#hot hominy

[thesuffolkpunchpress]

Grandma's Hot Hominy This special white hominy recipe makes a hearty and mouthwatering holiday side dish with plump, tender hominy, sour cream, and Cheddar cheese.

#hominy recipe #hominy #hot hominy #dinners #sour cream #grandma #dressing

[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 🫡

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!

#demon slayer #sanemi shinazugawa #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kny fic #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer smut #kny smut #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x you #sanemi smut #demon slayer sanemi #kimetsu no yaiba sanemi #sanemi x y/n

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hiiii ur writing is amazing:D

Soooo I saw this prompt and u were the first one to jump into my mind!

"Your hair is so soft..."

" stop it! You're making this harder, not letting me focus on killing you."

Hero x villain, where villain is sitting on hero's belly and holding a knife to their throat.

I was wondering if you could write something like this;)

“Your hair is so soft…”

The villain looked down at them, stared into the hero’s eyes as if the abysses of their pupils held any answers. They didn’t and the villain was fully aware of the pain and destruction they could cause in the next few seconds. With the hero’s hand — more fingers broken than healthy — in their hair, they felt quite breathless.

“Stop it,” the villain hissed. The knife in their hand felt heavy, out of place even. It was the first time in their life that a weapon conjured those feelings. “You’re making this harder. You’re distracting me.”

“Homo homini lupus, I get it,” the hero whispered. The villain let out a shaky breath and hardened their grip around the knife. “But it could’ve been so easy. You could’ve been mine and I could’ve been yours.”

“Self-realisation doesn’t include personal relationships. I need to fulfil my potential,” the villain said. Cutting the hero’s throat was supposed to be quick and painless, at least for the villain. But this drama had been going on for half an hour now. The villain didn’t know what to do with themselves, where to place themselves in this fight. Bleeding out was less painful than this and the villain would know. They’d almost bled out several times if it weren’t for the hero. “I need to get revenge. I need justice.”

The hero’s hand glided down the villain’s neck, grasping their biceps weakly. They were unbelievably gently, even in the face of death, even in their final moments.

“I didn’t kill your family.”

“But you’re standing in my way,” the villain said and they couldn’t deny how much their voice shook. “You’re holding me back. You would never let me kill them.”

“You know me too well,” the hero said. They took a deep breath, seemingly tired and overwhelmed. The villain couldn’t blame them, they were tired too. Unfortunately, the only way to end this was bloodshed. The villain was almost sure the hero would close their own hand around the handle of the knife to guide them. “And yet you choose selfishness.”

“I’m choosing destiny,” the villain said. “It is my destiny to do this.”

“What if I’m your destiny?”

“We both don’t really think that, do we?”

“It’s possible.”

“But very far from probable.”

“You’re being cruel.” The hero’s eyes were sharp, despite their physical state. It had something didactic, something authoritative and the villain felt horrible. They pressed the knife deeper into the hero’s soft neck, but there was no blood yet as if that would solve anything.

In their head, they cursed themselves but that disgusting part of their brain thought relentlessly about the right angle and pressure to apply to the cut.

“I’m being honest. We’re perfect for each other but we are not meant to be,” the villain said. Slowly, their eyes began to burn. Everything was hot and they couldn’t really breathe. God, they were killing their lover. The only person who had accepted their mistakes and their bad obsession with revenge.

They were killing them, oh god.

Although the villain knew them by heart, they looked at them as if they had to burn the image of their face into their brain.

“So, don’t make this harder. Be a hero and don’t let me suffer,” the villain begged. Their other hand pushed hair out of the hero’s face and by now, the villain’s tears started to gather in the corners of their eyes. Softly, they let their thumb brush over the hero’s bottom lip, leaning in. But they couldn’t bring themselves to kiss them.

They drew back, grip harsher than ever around the knife.

“You decide,” the hero said. “No one else.”

“Of course, my love. Homo homini lupus.”

They didn’t need to say more. Both knew what they were going to do.

#hope you like it <3 #I want at least 500 essays in my inbox with interpretations on how this story ends TOMORROW 7 AM SHARP #writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request

[madwomansapologist]

How Marvel characters would celebrate Festa Junina with their s/o

Masterlist | Rules | Taglist | Library | More Marvel | AO3

synopsis: How would the Marvel characters react to a traditional brazilian winter solstice festival.

Festa Junina is a brazilian winter solstice festivals. It's a celebration of São João's birth, but it's way more than just a religious thing. You can be atheist, you can be jew: YOU WILL CELEBRATE SÃO JOÃO. These festivities are marked by hot food, such as hominy and corn, bonfires, dances, tournaments, declarations of love and a deeply passion for our diverse culture. It's a date (and yes, the whole month is filled with festivities, depending on the state in can go on for all winter) that brings families together, people of all ages.

warnings: brazilian!reader. pure fluff.

glossary: menino bonzinho = good boy (imagine someone squeezing a little child's cheeks, that's it. it's not flirty or anything, it's purely babyfication).

Steven Grant

• It probably was Steven idea. Of course you wanted to celebrate, but you thought Steven would be overwhelmed by... well, everything. So many people, voices, songs, colors, fires. And you'd know him: Steven would eat raw pork miling instead of telling you that you might have made a mistake.

• But when he insisted, you showed him how brazilians celebrate winter. Steven read a lot about it, curious to understand more about your country history and be able to understand something so substantial to you as a part of a different living culture, so he knew what to expect. But he still got surprised.

• Steven just couldn't understand the amount of prepare that was necessary to make a festival like that. Everyone wearing tradicional clothes, dots painted on their faces, knowing all the choreos for a lot of genres of music. Steven couldn't understand the lyrics, but he did felt them. You told him everyone knows them because every school make their own festival, which made his jaw drop.

• Steven didn't stop questioning about how it all originated. You told him everything you knew, since the history of cangaceiros until how some of it's songs were created, and it still wasn't enough for him. Maybe Steven Grant found another history obsession. Maybe.

Natasha Romanoff

• That woman would totally, a thousand percent sure, dressed up. Striped dresses, flower crowns, low-heeled dancing shoes. Let's be honest: she's probably already been to Brasil. Given the serum and who Natasha used to work for, perhaps she bears some responsibility for starting the military coup. So, yes, Natasha know whats happening.

• She'll join in the square dance, and she'll make sure you go dressed as a bride. It doesn't matter if they've already decided who the bride and groom will be, you're going to be the bride. Partly because Natasha wants you to have fun, but that's more about her competitiveness than anything else.

• Speaking of competitiveness, Nat would definitely spend a considerable amount of money on tokens for the water pistol stalls. Be prepared to carry a few teddy bears around for the rest of the night, Nat will be sure to get the biggest ones. Everything for you!

Marc Spector

• He definitely won't like the noise. Everything is in excess. But when you guide Marc to the fire, with roasted corn and the whisper of embers, he will enjoy the night much more. And Marc will have a lot of fun. He isn't used to public bonfires with snacks other than marshmallows. Marc ate about fifteen different types of corn before fearing passing out from eating so much.

