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#it has to get worse before it gets better
onsomenewsht · 2 days
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Helpless to the bass and faded light
About when she bribes you and you dance with her like a filled stadium isn't looking
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》 Leah Williamson x Reader
》 words count: +1k
》 she took my arm / I don't know how it happened / we took the floor and she said
You don’t like football.
It’s quite a boring game if you stop to think about it for a moment. Two dozen and counting people running around a ball trying to kick it into a huge net.
Not something you look forward to sit through for almost two hours.
Despite your father’s best efforts, you being his only kid and his only hope to pass down his passion, the sport never managed to interest you long enough to care.
You even found yourself in the stands of your dad’s favourite club’s home more times than you’re able to remember, going beyond yourself and cheering when the other people around you did.
The things you do to make your parents proud.
How you managed to have the English captain wrapped around your finger, regardless of your well-known dislike for her biggest passion and purpose in life, is still a mystery for your families and friends.
“Pretty please, just this one”
“Oh, shut up!”, you hit her arm and push her off you, both still naked.
You can’t believe your girlfriend is actually trying to bribe you with sex, not even waiting for you to fully recover before asking to go to the game.
“No, you ruined the mood”, you state as the blonde tries to kiss you again.
The huge grin of her beautiful face is quite dangerous, she can win you over so easily and you both know it.
Leah rises off the bed to retrieve a warm cloth from the bathroom and a clean shirt from the closet. You accept her attention, she’s always caring when it comes to you, but you’re pretty sure the extra effort has a not-so-subtle second purpose.
“You can’t buy me so easily, Williamson”
She can.
“It’s a really important game, my love”
“For who?”
“For me?”, she tries as she slots herself under your open arm, a grin hidden between your neck and the pillow.
“I barely bear you playing”
“You love watching me play”
“I love you, period”
Leah knows how much you think the sport is boring, going way out of your comfort zone just to cheer her. She feels immensely supported when she finds your big smile in the stands, wrapped in one of her jerseys.
It’s not that difficult for you to sit and admire your girlfriend in her element, focusing more on her movements and attitude than paying attention to the actual game.
What you find quite annoying is enduring Arsenal’s men’s team.
The defender’s fingers on your side are slowly soothing you in a compromising position, too relaxed and smitten to keep denying her anything. You know she doesn’t need much more to lure you into her trap and, unfortunately for you, she’s perfectly aware too.
When the blonde’s lips find the particularly sensitive spot on the base of your neck, you’re doomed.
~
You’re glad your father is already dead or you’d have killed him as you take your seat in the Emirates Stadium, surrounded by the Gunners’ colours. Your girlfriend’s name on your back could be the final nail.
The things you do to make your lover happy.
“You know I love you, right?”
“You better never forget this”, you quip back.
The English captain has been looking forward to this game for weeks now, you couldn’t have been able to turn her down in spite of it all.
She doesn’t need to know though, that you didn’t accept to spend one of your date nights watching the North West London derby for free.
“Maybe you will enjoy it at the end”
Nice try, you will not.
“You know, my dad was a West Ham supporter”
“Could have been worse”, she smiles at you, reaching for your hand.
Talking about your father is getting easier as time finally moves forward and your grief keeps changing its shape. Compared to the abyssal black hole it felt like the first year and a half, of its progress.
Leah didn’t meet him, crushing in your life a couple of months after his passing, but she managed to find a space in your heart that keeps growing despite all your fears.
They could have hit so well, bonding over their shared passion for the sport and their never-ending determination to make you happy.
You told her some stories about him, mostly memories to make your girlfriend understand how stubborn and passionate he was about the thing he cared about.
The one thing you all have in common.
“Yeah, he used to gift me a West Ham jersey every year on Bobby Moore’s birthday”
Leah’s laugh managed to overcome the buzzing atmosphere of the stadium, making you feel like she was the reason all the people around you were cheering. You sure think so.
“He sounds like an incredible father”
“Football obsession aside, he was good”
When you turn to look at her, the blonde’s eyes are already on you and the smile on her face is enough to warm your heart.
~
The first goal coming within five minutes has you quite engaged in what’s happening on the pitch, you even drag your girlfriend in a kiss as you both rise from your seats to celebrate.
Your commitment declined quite easily after that, more entertained by Leah’s reactions than the actual game. You nod in amusement every time she tries to talk you through one of her analyses, placing a hand on her thigh to stop her from standing up every time the ball is somehow close to the box.
The second half is more eventual, at least that’s what you can understand by the excitement the defender and the people in the stands around you seem to radiate.
You’re not clueless, you’re perfectly aware a five-nil win against Chelsea is quite the result. You care enough to think you can’t wait to go home - Leah is always in the mood for a private celebration when her team triumphs, especially over another London club.
“Can we go now?”, you ask as soon as the referee whistles three times, declaring the end of your and the Blues’ torture.
Leah’s happiness is contagious, so you’re not mad when she drags you in her arms to join her cheers and enthusiastic dance. It takes you less than a second to indulge her, letting the blonde spin you around and matching her excitement.
When she dips you and seals the move with a kiss the laugh that rises out of you is genuine and loud.
At first, neither of you notice the stadium’s camera pointed in your direction, recording your little moment of pure bliss in each other’s arms.
Looking back at it, as all your friends sent you the viral video, you know Leah saw you two on the big screen and went along with her little cocky display of affection and excitement for the victory.
You’re sure your father could be laughing at it too, despite the colors you’re wearing.
fine.
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peachdues · 1 day
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COMPASS
bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW
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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.
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LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!
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How would the Bad sanses feel about kids?
Horror isn't a fan of how children have a habit of immediately bursting into terrified tears when they look at him. Kinda rude. He copes by deliberately scaring them; if a kid looks at him he pulls his scariest face. Might even say "boo" just for effect. Deep down, though, he does like kids - before it all went wrong in the Underground he used to dream about being an uncle to Papyrus' future children. When he's around you, he catches himself thinking about it... his own kids would like his face just the way it was, wouldn't they? So long as he was a good dad, it wouldn't matter what he looked like. That sounds so wonderful.
If he somehow finds a kid who isn't frightened of him, he will go full papa bear mode. Horror's the most likely of the bad guys to find a lost child and scoop them up.
Dust... avoids children like the plague. He shares Horror's habit of deliberately scaring them. He has a lot of reasons. He's a dangerous mass murderer, that's one; he also doesn't do great with noise. The sound of a crying or shouting child grates at him like nails on a chalkboard. Not to mention the fact that he's had enough of dealing with childish behaviour after a few hours around Killer.
... He also doesn't like being reminded of all the kids that used to live in his Underground. He doesn't like looking at little faces and remembering how Papyrus used to smile at him, the big brother who was supposed to keep him safe, the exact same way. The thing about having high LV is you get very used to being numb... those stabs of emotion, when they do get through, are too much.
He likes seeing you interact with kids, though. You're much better than he is, softer and kinder. Makes him think about what could've been.
Killer is great with kids. He's exciting, he's funny, he's got endless energy. He perfectly channels the 'fun uncle who clearly wants kids and would be an amazing dad', and the presence of children grounds him, taking the edge off of his worse traits and continuously pulling him down to reality. But he's also a terrible influence when left unattended. Give him an hour, and he'll be showing them how to properly hold a knife, telling them how crime isn't really that bad, and that they should totally just bite their bully as hard as they possibly can.
If a child lets him pick them up, Killer will constantly be trying to catch your eye. His huge grin speaks volumes; so when are WE gonna make our own one of these?
Nightmare says he doesn't like children. He definitely acts like it, too, he's cold and intimidating. But deep down, he's always wanted kids of his own - and he's bitter, because before he was corrupted he used to be really good with kids. Dream was (and still is) better at entertaining children but Nightmare could comfort the introverts; shy kids who cried around Dream would happily fall asleep on Nightmare's shoulder. Not anymore.
The thing is... when kids are around him for a while, you'll start to see hints of something underneath the grump. You'll notice he never raises his voice. You'll hear how his tone slips into something stern, yet calm. You'll see the 'strict but fair' edge to his sockets and mouth, you'll notice how despite all the talk of not caring his tentacles will ALWAYS catch anyone whose tiny feet are unsteady. There's a dad under there.
He's in no place for kids right now. But he does think about it - when you're around he thinks far more than he'd ever admit. He imagines giving someone the childhood he never had. If only.
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eddiesxangel · 2 days
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Downhearted | E.M
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Cw: reader with bad mental health (depression/anxiety), bestfriend!Eddie x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, smut 18+ Eddie takes care of reader.
2.4k (this was suppose to be a blurb… oops)
Recently, you have been feeling very low, and despite your best efforts, you are struggling to get back to your usual self. However, your best friend Eddie has not given up on you. He has been by your side, trying to uplift your mood and bring back your smile, but nothing seems to work. Eddie has tried everything in his power to help you, from taking you out for lunch to watching funny movies together, but once you are on your own, everything seems to be crashing down on you even harder.
Your friend is worried about you and wants to see you happy again. He understands how challenging it is to deal with mental health issues and how it can affect your life. That's why he has come up with a last-ditch plan to lift your spirits and make you feel better. He hopes that this plan will work and bring a smile to your face once again.
To make things worse, you have been distancing yourself from your friends for weeks now, and you feel terrible about it. You feel like you're letting them down, especially Eddie, who has been there for you through thick and thin. He has come over at least three times a week since your mental health started to deteriorate again, and he has never given up on you.
This isn't the first time your mental health has plummeted, but this time, it's worse than ever before. You don't even have the energy to try and get better, and you feel like everything is falling apart around you. However, Eddie's unwavering support and his last-ditch plan to lift your spirits give you hope that things will get better soon.
Living alone didn’t help. You would go days without talking to someone, and that only made things worse. So Eddie made it his mission to be there for you. You’ve always been there for him; it’s the least he can do.
You haven’t left your bed today or all week. You’ve been on your phone all day but not really doing anything; you’re numb. Not even videos of kittens could make you feel anything.
You’ve been ignoring Eddie's pleas to help you. Text after text, his contact would pop up, but you paid no mind. So when you hear the knock on your door, you groan, knowing it’s him. You want to do anything but get up, but how could you leave your best friend standing out there? The thought made you sick to your stomach. You don’t deserve him. He’s too good to you, and all you do is bring him down with you.
As you sniffle back your tears and your inner demons, you wrap yourself in your blanket and pad your way slowly to the door.
You open it, and Eddie’s smile falls when he sees you. You haven’t looked at yourself in over a week, and you also haven’t showered in over a week. As Eddie takes in your state, a small, heartbroken “sweetheart” leaves his lips.
He felt so guilty for not being able to visit you last week. He’d been working doubles and was exhausted. Today was his first day off in six days, and he was so excited to spend time with you.
Your vision blurs as you see Eddie standing there with a bag of groceries with food, actual nutrition that you've been depriving yourself of, only aiding your demons.
He drops the bag and wraps his arms around your frail frame, and you break.
“I don’t know what's wrong with me?” Your voice cracks. You can’t remember the last time you spoke words aloud.
Your breath is shaky, and you tremble as you feel Eddie’s strong arms wrapped around you.
His familiar smell only calms you a little, but you’re so exhausted you can no longer hold it together.
He coos you and strokes your greasy hair, not caring how dirty it feels. He understands, he knows.
“Come, let’s get you feeling a little better, ok?”
“I can’t,” your voice shakes.
“Yes, I’ll be right here to help, okay?” He cups your face, gently forcing you to look into his eyes.
He walks you to the kitchen table, and he begs you to drink some water and eat the sandwich he brought over for you.
While you eat, you see Eddie unpack the groceries and then go to your room. A few minutes later, he comes out to throw your sheets in the washer and pulls a fresh pair from your linen closet.
You finish eating as much as you can when Eddie returns from making your bed.
Eddie coerced you to the bathroom. He helps you brush your teeth and convinces you to shower, not daring to joke about how you smell. You say you will as long as he stays in there with you.
Washing yourself was too much to do on your own. So he stood on the other side of the curtain, and you just stood there under the hot water, unable to move.
“Sweetheart? You doing okay?”
Your tears are camouflaged, but your gasps aren’t.
“N-no”
“Do… do you want me to help?” He cringes.
You don’t answer, and it worries Eddie. Had he overstepped? You were naked behind the thin material separating you.
Eddie waits for a few more beats; his heart is pounding. But he releases his breath when he sees your hand push the curtain aside to invite him in.
Nothing would be able to prepare him for the sight before his eyes. You had already started but didn’t get far; some soap suds had already been spread across your chest.
He tried hard to ignore how the blood flow immediately started flowing south. This was not the time to get a boner.
You watched how Eddie removed his shirt and pants in a daze. He kept on his boxers, but you could see the small tent forming.
You didn’t even care that you were naked in front of your best friend because you felt nothing.
You just wanted to feel something.
Eddie stepped in with you and pulled the shower curtain closed. It was so intimate; you and Eddie hadn’t been this close in this way before. But you trusted one another, and there was no awkwardness or hesitation once Eddie squeezed the shampoo in his hands and started.
I felt Eddie’s fingers massage your scalp, and it was nice. The last time someone took care of you like this was when you were a child when you were not old enough to do it yourself.
Eddie ensured that everything was rinsed properly, and then he moved on to the conditioner. He made sure to saturate all your hair before he took the loofa and your body wash.
Now this, was where Eddie got a little nervous. He didn’t want to overstep.
As you stood there, almost catatonic, he lifted your arms to get your armpits, then he ran the soap down your arms, across your back and down your legs, avoiding your more intimate areas.
“You think you can help me out, sweetheart?”
You slowly nod your head, and he passes you the saturated loofa.
