someone isn't impressed with my work, that's unfortunate but they're entitled to their opinion"

Demon: "You're a bad leader"

Me: "Well I don't know about that! I mean there was that one time when... Ok look just because people don't see me as an authority figure doesn't mean... 😠 You know you can be a real asshole, demon!"

[proustianrevelry]

It is very funny to me when people draw 2 characters doing the "Utena pulls a sword out of Anthy's chest" pose like it's a badass romantic thing couples do when they love each other

[bluewithpurplepolkadots]

You are not entitled to a romantic partner of any kind just on the basis you want one. That isn’t how it works.

People might not be attracted to you for various reasons: and sorry but your bitterness and spite is likely now a compounding factor making you even less likely to find what you’re looking for. It doesn’t matter that you’re a woman. You still reflect, often word for word other than pronoun swaps, the same entitled and self righteous attitude of your average incel.

A real issue can be that women are sometimes, when not deemed attractive by a specific man, not always treated like people by said man. (Or even society depending).

But sometimes not even then. Sometimes you’re just an undesirable or desirable object by said man. And being bitter at the latter woman in this scenario is just silly and missing the point.

[trashcanalienist]

It's all a lot of lies, maybe not lies about how it's accusatory and reproachful, knowing commentary on the inherent voyeurism of cinema and the audience's complicity in these women's deaths, but it's all lies besides that for emotionally it's just that I am with them and we share the same eyes.

[vamptastic]

It can just be sort of exhausting growing up in a time where everybody's worst projections and stereotypes and misconceptions about transness are constantly shoved in your face by assholes if you're remotely involved in trans communities online. Or hell, they're just in the news headlines themselves. Or being espoused by peers that wouldn't have had transgenderism so much as cross their mind twenty years ago. I'm tired of the evil voice in my head having an endless supply of ammunition.

[sttoru]

Omg could we see reader getting jealous of Sukuna having sec with his other concubines? And maybe liek the other concubine rubs it in readers face?

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. angst (no comfort), suggestive \\ smut aspects. size difference. one tiny mention of reader being a crybaby. reader gets called ‘little one, brat’ \\ kuna’s an asshole! not proofread, excuse the grammar. no part 2. wc: 3.3k

you’ve been away from the estate for three days; three days too long for the king of curses. so much had happened while you were away to take some well deserved rest—a small vacation that sukuna had granted you because you needed it.

perhaps that was his first mistake. giving you permission to leave his side ended up being a bad decision. he hates that faint feeling in his chest, the feeling of missing something.

missing someone.

it couldn’t be. sukuna doesn’t have any weaknesses, and yet he can feel his body reacting to that unfamiliar emotion again. all because of you— that one human who always succeeds to occupy his mind.

he couldn’t let himself succumb to it—he’s not going to. sukuna is not going to let a mere human like you deter him from his superior identity that he’s had for decennia. he’s not going to let you have that power over him and his body.

and thus, when you return to the estate, you find yourself being laughed at. you were unpacking your luggage when two concubines stand at your doorway, hiding their evil smiles behind their handheld fans.

they don’t waste a single second and immediately rush to ruin your carefree mood.

“you know, you shouldn’t have returned at all,” the brunette giggles, her laugh sounding like nails scraping against a chalkboard. she looks to the other woman next to her before glancing back at you, “i mean—heh—lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence.”

you figure it’s just another way to get you riled up, so you do your best to ignore them. you put your packed kimonos in your wardrobe as your back faces the two.

yumi, the second concubine, nods along. she knows what she’s about to reveal will get on your nerves. and deserved, if you ask her. they had successfully caught the attention of their king while you were away. for the first time in a good while since your arrival in the estate.

the fact that they managed to spend quality time with sukuna again, is a wonderful first step to your downfall. one that will surely crumble your confidence as his so-called ‘favorite’.

“mhm,” yumi grins as she recalls the memories of her time with sukuna. time spent together that you were unaware of, “lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence when he had me in his bed last night.”

you freeze.

your brows furrow and the corners of your lips twitch. you don’t know if you should believe them—they could’ve lied about it for all you know. although, the voice in the back of your head had already rang the alarms.

guessing by the way they were dying to talk to you the second you came back - which never happens - you realise that they’re probably telling the truth. they’re only telling the truth to agitate you. it’s so painfully obvious, and yet so. . . hurtful.

“what?”

you don’t recall when you’ve choked up. you feel a lump in your throat. it shouldn’t even be there. you promised yourself to not get attached to a monster like sukuna.

so what if he went to bed with his other concubines?

but of course he’ll get pleasure from his other women when you aren’t around. he doesn’t feel any love, he sees it as worthless, so why did you expect him to not indulge himself? he still has his other concubines around for a reason.

you really shouldn’t be surprised by this revelation.

“what do you mean ‘what?’ - you heard me,” yumi shrugs, that cocky smirk still on her face. she’s clearly enjoying your reaction to everything she’s revealing. all the two concubines wanted to get out of this encounter with you, is to break that delusion of yours.

the delusional thought that you’re special to the king of curses—the delusion that sukuna considers you as something more than a toy to emotionally manipulate and play with until he’s tired of you.

“my lord spent all night with me in his chambers until the sun rose,” yumi continues without an ounce of shame. she bites her lip as she remembers the way sukuna had her body positioned on his large bed. for her, it was a dream come true.

though for you, it’s a living nightmare. even if you try to deny the fact that it physically and mentally hurts. there’s a painful twist at your heart—reminding you of the truth.

the truth being that you had truly thought that sukuna wasn’t really a monster of a man. you thought he was a different, more softer person around you.

you should’ve listened to the servants when they told you to not get tricked by sukuna’s special treatment, that he could easily manipulate you and make you do and act as he pleases.