• He thought it would be weird because it's a catholic festival. You explained to him that no one actually cared about it: it was about culture, not a religion. It was a festival that your country gave another meanings. So, yes, the name is from a catholic saint, but it's way more than just that. When he was there and understood it barely had any religion references, he got way more comfortable.

• Marc will be a flirty mess. It's a romantic setting. The cold forces people to stay together, dances are made for couples, even competitions ask for counterparts. He don't get a word from what those musics are about, but the still slow dance by the campfire.

• If Marc was alone, he would want to come home as soon as he couldn't eat any more. But he wasn't. Watching you smile, spending money on stalls whose games you couldn't win, was why he stayed there. It was nice to see you like that. Marc could live forever in that moment.

Wanda Maximoff

• On the previous night, Wanda will watch every movie that is somehow correlated to the festival. Turma da Mônica's specials, Lisbela e o Prisioneiro, Gonzaga: De Pai Para Filho. Get ready for a long movie marathon.

• She's ready to understand the vibe. Pinterest boards, playlists, make-up tutorials: Wanda won't be on a festa junina, she will drown herself on that holiday. It's somehow what you do on Thanksgiving Day. Watch a lot of movies and try to recreat the feeling you'd imagine everyone is feeling.

• Because of the movies, she got that it wasn't enterely a religion thing like she had imagined. So she felt more comfortable to interact with things.

• Wanda will participate in the raffles, get happy to win a set of tupperware, and will join the old people playing bingo. She will win, but it won't be a fair game.

• She'll try to share a candy apple, but when the caramel starts sticking to Wanda's hair... not for her. She needs to have her hands clean. More for you.

Thor

• That man is a golden retrivier. The kind of person to won a participation prize and shout "Yes! That's right, I'm here!". Different than the others on that list, Thor wouldn't try to blend in. Asgardian god, wearing armor and holding mjolnir, casually walking on a neighborhood party.

• He would compete in the apple tanks and pool drop. At first no one would want to compete with him, but as soon as a kid started playing with him everyone realized that Thor was just a nice guy. "Menino bonzinho", you heard some old lady calling him. "Menino bonzinho."

• Another one who would win every plush possible for you. The difference is that he wouldn't focus on the best ones: he would play until he got them all. What you're going to do the most that night is go to the car to store the new batch in the trunk.

• Honestly, he'll look more happy to be there than you. Once the night was over, Thor would hold you close and promise to take you to the Asgard holidays. They will be way different, but with almost the same amount of food and way more alcohol.

Jake Lockley

• You thought Steven wouldn't like, Marc got overwhelmed, so when it was time to take Jake to a party you were absolute sure he would hate. Less because of the amount of information, but more because of how many people would be there.

• London is... cold. Obviously it's cold, but it's distant. People don't seem to want to interact with others. To see others as humans. And Brasil is about social interactions. Is about extended families, where even if half of the relatives hate each other no one fails to show up for Sunday dinner. It's about making friends with bus conductors. About seeing something weird on the street and sharing a look with those walking next to you. You will never see each other again nor have exchanged words before, but when the path separates you will say goodbye.

• Living in Brazil is all about caring for others, and you don't think that Jake would enjoy living in such an environment. Jake is the protector, the shield of the system, the one that will act when the others don't have courage to do so. So, yeah, you bet he wouldn't feel comfortable on a place that includes so much mundane interaction.

• Wrong! At first he seemed a little uncomfortable, but when you asked him to dance... Jake is a good dancer. Another surprise. Jake knows Spanish, which means he could more or less understand what was being said around him. You thought he would be worrying about everything, but Jake seem comfortable there.

• It was fun to be there with him. Maybe because he's latino (which still confuses me how the system is american, british an latino at the same time... I just pretend to understand), you felt like you were sharing something deeper with him. It just hits different.

GENERAL TAGLIST: @suakemi @notanalienindisguiseblink

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

#madwomansapologist #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #thor x reader #marvel x reader #moon knight x reader #avengers x reader #festa junina #marvel #mcu x reader #marvel imagine #mcu imagine #steven grant imagine #marc spector imagine #jake lockley imagine #moon knight system #marvel fanfic #moon knight fanfic #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff imagine #wanda maximoff fanfic #wanda maximoff imagine #thor imagine #thor fanfic #jake lockely x you #steven grant x you #marc spector x you

[jeannereames]

Corn Soup weather

We're getting our first freeze this weekend, and my brain turns to favorite winter foods. Not a huge soup person, but I have an amazing chili recipe, and a very good corn soup recipe. I'll share the corn soup recipe here, as it's pretty easy (compared to the chili, which is a witch's brew of ingredients/spices).

Traditional Great Lakes Corn Soup has three main ingredients: lyed corn, (hard) beans, and meat stewed slowly in broth--with about a million family variations. Ha. Traditionally, the meat was venison, and leeks/green onions (or other onions were added), plus some herbs. Any hard bean will do, but I prefer red beans or Appaloosa beans for color. Below is how I make it. You could make a meatless version by dumping the meat and using vegetable broth. I HAVE made this with venison and IT IS AWESOME (much better than the pork version).

Additionally, lyed corn = hominy = posole. What it's called varies, depending on where you live. It's best to get dried hominy, not canned, but if you're in a hurry (as I often am), canned hominy will do. Drain it to get out the excess salty fluid! White is preferable to yellow (sweeter), but purple/blue makes a fun variation.

Below assumes dried goods, but if you want to "cheat" and use canned goods, 2 cans hominy for every 1 of beans.

Native Great Lakes Corn Soup

1 lb. package of dried lyed corn/hominy/posole

8 oz. dried dark red beans, or Appaloosa beans (I grow my own)

1 large onion or 2 leeks or 6-10 green onions (depending on size)

1 lb package bacon, fried crisp to crumble (can be excluded)

1/1.5 lb. salted pork or (healthier) pork loin cubed; (venison if you can get it--if so, drop the bacon)

pork stock or other broth

seasoning: salt, pepper, savory, thyme, garlic, sumac, (rosemary)

YOU MUST soak the corn and beans overnight. For the uninitiated, if you don't do this, they'll break your teeth. Then cook both for c. 2 hours before you start on the soup. Both must be soft! (This is why I sometimes cheat and use canned, but it's never as good.)

While waiting for the corn and beans, using an iron skillet (best!), fry the bacon, nice and crisp, then sear the pork in some of the retained bacon grease (don't cook through). Also sear (but don't cook through) the onions/leeks/green onions.

Once the beans and corn are ready, drain and dump into a big crock pot along with the pork and onions. Pour in enough stock to cover well.

Add herbs. My amounts vary, tbh. Don't overdo the salt, pepper, or garlic. But go wild with the savory and thyme (1 tbsp each [fresh] is common for me). I consider both essential. Sumac is also great if you can get it (maybe 1/2 tbsp). Be careful with rosemary or it'll overwhelm subtler spices. You can leave out if you don't like it. But I taste as it cooks and add more of whatever seems missing.