Eddie watches as you run it across your chest, lifting a breast to get underneath. Eddie tries not to, but he can’t help but feel aroused. He tries to push it away, but the last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable.
He knows you trust him; you’re asking him to help you in your darkest hour.
He shifts, trying to avoid your gaze; it’s only making things harder. Literally.
He pushes away those thoughts and makes sure you’re fully rinsed off. He turns off the water for you and goes to get your towel. He’s soaked, but he doesn’t care; your wellbeing will come first, even if he’s sprouting goosebumps along his flesh.
He takes your hand to guide you out of the tub. You feel slightly better, but it’s not enough.
When a thought pops into your head, you don’t care if it’s stupid, so you act on it without giving it any more thought.
You reach out and graze your hand over Eddie’s soaked boxers. They are taught to his skin, not hide anything, and you can see he’s ready and willing to go.
He steps back at the sudden touch.
“Please, Eddie, I need to feel something, anything. I don’t know what else to do” you sobbed.
As you stand there, feeling lost and alone, Eddie's embrace envelops you, pulling you in closer. In this moment, you know that you are not alone and that your friend is there to support you through thick and thin. Eddie's hug is so tight; he needs you to know that he would let nothing in the world hurt you. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply, grateful for your friend's unwavering support.
“Shhhhhh y/n, it’s okay. I have you.” He wraps the fluffy bath towel around your body, keeping you warm.
“Please Eddie”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I won’t let this change anything between us, I swear.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Okay,” he didn’t know if this was a good idea, but he had to do something to make you feel better; he would do anything for you; he would get the moon for you if there was a way. So he will do this for you.
He surprises you by lifting you up bridal style and carrying you to the bedroom. He's much stronger than you thought as he gently placed you down on your fresh sheets.
“Tell me if you want to stop, okay?”
“I promise, Eddie.” You nod.
Slowly, Eddie leans down to kiss you gently. The mint toothpaste still lingers on your breath. His lips feel so soft; it’s nice to be kissed.it's nice to be kissed by Eddie.
You feel his lips detach from yours, moving across your cheek and lowering your neck. The water from his hair trickled into your skin, making you shiver.
Eddie wanted to know your body, what made you tick, what made you moan, what made you needy with desire. He focused on the side of your neck and was proud when he found a spot that made you whimper.
“That okay, sweetheart?”
“Mmhmmm”
He could feel your chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. He could see he was getting you worked up the way you needed.
His timid fingers spread your legs wider so he could feel you and to Eddie’s surprise, you were still dry. He thought he would feel your slick as he slowly rubbed your pussy, but it wasn’t there.
“I uh- um. I don’t think you’re enjoying this.” he sits back, a bit defeated. This hasn’t happened to him before.
“It’s not you, Eddie; it’s me. I-I want to... You’re doing good; it’s just that sometimes girls need help if they’re like… this…”
“Oh,” Eddie understands, you're still in your head,” Eddie understands, you.
“I have lube and condoms in the nightstand”
Eddie reaches over you to grab it. The crack of the hard plastic lid is so loud in the silent room that you flinch a little.
“Sorry”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. Suddenly you’re very aware you’re naked in front of your best friend, but that is brushed to the side when you feel his slippery fingers make contact with your pussy once again.
“Ohhhh,” you breathe in.
Eddie smirks and leans in to kiss you once again. You feel his tongue slick its way past your lips; who knew he was such a good kisser.
Slowly, minute by minute, you’re actually feeling something—pleasure. Eddie brings you back to life with each touch, brush, and kiss.
“Eddie,” you moan as his fingers slip inside you.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“More,” you pant.
You don’t have to tell him twice. He will do anything to make you feel better, which seems to be working. He rips open the condom, and you surprise him by reaching up to cup his balls. He gasps, and a smirk spreads across your face for the first time in weeks.
“I knew there was a little freak you were hiding from me.” Eddie laughs, and he pulls one out of you as well. His heart swells when he hears the sound leave your lips.
“There’s my girl,” so much relief is behind his eyes.
“Hi, Eddie.” You look up at him like he’s given you all the stars in the sky.
“You still want to do this?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he brushes your wet hair behind your ear and softly kisses you. It becomes needy quickly, and desperation takes over both of you.
It didn’t matter that you were only best friends, that you weren’t okay, that he was in just as much pain as you were. All that mattered was one another, two physical entities in your own little world. Your mind was completely erased; for a moment, you finally forgot everything weighing down on you.
Eddie continues to kiss you as he guides himself in slowly. You can’t help but take a deep breath as he pushes his way in.
As Eddie entered you, you melted into his touch. Nothing could have made you feel this good. He was consuming every inch of your being. With every brush, every thrust, every nip, kiss and bite, you were coming alive again.
Eddie’s hands travel all along your body, squeezing your breasts, tweaking your nipples, making you twitch and grind up into Eddie’s touch. Your hips are ungulate with his, and your moments become one as you and Eddie perform the perfect dance.
The past picks up faster and faster. Eddie brushes the spot inside you every single time, and you’re crying out his name.
Eddie can’t believe he’s making you feel this good, this wanted. His beautiful best friend was here helping you, holding you, and doing this for you.
“Eddie, please”
“Let go, baby”
The pet name accidentally slipped past his lips and didn’t go unnoticed. It only aided your orgasm to come that much quicker.
A wave of pleasure crashed over you as it washed through your whole body without warning.
Eddie watched as he was the one who made your body quiver, to make your eyes roll back, to have you silently screaming for him. He couldn’t hold on anymore, either. Your cunt clamped down so tightly on his cock he shook as he spilled into the condom.
His sweaty body collapses on you, and the only thing you can hear is your erratic breaths.
“Thank you, Eddie,” you sniffle, and Eddie quickly pops his head up because you’re crying once again.
“Baby, please don’t cry. I can’t take it anymore.” he holds your face, wiping away your tears with his thumbs.
“No, it's- it's happy tears; you helped me feel something. I thought I was broken. Thank you, Teddie.”
“I’ll always be here for you; I love you, sweetheart."
You didn’t care if he only meant platonically or romantically; he was your person forever and always.
“I love you too.”
Tagging some mooties!: @nailbatanddungeon @taintedcigs @hellfirenacht @littlexdeaths @andvys @rebelfell @xxbimbobunnyxx @rowanswriting @voyeurmunson @asimpforthe80s @mmunson86 @slutty-thevampireslayer @strangerstilinski
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https://www.tumblr.com/goldenboygate/748927575652515840?source=share
How about a blurb of happy tipsy/drunk Lando and reader on the boat and he's extra clingy and saying sweet funny things? Bonus points if she's caring for his bloody nose and he's looking at her with the gloomy sparkly eyes (we have all seen the pictures 👀🫣)
Note: the more content I see from this day, the more I think this is going in the books 😅
Cw: mentions a cut, blood, alcohol consumption
"Fill mine, please!", Lando asked one of the guys as he filled his own cup with some orange drink right on theme for the day.
When you said you'd join the celebrations for King's Day, Lando and Martin were the most excited for it and promised you one hell of a party indeed.
"Show me how you dance with your pretty hips! Baby, are my moves as good as yours?", Lando said as he swayed his hips from side to side, his knees helping him bounce slightly as he waved the cup around. The sunglasses didn't cover his blushed cheeks and big smile, but you were sure they were hiding your favourite pair of eyes, now probably squinty and glassy as he sang loudly.
"Yes, Lan, they're good", you shook your head as you laughed, letting him pull you closer to him so he could dance with you.
"My chest is full of love for you, baby", Lando whispered on your ear before he nipped at the skin there.
"We're out, Lando, there's other people here", you gasped even though you were enjoying his touches a little too much. Drunk Lando often meant an even clingier boyfriend.
"I don't care, I'm full of love for you - I love you!", he stated kissing your lips and everywhere on your face he could.
You turned around for a couple of minutes, approaching the edge so you could get a little bit of air and look at how everyone else was celebrating the day until you heard a gasp followed by Martin calling your name.
"What?", you asked before seeing Lando and his bloody nose, "Oh my word", you whispered as you approached him.
"We clicked the glasses and then this happened", Martin explained as you took a good look at the injury.
Even though it seemed like a little nick on the skin from the glass, it was bleeding a good amount, "Here's the first aid kit", someone said as they handed it to you.
"Does it hurt a lot, love?", you asked Lando as you rummaged through the bag to figure out what you had and what you could do with it.
"It's okay", he mumbled.
"Hold this, Lando, I need to find something to disinfect- we're in a boat full of alcohol drinks but medical grade stuff would be better I guess", you mumbled the last part, trying to read the label of the bottle and smelling them.
Once you look up after finding the rubbing alcohol and some cotton buds and pads, you see the gauze wrapped around his head, "like this, right, lovie?", Lando smiled, a genuine tinge of hope in his voice at helping you help him.
"Not quite", you laughed. You felt bad for doing so while he was clearly hurt despite not hearing many complaints from him.
"Let me put some steri strips - stay still, Lan, I need to see this upclose", you stated after cleaning the cut, applying the strips in a cross since you could see the skin was pulling both ways.
"Did you do it like an X? I felt that", Lando spoke, "X marks the spot for the treasure, doesn't it? I'm your treasure!", he cheered, "Taylor Swift says that it marks the spot where we fell apart, but we never fall apart baby, we're forever".
"You are, Lan, my biggest treasure", you smiled, "can you stay still for a bit longer though, please?", you asked gently still.
Lando complied with your request, staying still as you did your best to make sure the dressing was helping or at least not making the situation worse, "Is this your way of telling me you want me to get a rhinoplasty? Funny, it has rhino in it", he giggled before he attempted to make an elephant noise.
"No, baby, I love your nose just the way it is", you smiled, kissing the tip of his nose when you were happy with the improvised wound dressing, "there, all done! You even get a magic kiss for it to heal faster!".
"You're so pretty, you're really my girlfriend? Ah! Would you look at that, Martin? She's my girlfriend - I'm one lucky dude", Lando beamed at his friend before he kissed your lips, letting you sit on the edge of the boat, "you can sit there, baby, it's got railing to protect you from falling in the water - it's looks mucky", he made a disgusted face.
You sat there, glad to be able to experience these moments with your boyfriend and seeing his so carefree and happy. His PR team would maybe have to do some cleaning up, but at the end of the day, he was a happy young man enjoying his time off and he had the right to enjoy it.
"She is my girlfriend - Look, Y/N! Someone is recording us, say hi, my love!", he yelled, getting you to wave at a girl filming on another boat, "isn't she pretty? And she fixed my nose too!".
(Thank you for sending this in ✨️)
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Note
Hey girl! Since you write 2 of my fave genres and saw your're accepting requests I hope that maybe this message reaches you and you will give my idea a try. It is of course some angst to fluff with Gojo x reader. Both in their 20s (let's say JJK0), reader is pretty new to the Jujutsu world but just as strong as Satoru, super funny and sarcastic but very chill (so a bit his opposite if you will). Shoko, being close with the reader notices that she has feelings for Gojo and she doesn't confess because of fear of rejection. Things get worse when reader *thinks* she sees him flirting and tries distancing herself and wallow a bit. So maybe at the end either something happens and Gojo confesses (in his own emotionally constipated way) ooorrr Shoko *helps* out a bit by having a talk with good 'ol Gojo (or both *wink*). Either way, you take this idea, turn it, twist it, do whatever your magical talented self wants with it and you have all the love from me (you have it nevertheless ^^). Thank youu
Misunderstandings Can Often Be Helpful {Gojo Satoru}
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A/n: thank you for requesting, I hope you like it
Pairing: Gojo x fem!reader
Trigger Warnings: none
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Everyone who knew Gojo in a relatively more personal level could see it. Geto leaving hurt him. His wounds were still fresh and bleeding but he was now the strongest. Alone. The word didn't even feel right, refering to himself as the strongest when he had been so used to saying "we" since Geto was supposed to be always there with him. His best friend. His one and only.
But life went on and soon a new student was announced. With the only exception that you were no regular student. After the arrival of Yuta in Jujutsu Tech, Gojo had naturally expected you to be more around the first years age. The shock on his face when he learnt that you were just a few years younger than him would forever remain imprinted on your meomory... and on paper since Shoko managed to take a picture of him.
When the principal told him about you, Gojo expected to see someone with no abilities whatsoever. He knew of course that you were almost on the same level as him power-wise and from Yaga's sayings, you had no idea how to control your powers. It went without saying that he had been assigned to be your teacher since he not only was the only one who overpowered you but because he was the only one knowledgeable enough to help you understand and control your powers. That was what he told Shoko anyways.
What he didn't expect however was to get his ass kicked both physically and mentally. And all that on your first day there as well.
"Whoah, were are you going?" He quickly stood up, stretching his back. The last kick you had given him behind the knees had been enough to make him realise that turning off his limitless was a wrong decision.
"To get some water, I assumed we were taking a break? You seemed really friendly with the floor." You opened the door, ready to walk out.
"Do you usually assume a lot of things?"
"It appears as such. I assumed you were stronger in physical combat."
Now that was a hit below the belt. Apart from Geto and occasionally Shoko, no one ever had the balls to call him... weak. Gojo Satoru wasn't weak. He was the strongest!
"Damn that would have looked great on camera..." Shoko shrugged, blowing out the smoke from her cigarette.
"Are you kidding me? I don't even have time to respond! It's one sarcastic comment after another!" Gojo chuckled before shouting a 'time out' for the first years.
After that day, Shoko took a great liking in you, mostly because Gojo seemed to be getting gradually better emotionally. In fact, she went to properly meet you the very next day. And the rest was history.