“do you want me to explain it in detail?” yumi crosses her arms over her chest as she looks down at you with a menacing glare. both of the concubines are loving that face you’re making. that face of defeat that you’re attempting to hide from them, “how he held me and pleasured me until i—”

“enough,” you cut them off with your hands clenched into fists. you don’t want to hear another word. you’re already feeling awful; already, not even an hour into your return. you can never catch a break.

you have an urge to throw things around. you already feel stupid, and if you decide to throw a fit, you bet that you’d feel even dumber. you truly do not know why you’re getting this worked up about it.

maybe it’s because of the special treatment. the delusional thoughts you have about your relationship with sukuna. you really thought that you two had something special. an unofficial romantic relationship, perhaps, or something that resembles it.

a secret, unspoken deal where you’re promised his loyalty in exchange for your body and soul.

although, those dreams have been shattered this very instance. you’re once again reminded of the animalistic nature of the being called ryomen sukuna.

he told you clearly that he’d never tie himself to someone, a human no less. devotion to one person? why would he.

“out of the way.”

you push the brunette and her sidekick the other way. you’re going to confront the man yourself. or at least, you’ll try to. you can hear their sick laughs and chuckles fade into the background as you stomp your way towards sukuna’s chambers.

the other concubines seem to have gotten the gist. some peek their heads out of their rooms, grinning at you in victory. seeing your confidence slowly crumble and the realisation kick in - the realisation that your dear lord’s special treatment means absolutely nothing - is a sight for sore eyes to them.

you enter sukuna’s room and close the heavy doors behind you. you swallow the lump down your throat and try your best to look presentable.

no tears, you promise yourself. you’re not going to waste them on something like this.

“oh, it’s you, little one,” the familiar voice calls out. sukuna’s low and husky voice rings from his bed. he’s laid back against the many silky pillows, blowing smoke from his kiseru. he lays there like he doesn’t care about your reappearance at all.

he eyes you up and down, “how was your vacation, hm?”

sukuna asks like it’s the most normal thing to do. it seems like he’s trying to catch up with you, to ask you how you’ve been enjoying your time alone, though it also seems like he couldn’t care less at the same time.

“just absolutely fine, my lord,” you reply with gritted teeth and an obvious hint of sarcasm. there’s also a bitterness to your tone that doesn’t go unnoticed by the pink-haired man. he frowns—this cold greeting is not what he expected nor what he wanted to hear from your mouth. he expected you to at least smile at him like you usually do, but you didn’t.

on top of that, you seemed to be annoyed with him. that unexpected attitude of yours made something inside of him snap. it irritated him somehow; the fact that you’re so comfortable talking to him like that . . . it reminded him of the recent inner conflict he had which you were the cause of.

one of his hands tightens into a fist at his side. his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow into slits. you’re physically in front of him, which means that he’s also about to experience those complicated feelings again. the same ones he tried fleeing from by letting you go on a break, and by physically taking his mind off you.

he did the latter by taking his frustrations out on his other women. the stress that came with the thought of him possibly liking a human, relieved by pure animalistic sex.

that’s exactly what you’re upset about.

there’s an urge inside of sukuna to act normal. to ignore those difficult emotions and just treat you like he usually does. yet, another part of him is trying to protect his sense of superiority by trying to push you away.

there’s a war going on in his mind as he tries to calm himself down. you’ve always had this effect on him and it’s becoming unbearable. he has to show you, no - remind you, that you’re nothing to him. you mean nothing—nothing at all.

he’s the king of curses, you’re but a human. he’ll need to remind himself of that obvious statement as well. he’s got all the power in this situation. not you.

you cannot rule over him or his mind.

“you dare come back with an attitude? tch,” sukuna scoffs, nearly breaking the kiseru with his fingers as they squeeze around the solid material. he’s turning off whatever emotion present in his body. that doesn’t belong there anyway. he won’t care if you cry—he won’t care at all.

you notice the sudden change in sukuna’s tone as well. you’re sure you’re the reason for it. perhaps you crossed a boundary with how sassily you replied to him when he was simply asking you how your vacation went.

“my apologies,” you murmur with a sigh. you try to avoid getting on sukuna’s nerves any further, yet when you remember the words from the concubine, how she implied that sukuna had given her the best night of her life when you were away, you get mad again.

your eyes have a fiery look in them. you don’t want to get worked up. you don’t have the right to. you were warned from the very beginning to not get attached to an asshole like ryomen sukuna.

you’re to blame for feeling like this. it could’ve been prevented if you just weren’t so weak. if you just stayed away from him.

“did you have fun while i was away, my lord?” you continue, your voice shaking a little. you need the confirmation. you’re sure sukuna knows what you’re referring to by now, especially because of the way you’re acting out of character.

the king of curses raises a brow at your question. you sound even angrier, even more pissed off. he tilts his head after taking a deep inhale of the tobacco from his kiseru. he tries to figure out what you’re hinting at, “what are you—”

and that’s when everything fell into place. the dots connect.

sukuna’s jaw clenches. he realises that you’ve found out about him receiving services from his other concubines while you were away. there could be no other explanation behind your sudden attitude. besides, he knows how his other concubines could be. they must have told you the moment you came back.

normally, he’d say that it’s none of your business. what he does is up to him—he does not care about the consequences of his actions. though, seeing the slight hurt in your eyes, mixed with sadness and disappointment stirred something inside of him. he brushes that feeling away and stares at you intently, awaiting another comment. perhaps you’d cuss him out or bawl your eyes out in front of him.

