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peachdues · 21 days

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COMPASS / CHAPTER 2

bad boy!Sanemi ♢ modern gang AU

A/N: oh boy oh boy! It only took me four months to write this, and I still had to split it in half.

This is a very Sanemi-focused chapter. Enjoy seeing some other characters and everyone's favorite little brother. Smut enjoyers have no fear, there are plenty of references to sex this chapter, and the next installment will be fucking filthy. For now, enjoy pining bitch boy Sanemi, some humor, and a whole lot of self-hatred.

CW: 17k. MDNI. Morning-after awkwardness. Humor. Gang-related violence. Brief description of bones being broken. Gun violence. Masturbation. Somewhat explicit references to sex that occurred in the previous chapter. Mentions of blood. Angst.

chapter one // masterlist

Sanemi doesn’t remember ever having woken up as peacefully as he does that next morning, with you in his arms. His hands are resting against the curve of your spine, his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

You’ve remained tangled up with him throughout the night, your legs intertwined and you, laid out against his torso. A small smear of your drool has dried on his skin, right beneath where your cheek is mashed between his pectorals where you snore softly.

If he could, he’d stay like this forever; warm and wrapped up in blankets that smell distinctly of you while you remain asleep on his chest. No outside world to speak of, no debts to collect or bones to smash. Nothing beyond the parameters of your bed, and the way your body fits so perfectly against his.

Sanemi is acutely aware of your mutual nudity. The luxurious feel of your bare skin pressed to his ushers in a flurry of images from the night before, each snap shot flashing through his mind, a montage of naked limbs and breathless moans.

He’d fucked you — though some small voice in his head quips that he’d done something more than just fucking, but he resolves to ignore that for now. Worse (was it?), he’d done it without using protection — and he came in you.

Whatever rule book he’d played by before, it no longer mattered. It’s been thoroughly shredded, cast aside along with every last fragment of common sense he’d had, its remnants strewn somewhere among his clothes where they lay discarded on your floor. He should feel horror; should feel guilt and shame for being so fucking reckless with you despite having committed to doing everything in his power to be more careful with you than he is with himself, and yet, Sanemi cannot seem to find a morsel of regret.

Instead, all he can feel is bliss. He can focus on nothing more than how warm you are, how your soft breasts are squished against his abdomen. How sweet your hair smells, how silky your skin is beneath his greedy fingertips. How badly he wants you again; selfishly. Completely.

And despite knowing he’s in the wrong, Sanemi can’t help but be struck at how right this feels. So right, in fact, that his body is quickly coming to life the longer he spends beneath you, his blood hot and full of need.

He shifts under you, gnashing his teeth together as your lower belly rubs right against his groin. His morning wood is almost painful, and he half contemplates waking you up to see if you’re willing to go for a second round, but he refrains. While it wouldn’t be out of the realm of reasonability for him to ask for more, given the events of the last twelve hours, he knows it wouldn’t be smart.

More importantly, Sanemi doesn’t want you thinking he feels entitled to your body — or your affection — now that he’s had a taste of both, no matter how addicted to you he is.

Gently, he untangles himself from you and lays you back against your pillows. Once he ensures the blankets are pulled up over you, he peels off the bed to search for his pants. He finds them a few feet away and tugs them on, though he leaves his belt unfastened. He forsakes his shirt, too, at least until you wake up, not wanting you to feel overexposed in your nudity while he’s fully dressed.

Sanemi quietly pads into your kitchen and begins fumbling around for your coffee machine. He pulls two mugs from your cabinet and finds your stash of coffee beans shoved on a random shelf, and he sets to work, doing his best to keep as quiet as he can.

He hears you stirring from the kitchen right as your mug of coffee finishes brewing.

He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey.”

You sit up in your bed, clutching the blankets to your chest. His heart throbs. You’re beautiful like this, unfairly so, despite having just woken up. Your hair is a little messy, but your eyes are bright, and your bare skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through your windows.

“Hi,” you say shyly, eyes tracking him as he crosses the room, mug in hand. You gratefully accept the coffee he hands you, but you keep one hand fisted around your blanket, holding it tightly to your chest.

He grimaces. Even though Sanemi has now seen every inch of your body, you seem committed to shielding as much of it as possible from him.

Whether it’s out of insecurity or morning-after regret, he can’t say.

“I wanted to wait ‘til you got up before I left. Didn’t want you to think I just dipped.” Sanemi runs an awkward hand through his hair. “But now that you’re up, I can run down the street. Grab ya the morning after pill.”

At your questioning look, his cheeks redden. “Since — y’know —“

He gestures lamely at you, as though that somehow is enough of an explanation. But it’s apparently successful, because your eyes blow wide with understanding, a twin blush creeping up your neck.

“I don’t need it.” You squeak, ducking your head, your fingers tightening around your blanket.

Sanemi blinks. Great, he groans internally. He knew you were a virgin, but he’d assumed you knew the risks associated with fucking raw.

“Yeah, you do,” he corrects, and his stomach flips as the memory of last night — of how tightly you’d gripped him as he came, of your soft moan as you’d felt the first spurt of his cum fill you — flashes through his mind. “We didn’t use protection, and I assume you know how babies are made —“

“I don’t need it.”

Your insistence sets off alarm bells in his head. Maybe he should’ve explained to you his stance on children before he came in you, but he’ll be damned if he lets you baby trap him now.

No matter how in love with you he is.

“Yes, you do. I’m not lettin’ you get pregnant —“ he starts hotly, his temperament shifting into something dangerous.

With a huff, you reach over to your nightstand and yank on a drawer. You root around inside it for a moment before pulling free a small card lined with neat rows of pills.

You wave it at him, sarcastic. “No, I don’t, dumbass.” And you busy yourself with popping one of the pills free to swallow. “I’ve been on birth control since high school.”

Sanemi blinks. “But you’d never —“

You toss your pills back into your drawer with a groan. “You don’t need to be sexually active to be on birth control, Sanemi. It has other uses.” You chew on your lip as you stare down at the mug balanced between your legs. “My periods are horrible. It helps me manage them.”

He stares at your bedside table for a long moment, feeling decidedly stupid.

“I can still take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you offer. “But I’ve been consistent with taking my birth control for years.”

“Nah,” he clears his throat. “If you think the pill is enough, then that’s fine by me.”

Silence, tense and stiflingly awkward settles between you once more, and Sanemi feels damn near ready to jump out of his skin.

“Feel okay?” He asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blush again. “I think so,” you pause and stretch, testing your limbs, though you manage to keep that blanket locked tight against your chest. “Maybe a little sore, but I guess that’s normal, right?”

“Yeah,” and to his embarrassment, Sanemi finds himself needing to clear his throat again to cover up the way his voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Sanemi blinks. “Well — yeah.” It’s not a lie. Physically, he feels phenomenal. How he feels internally, however, is a whole separate matter, and it’s not one he’s particularly keen on exploring at the moment.

Absently, you tap your thumbs against the ceramic lip of your coffee mug. “So —,”

“—So,” he starts, but he falters just as you do, the two of you looking quickly away from one another in mutual embarrassment.

This would be far easier if you were just another hookup. He would’ve already left, would already be on another job, riding his post-sex high for the remainder of the day. He wouldn’t feel as he is now, full of doubt and oily shame for having to leave you now, naked and vulnerable as you are.

“I should go,” he finally offers after another unbearably awkward moment. The phone in his pocket is a burning weight he cannot ignore, one that’s started buzzing with an incessant demand that he answer; that he collect.

You nod, your gaze almost reproachful as you watch him retrieve the gun he’d laid on your kitchen table the night before and tuck it into his waistband.

“Will I hear from you?” Your voice is soft, almost imperceptibly so.

The guilt in Sanemi’s knotted stomach turns sour. He shouldn’t be surprised — he can’t be, really. Not when he knows you’ve heard the rumors of how he acts with other bed partners.

Still, your quiet, resigned assumption that he might treat you the same way — that he was satisfied with using your body and would now would fuck off and do whatever — stings.

“‘Course you will.” And he means it — and not just because he knows he said a lot of things last night while between your legs and damn near delirious with pleasure. He told you things he’d meant; things he doesn’t want you chalking up to passionate outbursts brought on by the heat of the moment.

But he also said things that probably mean he’s fucked himself over, and now, he needs to figure out what he’s going to do about it.

Sanemi fishes his shirt from its discarded place on your floor and tugs it over his head. He can feel your eyes tracking his every movement, and he feels near ready to burst into flames as he crosses the studio to your bed.

He stoops down to press one, soft kiss to your forehead. “‘Til next time.”

You don’t respond; you only remain there, sitting still in your bed, your sheets clutched to your chest. The scent of your hair ushers a flood of memories from only a few hours earlier, and the way they blur together make his head hurt and his heart ache.

Mine. He’d said to you, just before you shattered so prettily against your sheets as he fucked you. You’re fuckin’ mine.

Yeah, he thinks as he closes the door of your apartment behind him. Yeah, he’s fucked.

—

When he was a boy, Sanemi always imagined what it would be like to fly.

Life in the Silo was suffocating and he’d often found himself turning his face up toward the sky, savoring the wind as it rustled his hair and carried leaves off into horizons he would never see. He envied the pigeons that always clustered near the overfilled trash cans spilling out onto the streets, pecking at molded scraps of food because they could take off at any moment. One loud noise, one obnoxious asshole barreling through them, and they could launch right into the sky, their wings beating as they rode the breeze to seek out safer sidewalks.

He’d never join them; he knew that. But on his bike, Sanemi feels like the wind itself, and he supposes it’s the closest he’ll ever be to flying free.

He finds his bike where he always parks it – in a back alley behind your apartment, tucked behind a dumpster far out of sight. Straddled upon it, his helmet secure, he keys the ignition and it roars to life beneath him, its engine a steady rumble that echoes off the pavement. The moment he releases the clutch, he is soaring. He drives, the wind whipping at his clothes, his knuckles, until it sings in his blood and he feels weightless.

He tears down streets, darts between honking cars slowed on the freeway as he makes his calls, collects the Corps’ dues. And in those moments when he zips and speeds through throngs of traffic, sometimes narrowly avoiding clipping a side mirror or two, he can almost forget the magnitude of his royal fuck up with you.

Almost.

—

It’s nearly midnight when his bike gutters to a stop in front of the dingy shoebox he calls home. Not that this mildewed apartment complex has ever been anything close to such a thing, but it’s one of the few things in his life Sanemi can call his own.

No matter how shitty it is.

Deep down, he knows the closest thing to home is back at your apartment, likely wondering when the fuck he’ll shoot you a text. Not even he knows the answer to that; all he knows is that he hasn’t spoken to you since shutting your door behind him this morning, and he has no idea how to start if he did.

So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text you even as he strips himself of his clothes, readying for his shower. Nor does he so much as glance at his phone when he catches the whiff of you on his body as he kicks off his pants and underwear, the faint, lingering scent of your pleasure redirecting his blood flow straight to his cock.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to reach out — he does, very much so. He’s wanted to talk to you the moment your apartment building faded from view, his fingers itching to reach for the phone buried in his pocket and send you something, anything, so you might know that he has no intention of treating you like any of the others. Even if he ultimately decides that he can go no further with you, that last night can only be a one-time indulgence, he will give you the courtesy of telling you as much. It was the least you deserved.

Sanemi tries his best to keep thoughts of you and this wonderfully fucked situation at bay, focusing entirely on the way the water burns his skin, a thousand needles of flame licking at his face, his scalp, his back. He scrubs hard at his hair first, then his face. He leaves washing his body for last, unwilling to soap over whatever invisible marks still linger upon his skin, left behind by your hands and lips. Only when he cannot possibly procrastinate the task any longer does he pump a generous amount of soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it turns frothy and thick.

As he washes himself, Sanemi manages to avoid thinking of the way you touched him the night before, soft and tentative and yet passionate. He thinks he might just make it through without his mind wandering too far away, but then his fingers brush over the odd, raised lines of the mark branded between his shoulder blades. A sudden thread of images from the night before unspools in his mind: your hands, dropping from his hair down his back, resting over the ugly scar seared into his skin. Your nails, raking along his spine as you gasped his name. The flutter of your hands against his abdomen, exploring him; how they gripped his backside and pulled him hard into you.

An arm braces against the cold, sud-scummed tile of his shower and Sanemi’s forehead follows. Even the hot beat of the water can’t un-work the tension in his muscles, the way his body now demands to be reunited with you. He is powerless against this onslaught of memory; the flashes of you tangled up so perfectly with him; the scent of your hair. Your voice, God, your voice, sighing and moaning in his ear until he could focus on nothing but how to make you cry out louder, call his name –

With a frustrated grunt, Sanemi takes his stiffened cock in his hand and he works his frustration – and longing – out under the roaring spray of the shower until his spend washes with the soap bubbles down the drain.

—

Showered and dressed in nothing but his underwear, Sanemi paces his apartment.

It’s not that he regrets doing what he did with you – he doesn’t, not by any means. And that’s exactly what makes him so selfish.

Deep down, he’d wanted to be the one to do it – taking your virginity. For whatever reason, the universe decided to give him you, had brought you back into his life after years of him not sparing you so much as a passing thought. And he’d been weak, unable to stick to the code he’d sworn his blood, his body, to upholding. He’d broken it at the first opportunity, all but jumped at the chance of human connection after years of being starved for it, only to find that the first person he latched onto was also the one person who ever actually saw him; saw past the mask forged out of cruel rumors and his own blood-stained hands.

He should’ve known the moment you expressed anything more than mild interest in him that he was in danger. His impulses scream that he should run before the fallout of last night can catch up to him. To you.

Running is a temptation more dangerous than any of the heists or debt collections he’d ever carried out, even the one that left his face half-ripped open and bleeding. Dangerous not just by the amount of consideration he gives the idea of leaving the Corps and this rotting city behind, but dangerous because if he runs, he’s taking you with him. And that means exposing you not just to his enemies, but to all the consequences dealt to those who dare try and leave the Corps.