You and Gojo were the only reasons why she would stay up late in her office, waiting for your training session to end, just so she can catch up with all the latest gossip brought by none other than the new strongest duo.
But Shoko was no fool. Be it after training sessions, after missions or even after some casual nights out with the two of you, she had quickly picked up on the way you looked at Gojo. It wasn't really admiration. Hanging out with his annoying ass had brought your ego to the same level as his. It wasn't the expected teacher-student dynamic either. That had long been gone after you managed to give him a black eye (accidentally obviously) during your early days of training.
It was something else, something she could say was a developing crush on the world's most annoying human being. But it was fun seeing it. Gojo knew your favourite drink by heart and would order it for you before you could even open your mouth. You would slightly blush when he would pass it on to you after the waiter mistaking it for his order. On extremely rare occasions she would catch your apologetic expression as you brought him to her office after landing him a hit that wasn't supposed to hurt him at all. Not to mention how she would notice you looking at him during your breaks. Yes, that was what sealed the deal for her.
The only problem was... Shoko knew Gojo and most importantly, she knew the reputation that surrounded him and if not the reputation then... the crowds of women. Not to be mistaken though, Geto was surprisingly far more popular with women back when Gojo and him were teens.
"You're here alone? That's a new one." She patted Maki's back, signaling for her to leave as Gojo entered the office.
"Yeah well... y/n left right after practice ended." He groaned and laid down on the cold metal bed Shoko had. "She did strain her leg though so I don't know why she refused when I offered to take her to you."
Shoko's alarms went off. You, refusing help from none other than Gojo Satoru? The guy you had a crush on for the last year now? Sure, there had been a few times here and there when you refused to help each other out of pure banter but at the end of the day, both of you walked into her office together.
"What's with that smile?" Gojo raised the left side of his blindfold just to side eye Shoko. "It's creepy."
But Shoko's life had just gotten a new meaning because the very next day she was ringing the doorbell of your apartment. She knew it was Saturday, you didn't have any missions and no practice time with Gojo so this was the perfect time to learn what had happened the night before.
Shoko wasn't someone who liked gossip. Scratch that: she wasn't someone who liked to work in order to learn the latest gossip. To his credit though, Geto always brought her something juicy. With him now gone, she was counting on you and Gojo.
"It's... 8 in the morning... what are you doing here? Why are you even up so early?" You let out a yawn and stepped aside to let her walk in your apartment.
"I need to know everything." She removed her shoes and her coat. "And when I mean everything, I mean even the tiniest bit of sweat that ran down Gojo's exposed forehead that made you not come to my office yesterday." With an air filled with nonchalance, Shoko took the ashtray you had bought specifically for her and walked towards your balcony. She knew you didn't like the smell of smoke in your house. "Come on! I need words coming out of your mouth sweetheart!"
You would have made up an excuse. Shoko knew you would, she could practically see it forming in your head but she knew you weren't going to say it. Because she was your best friend and you were hers and in the past year, the two of you had shared more secrets with each other than she had with anyone else. Yaga's hemorrhoids? You had discussed that in your first week there. Yuta's crush on Maki? Been there, said that.
"Um... I just... does he have a girlfriend?"
"No? Why?"
"Because... like..." And then you finally caved in, taking the closest chair and placing it next to the one Shoko was sitting on. "Two days ago, after we had returned from our mission, I filled in the paperwork and as I was heading to Yaga's office I saw him talking to a woman... and she seemed both serious and flirty?"
"How did she look like?" Shoko asked a little hesitantly, hoping you weren't talking about the one she thought you were talking about.
"Tall, blonde hair, she was holding a helmet."
Her assumptions had been correct. "Yuki? Tsukumo Yuki?" She turned to look at you with wide eyes and a cigarette that was hanging so loosely from her fingers that could fall in any moment. When you didn't respond, Shoko bursted out laughing. "Are you shitting me? Yuki is a special grade sorcerer. She would never... god... anyways, I have to go to the office."
That was a lie. Shoko wasn't going to the office.
Conveniently enough, yours and Gojo's apartment were as close as a fifteen minute walk so when she finally reached the fifth floor of his flat, she wasn't breathless.
"If you don't confess to that poor girl in the next hour, I will personally call her and tell her that her contact name in your phone is love. With a red heart."
"It's almost nine in the morning what are you doing here? Why are you even up so early?" He let out a yawn but unlike you, he didn't let her in so Shoko just pushed her way in. "No matter the case, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh you do. You have bought her kikufuku over a thousand times. Kikufuku that were meant for you!"
"I am a person who likes to share." Gojo leaned against the kitchen bar.
"He is lying." The old lady that he had hired to clean his house on Saturdays spoke, walking out of his bathroom. "He keeps following me while I clean and talks about her. I even sent her a gift on her birthday since aparently I know her better than her own mother."
Shoko's eyes widened at the sound of this new information and it wasn't long before she started throwing the apples on the kitchen counter at Gojo.
It took Gojo three minutes to put on some nice clothes and he could swear that if Shoko was tall enough to reach him, she would be dragging him to your house by his ear.
"What's-"
"Have fun!" Shoko pushed Gojo inside your apartment and before both of you could protest, she closed the door and glued her ear on it so she could listen to every single word, every single comma said between the two of you.
"How's your leg?" He asked. If anyone were to grade him right now, maybe he could get a D- for the effort.
"I'll live."
"Um... so..."
Was he nervous? Gojo Satoru, nervous. Let me rephrase that: Gojo Satoru was nervous while talking to a woman?
"You have made huge progress this past year. And I appreciate that we..."
The truth was that not even Satoru himself knew why he was so nervous. He had performed this speech for months in front of his mirror even though he knew how unlike himself this was. Gojo Satoru never rehearsed love confessions because he never needed any. The girls confessed to him, not the other way around.
"We?"
"Please calm down a little. I am trying to remember the highlighted part at the corner of the page."
No, he hadn't written anything down. Hell, he had never even completed one rehearsal of this supposed love confession. But humour came naturally to him; it was the only way Gojo knew when it came to dealing with stressful situations. Especially after Geto left.
"I am glad we are the strongest um... together."
"Sure." You brushed it off, unaware of the amount of effort this poor guy was putting into confessing.
"Great, I'll pick you up at 7."
"For what?"
"Our date?"
"What date?"
"The one I am taking you on because I just confessed and this is what couples do?" A small pause followed and Gojo could practically feel the sweat staining his forehead even though he wasn't really sweating. "No?"
"8 works better."
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polly-pocket13 · 2 days
Text
Give me a chance to show you how beautiful you are
bakugou katsuki x fem!chubby!reader 
tw: weight, self-doubt, self-hate, eating disorder, cursing, acne, bad english and bad grammar
a/n: just a friendly reminder that you are enough and beautiful just the way you are.
You are standing in front of your mirror and looking at yourself. 
You sighed. 
Your skin is getting worse again.
You gained weight.
Your tights are too thick.
Your belly is too chubby.
Your arms to giggly.
Slowly, your eyes started to tear up.
Why couldn't you be like the other pretty girls?
Those girls with the flat stomachs and clear skin. 
Those girls with beautiful tights and slim arms. 
Those girls who always look and act like a real lady.
Those girls who always seem perfect.
The next day, you started eating less and exercising more.
You began to isolate yourself from others and feel more and more ashamed about yourself.
Like right now, you were in your room again and stood before your mirror and looked at your imperfect body.
“Y/N? Is everything okay?” you suddenly heard Bakugous voice behind you.
You didn't even notice that he knocked or entered your room.
“Bakugou, what are you doing here? Of course, everything is alright.” you told him and forced yourself to smile.
“Y/N, stop fucking lying to me. I can see that something is wrong, and I can see how, you force yourself to smile. I have known you long enough, to recognize a real smile.” he grumbled.
“I don't know what you mean.” you said to him.
“Don't play dumb, Y/N. Please tell me what is wrong.” he spoke to you.
“I am fine.” you lied again. 
You weren't fine at all. 
“Fine? You look to me like the absolute opposite of fine.” he said to you angrily.
You were overwhelmed with emotions.
You slowly started to speak, “Can't you see? I am the problem. How I look. How I act. Everything about me is just imperfect.”
You started to cry again.
“Who the hell told you such a bullshit. Tell me so I can break his nose.” he told you aggressive.
You replied quietly, “Kacchan, just forget it.”
“You don't want me to know? Well, then I will find out myself. It can't be that fucking hard to find an asshole without eyes.” he slightly shouted and wanted to leave your room.
“It was me, okay! I tell my self everyday I am not enough! So if you want to break someone's nose, feel free to break mine.” you said to him. 
He immediately turned himself to you. A second later, you could feel his arms wrapped around you.
Now, you started to cry even more.
He pulled you closer to him.
He whispered in your ear, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my life.” 
“You only say it because we are friends and I am crying. You don't mean it.” you mumbled.
“Tsk, stupid gorgeous Woman. Why don't you believe me? I would not fall in love with you if you were not the most perfect human being in the world,”
he started tell you.
“I wished you could see yourself through my eyes. Then you would see that you are perfect from the bottom to the top. 
You would see how your eyes sparkle, when you talk about something you love. How you smile makes everyone else smile too.  How you just make everyone else to a better person, especially me. You would see how all stare at you if you dress up in your pretty dresses.  Damn it, Y/N yo drive me crazy every day. Your curves, your beautiful thighs, your soft belly. Just fucking everything.” he ends his “speech”.
You were shocked. You just stared at him for a moment.
“You like me? Like, really like me.” you asked him. 
“Typical Y/N. I told you lots of other important things and you just remembered one. Yes, I like you. Like, really like you.” he answered you. 
“I think I like you too, but I can't see myself through your eyes. I am just imperfect for me.” you told him.
“Give me a chance to show you how beautiful you are. Okay?” he asked you. 
“Okay.” you answered. 
Since that day, he has been proving to you every day how beautiful you are to him. 
And you slowly start to believe him and love yourself as you should because you are truly beautiful just the way you are. 
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clockwayswrites · 23 hours
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Okay so im curious. As someone who has dyed their own hair many a time and knows intimately how hard it is to get bright colors in dark hair, does danny bleach his hair before he puts the red in? This was the au where no one will accept that he died and that his core is part of him now, so does he use his phantom form? If he doesn't, does his hair just eventually stop growing back black? If he does use phantom, does the dye job effect what color his hair is in it?
Im so fucking interested in the mechanics of how he got it to be so red.
Also: how old is he in this?
So there's deff a little ghost going on and some comic/cartoon magic lol, but he does bleach it!
Danny stared at his hair in the mirror of the school locker room he had snuck into. He hadn’t even gotten inside in a ghostly way, he had just walked in as school was letting out and hid until everyone left. Now the school was quiet and dark in way that was frankly a little terrifying. He was hoping his powers would help him get back out when he needed them to. They weren’t exactly… reliable yet. They also wouldn’t help him fix his hair. Bleaching it had been… well, a success, Danny guessed. No one would recognize him now. No one would even want to look at him for long. His once black hair was now a sickly sort of greenish blond. The spot of white somehow made the rest of it look even worse by comparison. Danny really couldn’t just let it stay like this. People would ask even more questions if he went around looking like a half done dye job.
Which also answers, yes, he does use his powers! The more he does the better he feel and the less the ghostliness spreads into his living form. I'm not sure by the time he gets to Gotham how much of his hair is still black. It might only be the bottom part which is why he shaves it closer.
I am very tempted to have it effect his ghost coloring to, play into much of the ghost form being mental.
Age wise? er... 14-17. I'm not sure yet! I think maybe 15 but masked up and with practice he comes across more at 16 or a baby faced 17.
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fandoms--fluff · 2 days
Note
Hi, I was thinking Hope x Reader. Where Lizzie was a doing a spell and accidentally hit reader turning her into a baby. In the room, Hope heard crying and she found the baby.
Vampire to Baby
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Female vampire reader x Hope Mikaelson
Warnings: none
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Hope runs into Lizzie and Josie's room with Josie as soon as they hear the high-pitched crying of a baby. "What's going on- oh my god" Josie froze under the door frame.
Hope's eyes widen, walking towards where Lizzie is holding a wailing baby girl, close to tears herself as she tries calming the baby down. "Where did you get a baby?" Hope asks the blonde.
"Okay, so don't freak out, but I was experimenting with a spell and..."
Five minutes prior
"What are you planning to do with that anyway?" You look up from your magazine. motioning to the papers splayed out with spell work in progress.
"I want to turn things back in time, like if someone knocks a glass of juice over, the spell reverses it," Lizzie grumbles, the spell not working for the fourth time. She cleans up the spilled water on the ground with a towel.
"Okayyy, fifth time's the charm" Lizzie mumbles before chanting the spell in a different order this time.
"Nothing happened, ughhh" Lizzie groans and throws her head back. Her head snaps back up as soon as she hears the tiniest little whimper coming from where you were lying down on her bed.
She looks over to the bed and lets out an audible gasp. A few seconds later, tears start to run down your small cheeks. She now has a de-aged vampire who so happens to also be her best friend.
"You turned my girlfriend into a baby?!" Hope exclaims, taking a closer look at you.
"Now, don't be mad" Lizzie winces at the look on Hope's face. "It was an accident."
"My vampire girlfriend is now a baby" Hope stated, eyes blazing.
Josie composes herself and walks over to her twin and best friend. "Okay, before anything worse happens, how about we calm her down" Josie nods at you, tears still rolling down your face.
"Don't you think I've been trying to do that? It's not working!" Lizzie tells them while giving a look and bouncing you in her arms.
"Give her over" Hope sighs. And Lizzie happily passes you into the tribrid's arms. As soon as you're rested against her chest, your
"Rude. tell us she's your favorite without telling us" Lizzie crosses her arms.