either way, he promises himself that he won’t care.

sukuna is the king of curses. feeling bad for a human like you would only further tarnish his image, that image of superiority and power he has.

he’s a man of many needs. you should’ve kept that in mind when you left him. he wanted to keep you with him—to hold you down and refuse to let you leave—but that would be another sign of weakness. one sukuna could not manage to show.

when you departed, he was irritated by the fact that he had no one to turn to with his needs. from simple needs like wanting your company to sexual needs like craving your body.

keeping you by his side or letting you go; both decisions seem to clash. either way, there’s one thing he’s sure of, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it: he missed you.

sukuna can’t believe that he can feel an emotion like that. he can’t accept that fact. that’s why his irrational mind took over—his dark urges that strived to prove himself to still be the same old ryomen sukuna. the monster that did not need a single soul. the ruthless man that did not depend on anyone else, especially not a human. a woman like you.

he thought he’d forget all about you if he’s surrounded himself with other women. but, he was quick to be proven wrong, and that only caused to enrage him more and more.

every time sukuna fucked a concubine, his thoughts still manage to drift away to you. to how he wished that it was you he was holding.

nothing hit the same with the other women and that frustrated him. he’d keep them around in his room after he fucked their brains out, something he never allowed a woman to do except for you, yet kicked them out again after a few minutes.

it doesn’t hit the same.

you’re just different. your presence is soothing and calming to the chaotic soul of the pink-haired man. no one else could compare. that realisation made him feel inferior; a feeling he loathes.

sukuna’s red eyes glow. he hates seeing you look so defeated, but he cannot give in. if he tells you the truth, he’ll admit his weakness. he’ll admit that a human like you has completely taken over his brain. that’s no good.

if he doesn’t tell you the truth, he’ll save face. he’ll feel like himself again. his old self—the cold ruthless monster that he was before he met you. one without a soft spot for a human.

it’s an active dilemma that’s running through his mind as he slowly blows out another cloud of smoke. you cannot guess what’s going on behind those intimidating eyes staring you down.

sukuna tilts his head back and scratches his neck, smacking his lips as he makes his decision.

“yeah, i did. i had lots of fun.”

the words sting. they hurt you and make your heart ache in a way that makes you physically weak. you should’ve expected that answer. your shoulders tense up and your fingers curl around the material of your kimono—feeling a sense of anger and betrayal.

you can see a ghost of a smirk on sukuna’s lips, which only reminds you of his nature. his nature as an independent, aloof and cold man who likes to play with his prey. a natural disaster that knows no emotion, that shows no mercy to anyone.

you’re naive for thinking that you could be the exception. all of those times with sukuna were confirmed to be but a lie in that moment. as your gazes meet, you can now easily interpret what that look in those red eyes meant.

‘know your place,’

that’s what it means. you’re foolish, dumb. you take a deep breath to compose yourself after you’ve been made out to be a total fool. you should’ve listened to those warnings, you should’ve known that you were getting played.

this is exactly what sukuna desired to achieve. to build up your trust, to make you comfortable enough with him, to think you’re special and that he won’t need any other woman other than you — just to shatter your pathetic delusions when the time comes.

“tsk tsk. no need to look at me like that,” sukuna scoffs, a mocking laugh leaving his lips. he can hear a small voice in the back of his head telling him to shut up and let you go, to not make it worse, but who is he to listen to that irrelevant thought? he can decide for himself.

“y’ weren’t around, so the other concubines simply did their job by serving me,” he stares the other way, seemingly not interested by your presence anymore. his face is as expressionless as ever, “what do y’ think i keep them ‘round for, brat? for decoration purposes? hah, nah.”

another loud mocking laugh makes you nearly burst out in tears. you don’t know if it’s in anger or sadness. you take a deep, shaky breath for the last time. you unclench your fists and nod, accepting the reality check you’d just gotten.

it’s a slap to the face, but it helped you get out of your delusions. the delusions that sukuna is a man capable of loving someone, even if it is just for a tiny bit. this visit confirmed that there’s not an ounce of love or appreciation in that man’s body.

“i’m glad you had fun, my lord,” you answer after a bit of silence. you bow at sukuna in an attempt to stay polite while struggling with that inner turmoil. you don’t even glance up at him anymore. you need another break already.

sukuna isn’t dumb. you may think that you’re good at hiding your emotions, but you’re not. at least not around the king of curses. he’s spent enough time around you to realise that you’re going through a lot right now.

he’s the reason for it, yet he cannot bring himself to feel an ounce of empathy. he just looks at you with a blank stare, thinking that this is for the best.

“good night then,” you add and turn around to walk out of sukuna’s room. your steps are slow as you secretly hope to be called back, like sukuna would do every time you’d leave his room after an intimate night. you just want him to tell you that this was a test of some sort—a cruel joke.

you want to feel like his favorite again. you don’t want to be thrown away like this. you don’t want to be on the same level as all the other concubines. you want to stand out to him.

unfortunately, you don’t hear sukuna’s voice anymore. he lets you walk away without a care in the world. the heavy doors of his chambers close behind you and you feel your knees buckle. “fuck,” you cuss to yourself and clench your chest.

you lean back against the closed doors and try to regain your composure. crying can be done when you’re in your room—not in the hallway where anyone could catch you. you don’t want to give the other concubines more reason to bully you.

you drag your feet across the wooden flooring. all those times with sukuna, all those slight glimpses of his soft side that only you’re allowed to see— all of that is thrown into the trash.

you really shouldn’t have gotten so attached to him on an emotional level.

meanwhile, sukuna is silently sitting on his bed, thinking back to what just happened. he usually never doubts his decisions, but this is an exception. why couldn’t he just tell you the truth?