Sanemi paces and paces until he finally wears a tread into his shabby bedroom and collapses on his bed. He recites to himself the tenets of the Corps that he’d abandoned – namely, the rule for not getting attached – before a crude voice in his head sternly reminds him of the most important rule of all. The one even he doesn’t know if he can bend, let alone break.

Number one: once you’re in, you’re in.

No one leaves the Corps unless it’s in a body bag or because a higher-up forces your retirement, and the latter is usually reserved for those who survive bullets meant to kill. Those who will never be the same, if they even made it out of the hospital at all.

There is no room for deserters, and none are tolerated. Whispers of plots to abandon the Corps were sniffed out and reported, the conspirators dealt with severely. They usually fell back in line once the reminder of the fate that awaited them should they try was thoroughly beaten into them – usually by one of the Hashira (including him). And Sanemi has shattered his fair share of the bones of those starry-eyed juniors stupid enough to think they were the exception.

In any event, leaving itself was only half the battle. Evading capture was a whole separate beast. The Corps didn’t take well to losing its investments, so their recovery was entrusted only to one person: the most senior of the Hashira.

A man Sanemi only knew by surname and his massive, hulking size, reserved primarily for guarding the Boss and his family.

Himejima’s success rate in tracking down and dealing with deserters is perfect. The few who’d tried since Sanemi’s own initiation had managed on their own a few days at most before they were caught.

Bitterly, Sanemi supposes their wishes were granted, in a way. They did get out – but in a body bag, a bullet-shaped hole between their eyes.

Without fail, photos of their lifeless faces – blood soaked, portions of their skulls missing – were circulated through the Corps’ networks, popping up on phones from unknown numbers.

A warning. A reminder.

It is not just a risk – it is a guarantee, a nuclear bomb designed to snuff out any hope that other Corps members might follow in place. And even if he could try, Sanemi does not know how to ensure you won’t be caught in the blast zone. No Hashira has ever tried to escape, but he can imagine if any of them dared, they’d be made a bigger example out of than some rank-and-file Corps member. There is a mythos surrounding the Hashira even among the junior ranks, a sort of air that they carry. In his own days as a junior, he’d heard whispers comparing his now-equals to gods, because really, what else could not just survive, but prosper in a place that claims far more lives than it produces?

That very mystique is why he can almost guarantee his defection would be met with a retaliation proportionate to the level of his betrayal. There would be no quick end for him; it would be brutal and drawn-out, his death a kindness they would make him beg for.

No one leaves hell in one piece and Sanemi is no exception. He knows better than to think – than to wish – for different. The Corps will swallow him whole, suck the marrow from his bones and turn him to dust before that happens.

But as the memory of your skin beneath his fingertips and your lips moving with his beckons him to sleep, he’d be damned if he said the idea of trying wasn’t tempting as hell.

—

The days mount alongside Sanemi’s self-loathing until almost a week has passed without so much as a word from you – or him, for that matter.

It’s likely you’re only parroting his own radio silence, giving him space he’s made you think he needs. But the lack of your name above any notifications on his phone grates at him.

It’s hypocritical of him to be bothered at all, given that he could just as easily pick up his phone and shoot you a text or give you a call. He knows that. But he sulks all the same.

He sulks and sulks, his mood souring with every passing minute until not even his fellow Hashira risk triggering his bitchy attitude. Just when he thinks he might cave, might actually pick up his damn phone and put an end to the nonsense he’s created, Uzui dings him with a job, and all thoughts of you come to a grinding halt.

The job itself seemed straightforward enough: go to a pawn shop and collect on a payment owed by its broker. When the orders initially came through on his phone (always an unknown number, never the same one), Sanemi at first, was confused. He’s used to being called upon to help other Hashira on their jobs; used to being the extra muscle, the extra layer of intimidation needed to ensure promises were made good on. He looks terrifying; Sanemi knows this. His scars are just another weapon for the Corps to use, and it is not wasteful. Deals tended to go smoother, debts were paid, when they shook hands under the eye of the Corps’ boogeyman; the monster who’d come knocking should they forget their obligations.

Customers don’t know how to see past his scars. Not like you do, anyway.

But the job Uzui has sent him on isn’t like the others; for one, the obnoxious peacock isn’t accompanying him. Nor is the pawnshop broker in default yet on his payments, and the amount Sanemi’s been tasked with collecting isn’t particularly large. More perplexing, the instructions sent from the anonymous number were specific to direct him to pick up a burner car from Rengoku’s garage, an unusual command that made him click his tongue in annoyance. Sanemi doesn’t do cars.

It’s not his place to question orders, however, so he doesn’t. He merely picks up the piece of shit car from its designated spot and tries not to put his fist through the dash when he struggles to figure out how to drive the stupid thing. As it stands, Rengoku currently owes him a favor, and he’d rather not waste it by having him forgive damage Sanemi does to his inventory.

The ramshackle store he’s been forced to pay a visit to teeters right on the edge of the Western Wing — Kizuki territory.

Confusion gives way to suspicion the moment he steps inside the pawn shop. Throughout his gruff conversation with Uzui’s client, Sanemi is unable to shake the prickle at the back of his neck that only ever came from being watched.

Survival, as he’d learned, was in the details. It was about noticing the gaps between the counters, the foggy reflections in the display cases. He’s survived this long because he knew when a silent door had opened, could feel the slight shift in the air as it warmed a couple of degrees even when his back was turned.

It is these very observations, this very compulsion to be hyper vigilant every hour, every second of his life, that has Sanemi’s hand flying to the gun tucked into his hip the moment he sees the shadows in the glass ripple.

It’s drawn and cocked, his finger ready to jump the trigger without a moment of hesitation, but no one ever comes inside. If the pawnbroker is taken aback, he doesn’t show it, and tensely, Sanemi reholsters his gun, though he keeps an eye trained on the front door.

The moment he exits the pawn shop, Sanemi knows he’s being followed.

It starts with a pair of headlights that flash in his mirror. Though evening is rapidly approaching, it is still far too light outside for the lights to be necessary, and Sanemi isn’t stupid enough to think they’re trying to signal that something is wrong with the burner car, piece of shit though it is. Helpful drivers don’t lay on their horns and whoop taunts out their windows.

His suspicion is confirmed when a second car jerks over into the opposite lane and rides even next to the one tailing Sanemi. It lingers for a moment, keeping pace with the other car before it falls back behind it.

Well, he knows that move; they were talking. Plotting.

That’s when all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the job clicks into place. Small job though it was, Sanemi knows anyone ranked lower than him would’ve already been sporting a bullet hole in their head.

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised by the tail, and it’s even less of an oddity that he’d been instructed to take a car to pick up rather than his bike. Uzui had known he’d need the cover.

They keep their distance while Sanemi weighs his options. He could try and lose them, but Sanemi is far better at ditching tails when he’s on his bike. This body hunk of metal on the other hand is foreign, its dimensions unfamiliar. Survival meant taking risks only when there were no other options, and he’s not there. Not yet.

There’s a sharp pop and the glass on his side mirror shatters.

“Fuck.” His low growl slides out through clenched teeth. Sanemi throws his body down, willing the high back of his seat to give him the cover he needs.

It was a warning shot; the chase is up and now, the cats are ready to catch their prey.

The tires squeal over the pavement as he wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the left, gunning down a side alley nestled between the high rises of the business district. He’s too landlocked in civilian territory to risk anything more; he’ll have to try and lose them.

Good thing Sanemi knows these streets like the back of his hand. He can only pray his tails aren’t as wise.

They know he’s affiliated with the Corps but not who he is; if they had, there would be no play, no production. These are lower-ranked Kizuki members — pathetically named Demons — who think they’ve caught themselves a fun little Corps member to toy with.

Sanemi lays his foot out on the gas. He’s no fucking mouse, and he’ll be damned if he end up in their trap.

His eyes flick to the rear view mirror. All he can see are the two sets of blinding headlines rapidly gaining behind him.

He slams down on the accelerator as far as it will go, yanking the steering far to the right. The car Uzui had given him may look like a piece of shit, but right now, it’s his best shot at getting out of this in one piece. So far, Sanemi’s lifeline is holding fast, the tires squealing only slightly as he veers sharply off the freeway and flies down First Street.

Somewhere over the cantankerous hum of the engine, his phone rings.

“What.”

“Looks like you’ve got a demon on your tail, Shinazugawa.” A familiar voice intones through his speaker.

Sanemi smirks into the phone. “Two. You offerin’ to help, Uzui?”

There’s a crackly laugh on the other end. “Go south three blocks and take the first right. Gun through the light and then get down. It’s a straight road.”

Sanemi’s mouth thins. Three blocks south is Market Street, dangerously close to Center City — a hotbed of civilian activity, especially on a summer night like this.

“No innocents,” he warns. “We ain’t them.” The implication is clear: we only kill the bad guys.

A banal moral line, but they’ve got to draw one in the sand somewhere.

“Just focus on getting back to base without a bullet in your skull,” Uzui dismisses, but his tone loses that playful edge as it always does when he means business. “We’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

“I’m in this shit because of you.”

“And I’m the one getting you out of it.” Uzui finishes smoothly. “Be grateful I was tracking your ass.”

Sanemi doesn’t know if he likes the idea of having his movements scrutinized but he can’t worry about that right now. He clicks his phone off and tosses it to the side, not caring whether it lands on the passenger seat.

Right now, he needs to get the fuck out of here.

A deft twist of the steering wheel enables him to narrowly avoid smashing into a minivan that tries to ease into the intersection Sanemi guns through.

If he’d been hoping the pedestrian van might slow down his pursuers, he is bitterly disappointed. They pull the same stunt, the poor driver of the van laying on his horn that no one pays any heed toward.

He shakes it off; doesn’t matter. He just needs to drive.

An unfamiliar beep sounds, further fraying his nerves. His eyes find the gas on the dashboard, and Sanemi unleashes a new string of vicious swears as he realizes the low light is dinging its warning. Leave it to fucking Uzui to stick him not just with a piece of shit, but a piece of shit with a low gas tank.

Fuck, he hates driving cars. His bike allowed him to be far nimbler, to soar away from enemies as fast as the wind could take him. But his bike is back at the garage, so for now, he’s stuck with this lumbering hunk of rusted metal.

If by some miracle, it does its damn job and keeps him from having to make another unexplained trip to Tamayo to get a bullet fished out of his flesh, Sanemi swears he’ll never shit talk a car again.

Another sharp crack of gunfire rips through the evening air, and Sanemi grinds his teeth at the sound of his tail light shattering. They’re getting bold; Uzui’s assistance will mean jack shit if he doesn’t get to Market soon.

He whizzes by the signposts marking Central Avenue and Main; one more block to go.

Behind him, an engine revs and Sanemi doesn’t have to look in his rearview mirror to know the tail is nearly at his bumper. He shifts forward in his seat, ruching his shoulders up as he guns harder for Market, the demarcating stoplight growing closer, closer –

The light turns red but he does not slow; he sails through the intersection, jerking the car sharply to the right. The tires squeal and groan beneath him but the vehicle does not give. Turn cleared and hands glued firmly to the steering wheel, Sanemi throws himself to the side, ducking down below the dash.

A half second later and the telltale spray of bullets nearly shatters his eardrums.

Adrenaline vibrates in his veins, forces his foot down harder on the accelerator. He doesn’t dare breathe, and doesn’t think he could try even if he wanted to; the air is lodged in his throat, a bubble threatening to choke him. Though his ears ring, it is not enough to drown out the screeching of tires against pavement, nor does it muffle the sudden, sickening crunch of metal as the car tailing him veers off the road and slams into something hard. Half a heartbeat later, the other car meets the same fate.

The gunfire ceases for a moment and only the eerie echo of a horn lingers in the air, growing more distant with each inch he gains.

Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two –

Three gunshots fire in rapid succession, now much more muted than that first initial barrage. Only when they fade does Sanemi chance pushing himself up, allowing himself to return to his normal position the driver’s seat, the car’s speedometer hovering somewhere near eighty. Somewhere in the distance, Sanemi hears the familiar wail of police sirens, no doubt already speeding for the chaotic scene that just unfurled behind him. Swearing, he eases his frantic hurtle down Market Street, falling in line behind a string of traffic flooding out of a nearby baseball stadium, its attendees blissfully unaware of the violence that nearly followed him into their midst.

Three shots; three bodies between the cars behind him, now splattered across the interiors. Those final bullets were more a formality than anything; Sanemi suspects most if not all the car’s inhabitants had been killed in the initial blitz, but being in the Corps means being thorough. There are no survivors among enemies.

His phone bleats its shrill ring and Sanemi’s hand shakes as he lifts it to his ear.

“Clear.”

Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales.

—

He coasts back to base on fumes, but manages to sneak into a garage fashioned out of a converted warehouse, one made to store stolen vehicles like the one now guttering under the steering of his sweaty palms.

The car screeches to a stop the moment he guides it into the safe shadows of the garage, the door quickly lowered behind him by a greasy-haired Corps member whose name Sanemi can’t be fucked to remember. Fighting to quell the faint tremor lingering in his hands, Sanemi pitches himself out of the driver’s side of the car and throws the keys at the kid, kicking the door shut behind him.

Fuck, he hates when he’s rattled.

He swallows his anxiety, forces it back into whatever bottle it slipped free from as he crosses the alley toward the faintly glowing purple neon sign that marks his target location.

The Wisteria Tree is a deceptively whimsical name for the grungy den of iniquity that serves as Uzui’s homebase. The club is one of three located in the Silo and one of many that are operated throughout the city, each location ranging from cheap strip joints to upscale nightclubs, making Uzui the biggest money-maker among the Hashira. Sanemi supposes that makes sense; as long as humans have lived, there’s been a market for selling bodies.

At least Uzui takes care of his workers – pays them well, makes sure they’ve got the healthcare they need. He kept their bellies fed, and made sure Sanemi was on speed dial to take care of any customers who forgot that their dollars didn’t entitle them to rough up the merchandise.