"Okay, Hope, you look after y/n/n. Lizzie and I will find a way to reverse the spell. Come on" Josie leads her twin over to the desk with littered papers.
Hope nods and clutches you tighter in her hold, walking over to your guys' room across the hall.
"You're a really cute baby, ya know?" Hope coos. You reach up your tiny hand and clutches onto a wave of her hair. She examines you as you play with her hair. You're so tiny and small, and so vulnerable.
She hugs you closer to her, not wanting you near any danger. Since this school is like a magnet for dangerous things.
You blabber incoherent things as you snuggle into the older girl's chest. You like her, she's warm and you feel safe around her.
Hope looks around the room and lands on the cd player on the dresser. You insisted on keeping the player after finding it in a box of old 'junk' Alaric was going to throw away. Plus you had a bunch of cds anyways. And you argue a lot with Lizzie that cds are a better form of music than on a phone, but then again you weren't a child when cds were being used, unlike all of them.
"Hey, you wanna listen to some music?" She asks animaticaly. You gurgle in excitement, and Hope takes that as a yes.
She walks over the wooden dresser and turns the power button then the play button. And in a couple seconds, the intro to 'oops I did it again' plays. That must have been the last cd and song you were listening to. Hope chuckles at how you always blast either this song or 'you give love a bad name' to get her out of bed in the morning.
You giggle and start kicking your legs excitedly, liking the music. Hope chuckles and kisses the top of your head. She then has an idea and starts carefully spinning and dancing around the room to the song with you held in her grasp.
Hope carries you down to the dining hall/room. It's been a couple hours and she's been getting hungry, and she could also tell you're hungry as well.
You hide your face in her chest when someone walks up to you two. "Hey MG" Hope smiles, cradling one of her hands on the back if your head.
"Hey. What's with the baby?" He asks, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. "Oh, uh, just babysitting, yeah...um, bye!" Hope comes up with a lie quickly before walking away, eyes widened. For being the one and only tribrid (vamp side not activated yet), she sure sucks at lying.
She walks over to the table of all the trays and places two plates on a tray. As she piles on food onto both the plates, she can feel eyes on her. So she quickly grabs utensils before walking as fast as she can with a baby and a tray of food up to your guys' room.
"Alright, food time" Hope sighs, sitting on the bed, against the headboard with the food in front of her. She grabbed lots of napkins, knowing there's going to be some kind of mess made.
"You look at the plates of food and clap your hands together before reaching towards the fruit cup on one of the plates.
Hope picks the fruit cup and a spoon up and starts to feed you. You munch on the strawberries, watermelon, and grapes happily. She watches as you eat the fruit, using her other hand to feed herself a piece of pizza as well.
Just as she lifted the spoon to feed you a grape, the door slammed open, presenting the twin siphoners. They quickly make their way inside, shutting the door behind them.
"We found a reversal spell" Josie tells hope and starts to explain what it intails.
"Okay, let's do it" Hope gently lifts you up off her lap and into the middle of the bed. You look up at her, confused, as she moves the food tray over to her desk.
She holds out her hands, inviting the two girls to siphon off her. They immediately grasp her hands and start to change the spell. Hope follows with after hearing the verse the first time.
In no time the spell took affect and where there used to be a baby you, is now a full grown vampire you. They all let out a simultaneous sigh of relief the spell worked.
"What the bloody hell happened?" You groan, standing up from the bed.
"Hah, so funny story..." Lizzie scratches the back of her neck.
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remediesremedy · 3 days
Text
hazbin hotel characters with a partner with mental health problems
GENDER NEUTRAL READER
WARNINGS: depictions of harm to self, drugs, alcohol, depression, anxiety, burns, crying, self deprecation, sad stuff but there’s lots of comfort and love.
features: lucifer, alastor, vox
comments, reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated <3
LUCIFER
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“and then she hugged me! Charlie actually hugged me, oh it felt so nice to see her smile and she was happy to see me. it was so awesome you should’ve been there to see it, and then there was this pesky radio dem-“ Lucifer paused mid sentence, the words that were about to spout from him abruptly stopped. the door he had just opened, inhabited a lump under the covers who hadn’t yet moved.
their shared bedroom had always had happy memories, but it seemed your mind had followed you home this time, and refused to let up on tormenting you behind the closed doors of your’s and lucifer’s residence.
“Love? has something happened?” The fallen angel whispered gently, moving forward to your side of the bed, peeling away the covers from your face to reveal dull eyes.
depression had followed you all throughout your time of being alive, and even with death it had stuck to you like glue, chains bound to you for eternity. As if being in hell wasn’t enough.
“Honey? can you look at me f’me please?” He rasped, a clawed hand cupping the full cheeks of your face, feeling the lack of warmth that rested beneath your skin. Lifeless eyes dragged themselves to gaze upon the king of hell, and they almost phased straight through him. “Oh sweetie.” his heart ached, he had been aware of everything about you when you were living, never bringing up how you died or what you suffered with. and he had no reason to, you hadn’t showed any signs of falling back into depression or struggling mentally, until now.
“I’m here, i’m here for you.” Lucifer mumbled as he scooted forward to place a tender kiss on your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then both your cheeks. “can i come into bed with you?”
a small nod, devoid of any energy.
Lucifer scrambled under the covers, immediately going to scoop his lover into his arms, his strength made it easy to manhandle you as tenderly as he could into a position where your head laid softly on his broad chest. “y’know.” the devil hummed, opting to stroke his partner’s hair, “out of the billions of years of being alive. i have never, ever met someone like you.”
as if by reflex, you had scoffed, almost turning your head away from him.
a part of him panicked, his hand stilling and dipping down until it cupped your chin. “i’m serious.” he had mumbled, quieter than before, before regaining his confidence. “after i fell, i found it hard to love things around me anymore. a part of me was lost in that garden, i- the point is, i met you and my heart.” he breathed a little laugh.
“oh my dear, my heart, it has never been fuller.” he admitted honestly, his hand moving once again to caress your skin, his fingers touched you like you were porcelain. a doll, precious and fragile, but he’d have you no other way. “you are the most wonderful being i have ever met, nothing could compare to you.”
tears that had been welling up began to shed, to unashamedly trickle down his face. “nothing.”
the hands that were drawn into your body to almost cradle yourself moved swiftly, they snaked around whatever they could get their fingers on and squeezed thrice, a simple indication of ‘i love you.’
things would be alright after all.
-is very caring during episodes, finds himself almost sick with worry the more you get worse or if you don’t get better
-helps you with cleaning yourself, brings you meals if you haven’t eaten for a while, cradles you at night.
-will hide away with you until you’re ready to go out anywhere. will chaperone you everywhere if he can, stick to you like glue, always has to be touching you in some sort of way to let you know he’s there
-tries to stay awake with you when insomnia hits you, reads to you, will even sing.
-if you can’t take care of your hygiene, he takes his time washing your hair, hands massaging your scalp, humming as he drags the faucet over your head to get the shampoo and conditioner out. puts on face masks with you, showers with you, even if he has to haul you up (it’s not much effort to carry you). he lathers you up and caresses every part of you, you are his everything. will just smother you in his deodorant, you smelling like him always eases his little protective brain for some reason.
-celebrates every good day with you, a part of him breaks when good days get fewer and far between. he fears losing you, or that you’ll never get better. but he doesn’t know that being with him grounds you more than he could ever know.
ALASTOR
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“hey alastor!” Charlie itched to talk to the demon, something in her eyes gave him the impression that it was urgent. Her pale hands waved at him a little too aggressively for his liking.
something was up.
he did not like that one bit.
“Charlie! what can i do for you?” His smile stretched impossibly larger, an arm sweeping to courteously gesture for the princess of hell to continue talking. he fought the urge to grit and ground his teeth, anxiety was never one of his favourite emotions to experience, for others it was.
“Alastor! Hi! Hi.” Charlie jogged to him, standing in front of the demon with a little nervousness in her step. she cleared her throat before sighing, “look i just, i noticed something off about your partner today. i don’t think they’re doing okay, and i was worried and i thought you should know so that you would have a heads up-“
“thank you Charlie.” Alastor’s words came out borderline grateful, softer than his normally charring static voice. “is that all?”
“yes! i- uh, i hope they’re okay!” She beamed, lingering for a second longer than alastor liked before getting the message to leave. As soon as Charlie’s back was turned, Alastor phased through the floor, becoming one with the shadows, after a moment of plunging into an abyss, he rose back up from the depth into his room. Nothing seemed awry, until he picked up on the sound of the shower running, the water spewed out rhythmically.
and then the radio demon noticed the noise behind the water hitting the shower floor.
crying.
The buck’s whole body froze at the foreign sound, the sobs that wracked through the air caused his smile to instantly drop. Worry clouded his senses and without feeling it, his form expanded, antlers growing larger and sharper and his eyes shone bright as he all but busted through the bathroom door, scouring the place for you. “Dear?” his voice cracked, frenzied state shrinking to his normal size as he found you curled into a ball while water hit your back.
his hands itched to scoop you up and take you to bed, but he didn’t want to make you more upset.
you had looked at him with wobbly lips and swollen eyes, “don’t look at me.” you whimpered, a fresh set of tears crashing down your red face, “i’m disgusting, i’m ugly, i’m fucking putrid to see.” you had humourlessly laughed, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth before another sob was pulled from the depths of your chest.
for a second time, Alastor felt himself froze, conflicted with you insulting yourself. insulting his perfect partner. disgusting? absolutely not. ugly? what a lie. putrid? how far from the truth could you be?
his claws reached to envelop your body, he almost hissed at the temperature of the water, boiling hot, enough to burn. you had been sitting there, getting sprayed by alarmingly warm water. “come now.” he started, an unusually soft tone coming from him, “you’ll get hurt if you stay under that water my love.”
“that’s the point.” you mumbled, “maybe if i’m damaged enough on the outside you’ll see how ugly i am on the inside too.”
“nonsense.” Alastor cut through your speech with an edge of anger, without another word, the demon’s hands wrapped around you, dragging your sore body from the wrath of the water. “we are going to bed, yes? and you will tell me why you think this so horribly about yourself my dear.”
“what? why aren’t you yelling at me? why aren’t you telling me i’m right?” your voice began to raise, and your face, already branded with a waterfall of tears, housed some more, fat globs of tears raced down your cheeks. “why won’t you hate me like i hate me?”
“i could never see anything apart from perfection in you my darling.” the deer murmured honestly, shimmying a towel up and down your body as quickly as possible, he wanted to cradle you as soon as he could. “you are more than i deserve. i would do anything for you.” he finished drying your body, swiftly changing you into dry and warm clothes. “and doing anything for you, entails loving you when you can’t find it in yourself to do the same. my love for you will never simmer, or dull, or lose its intensity. it will never falter, not even for a second.” something cold was applied to the raw and sore skin that was affected by the water, a paste for healing supposedly.
“the moment i laid eyes on you, i promised to protect you.” the radio demon whispered, finally able to hold you properly. he pulled the covers up before sliding both of you in, absentmindedly he undid his suit buttons, letting the fluff of his chest puff out from under his dress shirt. he laid your head on his fur, content to have you smothered by him. “so let me protect you, let me help you fight these cruel thoughts.”
“i’m sorry Alastor, i’ll try be better.” you had mumbled guiltily, nudging into his fur defeatedly.
“no no darling, no apologies, no being ‘better’. be as you are, and let me fight these thoughts with you.” his head dipped down, a smile coating his features as he softly nipped at your neck.
an airy, wet laugh left you, “okay Alastor, okay okay! no apologies.” you had agreed, hands tightening around him in thanks.
but you didn’t need to thank him.
Alastor would do anything for you.
literally.
-unused to caring for someone, unused to love and relationships as a whole. had never had any interest until he had seen you, it had opened a casket full of emotions he wasn’t prepared for.
-when it comes to your hygiene and taking care of you when you can’t, he’s very methodical, brushing your teeth for exactly two minutes, washing your body and hair stiffly. overtime he does try and show his affection through touch more, enjoys cradling you, kisses anywhere he can get his mouth on, mostly chaste kisses, not fully comfortable with long kisses of any sort.
-enjoys massaging your scalp with his claws, how you’ll finally be able to sleep while he caters to you by caressing and stroking your skin or hair. if you wander outside of your shared room, he tries to be around as much as possible, always a hand on the small of your back or a watchful eye on you.
-gets his shadow forms to take care of you and check on you when he’s in the studio or busy. cooks for you everyday, will spoon feed you, even in bed (he’ll change the sheets the day after).
-sneakily gets you to do affirmations with him, makes you stand in front of a mirror with him and says what a great couple you guys look like. tells you that he loves you in front of the mirror while holding or stroking a different part of you each time. will begrudgingly do skin care and make you do it with him, after a while you begin to enjoy it and start just doing each other’s skin care in the mirror.
-sees you nothing short as perfect, even when you can’t get up or cry for hours or don’t want to eat, even when you give up and refuse to try anymore. he finds a way to motivate you and want to try again.