Set your crock-pot to high for about 45 min--just enough to get it good and hot all through--then reduce and let is simmer on low for 3+ hours. Add stock as you need. Like good chili, this is better cooked long and low than hot and fast. Flavors need to mingle.

Add most of the bacon near the end, mix well, and be sure it's got about half an hour to mingle.

Serve with more bacon sprinkled on top + good bread to soak up the broth. Sourdough is recommended.

#Winter recipes #Native corn soup #indigenous recipes #Great Lakes recipes

[bestrecipehealty]

Essentials of Cookery; Cereals, Bread, Hot Breads

Always wanted to know the role of cereals in breadmaking? Here are the best information on how to turn cereals into delicious bread!

Everyone loves delicious cereals, breads and hot breads but until now most people thought they were simply too difficult to make from scratch at home and relied on poorer quality store bought items instead.

Without the right tools and information, it could take you years and cost you a small fortune to discover the secrets to creating delicious and successful homemade cereals, breads and hot breads. Instead of spending a fortune on so-called experts or knocking yourself out with the old trial and error method, there is an easier way to achieve the homemade bread items you’ve always dreamed of.

Now there’s good news ....

I won’t deny that there are a ton of books out there on baking breads and cereals. Unfortunately the problem with most books on the breads and cereals is that they are either filled with plenty of promises and no solid techniques and strategies to back up those promises or they contain only one or two pieces of useful information and not a comprehensive look at everything you need to know to succeed in breads and cereals.

Introducing... Essentials of Cookery; Cereals, Bread, Hot Breads!

Essentials of Cookery; Cereals, Bread, Hot Breads breaks the mold of all the other cooking books you have heard and read about. It presents solid, proven steps to help you learn how to create the delicious breads and cereals you’ve always wanted.

Suppose you could finally make delicious breads and cereals at home--simply and easily?

Imagine being able to eat fresh baked breads and hot breads; fresh from your own oven!

Sounds too good to be true?

It’s not and I can prove it with Essentials of Cookery; Cereals, Bread and Hot Bread.

Absolutely everything anyone would ever need to learn how to successfully create breads, pastas and cereals is contained within this impressive work.

Take a look at the specific dishes Essentials of Cookery; Cereals, Bread and Hot Bread can help you to successfully create:

* Buttered Hominy

* Wheat Grits

* Cream of Wheat

* Farina

* White Bread

* Whole-Wheat Fruit Bread

* Parker House Rolls

* Sweet Buns

* Milk Toast Popovers

* Southern Corn Cake

* Baking-Powder Biscuits

* Boston Brown Bread

You get everything you need to understand how to create delicious and successful cereals, pastas and breads. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is left out.

#cooking #cookbook #recipe #cooking at home #pizza tower #pizzahead #recipes #cooking tips #good pizza great pizza #pizzalover #healthy breakfast #basketball #baked goods #beauty #Essentials of Cookery #Buttered Hominy #Wheat Grits #cream of wheat #white bread #Whole-Wheat Fruit Bread #parker house rolls #sweet buns #Milk Toast Popovers

[lacrymatoryao3]

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 6: Christmas Eve and Day, 1899

[1][2][3][4][5]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

4,301 Words (AO3 Link)

A/N: This took me a while because I am painfully Jewish

Arthur wasn’t prepared for how strict Ana’s timetable was for Christmas Eve. She was serious about everything and everyone being ready to meet the guests in the evening. Most of it involved all hands in the kitchen to cook their share of the dinner menu. Ana prepared the main dish the day before and let it marinate in the ice box so it would taste the best. All that was needed was to let it reheat slowly on the stove throughout the day so it was hot. It was a stew, named Pozole Rojo. It was made with pork and hominy, corn kernels soaked in a bath of alkaline water that was also used to make tortilla dough, with onions and garlic. A red sauce was mixed into the broth, made from the usual dried chilies and some more onion and garlic and herbs added.

The undertaking they handled together was making Tamales, made by steaming corn husks filled with dough, peppers, fresh white cheese, and the surplus red sauce that wasn’t used in the stew. Arthur was given the simplest task, mixing together the filling while Ana made the dough. Arthur Francisco combined them into the corn husks, folding them into a rectangular shape and trying them with thinner husks. While they steamed they focused on the dessert, Sopaipillas, fried flour based fritters that would eventually be covered in powdered sugar and ground cinnamon then drizzled with honey.

Arthur Francisco was more adept at his roles than Arthur. It seemed from the moment he could follow directions Ana had him learning them. To him, there was no ‘women’s’ or ‘men’s’ work, simply just work. Arthur had an awkward experience curve to vault over. He knew how to grill meat and heat up whatever he looted that came in cans, he could make coffee, he had a vague idea how Pearson made stews, but anything elaborate escaped him.

God damn, no wonder Pearson was always drinkin’…

By the time everything was finished and being kept warm, Ana was ushering them out to the inn. Everyone had to take a thorough bath and there was no debate on it, though Arthur Francisco tried. Arthur couldn’t stifle the chuckle walking into his assigned room hearing the young boy whine as his mother stood there in the hall sternly looking at him and pointing at one of the other doors.

He let out a pleased gasp as his nude body sank into the hot water. He laid back and closed his eyes for a while. His muscles relaxed, soaking before he washed. Such a simple pleasure he couldn’t get over. A weekly ritual, expected and adhered to. Of course, he used to bath whenever he had the chance but jumping from one camp to another didn’t assure it regularly. He savored it, especially the fact he didn’t need to pay for it. Though he half wished there was a bath girl like there was in other, less reputable places. A woman’s gentle and careful touch while he took a pause from his worries. He so rarely indulged in it, to a point where he was frequently starving for it. Yet of all days and times he longed for it greatly. The thought quickly made him ashamed, not knowing exactly why.

The house smelled lovely with the spices, mixed with the incense of the decorations, floating through the air at their return. It was close to a strong and snug embrace. It was a strange feeling to Arthur, familiar and foreign at the same time, filling him with a nostalgia for something he never had.

Ana led her increasingly crotchety son up the stairs so they could get dressed. Arthur went to his room to do the same. On his bed Ana had laid out a suit he had never seen, a meticulously coordinated ensemble.

It was grander than his tastes, a style similar to the fashions that Trelawny would wear and force him in during his elaborate heists. The white shirt had a high, banded collar held irritatingly tight at the neck by the silver with royal blue striped puff tie. The vest was a matching royal blue with a silver damask pattern. The frock coat was navy blue and had a subtle brocade on the lapels, its matching trousers was also lightly striped. The shoes were overly shined black wingtips.

Arthur grumbled to himself adjusting everything. He couldn’t guess how exactly this little get-together was going to go, all he knew was he wasn’t expected to play a role like such garments used to signify. He had to be himself. A big, halfwitted oaf in a fancy uncomfortable suit.

He joined them waiting in the living room. The expression on his face akin to that of the young boy’s, equally as unhappy wearing his own getup. His mother clearly combed and pomaded his hair against his will, until it stuck unmoving to his head in a side part. He was constantly fidgeting with his stiff wingtip shirt collar or running his fingers against the black velvet fabric of his double breasted jacket. Ana was the only one who looked fitting in her red gown, a green turtleneck blouse underneath the blazer. Ribbons matching the colors had been woven into the braid in her bun. Her eyes lit up seeing Arthur enter the room. It was the first time she really looked at him in over a week.