Whores, some might call those who danced atop the sticky, sleek bars inside Uzui’s joints. Not Sanemi. Long ago, his mother had worked the streets of the Silo, trading her feeble body for spare change that she devoted to the baby boy her bastard husband had saddled her with. Sanemi’s birth had weakened her already fragile health; Genya’s arrival a few years later was the nail in her coffin, their mother being found dead on a sidestreet not three months after he’d been born, half-dressed and a crumpled twenty-dollar note in her hand.

Perhaps if she’d been employed by someone like Uzui, she would’ve lived. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and Sanemi had long-since learned that if he let himself mourn every life stamped out by the Silo, he’d never stop. Surviving meant letting bygones be bygones, so Sanemi locked away his sadness for his mother in the space between his ribs, right alongside his love for Genya and you.

And no matter; Uzui’s whores are all fiercely loyal to him and serve as the Corps’ best source of information in the City. People have a tendency to forget to watch their tongues when they believe themselves to be surrounded by nothing more than stupid whores.

Time and time again, that was their mistake.

It is dark inside The Wisteria House. The only light comes from clusters of strobing lights with colors that pulse and change in time with the beat thundering over the speakers, so loud that Sanemi can scarcely hear himself think. Though the night is young, the way the darkness inside the club swallows up any and all trace of the world outside its doors is enough to convince him he’s fallen down a rabbit hole into a land of perpetual midnight. Then again, the club thrives on sensory deprivation, relying on its ability to trick customers into thinking it’s still the wee hours of the morning, when alcohol flows freely and dollars rain from the ceilings to be tucked into the waistbands of non-existent thongs and the linings of jewel-crusted bras.

When people lose track of time, they lose track of their own inhibitions; it’s a smart business tactic on Uzui’s part. Already there are patrons lining the massive bar that sits in the center of the club’s main floor.

Stuffed far in the back behind the bar is a small hallway, nearly hidden from sight. Sanemi shoves his way back, stopping only before the unassuming door leading to the club proprietor’s office to allow the guards standing by to pat him down.

Uzui prefers the company of women to men, and it’s that preference that has Sanemi on edge. While he’s certainly never been shy around handsy women, Sanemi feels wrong allowing them to touch him, though protocol demands it.

Their hands aren’t yours.

The guards in question are two of Uzui’s favorite girls — Suma and Makio, if memory serves him correct. But neither are gentle as they search for wires Sanemi wouldn’t dream of being stupid enough to wear.

Rough hands dip into the pockets of his jacket, his pants, before sliding down his legs. “You wanna check between my ass cheeks, too?” Sanemi snaps irritably. “Or under my balls?”

“If you’re looking for someone to make you bend over, Shinazugawa, then you’ve come to the wrong place. Uzui doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” A gruff voice — Makio’s, he thinks — chuffs back.

He rolls his eyes. “Pleasure is his business.”

Neither woman bothers with an answer.

“Clean.” One confirms to the other. Sanemi does not allow himself to breathe until those hands withdraw from him.

Makio shoves open a door leading into Uzui’s office and waves him through. “Hina’s inside. Don’t linger.”

“Never do,” Sanemi grumbles, and he breezes past the two bodyguards without another word. The door swings shut behind him, muffling the thumping bass and grating dub music crackling through the club’s surrounding speakers.

For all the flashy glitz and seedy glamor of The Wisteria House, Uzui’s office is surprisingly subdued. Like the rest of the club, the small room is dark, but absent are the neon lights pulsating in time with overloud music. Instead, the office is lit by a handful of dimmed lamps and the few computer screens idly displaying the club’s logo.

A large desk stands at the back wall, flanked by one considerably smaller — more a repurposed table than anything. And behind the empty, high-backed leather computer chair neatly pushed in stands a large safe. Its door is an austere slate gray steel, one that gleams even in the muted overhead lights and takes up almost the entire back wall. The stout, wheel-turn lock looks untouched, and it’s just as much a silent brag that no one is stupid enough to fuck with it when they shouldn’t as it is a subtle dare that they try.

But Sanemi knows better.

It’s a decoy; no matter how much Uzui liked to make a spectacle of himself, he isn’t stupid enough to keep cash in such an obvious place. At least, not the type of cash that matters; not the kind Sanemi risked his neck to bring here.

Another notable thing about this hole notched in the back of the club’s sticky walls? How neat everything is. Unlike the rest of The Wisteria House, the floor here isn’t tacky from spilled alcohol and god knows what else. The surfaces of every desk, of every cabinet is free from dust and smudged fingerprints, everything properly in its place and out of sight.

It’s a rather stark contrast to the debauched chaos that plagues the rest of the club. If Sanemi were a betting man, he’d wager a fair amount of cash that the office’s tidiness had less to do with the club’s loudmouth owner, and more to do with the the pair of luminous violet eyes tracking his footsteps across the neatly swept floor.

“I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi snorts, but gives the woman seated behind the smaller side desk a tight nod. While Uzui may have expressed that sentiment with a hint of the dry sarcasm that he never dropped, Hinatsuru – the third of the silver-haired Hashira’s favored girls – was never anything short of genuine.

If he were honest, the pretty, dark-haired woman reminded him a great deal of his mother. Her face was kind in the same way Shizu’s had been, unhardened by the hollowness of her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. And, just like his mother, she always found the time to spare him a soft smile, one that seemed far too out of place in the dump they’d had the misfortune of being born into.

But where Sanemi would have normally been a bit more subdued around her, the afternoon’s events had left him far too unsettled, and he cannot remember how to blunt his bite.

He only hopes she understands.

Crossing the space between the entryway and Uzui’s great, paper-covered desk, Sanemi pulls the envelope free from the inside of his jacket and dumps its contents over the desk’s surface. “Here’s his fuckin’ money.”

The stacks thump pathetically against the stained wood, and Sanemi feels no compunctions about selecting the one nearest the top and shoving it into his pocket. He doesn’t bother counting out the amount; he knows how Uzui demands to have his cash delivered. Bundles of twenties, a hundred bills per strap.

Sanemi’s brush with the enemy will cost his fellow Hashira two grand.

“Tell him I took my cut. If he’s got an issue with it, then he can go get shot at next time. I’m outta here.”

If Hinatsuru disapproves, she says nothing. “You’re not going to lie low?”

“Fuck that.” Sanemi is already halfway out the door, his beaten leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “I’m goin’ to Kasugai. If you need anything, make it someone else’s problem.”

He’s out the door before she can say goodbye.

—

Kasugai is the nearest dive bar firmly nestled within the Corps’ territory.

While he certainly has his vices (an entire contact list of them, at that), alcohol has never been one of them. But right now, the promise of a stiff drink is calling his name, and since he hasn’t been able to indulge in any of his past dalliances in the months since you became the only thing on his mind and heart, Sanemi is desperate for a distraction.

By no means is it a respectable joint, but Kasugai is full of Silo rats like him, which means it’s the closest thing to a safe house that he has, apart from base. Not that anywhere in this City is safe for someone like him, but Sanemi takes his silver linings when and where he can.

He coasts his bike to the alley behind the dive and kills the engine. The faint scent of oil and grease lingers in the air, signaling it needs to be serviced soon.

Great. He’ll be sure to pencil that in between smashing femurs and pathetically pining after you.

The back door opens filling the air with a sudden rush of stale beer and the loud, slurred voices of the bar’s patrons. His irritation flares at the thought of having to shoulder through a throng of sweat-stained bodies sardined inside, and Sanemi decides he needs to take some of his edge off before he reaches the sticky bar top inside. He’s in no particular mood to smash in anyone’s teeth.

Good thing he’d stopped to pick up a new pack of cigarettes on his way over; a few, quick puffs is sure to calm his agitation enough to allow him to avoid picking any unnecessary fights. Though he'd brazenly insisted to Hinatsuru that he didn’t care to lie low following the brush he’d had with the Kizuki, he knows better than to make a public spectacle of himself. If word got around that Sanemi Shinazugawa, the most brutal of the Corps’ Hashira, was getting drunk at shitty bars and starting brawls with the first scrappy asshole that made the mistake of looking at him the wrong way, more of those Demons would come sniffing, eager to make a name for themselves by taking him out.

And Sanemi has no intentions of turning his recklessness with you into a greater pattern. He still has some interest in living, after all.

He thumps the sealed carton of cigarettes against his palm, loosening the tobacco before flicking the lid open and thumbing one free. Stuffing the pack back into his jacket, Sanemi rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Once lit, he brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long, indulgent drag. He holds in his breath for a moment, loosing it only when his lungs burn, the smoke curling delicately around his head.

The rush of nicotine eases some of the jitter in his limbs, quiets his racing thoughts. He needed this; if he can’t get his fix of you, then the cancerous little stick wedged between his lips is the next best thing. Puffing lightly on his cigarette, Sanemi pulls his phone free and flicks through his notifications. An update on a new shipment of fine jewelry from Iguro. A report from Genya’s school — his midterm grades. Gambling tickets that need collecting for Rengoku.

Not a single notification is from you. Just like the yesterday; just like the day before that.

Annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Sanemi takes another harsh drag before flicking some of his ash to the ground. His irritable mood isn’t your fault, he knows; it has everything to do with his inability to make a fucking decision about if or how he moves forward with you.

I love you, Sanemi.

You’ve laid all your cards out on the table already; it’s his own damn fault he hasn’t figured out how to show his hand. So no, he can’t be surprised you haven’t reached out, considering he hasn’t been able to say a damn thing at all.

Since you’re already on his mind, he figures he might as well indulge himself and think about you some more; what you might be doing right then, on the other side of town. It’s Thursday, so you’ve already dealt with your weekly shipping orders, no doubt each box already inventoried, its contents swiftly organized and shelved. He wonders whether that new release he’s been waiting on has come in; the next installment in a series you’d turned him on to, one he’d stayed up for nearly a week straight devouring in the few precious moments of free time he’d squirreled away.

Do you feel his absence as keenly as he feels yours? Since that night, there have been no movie nights, no cheap, greasy takeout dinners that he usually insisted on paying for in light of your pitiful earnings and inability to cook for yourself. He wonders whether you’ve settled back into your pre-him routine of relying on cereal for sustenance, and his mood sours even further when he realizes you probably have. After all, you’ve never shown a particular interest in your own well-being, as evidenced by your inexplicable attraction to him.

Fuck, he shouldn’t be here. He’s not in any mood for watered down liquor, and he knows better than to try and drown his feelings into a glass. If he drinks, he’s liable to act like an idiot, calling you or showing up at your place without first taking all the precautions he normally does before opening you up to the risk of his presence.

No, drinking is the last thing he needs to be doing right now, no matter how it might dull some of his edge. And unfortunately for him, the only thing he truly wants is exactly what he can’t have.

He takes one last, heavy drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. No sex and no booze; he really needs to come up with better vices.

A quick glance at his phone confirms it’s late and he should probably fuck off home before he lets temptation entice him any further. He eyes the date on his home screen and thinks about the inquiry he put in with that firm in that obsolete, faraway city.

He’ll need to pay it a visit soon; he’s got more shit to give them and, with any luck, a new account to open. But it’s been a few days since he’d received the confirmation that his query was under review, and the lack of response has him even more on edge.

If his ruse is discovered, after all, it’s not just him who’s fucked.

Sanemi leans against the solid body of his bike and retrieves his helmet. He’ll give them another couple of days to respond. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with Plan B, C, Plan whatever-the-fuck to ensure that all his soul-shredding work doesn’t go to waste once a bullet gets shoved through his brain. And perhaps sometime in between all his violence and plotting, he’ll grow a pair and figure out what the hell he’s going to do about you.

—

Crunch.

“P-please! I’ll p-pay, I s-swear —“

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi dismisses. The skin on his knuckles split a while ago, but he’s long since stopped being able to feel the sting. “Heard it all before.”

Crimson spills down the man’s face, drips down his front from his nose, flattened on its side. His plea is garbled by the blood filling his mouth, quieting into a single, wet rasp as Sanemi socks his fist hard into his soft gut.

When it came time to collect on the Corps’ debts, Sanemi finds he no longer needs to think about the how. How he breaks bones; how exacts the vengeance of his fellow Hashira when their ventures were taken for granted. Even the crow bar or steel pipe that inevitably ended up in his hand felt like a mere extension of his body, every swing, every crush of metal into flesh, pure instinct. Slipping back into this cool detachment is easy; it is a transition ingrained into his bones, the product of having spent years contorting himself into the perfect toy soldier.

The man is still doubled over, choking and sputtering to catch his breath, when Sanemi throws him back against the wall.

Blood bubbles in the corner of his busted mouth. “P-please — tell Mr. Tomioka it was a b-bad bet, b-but the next one —“

“Mr. Tomioka said you could take that bad bet and shove it up your ass.” Not exactly how the dull waste of brain matter had put it, but close enough. “Where’s his money?”

The customer babbles some pitiful excuse Sanemi can’t be bothered to piece together. He takes note only of the number of stuttered syllables, none of which point to any drawer or lockbox, and all of which stack up to reveal the admission he’s so desperate not to make.

He doesn’t have the cash to fork over.

His hands are tied, then. Sanemi has to do what only he can.

Fingers tight around the man’s collar, Sanemi spins them away from the wall. The entire room shudders when he slams Tomioka’s bloodied patron down on his own desk, the wood creaking and groaning beneath the man’s mashed cheek.

Before he can finish moaning his pained grunt, Sanemi takes his right arm and twists it sharply behind his sweaty back.

“Fifty grand to The Striking Tide. One week.” He gets the man’s arm into position. “Last warning.”His target tenses beneath him, whimpering under the mounting pressure in his arm. “Or else the next time you see me, it’ll be at the Wisteria overpass.”

The answering gulp of fear is confirmation that he understands Sanemi’s threat. All those dumb enough to dip their toes in the Corps’ Acheron learn rather quickly that the Wisteria overpass is where bodies go to disappear. Perhaps the taunt is overkill; after all, fifty grand isn’t worth the bullet. But it’s effective, judging by the trickle of urine that puddles on floor by the man’s feet.