his mouth had moved before he could let his mind process all that he was feeling. a small part of him regrets it, though strangely, he couldn’t feel any real sympathy for your situation.

sukuna drapes an arm over his eyes, clicking his tongue at himself. he just wants to let the situation go, though his brain isn’t letting him to. the image of you standing at the edge of his bed, clearly hurt by his actions, flashes through his mind again.

he sighs. he’s sure that he’s going to forget about you soon enough. he needed an excuse to get rid of you for the sake of regaining control over his own being and he took the chance. he should be glad that he did—it meant that he’d be his usual self—with no weaknesses to look out for.

sukuna blows out another cloud of smoke through his mouth. as much as he’s proud of himself for not giving in to you, he can’t help but let his thoughts wander again. you’re probably crying in your room. he knows you’re sensitive. you would always cry about the smallest of things and he’d hold you (feigning reluctance) until you’ve calmed down.

he can’t do that now.

well, he can, but he won’t. sukuna has made his decision today: it’s power and status over you. that’s what it’s always been. you were but a toy he used to get a stronger grip on himself.

perhaps he simply is what people make him out to be; a monster. nothing more, nothing less.

[cherrygirlfriend]

office visitations pairing: wife!reader x ceo!rafe synopsis: wife!reader goes to visit rafe at work for lunch warnings: smut, breeding kink, praise, soft rafe, talk of pregnancy, fluffy ending MDNI - wc: 2k IT'S MY BIRTHDAY which means this is the last day of my birthday celebration! i had so much fun writing these fics and i hope you enjoyed them as well!

everyone on kildare island wondered how rafe cameron of all men had managed to land you; sure, he was rich and good looking, but in figure 8, that was nothing. but somehow he had, and only after six months of being your boyfriend, he had asked you to marry him; no one knew that he had been looking at rings after your very first date.

you were basically his opposite; the sweet, girl-next-door pogue who no one ever had anything bad to say about, while he was known to lash out at whoever was in the wrong place in the wrong time, but after meeting you, he was obsessed.

rafe was sitting in his office, just having finished up a board meeting, those always stressing him out, paperwork piling on his desk, his cup of coffee having gone cold already.

there was a soft knock on rafe's door, and he rubbed his forehead, letting out a small scoff; he had told his secretary to not let absolutely anyone to come bother him. he looked up at the door, letting out a cold and detached, "come in." knowing that his secretary would be looking for a new job.

but as soon as he saw the familiar pair of eyes playfully peek into his office, it was like all the tension slowly rolled off his shoulders. "hi." you said with a smile that was so bright and sunny rafe was sure it could've melted down an icecap. "can i come in?"

rafe cleared his throat, standing up from his chair, "yeah, of course." the man smiled, running a hand through his mussed-up blonde hair as you stepped into his office. you were wearing a long, flowy sundress, carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of something, "what's this?" your husband asked amusedly, his head nodding toward the bag.

"i brought you some coffee and croissants." you said, placing the things on his desk and turning to him, "i knew you're always stressed after board meetings. i would be too, if i had to sit around with a bunch of old guys for an hour straight listening to their issues with you or whatever you do." you chuckled, straightening the collar of his button-up.

"you know just what i need." he groaned, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, tilting his head down so he could nuzzle it into your neck, breathing in the floral scent of your perfume while you let out a small chuckle, your eyes closing as you held him, stroking his back.

he pulled back, looking down at your dress with a small grin, "did you wear this for me?" he asked, feeling the fabric inbetween his fingers, "it looks great."

"thank you. my husband got it for me." you said playfully, giving him your left hand. rafe took hold of it, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before looking at your engagement ring.

"he has great taste. in women, in clothing, and in jewelry."

you laugh softly, shaking your head and rolling your eyes, until rafe took your chin inbetween his pointer finger and his thumb, forcing you to look up at him, the man admiring the way your eyes twinkled, moving his hands to rest on your waist again. "you look so gorgeous."

"and you look very handsome." you said, tugging him down into a kiss, your lips on his immediately causing rafe's head to buzz. rafe's hands slowly slid down to your ass, grabbing at the flesh through your summer dress, pulling you closer while one of your hands was on his chest, and one of your hands was on the back of his neck, short blond hair meeting your soft palms.

you pulled away from the kiss breathlessly, keeping your forehead and nose pressed to his, your breaths mingling together while your eyes were closed.

"i missed you..."

"you saw me this morning." rafe mumbled, one of his hands traveling to your cheek, cupping it in his hand while his thumb stroked your soft cheek.

"does that mean i can't miss you?" your brows raised with a chuckle, the hand that had been resting on his chest was now tugging his button-up out of the trousers they were tucked in, rafe letting out a small groan when he felt your warm hand slowly trail up the line of his abs, "you know, i realized something…" you practically purred into his ear.

"yeah? what'd you realize, sweetie?" he asked, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck, pressing small kisses on your warm skin, causing shivers to run down your spine, goosebumps starting to form all over your body.

"i'm ovulating." you whispered with a grin, before pulling back to see his reaction. rafe lifted his head, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a small grin, his hands sliding down to rest on the curve of your ass.