She made a thrilled sound and rushed to him, “Oh, that looks so wonderful on you!”

When she touched the lapels her demeanor changed. Her behavior shifted, her natural confidence dissipating rapidly. Her eyes darted away like they had been, only to quickly glance up to him to give a shy and awkward smile. She straightened the lapels and let go, bringing distance between them once again.

At the hour the guests were expected there was a loud knock on the front door. Everyone was dressed in their finest clothing, holding their contributions to the Christmas feast. The Johnsons had a brown sugar glazed ham, candied yams, and a carrot pie. The O’Hogans, with heavily pregnant Rosaline covering her stomach by plaid shawls, brought a roasted duck, boiled potatoes heavily buttered and salted, an a spiced fruit cake that marinated in whiskey for at least a year.

The Liangs were the most interesting. Christmas didn’t exist to them, the closest thing they had was a winter solstice festival that they adapted for the event. Mrs. Liang was dressed in the most elaborate garments of her former social class. Her hair was done up in what looked like a bow on the top of her head, with silver accessories resembling winter plants and flowers from her country. Her dress was high collared violet and pink robe-like shirt with wide sleeves that ended at her knees so the matching skirt hiding her feet underneath was visible. Mr. Liang matched somewhat, his tunic was shorter and a simple gray and loose fitting black pants gathered at the ankles. They prepared their traditional festival foods to sample, all with hard to pronounce names for the rest of them. There was ‘Lap Yuk’, cured and dried out pork belly. ‘Tang Yuan’, rice dumplings filled with black sesame paste and mushrooms in a clear broth. ‘Nian Gao’, a sweet dessert cake also make from rice.

The crowd went into the dining room. The children were made their plates and were banished to the kitchen. There were… So many. Even with the kitchen table expanded extra seats were created at the counters for all of them.

The main topics of conversation were rather dull. If Arthur could have thought of a reason to go hang around the kids, he would have excused himself. What they talked about seemed more interesting and fun. Instead he sat next to Ana, pretending he knew how to be a proper gentleman and copying what utensil he was supposed to use when eating the diverse dishes offered. He couldn’t say he disliked any of them. Then again, he was willing to eat most anything. If someone handed him pig slop he probably would try it if it had salt. What the Johnsons and O’Hogans brought was similar enough to what he would get in saloons in whatever town they camped near. He had grown used to what they made, though he noticed the spice was scaled back from normal for the sake of everyone else. Ana had whispered to him that the corn husks of the Tamales weren’t eaten, just a way to hold the filling. The Liangs’ was unique, but not in the way he heard from people. In Saint Denis he heard a bartender complain about the smell that came from restaurants in the Chinese quarter. What it actually tasted like wasn’t bad at all.

“Mr. Callahan, I never got the chance to ask.” Mr. Johnson addressed Arthur in his deep, booming voice that could even strike fear into him if used correctly, “What’d you do before you ended up here?”

“A lot.” Arthur replied, coming up with ways to make his past more palatable to his audience, “Never really looked to settle, so I just wandered around doin’ what was available. I’ve always worked with horses, broke a few, raced now and again, cared for them more than I did myself a few times. Shootin’, always did that, for huntin’ or a couple of times contests. Ended up with a lot of security work. Did stagecoaches, trains, some banks. Herded cattle. Bounty huntin’ if the price was good.”

“Man’s smarter than he gives himself credit fer!” Mr. O’Hogan added, “If ya want ta to get back into bounty work, I’m sure Sheriff Strange has somethin’ fer ya! His list is longer than he is tall!”

“Some of them aren’t actual bounties, however.” Ana warned, “Some are just people he’s willing to pay to get out of the town and not come back.”

The table laughed. Even harder when Mrs. Liang mused that “With big man, we finally deal with Millers.”

“What’s the whole deal with them anyhow?” Arthur asked.

Mrs. Johnson groaned, “Racist bastards. They came up here from Leymone and brought all that with them.”

Mrs. O’Hogan nodded, “They don’t like much o’ anybody. Irish, Black, Chinese, Italian, Mexican, probably don’t like Jews or Indians if we had ‘em here.”

“Bastards are probably fuckin’ inbred.” Mr. O’Hogan commented.

Mrs. O’Hogan slapped her husband on the shoulder, “Owen!”

“What?! It’s bloody true! Just take a look at ‘em! One o’ these days our kids are gonna get tired o’ ta calumny in ta school yard and snap those boys’ necks!”

“All right, all right,” Ana said soothingly, “Let’s not worry about them. It’s a holy night.”

The desserts with the flow of alcohol was a bit too much, though very good. Arthur’s stomach actually hurt some when dinner ended and everyone moved to the living room to drink more, except Mrs. O’Hogan of course, and be entertained with little games or shows put on by the children. Ana rewarded them with little wrapped bundles of sweets for the next day, then told the Nativity story with them and finally added the statue of Baby Jesus lying in his manger bed to the scene on the fireplace mantel. She taught them the best she could a few songs about the season in Spanish, with Arthur Francisco’s help.

Arthur found it… Ironic, so to speak. Looking around the room, Ana had ended up forming her own gang after all. They just didn’t break any laws. It was the arrangement Dutch had constantly promised they’d have if they got enough money, and she did it completely by circumstance. They answered to her, they respected her, she respected them, and they all worked together and actually liked each other.

It made his heart ache slightly. What if she told him? She was right, at that point he wouldn’t have left. What if he could have convince her to stay with him? Egotistic, but he wondered how she would have gotten along with those who came after her. She knew John long enough, Sean showed up shortly before she disappeared. She would have hated how John reacted to Abigail having Jack, but they could have raised their sons together. Jack would have had playmate and not be so alone. She would have gotten along with the other girls. She was much more sturdy than they were, she could have protected them from some of Susan’s brutal wrath. She might even have been able to befriend Molly, convince her their life wasn’t one she was suited for before it drove her to the brink. She would have liked Javier, Lenny, Charles, tenuous with Mac and Davey. She certainly would have punched Bill when he had one of his drunken antics, and with her temperament Micah would have died the moment he said or did anything out of turn to her.

Another time you could have had something, Morgan…

He played his deprecating thoughts off for the rest of the night. Enjoying it as much as he could. By the time everyone left it was an hour shy of midnight. Ana hastily sent the boy to bed, who was more exhausted than he said he was in his whining about it. She and Arthur took the chore of cleaning up and making the house presentable again.

“If this is what Christmas is like,” Arthur remarked, “I’m scared to know what New Year’s brings!”

“New Year’s is a dance at the Grange Hall! I only do this once a year! I don’t need to entertain all the time.” Ana sighed, “You want to go with me? You’ll meet new people. Plenty of of girls.”

“You know I ain’t much of a dancer.”