If he thinks that’s the extent of his warning, however, he’s sorely mistaken. Sanemi doesn’t deal in empty threats.

Sanemi’s grip tightens. The arm joint pops and the man begins to beg. He knows what comes next; what Sanemi means to do, as he wraps his hand around the man’s wrist.

Blood spatters across the desk as he coughs his last plea. “N-no —!”

But there’s nowhere to run; nothing the man can do but scream as Sanemi gives a single, harsh jerk, snapping the bone.

Message received; job done.

So, Sanemi takes and he takes, and with every job completed, he reminds himself that this is what he truly is. A monster. A fiend. Not someone who might build a better life elsewhere, who could live normally – peacefully.

Not someone who deserves to have you.

As usual, the numbness doesn’t set in until after he’s finished, while Sanemi scrubs blood from hands he knows will never fully be clean. It starts as a pit deep within his stomach, but it quickly blooms into a terrifying knot of twisted brambles that takes root in his veins. Before long, Sanemi is immune to the sting of cold water on his skin as he washes and washes, unable to hear the curses being spat in his direction by his bleeding, broken target with a hatred he can’t feel.

“Fifty grand.” Sanemi repeats as he departs. His final warning sounds faraway, a disembodied voice that does not feel entirely his own. “One week.”

That unfeeling continues seeping into his bones until he’s heavy with it. By the time his bike roars through the rusted shipyard buttressing the Silo, Sanemi can’t even feel the wind whipping at his face.

The numbness follows him inside the shitty box he hardly calls home and Sanemi knows he needs a fix, and fast. A monster with a conscience is one thing; one without is a nightmare he’d prefer to avoid.

Your face flashes through his mind and some of his paralysis eases, but Sanemi pushes you away. Not now; not while he’s like this.

Though the practice of slumping on his couch and reaching for his phone feels familiar, Sanemi does not dabble in old habits. That particular cure for the gaping, gnawing paralysis that’s taken him over is one Sanemi hasn’t had the stomach for even before you’d so sweetly offered yourself to him. Now that he’s had you, he is doomed never to go back, and right now, you’re not an option.

And so, Sanemi scrolls through the contacts on his phone, his eyes glazing over at the series of entries marked by random emojis denoting his past distractions. He almost gives up, but then his half-hearted perusal turns up one name that sticks out over all the others.

Sanemi’s thumb is tapping the phone icon before he can question whether he should. It’s been too long, anyway. More than three weeks, for that matter, so he’s due to make a call.

Besides, it would do him some good to hear the little bastard’s voice. Especially right now, when his head and heart are so delightfully fucked.

He waits only two rings when the other line answers.

“Aniki?”

“What are you doing?” Sanemi glances at the tiny clock on his microwave. “You just get outta class?”

It’s a question Sanemi already knows the answer to given that he has every detail of his little brother’s schedule committed firmly to memory, but it’s an easier opener than hey, I miss you, you little shit.

“Yeah,” Genya confirms and there’s a rustling on his end, like a bag being shifted between shoulders. “I’m on my way back to the dorms now, and then – uh, practice.”

Sanemi snorts into the speaker. “You don’t have practice on Wednesdays. Try again.”

While Sanemi knows he wields far more responsibility for Genya than most siblings would claim, he tries to toe the line between responsible older brother and overbearing parent as much as his paranoia will allow. So while he may know the first and last name of every person his brother associates with, their backgrounds, his teacher’s backgrounds, and every detail of his brother’s time at school, outwardly, Sanemi makes an effort to appear like he’s not butting too much into Genya’s life.

But he won’t tolerate lying; especially not when it comes to Genya’s activities. His safety.

His brother makes a disgruntled sound. “Well – I’m – we’re going to Tanjiro’s. For dinner. A few of us.”

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I give a shit if you hang out with ‘im. As long as he ain’t gettin’ your ass in trouble.”

Not that Sanemi would be too concerned about Genya’s ability to handle himself – after all, his brother was raised in the Silo, just like him.

In his youth, Genya had been as hot-tempered as his older brother; prone to thinking his grievances had to be aired out through his fists. As Sanemi grew older, he realized how much Genya resembled his father when he had his fist cocked back, towering over some kid who’d run their mouth for too long. And while Genya hated the old man as much as he did, Sanemi couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s resemblance to Kyogo had come from Sanemi himself.

At the rate his anger had been progressing, Genya was on the path to a one-way collision with the Corps, just as Sanemi had been. The difference, however, was that as much as Genya resembled their father when enraged, he’d always known his little brother had their mother’s heart; her gentleness. He never would have made it far in the Corps, and Sanemi would be damned if he’d had to bury his brother, too.

No matter how Genya idolized his elder brother, Sanemi would not allow him to follow in his footsteps.

It wasn’t long after that he started swiping brochures for different boarding schools from the city library. The moment their old man turned cold, Sanemi shipped his younger brother away.

Genya’s reproachfulness pulls Sanemi back out of his head. “He really is a good guy –”

“I told you, I don’t give a shit if you hang out with him as long as your grades stay up and you’re keepin’ your nose clean.” Sanemi crosses his kitchen and yanks open his fridge, eyes narrowed as he scans the half-bare shelf for something to distract him. “I just think he’s annoying.”

He settles on a beer and closes the door. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig. “I wanna come up this weekend. See ya for a bit.” And to sweeten the pot, Sanemi adds, “Dinner on me. Anywhere you want.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I – sure!”

Though his brother cannot see him, Sanemi frowns. “What, I can’t come see you all of a sudden? Too cool for me?”

“No!” Genya’s voice cracks slightly and for a moment, he sounds every bit the dumpling-faced, starry-eyed boy of Sanemi’s memory rather than the nearly grown sixteen-year-old he knows him to be. “I always wanna see you – but – I mean, is everything…good? With you?”

Sanemi can’t help his rueful smile as he sets his beer on the counter. His brother knows him too well. “Yeah. I got some things I gotta talk to you about.”

“Okay,” Genya sounds skeptical. “You sure you’re good?”

Your face flashes through his mind. “Yeah. It’s just nothin’ I wanna discuss over the phone.”

It’s not a lie; Sanemi has wanted to see his brother for a while, but there’s an ulterior motive to his spur-of-the-moment decision to make the three and a half hour journey to Genya’s school. One that has little to do with his brother and everything to do with you.

“Okay,” Genya repeats again, though he still sounds uncertain. “Sanemi –”

“I’ll meet you at the campus entrance at five. Don’t be late, alright? I’m gonna be hungry.” Sanemi cuts his brother off. He’s not chancing bringing you up over the phone; not when enemies might be lurking in corners he hasn’t yet checked. Not after he’s spent most of his life living with one eye always open.

It’s his brother’s turn to sigh through the phone, Genya knowing better than to try and argue. “Okay. I’ll see you then. I gotta get back —“

“Yeah, yeah, to the Kamado shithead. I know.” Sanemi snatches his beer up and takes another swig. “I’ll see ya Friday. Keep your nose clean.”

His brother grumbles his goodbye and Sanemi hangs up, more at ease now. Talking to Genya was the right call; his younger brother had a special talent for brightening his day, whether or not the little dumbass knew it.

Now that he’s confirmed to be visiting Genya in a few days’ time, Sanemi knows he needs to plan for a stop along the way. It would be real fucking nice if the notice he’s been waiting on would come through. In fairness, it’s been a few days since he’d last checked for it, so Sanemi leans against his counter and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through the rest of his notifications and once he’s sufficiently depressed over the lack of any from you, he tabs over to a hidden folder.

To the untrained eye, the private folder is unassuming; a collection of apps marked “Misc.,” hidden behind a single passcode. And even those who might be nosy, who might be too curious as to the type of shit Sanemi Shinazugawa stored on his phone would be sorely disappointed. In fact, they might write him off as no better than any other young, single man upon discovering a folder full of apps labeled as popular porn sites, their icons tiny thumbnails of their logos.

Anyone who sought access to his phone would look for contacts, financials, some details about his involvement with the Corps or its overall operations. They would search his texts, his contacts, his photos, even. That was expected; anticipated.

But Sanemi can’t imagine anyone — cop or Kizuki alike — who would give two shits about his porn habits.

He taps the icon marked “BustyBeauties” and waits for the app to direct him to the first password screen, and then to a second. Only after he’s entered both passwords (separate, of course) does his secret email account finally open, its inbox barren save five entries.

Right there, at the top, is the message he’s been waiting for. Eagerly, Sanemi opens and reads the letter, mentally tallying every instruction, committing each detail to memory.

His impending visit to Genya really couldn’t be at a better time. He’d strategically chosen this firm because it is exactly halfway between here and the school.

A quick confirmation back to his agent later, and Sanemi has his scheduled appointment time slotted just over two hours before he’s due to meet Genya for dinner. He then opens his contacts and finds the number saved under a single flame emoji, and brings his phone to his ear, waiting.

The line picks up on the third ring.

“Rengoku?” Sanemi tips his head back and swallows the last contents of his beer in a smooth gulp. “Remember that job I did for ya a few weeks back? Got a favor. I need a car.” He pauses before adding, “And a suit.”

—-–

Life as a Hashira with the Corps entails few luxuries, but the one Sanemi appreciates most is the discretion.

When he was a lower-ranked initiate, Sanemi couldn’t so much as shit without someone knowing about it. Time was money, and every moment not spent chasing paper for the Corps was money wasted. At best, that meant a dock in pay; at worst, you’d be treated no better than any other run-of-the-mill debtor.

As a Hashira, however, he’s allowed a fair degree of wiggle room on his leash to do as he pleases, so long as a job doesn’t crop up. And even then, all it takes is a smooth lie or two to buy him some extra time, and that’s exactly what he gives Rengoku when he stops by his main hub that Friday morning to pick up his goods.

“Recon,” Sanemi says simply, catching the keys to one of Rengoku’s many vehicles that he tosses his way. “Gotta blend in, y’know?”

“Apologies for not being able to reserve something nicer,” his flame-haired comrade nods at the keys Sanemi twirls around a finger. “I’m afraid my luxury fleet is occupied at the moment.” Rengoku offers him a megawatt smile that reminds Sanemi of the flashy, bright billboards that dotted Center City — a product of top tier orthodontia, no doubt bankrolled by his family’s long-standing ties with the Corps. “Though I doubt anyone will notice while you’re wearing that suit.”

Sanemi waves him off. “Don’t sweat it. As long as I keep stickin’ my nose up, I’m sure I’ll fit right in with those rich fucks.”

Rengoku laughs heartily in response and Sanemi smirks. Though their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, Rengoku has always had a good sense of humor about the nature of the elite he’d been born into. It’s a good thing, too; after all, Rengoku’s silver spoon hadn’t prevented him from being sold off to the Corps, the same way Sanemi was.

He follows Rengoku down to a secured garage, one insulated by three, pass-code locked doors, and guarded by a handful of junior Corps members.

Despite his fellow Hashira’s apologies, the car reserved for him is a luxury model, even if Rengoku didn’t seem to think so. Then again, Sanemi supposes he and the burly blonde have very different definitions as to what constitutes high value transportation.

Whatever. It certainly isn’t the tin wad of junk he’d been forced to drive while getting shot at for Uzui, and that alone means luxury, at least to him.

Sanemi hangs the suit bag from Rengoku in the back seat. He leaves his fellow Hashira behind with a firm handshake before lowering himself into the driver’s side and closing the door.

Owlish, ochre eyes track him as Sanemi pushes the start button (of course it’s a push-start), the engine purring quietly to life. Mirrors adjusted and the A/C cranked low, Sanemi glides out of Rengoku’s garage as silent as a shadow, setting off down the road leading out of Center City and to the freeway.

The car’s interior is all rich leather and gleaming accents, the dash controlled by a sleek touchscreen that Sanemi doesn’t dare sully with his fingerprints. The car is undoubtedly a brand new model; one any average Joe would jump at the chance to drive, and yet, Sanemi remains unimpressed.

He still prefers his bike.

He stops at a gas station once he’s about sixty miles out from the city, eyes carefully scanning the parking lot as he totes the garment back inside. This particular rest stop has only single bathrooms, a preference of his when he travels. Better to have a door that locks out the rest of the world than to have to risk sidling up to some unknown enemy at the urinal.

The suit borrowed from Rengoku fits him like a glove, a serious but trendy shade of dark blue. The crisp white button down he wears beneath has been starched to perfection, and the glossy brown leather shoes he wears likely cost more than his monthly rent.

Sanemi Shinazugawa’s childhood had been anything but typical. But if he’d been normal, he imagined this is what it would’ve felt like to play dress-up. Though everything has been perfectly tailored to him, he feels like a clown.

No matter; he has a part to play and the success of his performance heavily depends on his appearance. So, Sanemi swallows his pride in that gas station bathroom, dressing quickly in his costume. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but makes sure the collar is precise and properly frames the lapel of his jacket.

His choice of forsaking the gold tie clipped inside the garment bag is intentional; while his normal appearance would certainly raise red flags among the upper echelon of the society he’s about to pretend he’s a part of, so too would him being overly polished. Thus, this small act of intentional dishevelment only serves to further his own ruse, helps him assimilate into a world he has never once been a part of.

Besides, Sanemi doesn’t do ties. He can’t stand the tightness at his throat, choking off his air; the way it feels like he’s being strangled by blended silk.

Dressed, Sanemi considers his reflection in the bathroom’s age and mildew-spotted mirror. It’s a miracle, the difference a tailored suit can make; he scarcely recognizes the face grimacing back at him.

The sink tap squeaks as Sanemi runs the water, dampening his hand and smoothing it back through his hair. There. Now he looks passably proper, no hint of the brutish thug he knows he is in sight, save for the silvery scars that cover half his face. Jack shit he can do about those though, so Sanemi stuffs his discarded clothes back into the garment bag and shoves out of the bathroom, the tap on the sink still running behind him.