VOX
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(disclaimer: getting tired around this point so writing from here on in may deteriorate or lessen in quality)
meetings had been long lately, plans for vox security were kickstarting. he was so busy and it was exhausting, news commercial here, press conference there, meeting here, new tv show there. Vox was tired and he missed you.
between all his schedule and stalking the radio demon unhealthily, it seemed he had almost forgotten about you, even though you flooded his mind at every instance.
he just hadn’t done a very good job at showing how much he had missed you these past few weeks. it left you in a state of loneliness you weren’t quite used to, eyes always trailing to the cameras around the building and in your room, but familiar light of Vox watching the cameras wasn’t there. he hadn’t been checking on in, maybe he didn’t even want to look at you.
self worth was at an all time low, and your anxiety had sky rocketed out of its temporary dormancy, coming back in tenfold. insecurities were on display more than ever, and Vox was nowhere to be seen, falling asleep at his desk or at Val’s and or Velvette’s place.
it was hard not to feel so utterly unwanted.
so you did what every other sinner would do, drink, go crazy on the town and snort some things you shouldn’t have. and at the end of the night, feverish and cold, shaky and nauseous, as you looked into a camera that belonged to vox security, the light didn’t flash on.
he wasn’t there. would he ever be again?
all the substances in your system caught up to you, your stomach began to bubble with pain and you no longer had it within you to keep up the charade that you were fine. you willed yourself to cry, to do something other than rot on the floor of an alleyway street, but no tears came.
instead blood trickled from out of your nose, a telltale sign that you had outdone yourself with whatever atrocities of chemicals you had put in your body. you threw your head back, an expression between a grimace and a smile graced your face, maybe if you fucked yourself up enough Vox would finally come back to you.
needles lay on the ground, no longer sterile but it did not matter. with already shaky hands you grasped one of them, putting it at an angle to inject, you brought it down and the moment it pierced your skin, a familiar hand pulled it straight out of you with a frenzied cry.
“what the fuck were you doing?!” Vox huffed, anger and concern battling to show through his words. worry etched into his features, but you didn’t manage to spot that, only the anger.
“i-i.” no words could come out, the blood from your nose congealed and dripped down onto your shirt, and the injection site pooled with crimson blood too. how could you explain to your partner that you had planned to completely self destruct in hopes he would care for you again?
“are you a fucking idiot? oh my fucking god you’re bleeding.” his palms glided across the blood on your nose and thigh, wiping it away on his skin, his lower lip trembled as he swore at you thoughtlessly. “do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” he bit back the yell, a sigh falling from his lips as he watched your expression morph from embarrassed to complete self hatred.
“i’m sorry, im so sorry.” you whispered, wanting nothing more than to be out of the way, “im sorry that im not good enough, ill be better, i promise, don’t leave me, don’t leave me-“
Vox’s heart, what was left of it, had shattered entirely at your words. regret punched him in the stomach, weeks of little attention and this is what he says in your darkest hour? “shh, shh, of course not, no, no, i would NEVER, never leave you.” his thumbs alternated between rubbing away your forming tears and beading blood.
“c’mere baby.” his voice cracked, he offered you his embrace silently. the look you gave him was utterly heartbreaking, doubtful that he would still love you, god, as if he could ever stop loving you. wordlessly you sank into him, trying to greedily cozy up into him as much as you could, to remember every inch of him. “please, forgive me.”
the words wouldn’t formulate, too drugged up and drunk to even respond, you slumped in his arms, barely able to blink. Suddenly fingers were pinching your cheeks, “hey, hey, don’t fall asleep, i need to make sure you’ll be alright.” he spoke softly, a complete contrast to before. “i’m so sorry, i should be the one saying sorry baby. i’m so stupid, mistreating my whole world.”
the more worked up and upset he got, the more static seeped into his voice. “i’m so sorry. so sorry babe. i haven’t been around and that’s unfair on you, ill book a few days off work okay? just me and you, and i promise ill make it up to you.” his head bowed down, nuzzling against you affectionately, “just stay awake f’me, we’ll get what’s out of your system, and ill make it all up to you, i promise.”
hearing his voice, feeling his touch was pure euphoria for you, a safe haven you had missed beyond anything. “anything for you Vox.”
-is a complete sweetheart, just struggles at first if you’ve done something harmful or destructive to yourself. anything he says in the moment is not thought about and is him panicking.
-makes it up to you every time, bubble baths, washing you and taking care of you like you’re his god. keeps a first aid kit on standby, one is in your room, other first aid kits in other areas of the building too. makes sure from then on in to reassure you, to let you know of his schedule, to bring you with him as much as he can. sometimes comes back from a meeting and just naps with you until he has another thing to do.
-cannot keep his hands off you, super touchy in public now, in meetings you’re new seat is his lap. will try to lessen his schedule more, will spend a lot of his time sleeping with you when you sleep a lot, you two fall asleep spooning or just completely intertwined.
-makes meals for you when he can, hires a personal chef to keep you fed when he’s working. makes a habit of checking his cameras in your shared room a lot more, doesn’t spend as much time infatuated with stalking the radio demon anymore, he’s better at figuring out his priorities now.
-kisses your knuckles when he comes back from work, and then kisses you properly, an intimate lip locking that won’t end until you get the point that he very much wants you. tries to work more remotely, practices affirmations with you and tries to work on his reactions to stressful scenarios so he doesn’t make you feel worse.
-work is important, power is important, but you are above them both, cherishes like you are the only thing to ever exist when you’re both together.
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solarwonux · 1 day
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Business Proposal || knj (9/?)
pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au
Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love
Warnings: slow burn, angst, fluff, flirting, semi-edited, smut, fingering, eating out, unprotected sex.
Rating: mature, 18+
w.c: 8.0
Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”
A/n: lol, hello, I'm sorry for being so MIA lately. I kinda have had half of this written since November but my mom came to visit me in Korea and I forgot about it haha. If you are still here thank you for sticking around! Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts!
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10 Years Ago
Things were finally looking up.
“If you just remember everything we have gone over you'll be fine.” He simply says like it's no big deal, waving you off. 
You on the other hand are filled with the gnawing pain of your nerves. As you look down at your notebook filled with an equal mixture of correct and incorrect answers. 
Maybe things weren't really looking up. 
“I think we should do a few more.” You rush out, flipping to a new page. In that exact moment, the buzzer in Namjoon's hand goes off, and he stands up. 
He pushes in his chair and walks to stand beside you, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Over studying is not the answer.” He says gently, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before walking away to pick up your drinks. 
Your protest dying as you burn daggers into his back. You aren't sure if it's a good thing that he has so much faith in you. When you don't have an ounce in yourself. Especially when in two days you'll hopefully end your misery with the dreaded math final. 
It's been two whole months since you've started your weekly tutoring sessions with Namjoon. You aren't completely lost in class anymore. If you are, you just come to the broad man and drown him in all kinds of questions. With this tactic you've even managed to get an eighty-five present in your last math test. 
The only thing left for you to pass is the stupid final.
You have been seeing Namjoon a lot more this week. Scheduling, and practically begging him to squeeze you into his tight schedule since Monday. A request to brush up on equations and gain some clarity on things you might have forgotten. To say the least, your test anxiety has reached a whole new level. You visibly look exhausted, your skin is oilier than usual, sporting a few painful pimples on your chin, and your hair looks so greasy despite just washing it in the morning. You should feel slightly ashamed for even leaving your house looking like a hot mess, but your thoughts are suffocating. Staying in would make the panic in the pit of your stomach worse. 
Especially when you and your tutor have recently discovered your inability to do word problems. The main reason why you keep calling Namjoon at three in the morning. Even though he thinks you're just being paranoid, especially with the silent sigh of defeat you hear through your phone speaker. He tries his best to reassure you that you're going to be fine at the end of the day. 
“There will probably be three, five at most. He had said last night when you called. 
Thankfully he had stayed up revising his final paper, instead of being three dimensions deep in dream land like on Sunday when you called. Still, even though he had muttered out a tiny complaint, he stayed on the line with you. Until you were calm enough to fall asleep again. 
In just three months your acquaintance has blossomed into a full on friendship. Along with your sneaking suspicion that both Taehyung and Jimin like him better. It was obvious last Friday night when Jimin had a small end of the semester get together at his apartment. Namjoon got so drunk he performed the entirety of Grease Lightning on karaoke. Including the dance break with special guest and step brother Jeon Jungkook. 
Later on in the night the older of the four cried about the final scene in the Titanic. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, but heartwarming to be able to see a different side of the Philosophy student. 
“Look who decided to join us.” You jump, placing your pen down in your notebook, closing it to hold your page. You turn around, feeling a wide smile come onto your face when you lock eyes with the other source of your happiness these last few months. 
“Hobi,” you exclaim, holding your arms out to him. He chuckles, and leans down giving you one of those awkward hugs one gives when the other person is sitting down. It only lasts a few seconds and then he is leaning his head back to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek, making you cringe. 
“Ew,” you pout, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. He chuckles, pecking your lips lightly and then taking the seat next to you. 
“Joon says you need a break from being a math wizard.” He chuckles, dragging your notebook to him. He places his arms over it keeping it hostage.
You whine crossing your arms in front of you, pouting like a child. “But what if I don't pass. I don't want to have to take the class a third time.” 
Namjoon shakes his head, sets your chamomile tea in front of you, and sits down. “I already told you, you won't. I did the math last night. Even if you get a sixty five percent, you'll still be able to pass the class with a B.” He states firmly and takes a sip from his coffee. 
You huff, sinking further into the chair. “I don't want a B, I want an A.” 
Hoseok snakes an arm over your shoulders and brings you close to his side.” “Then you will pass the class with an A honey cakes.” He kisses your temple before resting his cheek on top of your head. You take a deep breath, nodding and snuggling closer to him.
“So are you two dating now?” Namjoon leans back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of him.
Hoseok waves an arm, brushing off the question that has been surrounding the two of you these past three weeks. “You know it's not like that.” He answers before you can. He pulls his arm away and sets them both on top of your notebook. He sends you a knowing wink. 
“Yeah you out of all people should know it's not like that.” You back up Hoseok, sticking your tongue out at the other. “How's Rina by the way?” You challenge making the man next to you burst out in a fit of giggles. 
You see, most of the things Jungkook told you about Namjoon prior to your first meeting have all been lies. Or just not the whole truth.
Namjoon was a broody person. He did put his studies as one of his priorities in life. And he didn't want a relationship. 
Yet in the last few months you have gotten to know the career driven man. You've also managed to peel back some of his layers. 
He did have his moments of indignation, but he could also be very playful and funny. This side mostly comes out when Hoseok is around or when he wants you to get your mind off the things that have been stressing you out. He does have a strong work ethic, but he also knows when to take a break. 
There have even moments in your tutoring slash now study sessions when he forces you to take walks. He says it helps clear your head, but you also know it's his way to get his ideas to flow again whenever he feels stuck. 
During these walks you've managed to find out more things about him. He loves museums because he's shit at art, and knowing that there are people out there who aren't makes him appreciate the art a lot more. At least once every two months he visits the tree he and his father planted his mother’s ashes at to update her on his life. He cares so much for Jungkook and his mother even if he doesn't show it all the time. And despite not wanting a relationship he has been head over heels for the girl he's been casually hooking up with for the last two years. 
Though he won't come out and say it himself. You have witnessed the way his face settles down into something calmer. And his eyes light up whenever his phone rings and her name pops up on the screen.
He once spent thirty minutes talking about a joke she had told him one night. Spoiler alert, it wasn't a good one, but it was adorable watching him try to get it out in-between chuckles. 
You also know he shares the same negative sentiment Jungkook has about your current relationship with his best friend. But just like he claims that his relationship with Rina is complicated. So, is yours with the ray of sunshine you get to now call friend.
“She's fine.” He shrugs, clearing his throat and looking out the window. You share a look with Hoseok before letting out a fit of shared giggles. 
If someone had once told you that your strict math tutor slash friend would turn into a shy mess with just the simple mention of a name. You would've thought they were fucking with you. Even if it still surprises you a little bit. 
“You should just ask her to be your girlfriend.” Hoseok chimes in. 
Namjoon throws his head back groaning. “It wouldn't work out if I do, plus that would require for me to act like a boyfriend and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.” He speaks with his eyes trained on the high ceiling of the cafe. 
You lean forward placing your elbows on top of the table and wrapping your arms around the hot mug. “You already do Namjoon. A switch of labels is not going to change anything. And don't you think she deserves some kind of confirmation and respect when it comes to your relationship?” You finish tilting your head to the side. 
“I do respect her though, which is why I don't want to ask her, like you just said a label won't change anything.” 
You let out a sigh, “I didn't say that you didn't respect her. I just think that from a girl's perspective she might be feeling a little bit confused with your words and actions. You say the two of you aren't anything serious but then you act like you can't live without her. If I was in her shoes I would feel very frustrated. So, maybe you don't have to make this big grand gesture or ask her to officially be your girlfriend but just clarify things between the two of you. If you aren't serious about her then so be it but if you are then tell her that.” You finish and take your first sip from your tea. 
“I agree with honey cakes, just be a little more straight forward that's all.” Hoseok shrugs before standing up. 
Namjoon rolls his eyes, and looks between the two of you. “And what about you?” He counteracts childishly. You knew it was coming. In his eyes the two of you giving him advice when you're in a similar situation is a bit hypocritical. Plus you and Hoseok are on the same page so it's di–
“That's different.” Hoseok speaks before you. “And this is about your love life not ours.” He states stuffing his hands in his pockets. 
“Whatever.” Namjoon brushes off. You sigh, aware that if you choose to continue the conversation it will end in the three of you having a petty argument. You look at Hoseok as he leans down, placing a delicate kiss on your cheek, making the man witnessing the affectionate gesture scoff in annoyance. 
If he wants to say something he doesn't voice it instead he opens his leather bound notebook to a new page. 
Hoseok ignores him and stands up straight. “Are we still on tonight?” 
You nod. “I can't stay for long though I want to catch up on sleep.” 
“Fine then just one movie it is.” He winks before turning on his heels. Leaving you behind with the grumpy man. He looks up from his journal, opening his mouth, but you raise a hand to stop him. “It's different Namjoon.” 