Ana took a sip from another glass of wine she poured, “Most people here aren’t besides the Contra. Honestly, they’re not even good at that. It’s just a way for the community to have a party without messing up their own houses again.”

Arthur chuckled, “You just want me in this damn suit again.”

“That suit looks good! You’ll get someone’s attention! I already crossed off marriage in my life’s checklist, it’s your turn!”

He shook his head. It was odd how determined she was about that when she rarely spoke about her own.

“Speakin’ of that,” Arthur said leaning against the sink, “You never told me much about your husband.”

The night of drink loosened Ana’s demure, speaking about him in her disturbingly detached manner, “When I came here I was working as a laundress. It didn’t pay enough, and Jacob put out an advertisement for a maid. When we met he saw my condition. Jacob was a homosexual, but he knew he needed a wife for appearances sake. I needed a husband so the baby and I wouldn’t be looked down upon and we’d be taken care of. It was just convenient. I had no issue with it, he and I got alone fine, he was good with the boy. He’d go off every so often, play it like business when he was somewhere with whatever male lover he had. I focused on being a mother and running things while he was gone. The problem was when he got sick. Tertiary syphilis. He probably had it for years. He went downhill quickly, lost his mind, lost most motor function, it was a mercy he died. Terrible disease.”

Arthur blinked, taking it in, “Wait. So this man was galivantin’ about with other men, and you didn’t do nothin’ yourself?”

“What choice did I have?” Ana laughed, “I was a beard, but I was still expected to be the proper wife. You know the rules are different for men.”

It was late when everything was in order. The conversation fizzled out and both of them excused themselves to bed soon after. Running from lawmen was less exhausting.

Initially his dream started with the old times. Of the family he had before. Those last good and hopeful moment they had, gathered together at Horseshoe Overlook. He was standing at the cliff, the sun breaking over distant mountains that bathed the sky orange and turned the Dakota river red. The rays gleamed through the tall, dense trees. Everyone was coming to life. Pearson whistling while preparing the day’s meal. Susan shouting orders to the other women. Some of the men’s distant voices at the fire with their cups of coffee. The phonograph in Dutch’s tent reverberating one of the many opera songs he had heard over and over to the point of near insanity. The securing noises, the feeling of being surrounded by familiar people. Most of them now dead.

He saw a tan shape below him. A cougar unusually out in the open. It loped slowly, its head down like it was sick or injured in some way. Even from above he could hear the low, pitiful sound it was making. He pulled out his gun and made his way to it as quietly as he could. He hid in the brush, ready to aim to put it out of its misery. The creature was looking around, still making its agonized cry. He caught sight of something else before he could fire. The buck wandered near the river’s edge, unbothered, unconcerned, unusual for such an animal with a predator nearby. There was no fear of the cougar in its black eyes. Not even when the cougar noticed and started running towards it. It simply walked away into the trees. The cougar tried to follow it, not in a manner with the intent to kill, still making that sad noise. He started to recognize it. Like a woman crying, whimpering in heartfelt unhappiness. As it gained no ground to close the distance between them, it gave up. It laid in the grass with a defeated sigh. He almost felt sorry for the thing, sensing illogically the… love it had for something meant to be its prey.

He raised his revolver again at the cougar, the sound of hammer clicking alerted the buck. Lowering its head to brandish the strong antlers, it ran directly at him. He had no time to pull the trigger when it struck him in the chest, sending him several feet backwards against the rocky terrain with the firearm flying off in the air. He laid in the dirt, huffing to catch the breath that was thoroughly knocked out of him. When he could finally stand up again the buck was still there, grunting defiantly between him and the cougar. All he could do was lift his hands to show it he was disarmed. The buck turned away. It studied the cougar, moving towards it. It started licking the cat, that perked up and rubbed its face against the buck as it laid down beside it. It rested its head on the strong cougar’s body. As close as cuddling as two animals could get. He was unable to wrap his head around what he was witnessing, yet the peace he felt when he was on the day he was supposed to die came back to him.

[*]-----[*]-----[*]-----[*]-----[*]

No one felt like getting fully dressed in the morning. Whether it was from the hangover in the adults from the night before, Arthur Francisco’s excitement to open gifts, or the fact he woke them up earlier than they would have liked. Arthur couldn’t be angry with it, in a way he was touched that the boy included him in throwing up the door and jumping onto the foot of the bed like he did with his mother. Both Arthur and the boy stayed in their flannel union suits but with a pair of pants over them to be decent. Ana covered her nightclothes with a wool dressing gown dyed a rich dark green, embroidered down the chest and skirt with vibrant flowers like the blouses she used to wear when she was younger.

They sat in front of the tree on cushions Ana had laid out in front of their respective gift piles, 5 for each of them. Arthur wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole event, other than that the things he had tried to wrap himself didn’t look nearly as nice as what Ana had and an underlying concern whether or not they would like any of the things he had given them.

Despite Arthur Francisco’s eagerness for his own turn, he and his mother agreed that since Arthur was the newest one he should be the person to go first. Somehow, that was even worse pressure. He took one of the small, square boxes from Arthur Francisco. He was careful with the paper and string. Inside was a silver cased watch. Embossed on the lid was, ironically, a buck deer standing in a field below a mountain range. The other thing from the boy was a plainer cased matching compass. They both had short chains to either attach to a vest button or suspend on his gun belt.

Ana’s gifts to him continued with the concept of functionality. One of them was lacquered brass binoculars with leather around their grip point. They had a high zoom range which was useful for long distances, a good replacement for the set he lost. She also gave him a new pair of boots, simple but thick leather that had heavy roped stitches and a smooth lining inside. It was certainly welcome, he was still wearing the ones he pretty much always had his adult life. They were on their last legs for a while, and she knew him enough to know he would keep using them until they fell apart.

The last thing, tagged as from both Arthur Francisco and Ana was a nicely made fishing rod. It was most likely a hint from the boy more than his mother. Arthur doubted the man he was raised to think was his father did much of those things with him. He just didn’t seem type, and while Ana tried when still with the gang once or twice she never got the hang of it nor did she have the patience.

Arthur thanked the both of them, not sure what else to really say. Ana patted him on the shoulder and Arthur Francisco smiled pleased he did a good job of it.

Then, it was Ana’s turn. Her son had given her a one pound box of some fancy French cream candies, with a nice box that had a pretty woman lounging on a fainting sofa enjoying the product. He also gave her a bottle of lilac perfume in a heavy, etched glass bottle with a cork stopper. What was from him and the boy together was a gold, twisted chain necklace with a crucifix-like cross.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably when she moved to his sole offerings. He didn’t know why it made him so nervous. She was taken aback, but not negatively, which gave him some relief. He had bought her a nice summer dress like the ladies in bigger places wore. The shirtwaist had nice loose sleeves gathered at wide cuffs at the wrist. The entire thing had delicate lace sewn onto it. The other thing was a small straw had that had a silk ribbon to match.

Ana looked at him, a faint blush breaking onto her face. There was a lot she wanted to say. None of it was anything she would around her son. She patted Arthur’s shoulder tenderly and thanked him. The look in her eyes was brighter than they had been. The image of the cougar from his dream when the deer stopped running from it flashed into his mind, making him even further question its meaning.