"mmhm, 's that the case?" he asked, he shamelessly looking down at your tits, rafe's adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, your fingers starting to unbutton the buttons of his shirt, revealing more and more of his tanned chest, shivers running down his spine when he felt your manicured nails on the skin that you were slowly baring. "i guess we should take advantage of that, then."

you let out a small squeal when your husband lifted you into his arms without any difficulty, carrying you to the other side of his desk. rafe sat down on his chair, positioning you so that you were straddling him, his calming cerulean eyes gazing up into yours.

your hand moves to the nape of his neck, fingers gently playing with the short tendrils of hair there as you gaze down at him, the hint of a smile playing at your lips. rafe brought his hand closer to your face, his fingers curling under your chin, bringing your face to meet his, the sides of your noses pressed against one another, breaths mingling together before his lips brushed against yours.

and soon, rafe's shirt hung unbuttoned on his broad shoulders, your panties discarded on his desk, your body still mostly covered by your dress, his slacks and boxers at his ankles. the thumb of his left hand brushed against your hardened nipple over the fabric of your dress, a small gasp escaping your lips as your soaked entrance hovered over the tip of his cock, practically aching to sink itself down on him.

"you ready?" rafe whispered under you, pressing a featherlight kiss on your clothed nipple, and somehow even that was enough to make you dizzy; you couldn't speak, simply nodding, his hands slowly crawling up from the sides of your thighs up your dress until they were on your hips, rafe's touch so hot you thought he might leave burn marks. slowly, he started bringing your hips lower, a long drawn-out whimper leaving your lips when you finally felt rafe stretch you out; you'd been together for a long time but every time his cock entered you it felt like the first time.

even though you were the one straddling him, rafe was the one doing all the work. slowly, he lifted you up, before bringing you back down, your head thrown back, lost in all the bliss you were feeling, his lips attaching themselves to your neck, pressing soft kisses on your pulse point as you let out small, soft laughs when you felt his stubble on your skin.

although his lips moved away from your neck, rafe continued moving you on top of him by your hips, briefly bringing one of his hands to cup your cheek, making you look down at him, your eyes hazy and glossed over from the pleasure he was giving you.

"you look so gorgeous like this..." rafe whispered, letting out a grunt as he felt you deliberately clench yourself around him, the corners of your mouth quirking up into an adorable, almost shy smile, your cheeks feeling warmer due to his sweet words.

he moved his hand back to your hips, continuing to guide you up and down on his cock, slightly picking up his pace, whimpers leaving your lips whenever he bottomed out in you, hitting that one spot like it was nothing, when for you, it felt like everything.

"so damn gorgeous..." he mumbled against your skin, and as one of rafe's hands traveled down to your pussy, his thumb starting to draw languid circles on your clit, you started moving your hips just slightly faster, every part of you screaming that you needed more of him, needed to feel every part of him.

"please..." you whined, the tone of your voice making something in rafe's chest ache while also making the heat in his abdomen nearly double.

as his thumb picked up its pace, your head felt so beautifully blank; all you could focus on were the sensations running through your body, the fire he'd lit inside of you, and the orgasm you were already starting to feel approaching.

"please, i'm so close..." you whined, your words getting muddled with your moans.

your eyes were closed, unable to see the way your husband was admiring you, looking up at you with pupils blown so wide his blue eyes might as well have turned into the shape of a heart, and he continued bucking his hips up into you, both of you chasing your orgasms, the sound of squelching and moaning filling his office.

suddenly, he felt your walls spasming around his cock, your orgasm washing over you as you held on tight to his shoulders, your body shuddering with pleasure, moans leaving your lips without you even realizing it was happening.

rafe watched as you came undone, continuing to move inside of you even though your walls felt snug around him, the man starting to feel a familiar tightening in his abdomen.

"'m so close..." rafe mumbled, not even sure if you could hear him through the bubble of bliss you seemed to be encased in. "gonna come in you... gonna put a baby in you... you're gonna look so gorgeous with my baby in you..."

when you let out a soft whimper, trying to move yourself on his cock even though you were still riding out his orgasm, rafe groaned, burying his head in the crook of your neck, loud whines leaving your lips when he fucked into you at a faster pace, rafe almost losing himself in you and the way you felt around him, knowing he'd never get enough of you, never get enough of having you like this.

it didn't take long until he let out a loud groan, and you felt ropes of his cum filling you, moving your hips slightly to make sure he was as deep inside of you as possible, the closeness feeling almost intoxicating.

neither one of you spoke for a while, and the only noise that could be heard in his office were the pants that slowly turned into regular breathing, and finally when it had settled, you pressed your forehead against rafe's, taking a deep breath.

you felt rafe's hand on your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin there, and it was like he was reading your thoughts; sometimes the way he knew you intimidated you, just because the thought of ever losing that scared the hell out of you.

"it's gonna happen." he said comfortingly, opening his eyes to look into yours, and you pulled your forehead away from his to do the same. you brought your hand to your abdomen, looking down at it while letting out a small sniffle, your tone laced with insecurity, "you think so?"

rafe pressed his hand over yours, and you wondered how someone could know exactly everything you thought and needed, his large, ringed hand somehow managing to soothe every single thought running through your mind.

"i know so, and i'm never wrong, am i?" he grinned smugly, making you roll your eyes, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

[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!

[autolenaphilia]

I don’t care about accusations of ”pedophilia.” I will not give a fuck, I won't investigate your claims, I will just ignore it.

For one thing the accusation of pedophilia is often entirely meaningless. This is because pedophile/pedo etc are words that carry the taint of child rape, of calling up the disgust such an act naturally produces, but are accusations that don’t require such an act or a victim of it. If you call someone a “child rapist” that has weight, but you also have to back it up with a victim this person supposedly raped for the accusation to actually be meaningful. But words like “pedophile” carries no such demands, it literally just means “someone who has an attraction to children.” It doesn’t require an actual victim. It’s an accusation about how someone feels in their head and can thus be liberally applied. Someone criticizes your asinine submarine idea to rescue some children in a cave? Call them a pedo. And even words that once had a more specific meaning, such as “grooming” can be stretched beyond all meaning to mean whatever it wants to. Someone talked to under-18 people about sex and gender in a way you don’t want to? Call them a groomer.