—

Another half hour passes before Sanemi takes the exit leading to a small town, about ten miles off the freeway.

It’s almost jarring how quickly the world around him shifts from an endless stretch of asphalt to finely crafted brick and limestone. This town is a far cry from the gilded glamor of the City. It’s respectable; clean, without so much as a hint of an overfilled trash can in sight. Once he steps outside, he knows he will be greeted by the faint, lingering scent of summer magnolia blossoms, rather than the familiar, urine-soaked sulfur which encases the Silo.

The median household income of this town is triple than that of even the City’s dwindling middle class. But the wealth of its residents is precisely what makes this town so unassuming. No one would suspect a gang rat like him would ever set foot in a place like this, let alone know how to blend in, and that is exactly why he chose this place to begin with.

Sanemi cruises down a familiar cobbled street, passing stately brick townhomes that look more like mini mansions than the law offices and specialty practices he knows them to be. Then again, the people who live here wouldn’t deign to live in something as small as a townhouse, what with their sprawling estates on the other side of town, locked behind the safety of tall iron gates.

It isn’t long before Sanemi slows to a stop right outside yet another colonial mansion. Car parked and engine turned off, Sanemi steps out and fastens his suit jacket with an off-handed ease, as though the motion is second-nature. As though he is used to traversing through wealthy streets in a custom suit.

Gloved security men open the building’s double doors to him the moment his foot hits the first stair.

The inside of the bank is all rich wood and high ceilings. The wide floor is flanked by rows of tidy desks, each topped with antique banker’s lamps. Glass-walled offices line the perimeter, reserved for only the highest-value clients who wish to deal privately with their assets and away from any overly-curious ears. It’s toward these offices that Sanemi strides, his face schooled carefully into a mask of neutrality even as his pulse quickens.

“Mr. Masachika,” a receptionist outside the furthest glass office nods to him, rising from her desk to greet him. “Punctual as always.”

Sanemi returns her welcome with a closed-lip smile that makes her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. The guilt he’d once felt over using the surname of a long-dead friend had run out years before, when he’d been young and desperate to get his brother the fuck out of the Silo.

Besides, he didn’t think Masachika would mind, if he knew his reasoning.

Behind the glass wall, Sanemi spies the familiar face of his accountant. Her secretary pokes her head inside the door and murmurs his name, and the accountant’s eyes rise over the top of her computer. The receptionist is dismissed with a curt nod, and she steps aside.

That’s his cue; Sanemi mutters a small thank you and the door behind him is pulled shut. He returns the accountant’s firm handshake and settles into the small, leather chair that sits opposite of hers, and waits.

The entire office is encased in glass, offering both the accountant and every visitor a perfect, three-sixty view of the entire bank. From a practical standpoint, Sanemi can understand its use; this bank handles considerable assets, so it’s no wonder that even the accountants want to be able to monitor every movement, every face, which passes through its doors.

Still, though, something about it sets him on edge; makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A lifetime spent operating in the shadows means Sanemi hates feeling too exposed, and this fishbowl of an office is about as comforting as a helicopter searchlight.

The accountant’s clipped voice snaps him out of his mounting paranoia. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Masachika. I see you’re here for an asset transfer, and perhaps to discuss a new account?”

“Indeed I am,” the formality with which he speaks feels foreign, and yet, the words roll easily off his tongue. “The Principal’s estate has generated some new revenue, and it is his desire to add another family member as a beneficiary.”

“I see.” The accountant’s fingers move quickly over her keyboard. “Before we begin, I will need to verify your identity and your legal authority.” Her eyes flash to his and she offers him an apologetic smile. “It’s an annoying formality, I know, given how familiar we are with you. But our system won’t allow me to proceed until I re-enter the information.”

“Of course.” He presents her with the documents he’d had forged assigning him power of attorney over one Sanemi Shinazugawa (“the poor bastard was in a nasty car wreck. Practically a vegetable,” he’d told the accountant more than two years ago), and he waits.

His palms are sweaty where his hands rest in his lap, but Sanemi resists the urge to fidget. His nerves are nothing new; he always feels anxious here, when he’s wearing the mask of another, more so than he would back home. At least his Hashira mask is not all that different from the core of what he is; here, the identity he assumes is his exact opposite, and the microscope he operates under feels more intense.

The accountant enters the information with a punctual tap of her finger on her computer key, and turns her attention back to him. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, how may we be of assistance?”

“Fifty thousand split between the two trusts for Genya Shinazugawa,” Sanemi says smoothly, reaching into the suit jacket pocket to produce an envelope full of a thick stack of cash and a folded piece of paper. “And another fifty into a new account, to be opened under this name.”

The accountant unfolds the sheet and skims the information, her lips pursed.

A bead of sweat slides down Sanemi’s spine, the skin over his knuckles nearly turn white where his hand clenches in his lap, hidden from sight.

“Very well, Mr. Masachika,” the accountant nods before she begins promptly typing the information into her computer. “And we thank Mr. Shinazugawa for his continued business. Ms. Y/L/N’s trust will be active within the next forty-eight hours.”

Beneath the ledge of her tidy little desk, the hand fisted on his thigh relaxes and Sanemi conceals his quiet sigh of relief by feigning a sneeze.

A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency.

—

It’s a quarter til five when Sanemi rolls to a stop outside the pristine entrance of his brother’s school. Classes have just let out, and already he can see the flood of boys rushing the courtyard and the quad, laughing away the stress of the day.

Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.

He finds Genya easily; the boy sticks out above the others mulling about the campus in the late-afternoon sun by his height and brawn alone, but his mohawk is what really sets him apart. For as long as he could remember, his brother had always worn his hair like that – a mop thick, dark hair carefully arranged, the sides of his head always sheared close to his skin. The school’s dress code had initially prohibited it, and ten-year-old Genya had thrown himself a right little temper tantrum when he was ordered to shave it.

A well-placed bribe by Sanemi enabled the admin to overlook it. He hadn’t been able to eat more than a can of beans for an entire month after, but it was worth keeping his brother happy.

Genya loiters under one of the campus streetlamps, his arms folded over his chest, his face set into what he must imagine is a menacing scowl.

Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff.

He types a quick text to his brother and watches as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, his head shooting up. All of that feigned coolness melts away the moment Genya spots him standing at the bricked archway marking the school’s campus. In an instant, Sanemi’s little brother is bounding toward him with a lopsided grin, half-stumbling over his feet in excitement.

With his uniform rumpled, a casual carelessness only a teenager could spare, Genya looks every bit the boy Sanemi himself never got to be.

It is not self pity that sinks into his gut at the thought; it’s relief. Because that means Sanemi has at least done something right in his life.

“Aniki!”

“Hey, brat.” Sanemi returns his brother’s wide, toothy grin with a half-smirk of his own. “How’ve ya been?”

Genya skids to a halt in front of him, his arms half raised as though he means to hug his brother, before they drop back to his sides. When he was a boy, Genya was prone to throwing his arms around Sanemi’s neck whenever his brother returned home with a small bag of candy, or a cheap little toy car he’d managed to swipe from the corner store, pealing with laughter and gratitude that always left Sanemi feeling slightly embarrassed, even as he’d pat his brother’s back.

That impulse, it appears, still lingers, but Genya tampers it down, perhaps too aware of the number of curious eyes that watch the two of them. Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, his brother has an image he wants to maintain. Probably the same tough-guy bullshit he liked to front in his youth, when he pretended like he didn’t beg his big brother to tote him around on his back.

“‘M fine,” Genya rocks back and forth on his heels. “You?” His eyes are wide as they count the new scars peppering the skin of his exposed forearms, some snaking their way up to his elbow before disappearing under the rolled cuff of his sleeves.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sanemi cuts off his brother’s question before the boy can find the nerve to ask it. “Side effect of the gig. You know that.” He tugs at the shirt’s starchy collar in discomfort. “Where’d ya wanna eat?”

“There’s a good breakfast buffet a few blocks away. All you can eat.” Genya rubs the back of his neck, shy. “Good for the dollar too.”

Sanemi scoffs. “We’ll stop there on the way back. I’m takin’ you to get something decent first.” Sanemi throws an arm around his shoulders and tries not to scowl at the fact he has to stretch up somewhat, his brother now standing a good inch taller than he. “They feedin’ you here? You feel scrawny.”

Not entirely true, but Sanemi feels rather bruised that his brother has surpassed him in height. Now, the only thing he has over him is his own brawn, though from his cursory squeeze of Genya’s shoulder, he finds that his brother runs the risk of catching up to him in that department as well.

It takes no time for them to fall into their respective roles: Genya, immediately launching into a rambling play-by-play of every single thing he’s done since they’d talked a few days later, so animated he hardly remembers to take a breath. And Sanemi easily assumes his role as the listener, occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes as his brother recounts his antics.

As they walk, Sanemi supposes that from afar, they look more like friends than a pair of brothers. But despite having the advantage of height, Genya’s youth is betrayed by the way he curls in on himself as he walks, his shoulders slumped and his head half-pulled in like that of a turtle.

Normally, he’d admonish his brother’s poor posture, but he lets it slide. Because, despite the mildly disinterested set of his mouth, Sanemi is far too happy to see his brother’s unscarred, smiling face.

—

Despite a rather extravagant meal at one of the best steakhouses in the area, Sanemi knows his brother is still hungry, and that is how they end up at Genya’s suggested diner not twenty minutes after Sanemi had paid their first bill.

“Seriously, the hell am I payin’ them an arm and a leg for?” Sanemi scowls as Genya lopes back to their table booth, the plate in his hands piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, enough to give anyone the distinct impression his brother had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. “Thought their big braggin’ point was the gourmet dining hall they have. Buffet style and shit.”

“Yeah, but they cut you off after fourths.” Genya’s eyes gleam, his fork hovering over his bounty as he decides what to start on first. “It’s okay though. Zenitsu and I sneak food back to the dorms all the time.”

He settles on his pancakes right as a waitress brings over their drinks — a soda for him and a hot tea for Sanemi.

Genya points at the empty stretch of table before his brother with his knife. “Not hungry?”

He lifts his mug by its steaming rim and blows on the liquid. “Not like you.”

Genya shrugs and tears into his pancakes with the same vigor as a hyena does its prey, forgoing his knife in favor of ripping off large chunks of the sweet with his teeth.

Sanemi waits until his brother has chewed his first mouthful before he speaks.

“I saw your midterm grades. Good work.”

Genya’s head shoots up from where he inhales his food, his eyes wide. Just as quickly he straightens and drops his gaze again, his cheeks, red.

“Thanks, Aniki.” He murmurs after a thick swallow, bashful. “I know my math grade wasn’t the best —“

“It’s an improvement from last term. That’s all I care about.” Sanemi takes a measured sip of his tea and scowls. Too weak. He’s been spoiled; you always know how to make it the way he likes.

But there’s nothing else he can distract himself with in the periods of silence in which his brother shovels his food into his mouth, so Sanemi forces himself to drink it. The liquid is still piping hot, enough so that it burns his tongue, but he pays it no mind. His scorched taste buds just make it easier to choke it down.

“You hangin’ with anyone else? Or just Kamado and the other shits?” He asks after a moment, his eyes sharp over the lip of his mug. Anyone new? Anyone I haven’t properly vetted?

“Still ‘em,” his brother answers through another garbled mouthful of pancake. “Muichiro ‘n Zenitsu, too.”

“What about the other one?” And when Genya raises a confused eyebrow, he clarifies. “The one with rabies.”

His brother snorts and swallows half a piece of bacon. “Inosuke?”

“Yeah. That thing.”

“He doesn’t have rabies — he wore a taxidermied boar head one time —“

“Yeah, and you dumbasses ended up in the Dean’s office because he’d stolen it.” Sanemi narrows his eyes, annoyance flaring at the memory of the phone call he’d received right in the middle of breaking Maeda’s left leg. He’d had to shove the toe of his boot into the rat’s mouth to keep him quiet while he’d borne the brunt of the Dean’s condescending lecture about why it was unacceptable for students to break into the science and tech building mess with the school’s natural history displays.

As though he’d been the one to break curfew and at least half a dozen other school rules, and not his shithead brother.

Genya only shrugs and returns his focus to his food. He hunches over his plate, leveling his mouth with its edge as he shovels in the rest of his pancakes.

Sanemi watches in muted distaste as his brother shifts to attack his eggs with the same ferocity, only remembering to come up for air to take a long gulp of his drink.

“There’s a girl, Gen.”

The boy’s head snaps up, his jaw slack enough that a dribble of his soda escapes down his chin.

Sanemi wrinkles his nose. “Close your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Genya swallows thickly and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “A girl?”

“Yeah.”

“A real one?”

Sanemi chokes on a slurp of his tea. “The fuck does that mean?”

“N-nothing!” Genya turns bright red and shrinks beneath Sanemi’s accusatory glare. “Just, you’ve never — at least, you’ve never told me about anyone you’re seeing —“

“That’s ‘cause I don’t see anyone.”

His brother eyes him carefully. “But…you are now?”

For a moment, Sanemi says nothing; he only plays with his unused knife, spinning it on its tip as he considers his words.

“Things…escalated. Between us.” Sanemi frowns. It’s the most judicious way he can put it; he doesn’t exactly air the details of his sex life to his younger brother on principle, but at the same time, there’s no other way he can phrase it. “And I don’t know what’s gonna happen going forward.”

The implication of exactly how things between Sanemi and you changed is not lost on his brother, and Genya’s cheeks turn a faint red. He focuses hard on his half-eaten eggs before him, pushing them around with his fork.

“You…like her though, right?”

Sanemi grimaces. Far more than that, actually. It’s a truth he’s hardly been able to admit to himself, save his silent utterance against your hair long after you’d fallen asleep on him that night.

He’s in love with you. And fuck if that’s not the most terrifying damn thing in the world.