Namjon clicks his tongue in annoyance and shrugs. “Whatever, let's just do one more world problem before calling it a day.” 
“Fine,” you huff, sliding your notebook in front of you and opening it to a clean page. 
Just one more day and you'll be free from this torture. 
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Hoseok's apartment is everything you expect from the maximest man. Just upon walking in you are hit with waves of bright colors. By the doorway there are different KAWS figurines that you can only imagine cost a fortune. Yet they greet you with their x'd out eyes as you remove your shoes. 
Then you have to pass by the Supreme beaded curtain to finally enter the living room. A bright red leather couch is settled in the middle. With wine colored pillows and a black throw blanket that you've adopted since the first night you spent in Hoseok's arms.
Abstract art lines the walls behind the television. There are more figurines lining the shelves in between books, records, and framed pictures of his friends and families. Along with a few miscellaneous items that he's told you he's obtained over the years.
His TV is huge. Takes up almost the whole wall, but your favorite to watch movies since he installed a surround system upon moving in years ago. 
You still remember the first night he invited you over. It was after spending two whole weeks texting non stop. He simply asked if you wanted to watch a movie with him and you thought why not. 
One night led to another and now another. It always starts the same. The two of you spend days teasing one another through text. Lewd texts along with pictures. You come over for a movie and then you end up underneath him. 
When it's over, he lets you use his shower while he orders takeout from the vegan restaurant a block down the road. And the two of you resume watching the movie as if neither of you were panting each other's names in pleasure. 
A simple arrangement with absolutely no strings attached.
It was what you were expecting when you came over tonight. Not that you don't mind the nights in which you do come over and nothing happens other than the deep hearted talks over a slow record playing in the background. But that wasn't happening either, because ever since you arrived at his doorstep, the overzealous man has been quiet. Biting the inside of his cheek and moving around you far enough to raise suspicion. 
It has your mind traveling back to the conversation that occurred in the afternoon. Was Hoseok having second thoughts? Or was there more to his actions than what you were picking up? 
“Hobi,” you whisper the minute he enters his living room with a bowl of popcorn stepping over your legs that were resting on his coffee table. He silently settles down next to you, on the other side of the couch with a gap wide enough to fit a person in between. 
Now you're more than positive that something is wrong. 
You groan, “I think I'll just go home then.” You mumble, pushing the throw blanket of your shoulders. 
This is enough to catch his attention. His eyes are wide behind his dark rimmed glasses and he sits up. “What why?” He tilts his head in confusion. 
A dry chuckle escapes your lips. “You obviously don't want me around, so I'll just go. I need to go to sleep early anyway.” You shrug, slipping your feet in his fuzzy slippers and swiftly start making your way to grab your stuff in his room. 
“No I–wait.” Finally, he speaks up, earning an eye roll from you that he can't see as your back is still turned. 
With haltered steps you spin on your heel to face him again, “What? You've been acting strange since I got here. So, if you don't want me around I will just go home.” 
At lightning speed he sets the bowl of popcorn on his coffee table, and stands up. He makes hasty steps towards you and when he is finally standing in front of you, he sets both of his hands on top of your shoulders. 
“Don't leave…I'm sorry.” Hoseok's eyes cast down past your face. They settle upon the graphic on your old washed out t-shirt. He takes a deep breath and looks up again. His face twists into something you can't decipher. It's a look you've never seen him wear, and it settles hard into your chest. 
He looks troubled, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart to five different focal points. You know he's arguing with himself. When he finally looks at you in your eyes again. You can't help but shrink a little bit. 
His features have hardened, and you want to reach out to smooth over the little worry lines in the middle of his forehead. Guilt washes over you. 
For what? 
You don't know but you hope more than anything that you'll soon find out. 
“Can we talk?” He speaks up, letting his arms fall down, his knuckles brushing against your skin. 
For a second you think he's going to pull away. Retrieve into his body, but when he grabs your hands and laces his fingers with yours. The guilt in the pit of your stomach dissipates and you're left with confusion. 
When you don't answer his question, he repeats himself. This time differently, “I just think we need to talk, I've been thinking since this afternoon. I want to check up on you, and I guess us.” He clarifies, and now you're filled with a different kind of emotion. As much as you're relieved that you didn't do anything wrong per se. You are slightly annoyed that he couldn't just tell you that when you first arrived. Instead of ignoring you until you reached your breaking point. 
Frustrated, you say slowly, “Then just say that, instead of ignoring me.” 
Hoseok closes his eyes and sighs, nodding his head before speaking, “you're right I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my mind and I am not sure how to bring any of what I'm thinking about up.” 
“Hobi, just say it. We agreed on clear communication when we realized that this was going to be more than just a one night stand.” You sigh, beginning to walk in the direction of his couch, stringing him along. “Whatever is on your mind, just say it.” You push him onto his couch and take the seat next to him, your body fully facing his, and you fold your legs beneath you. 
He nods, running a hand down his face. “I don't think this is working anymore.” He whispers, eyes trained on his ceiling. 
Okay you were definitely not expecting that, but instead of voicing your surprise, you squeeze his hand. Encouraging him to continue. 
He does, “I think I'm slowly falling for you, well I don't know I'm confused about my feelings.” He whispers the end and falls quiet. 
As much as you want to run away and hide at his confession. He looks troubled and you wouldn't be a good friend if you just left him to wallow in his thoughts. No matter the pressure that has settled in your chest. Or the fact that your heart thinks you're running a marathon, making your ears feel like they're about to fall off too. 
With every passing moment you're finding that it's getting harder to breathe. You aren't dumb, the atmosphere has also changed, but it isn't because of his confession. It's because you are also a bit confused about your feelings.
You clear your throat, “W-What are you confused about?” 
He stops his staring game with the ceiling, shifting his whole body to finally face you. “Do you know why both Kook and Joon are so against us?” 
The question throws you off guard but you suppose it has to do with what he's going through. You do have an idea as to why your friends are raising a brow at your relationship. Jungkook’s warning the first day you met the barista is enough for you to get a rough idea of what they mean. But you want to hear it from him. 
Still you don't know if you can trust your voice so you shake your head. 
He continues, “I've never been in a relationship because I don't trust people to love me the way I know I can love them. So, I just sleep around, and when I get bored I break it off.” 
 “I know. They warned me about you when you immediately showed interest. And trust me I knew what I signed up for when we agreed to keep seeing each other. I don't expect anything more than what we are doing.” You tilt your head to the side.
“I know that's why I'm confused. At first that's all I expected and wanted. But then I don't know I feel so full and empty when I'm with you. I don't want you to leave when the night is over. You're the last thing I think about and the first thing I want to see. I've never felt this sure and comfortable with anyone ever, and I don't know what to do because we both know this isn't forever, your forever is with someone else, and so is mine. But for now I just want to be with you and know what it's like to fall in love and with you.” He takes a deep breath. “Even if it's just for a little bit. You know that next year I'll be leaving for that design school, and I'm sorry but nothing and no one is going to stop me. I've waited too long for this opportunity. I know I'm being selfish to ask you this, but can you please find it in your heart to let me be yours until then?” 
Hoseok finishes. And you're left to your own devices. To deal with your emotions as they spill out of you in hot tears. You've never had someone confess to you so passionately before. Actually nobody has ever bothered. And even though it's semi depressing you can't help but feel on cloud nine with all his words wrapping around you in the warmth that he radiates. 
Without thinking you kneel, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Okay let's do it.” You beam and he matches your smile. He leans in to kiss you but you place your hand over his mouth to stop him. 
Confusion plagues him like a bitter sting. You laugh, “But only if you agree that when everything is over there's no drama between us, and if I ever get married you have to design my wedding dress.” You remove your hand, and cradle his cheek, rub your thumb over his eyebrow. 
He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “You will get married.” 
“Nah, but it's okay. I've accepted my faith.” You shrug, resting your forehead against his. His hands come up your cheek, squishing them slightly.
“You will honey cakes, that's why I'm already planning your dress design in my head.” He wipes your forgotten tears, and tilts your head to the side. 
You feel your breathing get faster, as his heart shaped lips rest centimeters apart. “How are you so sure?” You whisper, swallowing thickly at the end. 
He smirks, with a glint in his eye. Like he knows something you don't, “because I know someone who is also falling for you but they’re to dumb to notice “ 
“Who?” 
“Secret,” he says before finally crashing his lips onto yours.
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Hoseok’s room is equally as loud as his living room. It’s a little more diluted with simple decorations and a huge abstract painting on the wall in front of his bed. His bed takes up most of his space, adoring a black duvet with black sheets. He has three pillows and two of those you’ve taken ownership of. His brown dresser holds little trinkets of things he buys or finds in the pockets of his pants. It’s also home to a series of designer colognes. Your favorite one was definitely Terre d'Hermes. Somehow the smell always fills with comfort. 
Your favorite part of his room–other than his bed–was his desk. They say you can tell a lot about a person by just looking at their work space. 
He’s a messy artist. His sketches are always thrown around, or pinned on the corkboard hanging over his desk. He has two bookshelves filled with sketchbooks and magazines. Sometimes if you’re lucky he will leave his sketchbooks open, awarding you with a small glance of his work. He has different notebooks for different magazine cutouts. Each one labeled something like, ‘street’ or ‘formal’ or ‘one-day.’ The latter always peaks your interest but you’ve never thought to ask. He has a thousand different sketching materials, and so many colorful markers. You just know that he was that kid in class with the sixty-four crayola back. 
He's passionate about his craft. A passion that shines through everything that he does. Especially when he’s sharing that passion with you. Now, as he lays you down onto his soft mattress. He kisses his way down your neck, slowly pushing your shirt up to reveal your stomach and the few stretch marks that appeared one day in your early adolescent years. 
For years it was hard to be intimate with someone in fear that they would disgust your partner. But the one thing you learned while growing up was that most men didn’t give a shit unless they were getting it. 
Yet Hoseok, your boyfriend, now. 
He cares. 
In a good way. The first time he saw you naked he almost came in his jeans. Your curves were all in the right places. You have enough skin to grip onto, and he loves all the marks and imperfections your body has. 
He couldn’t understand why you were so beautiful in the soft glow of his bedroom lights? Why he didn’t have the words to describe how his heart was literally beating against his ribcage?  Why for the first time in his casual dating experience he feared he wouldn't be able to give you the pleasure you deserved? 
So, that first night together, he took his time. Trying to get his thoughts under control. He painted your body with featherlight kisses. Determined to leave his trace imprinted in your body for however long you two would engage with each other. 
Everytime you came over. He did just that. He took his time, choreographing a dance with your body. It was a no-brainer that he had fallen for you. Something he knew shouldn’t have happened. He had plans for himself. He had a future mapped out since he was teenage. Though, he had the sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t stop him from achieving his goals. That you would support him through everything. He should’ve stopped his feelings for you from growing. 
He kept them quiet until his portfolio got accepted. Until he saw the brief glances Namjoon gave you when he thought you weren’t looking. Perhaps it was the jealousy that made him confess. Or that his time with you was now limited. Whatever the reason was that led him to his confession, he only hoped that you felt the same. 
You giggle, the beautiful melodic sound grounds him as he wraps a calloused hand around your right breast, circling his thumb around the pebble. 
You're his girlfriend now. 
He, your boyfriend and he will bring down the moon for you tonight if you asked him too. 
“What’s so funny?” His curious stare meets your amused one. 
You had failed to keep your giggles at bay while he made out with you on his couch. He let a few of his own out when he had had enough of kissing and grinding in his living room, and guided you into his room. 
He loved the sound, and he loved that it was only because after months of dancing this tango you were still shy underneath him. 
“Nothing, it’s just that Mickey is staring at us.” You whisper gasping when he grinds his lower half against yours. Hoseok playfully rolls his eyes, reaching and turning around the newly added picture of his family dog on his bedside table. No more prying dog or human eyes around to interrupt the two of you. 
His attention returns to you. Gaze burning with lust as he leans down, pecking your lips lightly. “Can you stay over?” He says, kneading your breast again. The teasing touches were driving you insane. But this is how you preferred it. Slow and intense, tangling your body with his, until the two of you became one. 
“I’ll make an exception if you promise to drive me to my class tomorrow with a free coffee.” You smile, pushing your chest into his hand. 
He shook his head, reaching down to your lips. “Hustler.” He mumbles, capturing your mouth in a slow sensual kiss. “You got yourself a deal baby girl.” 
Your body shudders at the nickname. He only used it when it was just the two of you. He knew the effect it had on you. “Can I take your shirt off now?” He smirks. 
You let out a pleasurable sigh, nodding your head, before verbalizing a soft, “yes.” 
He pulls away, sitting back on his heels, peeling his shirt off before helping you with yours. He discards the two of them somewhere behind him. He pulls you towards him again, resting his forehead against yours. A bright smile adorning his perfect face. 
It makes your stomach crumble, knowing that from this moment on.
Hoseok would always be the one who got away. 
Your big “what if.” 
Your biggest treasure. Your safe place. Your blueprint for a future with someone else. The love story that was made to end. But one that burned so bright that would have you telling your future daughter to never be afraid of love. 
“Can we go slow today?” You run your hands down his torso, playing with the belt buckle of his expensive belt. 
“I’ll go at whatever pace you want me to go, baby girl.” He reassures,  his fingers play with the bra strap that had fallen down your shoulder. 
You tilt your head, looking at him with soft eyes. And he swears he feels himself melt. 
The next few minutes were a mess of soft kisses and clothes being discarded. Each article of clothing, landing with a soft ‘thud’ against his bedroom floor. You’re on cloud nine, his lips kiss down your neck, your collarbone. His hands part your thighs, baring your cunt to him. He sits back, mouth watering at how wet you are. He couldn’t wait for a taste. 