In a culture of pedohysteria, pedojacketing is easy. And it’s especially easy to weaponize it against queer people, the idea that queerness spreads through queers recruiting children by molesting them is one of the oldest queerphobic narrativeness out there. I’m using “queer” here because this is a narrative used both against gay and trans people. But in the present transphobic/transmisogynistic backlash it’s most often used against trans people, especially transfems, as transmasc people are more often infantilized.

But on a more deeper level “pedophilia” is the wrong framing of the real problem of child sex abuse. It’s literally a medical term, a diagnosis. It makes child sex abuse a problem of some sick individuals with a diseased attraction.

This is of course a bad and antifeminist understanding of what rape and sexual violence is. It’s an inevitable and natural expression of power. The widespread rape of women is caused by the patriarchy, of men having power over women. And the misogynist oppression of women with sexual violence naturally extends to young girls. But all children are disempowered in our society. Adults have power over them in the patriarchal family, in the capitalist school system and other institutions of our society. Sexual violence against children flows from the power adults institutionally and systemically have over them. The vast majority of sexual violence towards children comes from the family and schools, not the “stranger danger” of creepy weirdoes hiding in bushes.

This is the reality that the framing of sexual violence as the result of sick individuals with a diseased attraction obscures. And it inevitably calls for a reactionary carceral and psychiatric response, justifying the police, prisons and psychiatric institutions. That’s why “what will we then do with the pedophiles?” is such a popular clichéd response to prison and police abolitionism. This very framing of the problem calls for a carceral response. If the problem of child sex abuse is sick individuals instead of the system, if we constantly root out and punish individuals we will eventually solve the problem.

In reality carceral responses actually make the problem of sexual violence much worse. The police, prisons and involuntary psychiatric hospitals are violent expressions of power and thus create the conditions for rape.

Pedohysteria is constantly used to justify the expansion of state power. Here in European Union we have had a legislative push to ban end-to-end encryption and make all online communication accessible to law enforcement, total online surveillance. And the reasoning is because otherwise pedophiles can use e2e communication to secretly send child porn to each other without the police being able to do anything, which is of course true, that does and will happen, but doesn’t justify killing all online privacy. This “chat control” act is literally called “regulation to prevent and combat child sexual abuse.”

The pedohysteria also justifies vigilantism, which tumblr callout culture is part of and is also a deeply reactionary and even fascist phenomenon. Vigilantism rests on the idea that what the police do is right, but they are not doing it well enough, because they are too reigned in by liberal ideas such as laws and regulations and the courts. So random people should take on the role of police to punish “criminals”, like pedophiles. And this goes through tumblr callout culture. A subtext running through pedojacketing callouts of transfems is the idea that transmisogyny does not exist and does not lead to transfems being disproportionately punished, but instead transfems are using their minority status to get away with sex crimes.

This standard conservative rhetoric about how liberals often literally let minorities get away with murder justifies their reactionary vigilantism. Of course in reality, transfems are far less likely to commit sexual abuse of children than other groups of people, because we are systematically excluded from the very institutions where such abuse happens, such as parenthood/the family or schools, because of the transmisogynist stereotype that we are all perverted child rapists. And the callouts of transfems as sex predators are in themselves abusive and protect actual abusers, just like how police and prisons are.

So no, I will continue to not give a fuck if you call someone a pedophile.

[thedivinetarot]

Hold me, love me, touch me, honey be the first who ever did

Future spouse turn on +18

☆ How to chose your pile?

First clear your mind, take a deep breathe and close your eyes. Ask the question in your head "what will turn my future spouse on about me?". And shall the picture you are drawn to the most will be your pile.

☆ Disclaimer:

Please if you are under 18 do not interact or reblog this reading. This content is explicit and is not for you.

This is a general reading so don't put your life on hold for it. Also, this reading is written for the feminine (women, girls) if you are masculine or identify as a man this reading is NOT for you. This reading is for the feminine collective.

▪︎This reading was done using Raider Waite tarot deck and sexual magic tarot deck.

Lots of love 💕

Arya

Pile 1 - sleeping beauty

Your current energy

I feel like this pile’s energy is quite saddening. I see that you had a project to work on and nothing went as you hoped which made you clash with your team members and caused something unpleasant to face. I see that you feel quite empty and insecure towards your own thoughts. You have many creative thoughts to offer and you are so passionate about them but I see that because your team didn't listen to you or do anything you say it left you feeling unimportant or like a "chair's leg" idk how to explain it but they made you feel like an empty vase. Also you might have been feeling quite stuck and gloomy. I see that lately your self-esteem has dropped and you feel like nothing matter or you don't matter anymore. I'm so sorry for that pile one you deserve absolutely the best. Your thoughts and ideas are valuable and if someone didn't take them seriously that doesn't mean that they don't matter. Also, I see that you might be under a psychic attack or telepathy so be careful. I see that this person who is attacking you is quite naive and they are doing it with their whole will which means they know exactly what they are doing. I see that you are trying to get over them like your mind is trying to wash them off but they are like an ink stain that doesn't really go away. But eventually it will so don't worry. For others (people who are under psychic attack or telepathy) this person is trying to communicate telepathically with you so expect them to show up in your dreams or receivesigns from them. I see that what is between you two is not finished yet. You may see that everything has finished buuuttt it is not. This person may come with a love offer and communicate with you very soon. They may be working on themselves right now. Anyways the period of stagnation is almost over or it will be over by the end of this year.