Genya must realize it too, for he only offers a soft “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sanemi leans forward on his elbows, his hands folded under his chin. “And fuck if I know what to do about it. Woulda been easier if I hadn’t crossed the line, but well,” he gives his brother a wry grin. “Since when have I ever made shit easy for myself?”

For a moment, there’s no sound but that of Genya’s fork scraping across his plate. “What does she think?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”

Genya’s eyes widen in something like horror. “You mean - you all —“ he turns scarlet. “You all did — whatever — and you haven’t talked to her since?”

His face heats and Sanemi disguises his discomfort with a cough that he tucks into his mug as he forces himself to drink the watery tea.

Only when he can’t avoid his brother’s discerning look any longer does Sanemi set his cup down. “Shit, Gen,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to do about her at this point.”

The boy turns his fork over again and again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “You want to be with her though, don’t you? Like, date and stuff?”

Sanemi scowls. “I don’t know. I’ve never really dated anyone. You know how shit is. The risks. I can’t even be a normal brother to you, so I sure as shit ain’t boyfriend material.”

Genya chews on his lip and then shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission, I guess.” He glances up and this time, he doesn’t cower under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. “Are you?”

But Sanemi doesn’t know the answer to his brother’s question, and if he did, he supposes he wouldn’t still be stuck in this limbo.

“You’re allowed to be selfish, Aniki.” Genya’s voice softens to something almost gentle. “You’re allowed to do things that’ll make you happy. I wish you would.”

Sanemi doesn’t have many memories of their mother, but he does remember how she spoke to him. Always kind, always loving in a way that made him feel a flutter of happiness; a warmth, even when the lights at home had been cut off, and they were slowly freezing half to death.

That’s exactly how Genya speaks to him now, and it makes him want to squirm. He’s already feeling too emotionally exposed thanks to his feelings for you; he doesn’t need to turn to mush in front of his baby brother simply because Genya managed to inherit all the good of a woman he’d never known.

Gruffly, Sanemi clears his throat. “I’m tellin’ you all this for a reason. You know how I’ve got stuff for you, if somethin’ happens to me?”

His little brother scans anxiously behind him, before answering in a hushed voice, “The accounts?”

“Jesus, be more obvious, why don’t you?” Sanemi rolls his eyes and brings his mug to his lips. He tips his head back and swallows the rest of the cup’s watery contents in a single gulp. “Yeah. Those. You still got that lockbox with all that shit in it?”

The one Sanemi had brought to his brother’s dorm in the dead of night and had him shove beneath his bed. Genya nods.

“Good,” Sanemi reaches into his jacket and pulls free a small envelope folded twice. “Put this in there, too. It’s for her. You know the drill. I wrote down all her info on the cover sheet. If anything happens, give her a call and have her meet you outside the City. I don’t want you going near it, understand?”

Genya nods and accepts the parcel Sanemi slides across the table, tucking it safely into his own jacket lining.

A waitress brings them their check and Sanemi tosses a few bills onto the table. They wait for Genya to chug the rest of his drink and then the two set off, the bell above the door chiming as it swings shut behind them.

It sounds just like the one that dangles above your store door.

—-

The walk back to Genya’s campus takes considerably longer than it should, though the diner is only about four blocks away. Not that Sanemi minds; in fact, he’s purposefully walking slower, wanting to stretch out the minutes until he has to bid his brother goodbye as long as he can. Whether Genya knows, or whether he’s simply acting on his own hesitancy, he can’t say, but his brother seems not to be in any more of a hurry than he is. God knows the next time Sanemi will get to see him.

If he’ll see him again at all. This single day of pretend away from the Corps hasn’t changed shit about his life expectancy, and Sanemi wants to savor every moment he can.

All of it is for him, after all.

Soon, far too soon, the iron and stone gates of the school come into view, and Sanemi steels himself against the impending goodbye. His brother never failed to look at him with the same, wide-eyed trepidation he’d had the very first time Sanemi had brought him here; a child-like fear of the unknown, even though Genya was all-too aware of his brother’s likely future. It was an anxiety that never failed to make Genya hug him harder, cling on longer than he should, until Sanemi was forced to push him away.

It killed him, every time.

He won’t get choked up in front of Genya – he won’t. He’ll swallow his heartache, choke it back until only a tear or two escapes down his cheek as he drives away, the school and his brother safely in his rearview mirror.

Sanemi turns to his brother, dread curdling in his stomach. He parts his lips, ready to give him the gruff, guess I’ll be headin’ out, that always precipitates this most dreaded goodbye, but his brother speaks up first.

“I think,” Genya hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before his lips press into a firm line. “I think you should decide what you want. Our whole life, you’ve been making decisions to survive, y’know?” And he shakes his head. “You’ve never done what you wanted. I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me but —“

Genya trails off for a moment and looks out to the proud, stately campus quad sprawling before them. “I think it’s time to be selfish for once, Aniki. You’ve earned it. You can’t survive on your own.” He turns back to his elder brother with a wan smile. “You know that better than anyone. Used to tell me all the time.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting Genya to say, but it sure as shit wasn’t that. It isn’t often that he’s caught off guard; even less than he’s left at a loss for words, and for once, Sanemi finds it difficult to meet his brother’s eyes. “It’s not that simple. Me bein’ selfish has consequences.”

“But — I mean, you’ve already made a choice in a way, right?” Sanemi’s gaze snaps to him as Genya’s hand pats his jacket, right over where the envelope bearing your name sits. “You might as well enjoy it.”

He stares at his brother for a long moment until Genya’s cheeks turn pink. “When the fuck did you get so grown?”

“Yeah, well,” his brother shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a stray pebble. “Maybe you just needed to hear you’re allowed to be a little happy.”

“You sayin’ I’m a grouch?”

“Yeah,” Genya admits with a toothy grin. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, y’know? Maybe she can make you nicer.”

Sanemi mirrors his shit-eating smirk. “An asshole, huh?” With a viper-like swiftness, he locks an arm around his brother’s neck and yanks him down, mashing his knuckles into Genya’s head. “Still an asshole when I let you eat a hole through my wallet?”

“Ani — Sanemi —!“ Genya wrestles with Sanemi’s arm, helpless against his elder brother’s playful assault on his carefully-styled mohawk.

Sanemi lets himself indulge in this brief moment of rough-housing and for a second, he imagines this is what it would’ve been like had life dealt them a less-shitty hand. Just two brothers, wrestling on the lawn, laughing with a freeness neither one of them had ever known.

Just two boys.

But like all good things in his life, the moment ends, and Sanemi straightens, his grin sliding from his face. Genya sorts himself out, too, though his eyes turn sad.

“Guess you gotta hit the road, right?”

Sanemi swallows around the lump growing in his throat and nods. “I’ll text ya when I’m back.”

As tall and brawny as his little brother is, Genya looks every bit a kicked puppy as he stares hard at the ground, his lips mashing together in an effort Sanemi knows is meant to keep himself from crying.

“Stay safe, Aniki.” His voice is small.

A hand reaches out and clasps the boy around the shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll try,” Sanemi says roughly, clearing his throat. His brother’s arm squeezes tightly around his neck, and Sanemi closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that they are kids again.

He claps Genya on the back and pulls away. “Go on,” he juts his chin toward the dorms. “Not having you gettin’ your ass chapped over missing curfew on my account.”

The boy rubs at his eyes and fakes a yawn to cover how they water. “I know. Thanks, Aniki. For visiting.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi waves him off, flashing him a crooked grin. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Get back to your studies.”

With that, Genya turns and shuffles back toward his dorm, periodically looking over his shoulder. Sanemi holds his arm up in farewell, and stays there until his brother is safely inside and out of his sight.

And only then does he lower his hand to wipe at the tears misting in his eyes.

–

The entirety of the more than three-hour drive back to the City is completed in total silence.

It’s done out of preference, more than anything. Sanemi is too used to his bike’s lack of a radio, the rumbling purr of its motor, the only noise that accompanies him on his rides. The radio carries too much potential for distraction, and Sanemi won’t impair his senses if he can help it.

Besides, after Genya’s too-shrewd observations of the shitshow that is his lovelife, Sanemi needs the hours to think.

The day he’d been initiated as a Hashira was the day Sanemi’s future had ended. The moment he’d been pushed to his knees, his shirt stripped from his back, he understood that his life began and ended with the Corps. As he’d searched the faces of the other Hashira, noting the youth in each of their features, he’d known that his expiration date was likely sooner rather than later. It was only logical; to rise up to the level of Hashira meant you had skills that painted a target on your back. To claim a kill on one of them meant solidifying your own status within whatever fringe group you belonged to. When the Kizuki came along, they’d only upped the ante, offering exorbitant payouts to even non-affiliates who could deliver on a Hashira’s head.

So yeah, Sanemi had known his chances of making it out of his twenties were slim to none. He thought he’d given up any idea of growing old the moment Uzui placed that searing hot iron between his shoulders, every trace of a future untainted by blood sizzling away under the pop and crackle of his burning skin.

Until you.

Your simple existence had been a seed that was cultivated the longer he’d gotten to know you, one that blossomed into a portrait of what his life might be, rather than what it is. And once he’d seen it, he’d not been able to look away. It was a life of happiness; unshackled and unburdened by the Corps, the stains of his misdeeds finally washed from his skin. One that ends not in a spray of gunfire and an unmarked grave, but when he’s old and gray, surrounded by kids and grandkids, tangible proof of a life long-well lived.

A life created out of his love for you. With you.

It was one thing for him to keep these reveries locked tightly in his heart, only to be taken out under the dark cover of solitude and handled carefully, a fairytale like those in that book with the story of the beauty and the beast. To keep them confined to a secret sanctuary for him to retreat into whenever he needed to pull himself out of that gaping numb chasm that always opened in his chest after a particularly bad job. He’d never need to seek comfort or distraction in the arms of another again, not as long as he had this small dream of what could’ve been to keep him warm. There would’ve been no need to get you involved at all, save the permanent place you’d hold in his heart.

You would be safe and he would’ve been alone, as intended. As needed.

But he’d gotten greedy; and when you’d looked up at him, sweaty and naked and vulnerable, and told him you loved him, Sanemi had seen how that small, glowing dream of his was more than what could have been. It was what still could be.

Sanemi rests his hand on his fist, his left arm propped on the ledge of the driver’s window as his other guides the steering wheel. Never before has he felt so torn between two paths. Then again, he’s never been presented with a choice; he has only ever been forced to adapt to the shit life hurled his way.

And it had thrown one hell of a wrench at his head through you.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Sanemi sits up, eyes widening in thought. His brother’s question packs more punch than he’d initially realized, settling over him like a weight as he drives.

Is there any choice left to be made at all?

Perhaps the part of him that has screamed and cursed his stupidity for doing the one thing he’d sworn not to do hadn’t been his own conscience at all. Perhaps it had been the Corps’, and Sanemi, too accustomed to being an extension of its will, had simply been unable to know the difference. After all, wasn’t that the entire reason he’d let himself be forced to his knees all those years ago to be branded – in order to forsake his own identity so he might be re-forged into a weapon through burning hot iron? Had he not whored himself out, allowed himself to be bent and molded and beaten into the perfect shape of a soldier in exchange for the promise of a filled belly and the chance that Genya might be free of the cage they’d been born into?

That had all been before; he’d lost himself somewhere between the stench of his burning flesh and the black, twisted underbelly of the Corps. And it wasn’t until you appeared that Sanemi had dared to wonder whether he might find his way back to himself.

You were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky; the light in the dark whose fire revealed the beauty in the shadows of his small world that he hadn’t known existed. Was it selfish of him to want to pluck you from the horizon and tuck you into his pocket, for keeps? Perhaps. But Sanemi had spent so much time alone in the dark that he hadn’t been able to help wanting to cling to what little brilliance had been brought into his life.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Genya had hit the nail right on the fucking head. All this time, he has been agonizing over what he should do without any consideration as to what it is he wants. After a life of having to make decisions to survive, he really shouldn’t have expected anything less — he simply didn’t know how to do anything different. But he’d made a choice the moment he’d laid you back against your blankets, drunk on your lips and ensorcelled by the feel of your skin sliding with his.

So what does he want?

The answer is easy; so easy, in fact, even his kid brother could see it.

He wants you. Only you.

Don't worry, he's gonna go get her.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

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

691 notes · View notes

ariestrxsh · 2 months

Text

╭══• ೋ•✧๑*<♡>*๑✧•ೋ •══╮

⚠️ content warning: ⚠️ smut, utter filth, threesome(ish), cuckhold!chris, dom!matt, use of toys, light elements of BDSM, slapping, spitting, choking, teasing, edging, praise, light humiliation, oral, fingering, masturbation, light fluff if you squint

✍️ Summary: ✍️ You and Chris have been dating a long time now, and you overhear him sharing a fantasy with Matt about wanting to watch you with another man. With Matt being the only person Chris trusts with you, he's the perfect candidate.

╰══• ೋ•✧๑*<♡>*๑✧•ೋ •══╯

"Matt, can I ask you something?" I woke up to my boyfriend Chris asking his brother with a shakiness in his voice. I must have dozed off. I was curled up on Chris' bed, and both Chris and Matt were sitting in front of me on the floor with their back facing me, playing fortnite. "You just did, idiot. But sure. What's up?" Matt responded. "Is it normal to like..." Chris started, but hesitation lingered in his voice. "Come on, spit it out, kid," Matt poked fun at him. I wasn't sure if I should alert Matt and Chris to the fact that I was awake or not. I kind of felt like I was overhearing an interaction I shouldn't be, but I didn't want to ruin the moment, and selfishly, I wanted to know what Chris was gonna ask his brother. "Is it normal to have fantasies about your girlfriend being with other men, sexually?" Chris confided in Matt. "I mean, it's not totally uncommon," Matt said, snickering at his brother's question.

My eyes widened as I heard their conversation. "Well, I really wanna watch my girlfriend with another man, but I don't know how to talk to her about it," Chris admitted. "Just ask her if she's into that kind of thing or if there's a guy she finds attractive that you guys would both trust enough to do that with," Matt suggested. "Well, there's one guy that comes to mind that I know she finds attractive that we both trust," Chris said, side-eyeing Matt. "Okay, great, then ask him," Matt replied. "I'm trying to, but he's not getting the hint," Chris said after a few seconds of silence. My jaw dropped.