Arthur Francisco was the required distraction from the sudden, confusing tension. Ana cleared her throat and let him open the gifts from her. They were a set of watercolor paints and brushes, as well as the large and thick paper to use them on. Arthur didn’t know he liked to paint. The boy pointed out a frame on the wall, a drawing of Enrique looking over the outside paddock fence. It was simple, though well executed for a child. He was struck with the realization he had so much more he needed to get to know about the boy.

Arthur Francisco was also very happy with what he got from Arthur. There was a half-pound box of milk chocolates, something anyone would safely appreciate. The other was a three book box set respectively about hunting, fishing, and foraging edible plants.

The finale was what Ana had put to be from both of them: the Carcano. Arthur Francisco let out the most delighted sound, nearly jumped to his feet from joy. Ana did her best to explain to him the rules about it, no pointing it at anything except animals, keeping it unloaded in the house, keeping it up and not taking it unless she knew. They weren’t sure if he actually heard any of it, but he nodded like he did. He begged his mother when she was finished if he could go outside and shoot at some of the empty bottles he used to practice with the pellet gun he had before, then asked Arthur if wanted to help.

“Gonna have to get dressed first.” Arthur replied, “Think you can leave it for a few minutes so we can get ready?”

He propped the gun against the wall, rushing up the stairs to his bedroom. Arthur and Ana laughed as they stood.

She rested her hand on Arthur’s shoulder, which left an unfamiliar sensation on his skin, “While you two are doing that, I will finally get breakfast around. It’s much too cold for me.”

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

[innbetween]

Morning Tessa! I’d love some tea if you’ve got some on. Have you picked up any new recipes lately?

Do you know, I have! The dwarves around here like a very spicy soup with hominy and pork, and I must say, not only is it delicious, nothing clears your sinuses quite like it.

Here’s your tea, dear, piping hot.

#inn between #inn between podcast

[shadowqueen402]

Your headcanons are so fun!

Keeping on topic with fall, what is everyone’s favorite fall food? There are many desserts, foods, beverages, pastries, etc. that come to mind when I think of fall, and I’m curious as to what your thoughts are!

Ooh, okay!

Jose Gallard: He loves eating Pozole, which is a Mexican traditional soup or stew made from hominy (dried corn kernels) and meat (either pork or chicken). He usually seasons it with lime and salsa. For drinks, he prefers drinking Mexican hot chocolate which has cinnamon in it.

Fiona Demetria: She'll definately eat pumpkin spice cinnamon rolls every now and then. She even makes sure to leave some for Haoyu to snack on. She also loves Chai tea and drinks it in the fall and winter.

Yuri Brand: Her mother makes the best chocolate chip cookies at this time of year. So she will obviously snack on one or two. Also, hot chocolate is a must for her.

Haoyu Chang: Fall means Mid-Autumn Festival. So for Haoyu and his family, he will be totally eating mooncakes, which are considered a delicacy in China. His favorite ones are those that have red bean paste filling. And he will drink Oolong tea as well.

Sana Hudson: She is obsessed with pumpkin pie! Since childhood, she would look forward to having some on Thanksgiving. She would also help herself to a hot Cappuccino.

Cass Milligan: Cass has eaten cinnamon rolls as a child and still does. As an adult, she drinks Pumpkin Spice Latte with Attilio. She also loves apple pie.

Cal Suresh: His wife made the best blueberry pie ever. He has her recipe and makes it every year to remember her. Plus, he loves casseroles of any kind.

Iben Bia: Her father used to make a delicious lasagna. So she loves it a lot. She makes it every year on Thanksgiving and once let her son know that his late grandfather used to make it.

Attilio Caccini: He loves drinking Pumpkin Spice latte. He may or may not sneak a piece of Halloween candy for himself. Though, Cass may scold him for it.

Lucy Wong: She adores comfort foods in the fall. Chicken noodle soup, macaroni and cheese, red velvet cake, you name it. She will either drink a Frappucino or sweetened black tea.

Eis Glover: He loves turkey and mashed potatoes in Thanksgiving. He also loves Pumpkin pie like Sana does.

Bruce Stone: He loves tomato soup. Especially if it's served with saltine crackers. He also drinks decaffinated, green tea.

#balan wonderworld #headcanon #jose gallard #fiona demetria #yuri brand #haoyu chang #sana hudson #cass milligan #cal suresh #iben bia #attilio caccini #lucy wong #eis glover #bruce stone

[alexandros-deathwood]

I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS HOLD ON LET ME SEND SOME For Alexandros: 4, 6, 29, and 32 Adam: 30, 31, 98, and 100 Malcom: 1, 11, 25, and 28 And I got a few for all of them that got me very curious: 22, 51, and 53

Alexandros:

4. Butterbeer or pumpkin juice?

Butterbeer is essentially a root beer float while pumpkin juice is apple cider with pumpkin puree. So pumpkin puree.

6. Sandwiches or soup?

Soup there is so much you can do with it. You can add potatoes, meat, carrots, rice, squash, hominy, etc it just has so much you can do with it and there's nothing quite like soup rice.

29. Was MC's Patronus what they expected it to be?

He never actually thought about that it would be a Thestral but he had an idea that it might be considering his mom shares the same.

He is well aware of his mom's past and her tragedies. How her life has been defined by the death of her family and the protection of it. How she travels every year to the origin of her birth, where her parents and sister were killed, to clean their graves and celebrate dia de los Muertos.

He like her has also be defined by death but to such extreme, witness the death of his beloved dog, Peanut, as she she jumped in front of a car in front of him. He witnessed how his own in-action led to death. Pushing him to always wanting to take action while others are in danger, to make up for the guilt he feels for that day.

So he knew that it might be a Thestral, which is a sad thought for him: that death is dyed to his happiness. That was however he started to study with Merula on what a patronus means, that it isn't just about your happiness but also a representation of yourself. Something beautiful and gentle, but misunderstood because of its links with death.

32. What's MC's favorite thing to do when they hang out with their friends?

Honestly he just likes to be included doesn't really matter what. But his favorite thing to do would be to enjoy the outdoors and explore things with his friends.

Adam:

30. Who is MC's favourite Professor?

Professor Kettleburn

31. Who is MC's least favourite Professor?

Snape. I want you to guess why.

98. What is MC's MBTI personality type?

I have no idea. Not a single clue.

Both of the twins tend to stick towards the middle of each of the questions, basically asking in response another question:

What's the situation? So all I know is that he is XNXP. Those 2 are the most likely to stay the same but all of them are subject to change depending on the situation. He's too neurodivergent for me to fit him into a personality type that fits.

100. Is MC good at pranking?

He is because he is very clever and knows how to set up for maximum prank ness.

Dumping a bucket of hot sauce on someone, which by itself is already bad enough, but then using a cold air charm to dry the hot sauce to the person. So now the hot sauce is harder to remove.

They are cold, possibly irritated, they smell, and covered from head to toe in crusty dried out hot sauce.