☆ Placements for you:

Pisces, Capricorn, Taurus, Gemini, Libra, Cancer. Or you have Neptune, Saturn, Mercury prominent in your chart. Or you have 12th, 2nd, 10th, 7th, 3rd, 4th house stallium or your sun moon is there. I see also moon in cancer and saturn in libra.

☆ What will turn your future spouse on?

Right off the bat I see that your future spouse will be in love with your breasts. I see everything related to them. Massaging them, sucking them, grabbing them. They also looovvvee how the bra shape them especially corsets and push up bras and also they love how they look with no bra soo ;) anyways. This person is so down bad for you like they are an animal for that part. I keep hearing the song "Addicted to you by Shakira" weird I never listened to that song before but when I described the song to my sister she gave me the name. Also, your waist and belly button. They like how your waist is shaped. I see also that you are this person's dream girl. They see you as the empress, their empress. They like how beautiful you are whether you think it is true or not. I see that they see you the empress to their empror. I also got the collar bones too. Your spouse is going to see you as something so beautiful and otherworldly. I keep emphasizing on the upper body especially the breasts and waist. I see also that they like watching you getting undressed after an event or a party. They like your whole naked form too but mostly your breasts. They also like your size too, no matter how big or small you are they think that you complete them and the chemistry is off charts. I see that you guys may have wonderful sexual chemistry like you two can't keep your hands off of each other. You see those couple who gives off the vibe that they fuck every two minutes? You are like that pile 1 they adore you. This person also gets horny by the fact that you are intimate with them and only them. They get horny or turned on by dim lights and you getting undressed in front of candle lights. Also this person might get horny when you guys hug. They just feel soo hot and bothered whenever you are around. Their love language may be physically touch. They even get horny when you set on their lap too. I see that they might get turned on when you are applying lotion, perfume or even cream on your body they get weak in their knees.

I hope you enjoyed your reading💕.

☆ Placements for them:

Taurus, Capricorn, Aries, Leo, Cancer, Pisces. Also they have moon, Mars, Venus, Neptune prominent in their chart. Sun or moon or stallium in the 1st, 2nd, 5th, 4th, 12th, 10th. Venus in Aries, mars- moon, Venus- ascendant aspects in synastry.

Pile 2 - Woman posing

Your current energy

I see that you might be stuck on someone with Aquarius placements. I see that you have finally made peace with them and you feel kind of imbalanced by that. I see also that this person kept you stuck and out of place. I see also that you are in a place right now where you can't see the truth and you are very conflicted. This confection is keeping you feeling restless and tired. I see that you are fighting internally your anxiety about them. I see that this person knows how to tick your boxes and keep you on edge. Pile 2, this person's intentions aren't fully good towards you. I see that they are only here for fun and good times but believe me it will only end up with disappointment so be careful. I see that this person is manipulating you into thinking that they are so tired and can't live without you but they are not. They know that you'll get back to them, I see that you need to stop giving them the validation that they seek because each time you return to them it make their ego bigger. You are worthy of more than that pile 2. Also, the energy under the bottom of the deck is quite wicked. This person is doing everything in their power to torture you and manipulate you.

☆ Placements for you:

Aquarius, Pisces, Taurus, Virgo, moon in sagittarius, mars in leo, Venus in scorpio, Sagittarius, Venus in Aquarius. Venus, Uranus, Neptune, Mars, moon prominent in your chart or stallium in the 11th, 12th, 2nd, 6th house in your chart.

☆ What will turn your future spouse on?

I got a lot of 10s in this pile so I guess your spouse really feels turned on by the fact that they are making a family that is going to leave a legacy behind with you. Also, this person really gets turned on when you surrender to them, I see a lot of submission. Doesn't mean that they are dominant but they generally love to see you under them. They might be a soft dom. They won't force you to do anything against your will. This pile is quite vanilla, I see a lot of fluids here. They might feel turned on by your sex fluids or they generally like to play with it. They also get turned on when you tease them. This person is foodie, I am picturing the image of Louis and Peter griffin when they were feeding each other fruits in this scene check it out if you want to. You might feed each other grapes and fruits in general. I'm not getting this person enjoying a specific body part at all. I feel like they enjoy your presence during the act more. Also, they get turned on when you hug them tightly. I feel like this person is quite traditional, they enjoy it when you make dinner for them. I see them getting back from work were you are dressing up nicely and making them a very delicious dinner. Also, this person is into sexting. I see them getting very horny when you are teasing them with your nudes. Idk this person respectively is very traditional and vanilla. I see also that they are very mature emotionally. This person get turned on by eye contact and deep conversations they might spend hours making love and they last very long.

Enjoy your reading pile 2💕.

☆ Placements for them:

Leo, Mercury in virgo and sagittarius, Pisces, Aquarius, Venus in virgo, mars in Aries. Dominant planets in Mercury, Mars, Neptune, Uranus. Stallium/ sun or moon in 1st, 6th, 11th, 12th, 9th house in their chart.

Pile 3 - Lady with flowers

Your current energy

I see that this pile is surrendering to the divine. I see that you are trying to enjoy your life as much as possible. I feel like you are living in a routine, there's nothing much honestly. I see that you are anticipating something. I feel like you want something new in your life, something to break the routine without creeping you off. I see that you always lean towards routine and structure but somehow you desire change. I see that you want change but you are very resistant to it which is creating chaos energetically. Pile 3, set with your self and decide what exactly is holding you back from the change? What is scaring you this much? Writing this down can be really helpful I order for you to acknowledge what is wrong. I see that this duality of wanting change and fearing it is keeping you stuck and confused. But at the same time you are looking forward, you are looking for a sign from the universe or God to intervene and change it. You are deeply feeling optimistic about tomorrow. I see that your energy is quite happy and warm. You might have walked away from something that kept bothering you and now you feel like that thing have no power over you right now. I see that there might be a small health issue that faced you in the previous weeks like cold or fever. But you got better thanks to God or the Universe.