Matt calmly set his controller down and looked over at Chris, "Are you saying you want to watch me fuck your girlfriend?" Matt asked, a smirk forming in the corner of his lip, and Chris couldn't tell if Matt was smiling because he was flattered or because he was about to start teasing him. "Dude, sorry. Just forget it. I can't believe I just asked that," Chris said looking at the floor, his face growing red with embarrassment. "Dude. You don't have to ask me twice. I'll fuck your girlfriend in front of you. That sounds hot as fuck," Matt was almost stunned by his own response. I felt myself growing wet while I listened to Matt eagerly say he'd fuck me. Chris looked back up at Matt, letting down his defenses.

"Just a few questions though," Matt said. "Sure," Chris answered. "Do you think she'll go for it? How do you know she's attracted to me?" "I mean, we've never directly talked about it. But the way she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching. I'm confident she wants you, bro," Chris said, smirking at his brother. Matt couldn't help but to smile as Chris stroked his ego. I didnt realize it was that obvious I was attracted to Matt, but then again, he and Chris looked even more similar than most other siblings. How could I not want them both? "Next question - what are the limits? Is there anything you're not okay with me doing?" Matt inquired. Chris mulled over the question, appreciating that Matt was actually taking this matter seriously and handling it with care. "No actually. I guess the limits would be up to her." "Last questions - are you sure? And have you thought about and accepted the consequences that could come from this decision?" "Yes, I have, and yes. I'm sure," Chris said confidently. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but I was loving the sound of it.

"What kind of things does she like in bed?" Matt asked, looking over at Chris and biting his lip. "She loves being eaten out and fingered more than any other girl I've been with," Chris chuckled to his brother, and I felt my face grow red with embarrassment. "And she loves when you talk dirty to her, especially if you call her 'good girl,' I promise it'll drive her crazy," he told Matt over the sound of their thumbs tapping against their controllers. "She like it rough? Or do you think she'd want me to be gentle?" Matt inquired, letting his imagination run wild. "Definitely slow and gentle at first, but once she starts really getting into it, she'll let you slap her around. She loves toys and restraints and shit like that," Chris giggled, and Matt devilishly smiled back in response, "good to know." It felt like a bit of an invasion of privacy as Chris spilled all the secrets about what I liked in bed to his brother, and I didn't know why, but the humiliation turned me on a little bit.

Once their conversation came to a close, I finally rolled out of bed, curled up on the floor nestled into Chris' arms, and tried to act like I didn't just hear their conversation, but it was hard, because I could barely look them in the eyes, especially Matt. The sexual tension between the three of us was so palpable. A few times, I caught Matt hungrily staring at me out of the corner of my eye. The way he was looking at me made me feel like prey he was about to hunt, and this undeniably made me soak my panties even more. I really hoped the conversation Matt and Chris just had would come to fruition, but I didn't want to get too attached to the idea in case Chris was just thinking with his dick when he said that, and if he'd get cold feet. Or if Matt would back out and suddenly think it was too weird.

A few weeks had passed, and I had pretty much given up on the fantasy that Chris would share me with his brother when he didn't mention anything to me about it. But one day, he was over at my house, and we were cuddling on my couch, watching a movie called Deep Water. Neither of us knew what the movie was about when we turned it on to watch it, but it was a really hot movie with elements that I knew Chris was wrestling with in his mind. "I have to be so honest, babe. This shit is turning me on so bad," Chris admitted in a sultry voice. "Oh yeah, why's that?" I asked, egging him on.

"Actually, I wanna talk to you about something," Chris started, pausing the movie. I gave him my full attention, taking in the sight of him, his soft, disheveled brown hair, his blue eyes, his pouty lips. "Would you ever let me watch another dude fuck you?" He finally articulated after a few moments of heavy silence, avoiding eye contact with me. "W-what?" I asked, playing dumb, hoping he would elaborate more. "I know it's a weird question. I've just been having a lot of fantasies lately. And I don't know how I'll actually react in the moment if it happens, but sometimes I think about you with another guy, and it really gets me going," he admitted, finally gaining the confidence to look up from the floor. "I mean, I've always thought a threesome with another guy would be hot," I confided in him. "Yeah? Me too. I don't know why the idea of another man getting you off and you getting him off.. it just does something to me," Chris whispered as I watched a look of desire overcome his expression. "It would be fun to make it into something more than just a fantasy," I replied, fiddling with the rip on the thigh of my jeans. "I would fucking love that," Chris said, pulling me closer to him by my waist and planting kisses on my cheek and my forehead. "Any guys you have in mind?" Chris wondered. "Just whoever you trust the most. But obviously I have to find him attractive," I responded, knowing Chris and I both already had Matt in mind, but I was too afraid to say his name on the off-chance it might hurt Chris to hear me confirm my sexual attraction to his brother. "I know the perfect guy, but it's gonna be a surprise," Chris sneered back.

A few days later, Chris invited me over. "Wear your sexiest lingerie underneath your clothes, baby. I've got big plans for you tonight," he growled into the phone. I picked out a baby pink balconette bra with lace trim and bow and a matching thong. I felt so sexy as I stood in front of the mirror, imagining how Matt would react the first time laying eyes on me like this. I threw on some sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, and I drove over to Chris' place.

After parking in the driveway, I texted him that I was there and let myself in through the unlocked front door. The house was quiet, and although Matt's car was in the driveway, I didn't see him anywhere. "Chris?" I called, as I pushed open his bedroom door. Before me was the most romantic gesture from Chris I'd ever received before. There were about a dozen lit candles in the room, there were rose petals on the bed, and he had all my favorite toys out - bed restraints, a feather tickler, and my vibrator I kept at his place. My eyes lit up as I took in the sight of it all, the best part being my gorgeous boyfriend sitting at the foot of the bed in the warm glow of the candlelight. He was in nothing but a white tank top and dark green boxers. "Chris, this is incredible," I said in a soft voice.

Chris stood up from the bed and made his way over to me. He caressed my cheek with his hand and kissed my lips. "Take off your clothes, baby. There's someone in the other room, and he requested to see you in your best lingerie and tied to the bed when he comes in," Chris said, licking his lips while he grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it up over my head. "Oh, he's gonna love seeing you in this, darling. It's gonna drive him crazy, I promise," Chris gasped, running his finger seductively over the neckline of my bra where it met my bare skin. He then tugged at the waistband of my sweats and peeked down to see what panties I was wearing. "Good girl. You understood the assignment perfectly. He's gonna cream himself when he gets a load of you," Chris gassed me up, pulling my sweats down and helping me out of them one leg at a time. He picked me up, gripping my ass while I straddled his waist. Our lips embraced one another's in a succession of deep and passionate kisses.

He carried me over to the bed and laid me down. "If at any point you feel uncomfortable and you want to stop or take a break, just use our safeword. I told him what it is too, so I promise we'll take good care of you and we won't force you outside of your limits," Chris whispered tenderly to me while he restrained all four of my limbs to the bed. I nodded. Chris' words were sweet and thoughtful, and I felt so safe knowing I was in good hands tonight. "Are you ready, baby?" He asked, looking into my eyes. I bit my lip and whispered, "So ready."

Chris ducked out of the room for a moment, and I heard him say something along the lines of, "she's ready for you." I could hardly contain my excitement as Chris walked into the room with Matt trailing behind him. I tried to look surprised. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of black boxers and a silver chain around his neck. His eyes lit up as he took in the view of me tied to the bed in my lacey pink lingerie. "Wow, ma, you look so pretty for me. This is exactly what I had in mind," Matt said to me in a hushed voice while he climbed onto the bed. He crawled between my legs, and his lips met mine. It felt a lot like kissing Chris, but he was a little more gentle, and he took his time a little more slowly, like he was savoring the taste of my lips. Matt pulled away from the kiss and looked deep into my eyes. "Chris is such a good boyfriend, wanting to make you feel as good as possible. He's so sweet for sharing this with me," Matt mumbled, while he took his fingers and started tracing circles around my clit through my underwear. I let out a soft whimper. "These are your favorite toys, huh?" Matt inquired, pulling his hand away and reaching for the feather tickler that was next to my vibrator. I watched as he guided the feather toy across my chest, the same way Chris had done with his fingers earlier. Matt smirked at me as he pulled down the cup of my bra, exposing my hard pink nipple. He started teasing it with the feathery instrument, and I gasped as he grazed over a sensitive spot. I looked over at Chris who was sitting at the foot of the bed, studying the way Matt was exploring my body. His facial expression was one of a mix of jealousy and desire, but I could tell the desire had a stronger hold on him.

Chris' eyes met mine and we exchanged a smile of approval as Matt took the feathery lead and trailed down my body with it. He started tickling the insides of my thighs with it, and I felt my back slightly arch as he drew it over the front of my panties. Chris' eyes kept dancing between my facial expressions and the way Matt was taunting me. "Holy fuck Matt. She loves it," Chris whispered, his eyes sparkling with amazement at how slow and controlled Matt's movements were. And Chris was right. The way Matt was teasing me was perfect, just the way I liked. Slowly, gently, sensually. After teasing me with the feathers for a little longer, Matt nestled his head between my legs and pulled my panties to the side. "Look at that pretty, pink pussy," Matt complimented me. "Can I taste her?" He asked me, looking up at me hungrily. I bit my lip and nodded.

Chris moved from the foot of the bed to my left. He pushed a few strands of hair out of my face and smoothed them down, while his eyes followed the way Matt gently planted a kiss on my sensitive bud. He kept his tongue soft and flat as he grazed my folds. I loved having my pussy licked, and the only thing better than that was Chris intently watching as Matt teased me with his warm breath against my aching core. "Do you like that?" Chris spoke hoarsely into my ear. "Mhmmm," I hummed in response to Chris' question as well as to Matt's tongue. Matt flicked his tongue across my clit a little more fervently, and finally he closed his lips around it and started gently suckling. "That looks like it feels amazing," Chris said, pressing the side of his head against the side of my head watching his brother from my perspective. Matt looked up at both me and his brother, knowing we were loving watching him and smiled deviously at us. "You like the way I eat your girlfriend?" Matt seductively asked his brother, lifting his face from between my legs to show Chris how wet his face was from drowning in my juicy center. Then he continued, swirling his tongue in faster circles around my bundle of nerves. Chris slowly nodded.

The way Matt was working his mouth had me starting to come undone a bit. I tried to hold back some whimpers, but they were stronger than I was. I felt myself tugging at the restraints, cutting off circulation in my wrists, and had my feet not also been tied down, I would have been bucking my hips against his face. Instead, I pathetically struggled to chase his tongue, unable to move the way I wanted to, which had me coming undone even further. Matt could tell exactly what he was doing to me, and he relished in it, loving that the sounds and the writhing beneath him were all his fault.

Before I could finish on his tongue, he abruptly stopped and started lining up his middle and ring finger with my entrance. He looked into my eyes as he pushed them in, curled them upward, and started making a "come here" motion with them. I gasped at how good it felt. I could feel myself gripping him involuntarily, and while he penetrated me, I felt his thumb reach for my bud, and he started making slow, circular motions. "How does that feel, sweetheart? You like the way you're all wrapped around my fingers?" Matt cooed, knowing there was a double entendre in his words. "Yesss," I hissed through my teeth. Chris took my left nipple into his mouth and started carressing it with his tongue, pulling a few more stifled whimpers from my mouth. I loved being shared by them. Although they were both being so slow and gentle, I felt myself starting to get close again.

I didn't know if Matt could tell I was getting close and he was trying to draw it out for as long as possible, or if his timing was just coincidentally impeccable, but right before I could chase my climax, Matt removed his fingers, and looked up at his brother. "You wanna taste?" He asked, reaching out his hand that was glittering with my fluids. Chris grabbed Matt's hand, and while looking into his eyes, he put Matt's two fingers all the way into his mouth and slowly sucked them clean, letting out a soft moan as he did so that vibrated against his brother's fingertips. Matt stared at his brother glossy-eyed, and his lips slowly parted as he felt the hum of the noise Chris made send an electric feeling throughout his body. Matt pulled his hand away, realizing how awkward it was that they had just done that, but they quickly laughed it off, and they blushed at whatever had come over them, but I, on the other hand, nearly came at the sight of Chris cleaning me off of Matt's fingers.

Matt filled me with them again, fucking me at a faster pace this time. My body was aching. My wrists and ankles were so sore from being digging into me as I struggled against them, but I loved it, the sensation of pain and pleasure blurring together and creating a chemical reaction inside of me that was bound to make me explode sooner or later. I convulsed again as Matt brought me right to finish line, and then stopped again.

I let out a desperate sigh, "Matt please," I sobbed as he teased me. "Jesus Matt. I brought you into the bedroom with us to make her feel good, not to torture her," Chris chuckled. "Oh, trust me, she feels good. And by the time I get her there, she'll be feeling better than anyone's ever made her feel before," Matt said, reaching for the vibrator next. "Hey-" Chris started defensively. "Shut up, idiot. This isn't the time to argue about who makes your girlfriend cum harder. Just let her enjoy it," Matt whispered, turning on the vibrator and resting it up against my favorite spot, and I cooed in response.

"Hey baby, you ever think about me when you use one of these on yourself?" Matt's lip curled up in the corner as he questioned me. My eyes widened, and I looked to Chris for some kind of approval that he wouldn't take it personally. "It's okay, darling. Just be honest unless you don't wanna answer," Chris said, running the back of his hand along my cheek, sensing my discomfort. I looked back down at Matt, who was awaiting a response. I bit my lip and shook my head yes at him. "Mmmm, good girl. Good answer," Matt murmured. "Tell Matt what kinds of things you think about him doing, princess," Chris pleaded, stroking his length through his boxers. He wanted to hear just as much as Matt did.