Though he is not in Ravenclaw he is just as smart as his twin brother, something that should not be mistaken.

Though most of his pranks are pretty mild.

Malcolm:

1. What's MCs favorite subject and why?

History and Defense against the Dark arts. because he loves to study ancient battle tactical techniques and apply them to training

11. Pessimistic or Optimistic?

Pessimistic, but optimism helps him find creative solutions to problems

25. What is MC's favourite magical creature?

Phoenix

28. What is MC's favourite season? Why?

Fall, because it's not bitter cold and not terribly hot. It's a perfect mix of warm and cool air, and gives a sense of security and comfort

All:

22. What is MC's blood status?

Starting off Malcolm is a half blood, 25% muggle, 75% wizard. His father, Peregrine, being pure blood and his mother being half. Though the Deathwoods aren't really sure about his blood status.

The twins half bloods, specifically are 20% muggle 80% wizard. Their dad Seán Deathwood is a pureblood but Sophia Deathwood came from a town in Mexico that didn't really care about blood type focusing more on family and loyalty.

Since Sophia moved twice before setting down in Scotland, and both her parents could preform magic she has no idea that she is a half blood, nor does she care. Why would she? She's an immigrant, who has lost most of her family. Blood purity wouldn't be a main concern. So the twins don't know that they are technically half-bloods.

51. Do they join to the Battle of Hogwarts (either sides)?

Yes. Alexandros joined alongside his wife to fight against Voldemort and protect the students of Hogwarts. Merula made the right choice for once, to fight for her (new) family. Malcolm was 100% willing to die a glorious death, as well as he wished to protect his family. Adam joined for similar reasons as his twin, wanting not for the innocent to die and suffer under Voldemort.

They lived, though bruised and injured. Of the family members there was only one causality.

Sophia Deathwood suffered major injuries during the battle, ultimately laying down her life for her family. She died in the arms of her husband knowing they lived.

She died kicking ass at the age of 61, not bad.

53. Do they interfere with Harry Potter's time at Hogwarts (i.e. mess with canon)?

Yes, mostly in small ways that would not drive of change much of the plot. The twins taking trips to Hogwarts to go to the creature reserve as well as other things.

#merula had a change of heart and fought against her parents #hogwarts mystery #hphm #jacob's sibling #alexandros deathwood #adam deathwood #malcom deathwood #Sophia Deathwood #seán deathwood #merula snyde #sorry this took awhile #hoped you enjoyed it non the less #don't feel sad about Sophia #she knew that her profession would eventually kill her. but she went out on her terms #defending her family to the bitter end #she may be a witch but she lived as a warrior and died as one

[seasaltbaptism]

hi nina!!!!!! hope u are having a good day!!!!! how r u doing how r u feeling? what r u up to? LOVE UUUUU <3 <3 <3

code red code red just drew a scrumptious man and i’ve blown myself away i - did i make a new oc that accompanies hominy part of her journey? yes. did i make him hot ? of course. I AM ,,,, PHEW! HAHA. im tired tbh! my stomach muscles are sore ?? idk why. 💖💖 how’re you? happy u don’t have dnd today so u can lounge and chill with the furbabies!!

#OH MAN. #i THINK his name might be toren im not sure yet i’ll lyk but PHEW. #hominy first meets him by a river on her way to a village as shes just earned enough coin to stay at a nicer place for a few nights #and he’s a resident there and 🧍🏽‍♀️ #* answered #tmema

[kimberly40]

•The Grand Ole Folks of Yesterday•

Our great-grand folks were humble and poor,

In a little log cabin with cracks in the floor.

Carried their water up the hill from a spring,

In an old wooden bucket with a cup of tin.

Gathered in kindling from a brush patch,

Handmade lights and saved their scarce match.

Behind every stove was a strong wooden box

Filled with dry wood, carried and chopped.

Close to the fireplace, warmed their shins,

Goose-pimpled back when the draft blew in.

Read Bibles and few books on cold winter nights

By a dim little blaze of a dim little light.

Hunted for sport, a mess of wild meat.

Tanned the hides of a carcass to eat.

Knew every varmint by the print of his paw,

Tracked them down during the snow and spring thaw.

Children walked to school more than a mile,

Through drifted snow the wind had piled,

Struggled hard to get there and back,

With heavy feet wrapped in old feed sacks.

Loose straw beds that they stirred each night,

With homemade comforts tucked in tight.

Feather beds in each home plumped and plied

Covers so heavy the body grew tired.

Up bright and early to get the stove hot,

Cooked soup beans in an old iron pot.

Corn boiled in water with wood-made lye,

Made their hominy we now cheaply buy.

Their coffee strong, bitter and black

Roasted in ovens, then hand milled and cracked.

Boiled clothes in a kettle with lye soap,

No detergents, no bleach, no powdered soap.

Caught the rain in a big tub,

On a wash board they rubbed.

Used the wash water to scrub the board floors,

Then with a straw broom, swept it out the door.

The old family cows made milk for the churn.

For this tiresome chore each child took his turn.

Sliced peaches and apples, spread up high,

On a roof in the sun to wither and dry.

Cabbage and turnips buried in a hole

Safe from freeze of the weather cold.

Gathered their dry beans in coffee sacks

Beat with a stick until the hulls cracked.

Cleaned by the wind from pan to pan

And carefully sorted each mess by hand.

Children’s toys were all handmade,

Crooked limbs made runs for the sled,

Baby had spools threaded on a string,

A pie pan and stick to make it ring,

They could bend small trees for a pony ride,

Behind a clay ditch play hoop-in-hide.

Wade down the creek in summertime,

Old fashioned fun didn’t cost a dime.

Fuel was made with strong muscles and ax,

And tobacco was free from all state tax.

Raised all they ate, nothing refined,

Our great granddads had a hard time.

Old-time folks would borrow and lend,

A shovel of fire, anything to a settin’ hen,

Thinned their blood with sassafras tea,

Used skunk oil when the colds and sneeze.

Broke leafy twigs to shoo out the flies

That crawled on the baby and made it cry.

Sad irons were heated on smoky cookstoves,

Rubbed clean on paper before ironing the clothes.

Baked their own bread, raised food and sewed

Each had his duties, each carried his load.

Butchered their hogs and rendered their lard,

Raised ducks and chickens in their backyard.

Dried green beans on long strings of twine,

Made kraut in a barrel, corn soaked in brine.

Raised sorghum cane, stripped off the leaves,

Precious juice from the stalk was squeezed.

The sorghums cooked in a large pan,

For fritters, flapjacks, candy and jam.

We owe a great debt we can never repay,

To the Grand Ole Folks of yesterday.

~Author unknown

#appalachian #appalachian culture #appalachian mountains #north carolina

[brightgnosis]

Did some meal planning for the first time since we got back from the Festival, then went out and did our grocery shopping; grabbed everything we needed for:

⤑ Fettuccini Alfredo with Chicken Schnitzel and Asparagus (Tomorrow; my Husband) ⤑ Corn Meal Porridge with Pumpkin and Cranberry (Monday; me, for Pagga) ⤑ White Chili with Chicken and Hominy (Tuesday; me) ⤑ Hot Dogs (Wednesday or Thursday; either my Husband or I)

We had been hoping to avoid the crowds, but unfortunately everyone and their grandmother apparently had the same idea tonight and it just wound up being a cluster. Still, we got it done. And I had this really sweet interaction with a lady while we were out, anyways?