He could never wait. And he never did. 
He kisses your mound before wrapping his lips around your clit. He savors the sigh that escapes your mouth. He smirks when he immediately feels you grip his hair, pushing him further. Just like he couldn’t resist, you also couldn’t.
He sucked, distracting you from his finger circling around your entrance making you gasp in surprise when you feel him insert one. Slowly thrusting it as he licked you like a man who has been starved for weeks. 
“Hobi,” You sigh, pushing his head further. He fingers you faster until he feels you clench around him, and he stops, making you whine. 
“Please,” you plead. He chuckles against you, inserting another finger. This time he doesn’t give you time to adjust. You feel him thrust into you with no hesitation. His mouth sucking on your clit, swirling his tongue around it playing with the nub. 
You were withering, moaning his name, and anything your mind could conjure up in this moment. 
Overwhelmed with blissful pleasure, you grip his bed sheets, bucking your hips into his face. He groans, knowing you were on edge from how tight your grip on his head was now. And he did the one thing he knew would drive you insane. He slowed down, until he came to a complete stop. 
“Hoseok,” you groan, slamming your hand onto his comforter. He chuckles, lifting his head. Your body was flushed, your lips swollen, your hair splayed out around you. He loves bringing you to this moment. 
“You said you wanted slow.” He grins, taking his fingers out of your pussy. Loving the way it clenched over nothing now. Almost as if it was begging to be played with again. 
You roll your eyes, pouting. “Not this slow. I want to come.” You say, sitting up on your elbows. 
“Oh baby you will.” He winks, licking his fingers clean. He leans over, pecking your lips quickly. “You will come as many times as you want. But I want the first one to be around my cock tonight.” 
You gasp at his words. You knew his mouth was lethal but sometimes it still surprises you. The lust lacing with his soft timbre made you weak in the knees. 
“Fuck,” you whisper, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. 
The word ‘slow’ is forgotten from either of your vocabularies, while the two of you kiss hungrily. Sucking on tongues, teeth clashing, hands touching and clutching onto anything and everything. 
Hoseok lays you down on your side, climbing in behind you. His teeth nips at your bottom lip and he wrapped your leg around his hips. He kisses down your neck, while you help guide his cock to your entrance. He locks his eyes with yours as he slowly pushes himself in. His arms wrap around your torso, and he pushes you closer to his chest. 
Both of your heartbeats are in sync. Racing against the clock, basking in pleasure that you never want it to end. 
“Move please.” You say, lifting your face to kiss him. 
He begins to move his hips, making you gasp into each other's mouths. It’s a sloppy pace from the start but you don't care. You want more, so you met his thrusts halfway. One of his hands palms at your breast. He alternates between swallowing your moans and leaving his mark on anything he can get his lips on. 
“B-Baby.” He moans, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m close, are you?” He thrusts, letting out a low moan when he feels you clench around him.
He didn’t give you a minute to answer, before he was lifting your leg higher around his waist, allowing himself to reach the deepest part of you. “Touch yourself baby.” 
You moan his name, letting go of his hand, your finger meeting your clit, rubbing it in circles. Trying to keep up with his unrelenting pace. And soon you feel him still behind you, eyes shutting in pleasure as he spills himself inside of you. His orgasm triggers the coil in the pit of your stomach as you feel your release wash over you in a tidal wave, making you push his cock and cum out of you. His fingers frantically come down to meet yours as he helps you ride out your wave. He whispers praises against your skin while you come down.
Hoseok kisses your lips slowly, chuckling before whispering words that you will forever hold near and dear to your heart. 
“I love you.” He pushes your hair away from your face. “I love you so much to know that one day I’ll have to let you go.”
You giggle, turning in his arms, nuzzling your head into his neck. “I love you.” 
You feel him laugh, twinkling his fingers down your spine, “Let’s get matching tattoos.” 
You look up at him, raising a brow before shaking your head. “You just made me squirt, told me you loved me, and now you want to get matching tattoos?” 
“What better way to commemorate the best ego boost.” He shrugs. 
“You’re insane.” You untangle yourself from his embrace. You stand up, putting on his shirt. 
“I didn’t hear a no.” He says smugly, putting his arms underneath his head. 
“Because you’re an insane idiot who makes me agree to things like these.” You smile, before walking out of his room. 
“Great, I’ll make an appointment.” He shouts after you, “I love you.” He adds after a moment. 
You enter his kitchen, and turn on the lights. You can feel your smile take up your entire face. For a moment you realize that for the first time in a long time you felt happy. 
So yeah, maybe, things were finally looking up. 
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“You’re late.”
Namjoon says after taking a slow sip from his coffee. He looks at you from over the rim of his glasses. 
You roll your eyes, setting your bag down on the empty chair. “It's raining, and I forgot my umbrella. I had to wait for the rain to stop.”
“You could’ve texted to let me know.” He shrugs, setting his cup down on the coaster and flipping the page of his book. 
You sigh, before (gently) throwing your phone onto the table. “It’s dead. And before you ask, no I didn’t bring a charger. No, Jungkook wasn’t in class today so he couldn’t give me a charger, an umbrella, or a ride. Jimin is sick. And Taehyung doesn’t even go to our school. He's probably getting high with his new fling, so I wouldn’t have been able to ask him either.” You say, listing all the solutions he would’ve thought about in seconds. 
“Mhm,” he nods, closing his book. “And your boyfriend?”
Annoyed, you let out a whine, crossing your arms in front of you. “I don’t know, let me go downstairs and ask him. I’m sure he can stop managing a business to give me an umbrella.” 
Namjoon leans his elbows against the table. “Trouble in paradise?” He tilts his head, clasping his hands on top of his book. 
You shake your head, pulling out your chair and slumping down in it. “Hobi and I are fine. It’s not like he’s leaving in two months or anything.” You throw your hands up in exasperation. 
It’s month seven into your shining relationship with Hoseok, and you should’ve known that things would start to hit the fan sooner rather than Later. Your boyfriend was in the middle of the most tumultuous change of his life. Things were moving quickly and his time dedicated to you was bumped down his monstrous daily to-do list. 
Yet you couldn’t do or say anything because isn’t this what you signed up for? 
“Ah, so there is trouble.” Namjoon chuckles before opening his book again, setting his fancy leather bookmark aside. “This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, they just attract problems.” He adds, giving you a pointed look. 
You roll your eyes, “Shut up asshole, not all of us can be like you and Rina.” 
“Sure you can, it's simple just don't attach any strings to it.” He shrugs, underlining a sentence in his book. 
“Two people who have been only exclusively seeing each other for years literally the definition of strings attached. You can keep denying it all you want but she’s your girlfriend. You guys do all the couple-y stuff.” You grumble, leaning back in your chair, looking out of the window. The gloomy weather adds to your shitty mood. 
“She’s not, we are not dating, and I don’t need to talk about this with you again. Rina and I are on the same page.” He finishes, taking a long sip from his coffee.
“Well, how would you feel if Rina was spending time with another guy, completely ignoring your presence when you walk into her coffee shop all wet and angry because your professor basically told you your topic for your essay was shit.”
Namjoon smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like you’re jealous of Yuri.” 
“So what if I am?” You bite, “I understand that he’s training her to take over his position, but all he talks about is her and what he needs to teach her when we’re together. And whenever I come in they’re always laughing at something behind the coffee machine. And I know she’s nice and all but I would like his attention too.” You scoff. 
Namjoon hums, tapping his index finger against the table. “Do you trust him?” 
The question doesn’t catch you off guard, the obvious answer is on the tip of your tongue. But with how things have been going lately. You can’t help but hesitate. 
“I don’t know anymore.” You whisper looking down at your hands, turning the ring on your middle finger. “I know I should, and I do…I think I do. It’s just things have been so shit lately and I feel like a burden to him because of everything he has to do.” 
Namjoon lightly kicks your foot under the table, making you raise your head to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if I am being of much help, but he loves you. I know that whatever is happening he’s not doing it intentionally. Just talk to him about it.” 
If only it were that easy. 
“I’d love to but he never has time.” 
“Why not talk to him now then.” He says reaching into his bag to take out his cigarettes and lighter. 
“He’s busy downstairs with Yu–” 
“No, I’m not busy now.” 
You jump at the sound of your boyfriend's voice. You turn your head to look at him. A small tray with a mug of probably chamomile tea on top of it. His hair is shorter than the last time you saw him two days ago. He got a haircut and didn’t even tell you about it. That’s how low you have made it on his list. He can’t even send you a stupid picture of his new haircut. He can’t even send you a ‘goodmorning’ or ‘goodnight’ text. He also probably forgot that you were nervous for the meeting with your professor about your essay topic.
All these realizations make you want to roll into a ball and cry. You knew your time with Hoseok was limited. You just didn’t expect for the end to be so torturous. 
“That’s what I told her.” Namjoon speaks, narrowing his eyes at you for a second before turning his attention to his best friend. “She’s jealous of Yuri, because you’ve been spending too much time with her.” He shrugs, walking quickly to the stairs before you can bury him ten feet underground. 
You hear Hoseok let out a heavy sigh, and take the seat next to you. “Honeycakes,” he starts.
“Nice haircut.” You interrupt, slumping into your chair more. It earns another heavy sigh from the man sitting next to you. 
“Is Yuri the reason why you’ve been so upset lately?” He says placing a hand on top of your knee underneath the table. 
You let out a dry laugh before shaking your head. “No, it’s not her. It’s how you’ve been acting lately, it’s the time you’ve been spending with her. It's never having time for me anymore. It’s forgetting our date last week. It’s not even telling me that you got a haircut.” You finish, closing your fists to keep yourself from crying. 
Hoseok gives your thigh a squeeze before leaning back in his chair. “You know how things have been lately. I’m trying so hard to do everything I need to do. I don’t mean to be so dismissive but I can’t juggle everything at the same time.” 
You flick off a piece of lint from your jeans. “It’s nice to know that I’m just something you juggle around.” 
“That’s not what I meant. You knew what would happen when I started my application process. You said you understood.” 
“I did, or I thought I did Hoseok. I didn’t think I would become so secondary to you.” You sniffle. “I love that you’re chasing your dreams, but this is me trying to support you. I’m trying to understand how you’re feeling. But you stop me. You have shut me out and now I’m just something you remember sometimes.” You close your eyes, feeling the tears fall down your cheeks. 
The last thing you wanted was to be crying like this in public. 
“I-I want you to tell me when you’re having a hard time like you used to. I want you to feel like you can relax around me when we’re together. But every time we are together, we either argue, you don’t talk, or you talk about work, deadlines, or how you can’t wait to move. How do you think that makes me feel Hoseok?” 
Hoseok sighs, and wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry.” He kisses your temple. “I wish you would’ve told me earlier before it got to this point.” He whispers, rubbing your back, while you lean your head onto his shoulder. 
“But Hobi like you said, this is what I signed up for. This is what I agreed to.”  You add bitterly. 
“Yes Honeycakes, but you’re still my girlfriend. And I know that I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately, but I do care about you and I do love you.” He lifts your head from his shoulder. He gently grabs hold of your face, making you look at him. “Just like how you want me to talk to you when something is bothering me, I also want you to talk to me.” 
You close your head sighing, “You’re right, I’m sorry that I keep making things difficult.” 
He shakes his head. “You don’t. I’m the one that can’t seem to keep my girlfriend from doubting me. I’m the one who hasn’t told her how much I yearn to be in her presence at every waking moment.” He says, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “I love you, and I think that’s why I’ve been so avoidant lately. I know that our days are numbered and I would rather ignore the fact that I’m moving away soon than cherish the moments I get to spend with my family, my friends and you.” 
You nod, holding out your pinky out to him. “I promise to keep trying my best.” 
He hooks his pinky with yours bringing your laced fingers up to his lips. “I promise to keep trying my best too.” 
“I love you,” You whisper, letting go of his finger and wrapping your arms around his waist. 
His low laugh makes his chest vibrate against your head, “I love you.” He adds, rubbing soothing circles over your back. “Now, can you please drink your tea before you get a cold. I texted you earlier asking if you needed an umbrella but you didn’t answer. And now look at you coming in here all pouty and wet.”  
You raise your head to look at him, opening your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the forgotten voice of your friend. “Her phone’s dead.” Namjoon throws his lighter onto the wooden table. 
Hoseok tsks shaking his head, reaching over to push the tray of your lukewarm tea closer to you. “I should’ve known. I knew you didn’t charge it last night, just like I knew that you left your umbrella at my place.” He pinches your cheek. “How did your meeting go?” 
“He basically said that I need to restart my essay topic over again.”
Hoseok laughs, bopping your nose with his own. “Well did he say those exact words?” 
“No but it was basically implied.”  You emphasize. 
“Fine, I’ll talk to your study partner if my baby isn’t being told that she’s a genius all the time, then what am I paying him for.” He jokes, which earns a glare from said study partner. 
“You’re not paying me, idiot.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, grabbing his brown leather messenger back and stuffing his cigarettes into the front pocket. 
He’s grateful that he came back to smiles and not tears. The stoicness of his actions makes the two of you laugh hard. Your laugh resonates longer in his mind. It always does. No matter how much he tries to deny it. You always resonate longer in his mind. But he pushes that fleeting thought aside. 
Namjoon is happy. 
His friends are happy. 
Things in his life were finally looking up. 
“I have to go, but don’t be late next time and charge your phone.” He says hoisting his bag onto his shoulders. 
You nod, saluting in his direction, before bursting out into a fit of giggles as Hoseok tickles your side. 