Placements for you:

Sagittarius, Gemini, Cancer, Scorpio, Taurus, Aquarius, Aries. Also, I'm picking up on Mars in Aries, Venus in scorpio, Moon in scorpio. Venus, Mercury, Sun, Mars, Pluto as dominant planets in your chart. Stallium in the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 8th, 11th house.

☆ What will turn your future spouse on?

Well first you got triple 888 which never happened in my readings. It means that you are going to experience infinite abundance with your spouse. I see that this person at first will be soft and sweet. They will make love to you softly, they will demand nude pictures of you and they will masturbate to it. They have breeding kink, they will imagine having a child with you while they are masturbating. They are going to make love like there's no tomorrow but as the relationship preced they are going to get scary honestly. I see that they are going to share their sexual fantasies with you. They will ask you to role play with them and the roles are going to be quite dark. Like, they might role play a r*pe scene or something very dark of course with your consent if you are comfortable with that type of stuff or not. With each day that pass they will show their kinkier side to you. I see them using their belt or whip on you. There will be hair pulling too, and heavy BDSM. I see that they will escape reality with you into the bedroom I see them really praising and encouraging you afterwards. They also might tie your hands. I see wax play too, this person is very naughty and kinky I can't with them. This pile’s future spouse might get turned on by pain. I'm picturing Angelina Jolie when she stabed her boyfriend to feel pleasure while they are doing it. This person might get horny when you are in pain. They might cause you pain too. This person is giving Christian Grey, I see that they like being in control and doing heavy stuff to their partner. Idk pile 3, if you might get uncomfortable with that try to communicate with them. You don't have to face all of this. Also, I see that this person will see you as their lover, I got the lover card and Judgement twice which is quite unusual. I see that it might mean that this relationship is meant to awaken something in you, something you are ignoring.

Enjoy your reading pile 3💕.

☆ Placements for them:

Air placements (Libra, Aquarius, Gemini). Mercury in sagittarius, and water placements (Cancer, Pisces and scorpio). Mercury, Pluto, Venus. Stallium in Air placements or houses and Stallium in water placements.

Pile 4 - Woman looking at the stars

Your current energy

I see that there's someone in your life that is spreading rumors about you. It might be a woman with leo placements or a man with Aquarius placements I'm not sure. I see that they feel very jealous of your achievements and how graceful you are. I see that you are the type of person who is very beautiful. You might be beauty with brains, someone who is very intelligent and smart. This person is spreading rumors about you and the cards are telling me that they will get their Karma so don't worry you don't have to do anything about it. The cards are advising you to have inner strength and calm down before engaging in any behavior that doesn't suit your public image. I see that you might be someone who is quite popular and known but very envied by others. Your skills and dedication are drawing the right people into your life and the right opportunities too. I see that if you are planning on traveling somewhere it will happen but also for that to happen you need to find closure and end a cycle in your life.

☆ Placements for you:

Leo, Virgo, Sagittarius, Aries, Pisces, Aquarius, Libra, Leo. Sun, Mars, Saturn, Venus prominent in your chart. Stallium in the 1st, 6th, 5th, 9th, 12th, 7th, 11th house in your chart.

☆ What will turn your future spouse on?

Okay, first thing is this person is very idealistic, very emotional and devoted. I see that they get horny when you tease them with your breasts like pressing them against him or showing them to him randomly make him sexually frustrated. I see that he gets really horny when they see you dressing up for them. A lot of emphasis on glam, they enjoy watching you dressing up, putting on perfume and makeup. You might be their type honestly. Like they were searching for someone like you and they found you soo it is a win win. This person is like pile 2, they are quite traditional. They don't have any weird kink at all. I see that they lean more to making love unlike pile 3 it was insane but anyways no judgment on my blog. I see that your ass is something that they like, they enjoy the size, shape and how soft and squishy it is. This person gets so horny when you are showering or under water. They see you as someone who is so ethereal like a mermaid. They like your body naked and wit under the shower. They might join you there too. I see that they really get turned on when you whisper in their ear and tease their neck. This person is in their head a lot when it comes to you. They might go to work and sit there imagining you two doing it nonstop and when they return home they'll be like a wild animal. He is so soft, like a soft dom again. I can't with him I try to provoke many cards but all I am getting is the cups suit which is linked to love and emotions. I see that this person is very emotional when it comes to you what matter for them is intimacy and how comfortable you are with them. Also, it keeps them going when you are in pleasure. They feel prideful when you reach your orgasm and moaning their name. Also, I'm getting Nikki Minaj here. He'll totally take it off of you after the party. Also I'm getting the song "something about you by eyedress, dent may" this person sees you like something so beautiful and ethereal. They have a lot of respect for you, they won't curse or cuss at you at all during sex. They see sex as something very sacred and romantic only shared between two people. They don't dare to call sex (sex) they'll say (love making) instead. This person is very poetic, they can and will write poems about you and set the right romantic mood for you two to enjoy.

Take care pile 4 💕.

☆ Placements for them:

Water signs (Scorpio, Pisces and cancer). Air signs (Aquarius, Gemini and Libra). Mercury, moon, Venus as prominent plants in their chart. Stallium in the 4th, 8th, 12th, 11th, 3rd, 7th house for them.

Post date: 24th of Nov -2024 Sun

* Feedback is appreciated