She stopped my Husband and I in the isle and very politely told me I looked beautiful and "felt I needed to hear that tonight". Then told us to have a blessed night and left; it was very awkward but sweet, and I felt a bit like a cucumber afterwards (my brain is convinced she only said it "because my headwrap makes me look like a cancer case or something"- which I know is nonsense but brain) ... I had no idea what to do with myself for a hot second afterwards.

Anyways, groceries are up- as are the new candles (too lazy and tired to do a formal inventory of the new ones right now; I'll post them tomorrow). Now I'm going to try and force myself to actually relax for once this week 🤞 Or maybe take a bath.

#Personal #Life Of A Disabled Homemaker #2022 #Food Is The Ultimate Love Language #NonTrad Housewife #NonTrad Homemaker #Pagan Homemaker #Pagan Housewife #Homemaker #Homemaking #Housewife #NonTrad Homemaking #Pagan Homemaking #Hearthkeeper #Queer Homemaker #Queer Homemaking #Queer Housewife #Disabled Homemaker #Disabled Housewife #Disabled Homemaking

[diabetesinsider]

Pozole

www.diabetesinsider.tumblr.com

This is a fast-to-fix soup that’s a welcome meal to serve to counteract Fall’s cool evenings.  Just saute the vegetables, add seasonings - tomatoes - hominy, and heat through.  Serve cotija cheese on the side.  That’s it…let’s eat! Diabetics - this means you, too!

margarine

2 medium sweet onions, diced

2 bell peppers, cored, diced - yellow and red make a nice color splash

2 - 3 c. water

1 - 25 oz. can hominy, drained

1 - 28 oz. petite diced tomatoes  

1 t. salt

dash tabasco

1 t. + smoky Spanish paprika

Option: 1 t. cumin

Saute onions and peppers in margarine until tender.  In a large soup pot, add the onions and peppers to water, hominy, and tomatoes.  Season, heat through and serve.  Really that’s all there is to it!  You could make this yourself…so why not!?!

When I’m not making a fast, hot soup for the family, I’m sewing Hawaiian print aprons for my online shop - www.etsy.com/shop/TopDrawerThreads . 

Or, I’m crocheting throw rugs from recycled fabric strips for my other shop - www.etsy.com/shop/topdraweryarns .  

My daughter’s have an online shop - www.etsy.com/shop/yesdesigns - where they design and sew rainbow stripe festival knickers with cell pocket.  

My older daughter has an online shop - www.etsy.com/shop/wildwovenwomen - where she works upcycled yarns into brightly colored striped afghans…very fit for end of summer festival frolics!

On the go but want to be in the know regarding great summer reads?  Check out my audio book review blog for some ideas - www.lendmeyourears2017.tumblr.com .

#pozole #healthyeating #t1 #t2 #easysoup #changeofpacemeal #mexicancooking #apron #aprons #pocketapron

[comparativetarot]

Six of Wands. Art by Kim Thompson, from Divine Your Dinner.

CELEBRATING CREATION

You’ve reached a level of skill in bringing projects to life that are worth shouting about. Through a combination of risk-taking, perfect timing, and fearlessly trusting your inner voice, you’ve gone further than you thought you could. Let that pride sink in with the lessons you learned along the way. But for now, revel in the moment.

Reveling is way more fun in a group, so invite some friends to join in. You can get this Yucatán-style lamb shoulder in the oven before they arrive to set yourself up for the ultimate “Oh, this? It was nothing!” host with the most moment. With bay leaves in the mix, you’ll be giving your guests a boost of their own intuitive powers.

MAGICKAL INGREDIENTS: BAY LEAVES, OREGANO, LIME, GARLIC (SEE ALLIUMS), ORANGE, ACHIOTE/ANNATTO, CILANTRO, ONION (SEE ALLIUMS)

YUCATÁN-STYLE LAMB SHOULDER TACOS MAIN—SERVES 8 TO 12

This is an ode to the Yucatán dish of cochinita pibil, but, instead of cochinita (baby pork), we’ll use lamb (baby sheep). We are not going to wrap our meat in banana leaves, either, and because most of us don’t have access to a traditional in-ground Mayan oven called a pib (aka our next backyard project), we’ll braise ours in a boring old home oven.

The hominy component is a real wild card, too. It’s not typical of this Yucatán dish at all, but it adds great texture and a bit of brightness. Now that we think about it, the only thing that’s really cochinita pibil-y about this recipe is the citrus and achiote. But many thanks and a huge shout-out to the people and food culture of the Yucatán for inspiring it.

Serve this dish family-style and let everyone make up their own tacos or bowls.

HOT TIP: IF LAMB AIN’T YOUR THING, SUB IN A 3-POUND BONELESS PORK SHOULDER INSTEAD.

Juice of 6 limes Juice of 2 oranges 1 tablespoon kosher salt ⅓ cup achiote paste 2 heads garlic, halved horizontally 8 sprigs fresh oregano 3 bay leaves 3 pounds boneless lamb shoulder, cut into 2-inch cubes 1 (25-ounce) can hominy, drained and rinsed

FOR SERVING Pickled red onions, store-bought or homemade (this page) Lime wedges Chopped cilantro Crumbled Cotija cheese Corn tortillas or cooked rice

1. In a large Dutch oven, stir together the lime juice, orange juice, salt, and achiote. Add the garlic, oregano, bay leaves, and lamb and stir until coated. Cover the Dutch oven and marinate in the refrigerator for at least 6 hours or up to overnight, stirring occasionally.

2. Preheat the oven to 300°F.

3. Stir the hominy into the Dutch oven, cover, transfer to the oven, and cook until the lamb is tender and easy to pull apart, 3 to 4 hours.

4. Let cool for 15 minutes, then use a slotted spoon to transfer the lamb, garlic, and hominy to a bowl. Discard the oregano and bay leaves. When the garlic heads are cool enough to handle, squeeze them into the bowl and evenly coat the lamb with the garlic, shredding and breaking up the lamb as you go. Skim the fat off the liquid remaining in the Dutch oven and spoon the liquid over the lamb. Season with salt as needed.

5. Serve with the pickled onions, lime wedges, cilantro, Cotija, and tortillas or rice.

#Kim Thompson #Divine Your Dinner #Six of Wands #Six #Wands #Minor Arcana #Tarot

[notfknapplicable]

hey guys what’s up

I spent my Juneteenth weekend eating hot hominy and becoming bonafide dincobb trash.

Apologies for the smattering of dincobb fanart you’re about to get pelted with!

It also seems that I didn’t lose any followers or mutuals to that body horror outburst I had on Friday, which I’m very happy about!  I don’t like most of this site, but I very much like y’all.  Yes you!