Namjoon doesn’t stay for longer than he needs to. He’s already running late to meet Rina, but he can’t hide the smile taking up his space.
He can’t help but feel proud that things were finally looking up for you too. 
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a/n: I hope you have enjoyed it. I will try not to be so MIA and upload a little more frequently rather than every 6 months haha. But my life has been pretty busy lately. In the past few months. I have moved to a different part of Seoul and I got a new job. I basically just hang out with my friends when I have free time haha. I also do dance class 3 times a week, and I started personal training last week. But I will try to manage my time better because I do miss writing and this story!
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regressionschool · 2 days
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boys belong in diapers: Security check
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Over the past few months, you've grown accustomed to the slow erosion of your dignity. They've taken everything from you – your job, your home – and when you thought it couldn't get any worse, they stripped you of your continence, leaving you in diapers. Since then, you've been subject to checks and changes by many different women, but none are as humiliating as the security checks.
Every time you enter a public building, you and the other men who aren't accompanied by a woman are herded into a special security line. Meanwhile, men who are being pushed in strollers or carried on hips by women breeze past without a second glance. The security stations are strategically placed to ensure maximum exposure, your shame on display for all to see. The guards, all women now, make you stand on a red rectangle before pulling down your pants, revealing your almost always wet diaper to the prying eyes of onlookers.
Ignoring your discomfort, the guard presses her fingers against the sodden padding, her touch firm and unyielding. You squirm under her touch, the sensation of her probing fingers sending waves of humiliation coursing through you. She lingers there for a moment too long, her gaze fixed on the exposed garment between your legs.
But the inspection doesn't end there. With a cruel twist of fate, the guard leans in closer, peering inside your diaper as if searching for hidden contraband. You feel exposed, violated, as she scrutinizes every inch of your diaper with clinical detachment.
The guard's voice cuts through the silence, her tone laced with thinly veiled amusement. "All clear," she declares, her words a mockery of the dignity you once knew. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she gestures for you to pull up your pants and continue on your way, leaving you to grapple with the lingering sense of degradation that hangs heavy in the air.
boys belong in diapers : Brotraitor
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As you prepare to change Jonathan's diaper, a wave of disgust washes over you as you notice the mess he's made during his nap. With a heavy sigh, you undo the tapes of his diaper, wrinkling your nose at the unpleasant odor that fills the room. Jonathan's cheeks flush with embarrassment as he senses your reaction, his discomfort adding to the already awkward atmosphere.
But deep down, you know it's not Jonathan's fault. The world has changed, and women have taken control, ushering in an era where men are  being regressed at an alarming rate. It's a reality you've reluctantly accepted, though not without its doubts and reservations.
As you wipe away the mess, you can't help but ponder the path you've chosen. By aligning yourself with the women, you've managed to keep your potty training for now, but at what cost? Among your fellow men, you're seen as a traitor, a "Brotraitor" as they call it, for betraying your gender.
As you carefully place a fresh diaper under Jonathan's bottom, the soft crinkle of the plastic reminds you of the permanence of his regression. With each tape secured, you can't help but wonder if you'd be better off joining him on the changing table, relinquishing any pretense of adulthood.
The voice blaring from the speakers echoes in your mind, its message relentless and insistent. "Boys belong in diapers," it proclaims, its words both a reminder and a challenge to the world as you once knew it. Maybe, just maybe, there's truth in those words, hidden beneath layers of societal conditioning and resistance.
#boysbelongindiapers
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galacii-gallery · 6 hours
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Shattered Lore caught in 4k. May contain Shattered Fates AU spoilers so...
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Disclaimer: He's not in the OG Dreamtale, I'm not the Creator of Dreamtale... Shattered belongs to the Shattered Fates AU, a Dreamtale AU; differing from the original. [ It holds some aspects from the original, but it is very different in terms of story.... worldbuilding etc. ]
May or may not contain spoilers for the Shattered Fates AU Fic! ( This was shared on discord but I'm here to share it here as well! )
Here's some general information on him...
He's a Dream who experiences 'Dreams' and in most of them it ends up with him dying, or worse. [ Similar to Resets, but on another level. ]
Having gone through several failed attempts he finally figured out another path for the betterment of his world, for their brother and himself.
with how much resentment he held, it unlocked new paths... even he was surprised by this change, being able to tap into more 'Negative' aspects of himself like Nightmare. Of course, he couldn't tap in fully to the abilities granted to him unlike Nightmare, but he most certainly could use this new version of himself to his advantage.
After becoming this, a new point was appointed to him as well... he couldn't exactly go back to the very beginning again... dying would just set him back to his first experience as this 'Shattered' version of himself.
forever starting out in a position where he'd be fighting himself emotionally. The scarlet rage within ready to pop at any moment if things didn't go his way... he had to make do with what he now had and was stuck with.
( He sometimes gets jealous of versions of himself who have a better life then himself, like Post dark cream Dream/Shattered and the Studio version of himself. )
Shattered uses his knowledge from previous 'Dreams' to sway those who he knew... for those he doesn't know he gains a great interest in them; the same goes for those who have the potential to change. With this as well, he finally took advantage of his natural strength, preferring hand to hand combat up close, rather then the bow which did little to no help to him before.
There's rumors that he takes those with that potential under his wing, and re-directs events or deaths towards others to keep a particular crowd alive... he can't exactly be everywhere at once saving those that he needs.
having been... through a lot, he lost the reason why he continued to be like this and eventually just saw himself as Shattered and not so much as Dream anymore. he's doing this for the world... for himself, and his brother right? he's the hero in his eyes, but not in others...
Shattered is very confident in himself; to the point it has become the catalyst to his 'Negative' sense of self. Charismatic, but not intentionally... it's actually hard to tell if he's flirting or not with another. Unlike Nightmare, Shattered tends to Lie more; mainly to keep himself together... to keep others in positions where he believes they need to be. sometimes he can be Sassy or more so Sly. when he's beginning to go over the edge, a scarlet hue begins to set in. the hidden and concealed part of him that he tries to keep buried is Aggressive, Argumentative, Violent and Uncontrollable. There's little moments where he ends up slipping into this 'Fully corrupted' version of himself, once in it- it's hard to escape this intrusive thought of a form.
...more will be shared and explained with the Fic! but this is primarily for those wanting to overanalyze Shattered or possibly write him more accurately!
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rhenuvee · 9 hours
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Warnings: lots of kissies, established relationship, suggestive (bc of author simping), a little angsty in the last one..?
For Diluc (aka my beloved)'s birthday: Diluc stans, which AU do we like him in?
CEO!Diluc who looks so refined and handsome everyday in his crisp suit. His employees are intimidated by his cold gaze, and don't dare get in his way. Not you though- because Diluc's favourite part of his work days are when you visit him, bringing him a light snack or a drink (to which he grumbles because he insists it's his job to spoil you), completely void of his usually serious demeanour. He finds it especially frustrating whenever an employee bursts in, interrupting you fixing his tie or midway towards a kiss. He will not allow his workers to see him in a flustered state- that is reserved for you.
Rockstar!Diluc who doesn't understand the reason for his popularity. You beg to differ- you always tell him how hot he looks, all mysterious and badass when he's wearing dark colours and the silver accessories that accentuate his look. The way his bangs stick to his forehead, the way his fingers skillfully pluck the strings of his guitar. Sure, performing is exhilarating, but his favourite part about it is when it's intermission- a time where his attention is on you. Where he has you sat on his lap, dazed and admiring your beauty, stroking your cheek, giving you light kisses here and there. It couldn't get better than this.
Hockeyplayer!Diluc who looks gorgeous when he takes off his helmet, revealing his long luscious red hair. You praise him, cooing on how hot and rugged he looks after playing a tough game. He's grateful for having something that covers his face at all times, otherwise his teammates would catch him blushing. He denies your statements, claiming you're exaggerating- yet he will let you hold onto his muscular arms every time. He's sweaty after a game and doesn't want to disgust you, but you're always there to remind him that you love him, sweaty or not.
Fireman!Diluc who genuinely just wants to do good for the community and needs you to stop gushing over him in uniform- or even better worse, without a shirt on. He finds it quite ridiculous how you keep the newspaper of when he saved a cat and his bare forearms were visible on the front page. You shamelessly stare when he comes home taking off his jacket, leaving only his bare chest to ogle at. He catches you every time, resulting in him blushing which he hopes you don't see. So he effortlessly picks you up with your legs hooked around his waist in his strong, beefy arms and wonders, what is he gonna do with you?
Racer!Diluc who always shows up on time at the end of class/work to pick you up in his sports car. He waits for you leaning on his vehicle, until he takes your hand and opens the passenger door for you before kissing your hand like the gentleman he is. He kisses your forehead and caresses your cheek sweetly before departing to start his race. And after a long night of you cheering for his win (which he claims is because of you), he doesn't fail to notice you getting sleepy. He coos as how you try to stay awake, but he once he carries you to the car, he bringing your head to rest on his shoulder, lightly lulling you to sleep.
Prince!Diluc who, despite his high status, treats you like absolute royalty. There is always gossip about the young prince, how handsome and eligible he would be to marry another heir of a neighbouring kingdom. But he pays it no mind- for he is already happily together with you. When it is time for the ball, his eyes go soft, when he sees you in your gown. You ask if you look okay and Diluc can only bury his head in your shoulder, telling you how beautiful you are in between kisses. Every kiss, every dance, every flower- it's yours.
Vampire!Diluc who curses himself for being so greedy with you. Despite him being a supernatural and dangerous being, he retains his gentleness when it comes to you, and you only. When it's time to feed, he feels his heart sink every time because it hurts you. He kisses the spot where he bit as a way to relieve the pain, and brings you whatever you need to relax again. Because of that he clings to you dearly, and is willing to do anything to protect you.
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wistfulcynic · 2 days
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just finished a full rewatch of OFMD season one, which i'd not done for a while, and am now deep in the shrimp emotions. Why is this show so good.
specifically i'm thinking about the beginning of 1x07 when Ed says he's thinking about leaving. On to the next adventure, etc. He says it so casually, like it's no thing at all, and it makes me wonder how that scenario might have played out.
There was a meta i read shortly after the season aired (sorry, can't remember who wrote it) which said basically the plan to leave is Ed's way of protecting himself. By that point Ed knows he's falling for Stede, they've had their almost-kiss in the moonlight, their tender bathtub moment. Ed knows, even if it's only subconsciously, that if he stays he'll just fall deeper and harder and that will leave him vulnerable in a way he's not quite ready for.
so i wonder what would've happened if he had left then. Not with Calico Jack in all the heat of fraught emotions but on his own terms before his feelings for Stede grew beyond his ability to control them. i wonder how he'd have coped with losing Stede then.
because at that point, he's got no real reason to think his feelings are reciprocated. Stede clearly likes him, says flat out that he's Ed's friend, but nothing he's said or done would lead Ed to believe it's anything more than that. And Ed, as we know, is convinced he's unlovable so of course in his mind Stede could never love him.
which means that if he'd left then he wouldn't actually have lost anything. Stede and the Revenge could be kept as a lovely memory of a brief good time in his life. He might pine a bit, maybe give himself the luxury now and then to think about what if, but i don't believe it would ever reach the point of painting cake toppers or even crying in a dressing gown. i think, honestly, that had he left then Ed would've been okay, or at least not significantly worse than he was before. Still bored, still wanting to get out of piracy, still feeling sad and lonely and unloved but at least he'd have the memory of his friend.
what eventually renders that scenario impossible--what makes him leaving on his own plausible while he could never truly have left with Calico Jack ("never left")--is that by the end of episode 7 Ed has started to have hope. He's started to think that maybe his feelings aren't one-sided. Maybe he can actually have Stede. Maybe he can actually be happy.
i've often thought (as ofc have others) that it wasn't the loss of Stede as such that brought on the kraken era. If OFMD had ended with a successful talent show and Ed and the crew deciding to be a sailing theatre troupe instead of pirates, even without Stede, Ed would've been okay. Broken hearts mend. What tipped Ed over the edge was the loss of his hope, and the better life he thought he'd found a way to have.
not quite sure where i'm going with this if i'm going anywhere, just... it's an interesting contrast and imo a quiet turning point that neatly underlines just how important this is happening really was.
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Stardew Valley marriage candidates and the white girl songs they remind me of, a biased list:
Alex: Boys by Charli XCX because he is constantly busy thinking about boys
Abigail: Roar by Katy Perry because Pierre probably didn’t let her listen to girl boss anthems as a kid and I think she deserves to be empowered.
Elliot: Unwritten because he spent a year staring at the blank page before him prior to me pounding him with pomegranate and duck feathers
Emily: Dancing Queen, because she is a dancing queen. And Hoku Perfect Day because I feel like Emily never has a bad day and I love that for her.
Haley: Just A Girl, No Doubt. I mean obviously. Or Girls just want to have fun because she literally just wants to have fun and that’s so valid.
Harvey: Dancing on My Own (the original version not the bastardised man one) and also Say you’ll be there by the spice girls because he’s <3 old <3
Leah: Timber because wood. Just kidding. She’s so Suddenly I See by KT Tunstall.
Maru: Diamonds by Rihanna???
Penny: maybe no scrubs? Or echosmith Cool Kids? Something wistful.
Sam: Teenage Dream because I’m convinced the only people who romance Sam are teenagers (and that’s so valid but i just can’t)
Sebastian: Born to die by Lana because that’s about as dark as white girl music gets so i have to give it to him.
Shane: Tik Tok, Kesha? Shane simply doesn’t give off white girl music vibes, for better or worse.
Krobus: Green Light by Lorde <3
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