My eyes scanned both of their expressions, hanging onto my every last word, but a shyness overtook me. My face started burning with shame as I pictured in my head all the times I'd imagined Matt pinning me down, choking me, spitting in my mouth, slapping me, pounding my pussy while I'm hogtied. The stark difference between those violent fantasies and the soft gentle reality unfolding in front of me made me feel a little embarrassed to admit them. I shook my head no and began avoiding eye contact with both of them. "Awh, sweetheart. You're getting all shy on me," Chris said, tilting my head towards him with a finger beneath my chin. I could still feel the hum of the vibrator nagging at me, begging me to come undone while the boys watched me intently. Just like every other time, Matt stopped.

He stood up and pulled down his underwear, his cock springing out of them. I could tell he was extremely hard, and there was a shiny coat of pre-ejaculate covering his swollen tip. I admired how thick it was and how there were a few veins that ran up his shaft, like a big red-eyed monster I couldn't wait to fall victim to. "I bet you can't wait to have him in you," Chris whispered to me, kissing my neck. "You don't have to tell me what you think about when you play with yourself," Matt told me as he climbed onto the bed and hovered over my emptiness with his incredible member, "but if you tell me, angel, then I'll be able to oblige." He let out a grunt as he pushed himself into me, and I gasped. He slowly pumped in and out of me, allowing me to get used to his girth while his chain lightly swatted me.

Chris was next to us, removing his shirt, taking himself out of his underwear, and making soft sounds and sultry faces while he stroked his cock. "I like to think about you spitting in my mouth and choking me and pulling my hair and fucking me absolutely mercilessly," I whispered while I was looking into Matt's eyes. I watched Chris' eyes widen as he continued furiously pumping his hand up and down.

Matt's face changed to a darker and more deviant expression. He placed his hand on my neck, pushed me down against the bed, and said, "Open up, darling." He spat directly into my mouth, and the taste of his saliva, mine, and taste of my pussy lingered on my tastebuds. He did it again, relishing in how much I loved it. I felt another stream of his spit land on my tongue, and he smiled at me as he started to tighten his grip around my neck. He choked me hard while he started fucking me at a slow but insanely powerful rhythm. Every time he bottomed out inside of me, slamming against my walls, I let out a stifled yelp due to his tight hold on my throat. He removed his hand from my airway and smacked me across my face hard. "Yeah, you like that?" Matt grunted while he fucked me harder, and I felt another sting as he slapped the other side of my face. My eyes rolled back in my head and I smiled.

Chris was still fervently jacking himself off while his brother brutalized me in front of him. The boys had a similar expression on each of their faces, heavy bedroom eyes, slack-jawed, lips slightly parted enough for sweet whimpers to escape them, and both enamored by the way my eyes were tearing up with pleasure.

I was the first to reach my climax, considering Matt had been teasing me more than I'd ever been teased in my whole life. My long-awaited orgasm hit me like a train, my consciousness expanding beyond time and space until I was utterly lost in a cascading wave of ecstacy. I had no control over my body. I trembled and pulled at the shackles that were holding me to the bed, breaking some of the skin on my wrists. My eyes rolled back so far into my head I forgot I had them to begin with, and my neck fell limp so that my crown thumped away at the headboard every time Matt thrust into me after that. My whole body relaxed into the bed, as much as it could while I was still tied to it. "Oh my fucking god Matt," I said breathlessly.

Chris came a few seconds later with his hand curled around the engorged head of his cock, milking it vigorously while he threw his head back and let out a sweet-sounding moan. The first spurt of cum shot up nearly two feet in the air and rained back down on him, covering his stomach, his chest, and a drop of it landing on his bottom lip. With every pump, he'd shoot out another load not nearly as powerful as the last until he'd slowed his hand to a standstill and the last spurt of fluid was just slowly dripping down his hand and his shaft. I had never seen Chris cum like that, and I burned the sight of him into my brain.

Matt's orgasm followed closely behind, and for the few minutes after Chris had finished, he watched in envy as his brother railed me senseless. Finally, as Matt was looking into my eyes, his brow furrowing, and his face contorting into an "O" shape, he pulled himself out of me. A millisecond later, he was stroking himself, busting all over my entrance. He moaned my name and rolled his eyes into the back of his head while he finished. He was smiling like an idiot, panting, and looking down at the mess he'd made on my pussy with great satisfaction.

"Holy fuck," Matt managed to get out breathlessly. "I've never been able to make her cum like that," Chris said with a harsh edge of jealousy. "You could. Easily. I've heard you guys fooling around before. You definitely satisfy her. You just gotta edge her more. You build her up, you break her down, do it over and over again until she can't take it. I'll show you how sometime if you'd like," Matt offered.

Chris' stomach turned, not sure how to wrestle with the cognitive dissonance he was experiencing of loving how I came all over Matt's cock and hating how I came all over his cock, and wondering if I was even still his after that, or if I was going to fall in love with Matt. Chris looked down at the floor, defeated and wondering how he could feel two completely different ways simultaneously. Matt untied me from the bed, and I immediately went over to Chris and threw my arms around him.

"Thank you for letting me experience that. Thank you for being so secure in our relationship that you'd share me with someone to enhance both of our pleasure. I'm so in love with you," I said, pulling him into a kiss. Chris perked up hearing this. "I love you too," he whispered back. "Let's do something tonight. Just the two of us," I said smiling.

#sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fic

763 notes · View notes

theemporium · 7 months

Note

Okay as for Jack blurb idea : what about Jack dating the sister of one of the players (either Trevor, Jesper, Nico or whoever you prefer) and said player finding out. The brother being more confused as to how he didn't notice?

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

“Fuck, I missed you.”

You let out a noise mixed between a laugh and a groan as the boy slumped his body over yours, his face pressed into the crook of your neck and his limbs tangling with yours on the small couch in your living room.

“Clingy,” you teased as your hand rested on the back of his head, nails lightly scratching his scalp.

Jack huffed. “I was gone for ten days.”

“You were.”

He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at you. “We have barely spoken beyond messages for ten days. The last time we saw each other was four days before that. That is almost two weeks without me. Are you saying you didn’t miss me?”

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmured with a grin before leaning over to kiss his lips. “Of course I missed you, loser. But the messages are your fault. It was your choice to be room buddies with my brother for the roadie.”

“He asked me and I couldn’t think of a reason fast enough to say no,” Jack murmured, his cheeks tinted pink and it just made you laugh. “And Luke is a fucking snake. He already said yes to John.”

“Can’t believe my brother was probably getting more action with you than I was in the last two weeks,” you snorted.

Jack’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t do anything with Nico.”

You raised your brows. “So, you both don’t cuddle sometimes after a bad game?”

Jack fell silent for a few moments before he spoke. “He’s comfy and he gives good hugs.”

You laughed again, a little louder this time but something about the sound made Jack relax. His body sagged in relief, his head resting into the crook of your neck once again and you wound your arms around him tightly.

It had been late by the time the team reached New Jersey again after a ten day roadie away from home. But Jack had sounded dejected in the last post-game interview after losing the last game and you knew he was getting in his own head about the whole thing so you messaged him to come to your place after he landed.

And, selfishly, you just wanted to see him again. You wanted to see him, hold him, kiss him again after far too long apart. And it seemed like Jack was in no disagreement there, having practically attached himself to you since he walked through the door.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Jack sighed. “Not much to talk about, is there?”

“Jack…”

He sighed again, lifting his head to look at you with a frustrated frown. “I could have done more. I could have—”

“Hockey is a team sport,” you reminded him with a pointed look. “It’s not just your fault.”

“I know that,” he mumbled before shrugging. “Just don’t like disappointing people.”

“You’re not disappointing anyone, baby,” you murmured softly as you cupped his cheek, thumb swiping over his skin in a soothing motion. “Nico raves about you all the time. The whole team does.”

His cheeks burned pink again. “Whatever.”

“Not so cocky now, huh?” You joked lightly, watching as his lips twitched upwards. You knew he was trying to fight it, that he felt like he deserved to stew in his misery a little longer. “C’mon, Rowdy, what would all those people who pay to see you play think if they saw you blushing now?”

“Shut up,” he finally laughed, a grin spread across his face as he looked down at you, shaking his head. “You’re never gonna let me live that down.”

“Never,” you promised. “Now, hurry up and kiss me.”

And Jack didn’t even hesitate as he leaned down to press his lips against yours.

Because Jack Hughes was addicting in a way you never knew another person to be. Your body craved him in a way you had never experienced with past partners, even beyond touch. You craved to be near him, to talk with him, to laugh with him. You just wanted to be with him.

But, fuck, his kisses really did take the cake and, after two weeks of nothing, you were fucking relieved to finally experience them again.

So lost in your own addiction that you didn’t hear the front door open.

“What the fuck?”

Both of your heads snapped around to find Nico standing beside the door to your apartment, keys in hand and a shocked expression painted all over his face.

But then Nico’s eyes focused on Jack, like he suddenly realised he knew the random guy lying on top of his sister and his eyes widened even more.

“Jack?!”

It was like that shocked shrill in his voice was all Jack needed to scramble up from his spot on the couch, clearing his throat and trying to smooth down his clothes. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Nico blinked. “It looks like you were making out with my sister.”

He paused. “Okay, so maybe it’s kinda what it looks like—”

Nico shook his head. “How long has this been going on?”

You flashed your older brother a sheepish smile. “A couple of months.”

“Months?!”

Jack winced. “Look, dude, I didn’t—”

“You know what, I’m too tired to have this conversation,” Nico grumbled as he glanced between the two of you before sighing. “Next time, check your phone so you can see when I’m coming over.” There was a pause. “And I’m coming over tomorrow so we can…talk about this, so please be fucking decent when I get here.”

Both of you nodded.

“Right. Good. Now, if you excuse me, I need to go bleach my eyes and call Mum.”

Your eyes widened. “What—”

“You heard what I said.”

#jack hughes #nhl #new jersey devils #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes fic #jack hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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three-realms-archive · 1 month

Text

Just a Study

Content Warning: Spoilers for Lesson 40 of Nightbringer! Everything above the cut is spoiler-free!

The wise sorcerer watches his dear apprentice sleep peacefully, unaware of their close friend and mentor doing what he does best. Studying.

His eyes analyse the rise and fall of their chest, tracing his gaze over and across the parabolas that make up the shape of their sleeping form. The small chuckles that escape him when you snore and snort are sounds that you will never get to hear. The soft, unprecedented flushes of crimson across his cheeks when you nuzzle your forehead deeper into the crook of his neck is a sight you will never get to see. Yet your sounds, sights and touch… Solomon knows all of it. He knows the mean, median and mode of the number of hours you sleep at night; and he spends the midnight hours flipping through tomes dedicated to understanding love. To Solomon, this was all a study, really.

A study on how it would have been, if he had taken the time to know his fellow, human classmate from the get-go. How it would have been if he had taken you under his wing sooner - if he had won the race for your heart against the Seven Avatars of Sin. The data was there, in the form of the pact marks etched into your skin - placed there like perfect puzzle pieces. And no matter how much his brain wanted to process that data differently, the results and conclusion would remain unchanged.

To conduct a study, one must try to match the conditions of the experiment to the assumptions of the theory. Solomon knew this, and so he had strived to make Coctyus Hall your new House of Lamentation. He had lived with you - had eaten with you - had even slept beside you. He knew that you (more often that he liked) had shared a bed with each of the brothers before - so he had done that, too. He had taken your trip to the past as an opportunity to replicate the theory with ease, piecing together a domestic life with you that felt like bliss.

The perfect study.

It was meant to be the perfect study. For him and you.

So why?

Why did it hurt so bad, returning to the original timeline; and seeing how… easily, you fell back into your own life?

Why did it hurt, seeing you live, eat and sometimes even sleep alongside the brothers again?

Why did it hurt, sleeping beside you in your old room, when he had already shared a bed with you many times now? It hurt being with you, in this bed made for one, the pillows and blankets and your shifting form taking up room and pushing him out. Telling him that he didn’t belong next to you.

… The wise sorcerer watches his dear apprentice sleep; studying. He presses his lips gently to your temple and savours the familiar warmth that greets him, fondly. He selfishly, childishly, hooks an arm and a leg around you; entangling himself in you as you had done many times before with him. He easily finds your hand through touch alone under a blanket colder than the one you used to share; struggling to intertwine his fingers with yours properly. But he grips your hand like a lifeline when he manages to. He’s got the lines of your palm and the creases of the skin of your wrists memorised. With a small, shaky breath, Solomon uses his thumb to trace over them again, and again, and again. Studying.

It was just a study, right? A ‘what if’.

Just a study, with a simple title.

What if, for a while, he pretended you loved him?

A study compares the theoretical with the experimental. Compares the ideal with harsh, painful, hurtful reality.

You belonged with the brothers. They were your ideal.

… And his brief, domestic, blissful experiment with you was now over.

(i had started writing this before seeing that angest was ruling the poll, lol. but yayyyyyy i wanna start writing angst and romance with the characters i haven’t touched on yet, so have an angst solomon, set after lesson 40 of nightbringer)

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artdcnaldson · 2 months

Note

it’s evil art and stepcest o’clock !!!

stanford era art sending patrick videos of himself fucking pat’s stepsister!reader ,, your mom married patrick’s dad ago when all of you were still in high school. it was abrupt to say the least, one day pat walks into his family’s estate for the start of winter break and all of a sudden there’s a girl his age glaring at him in the kitchen. getting close to you was like calming down a feral animal, but eventually you and patrick reached a closeness no one expected. art has always been an extension of patrick, so naturally the three of you became a little trio, especially when you have a little saltburn summer together at one of patrick’s estates before you and art go off to stanford and patrick heads out on tour.

and the thing is, art is more perceptive than either of you give him credit for. he sees the way you two look at each other, the lingering looks and the touches that last a little too long. so he starts testing the waters. he flirts with you, gets closer to you than he needs to when you talk, takes you out on the tennis court early in the morning to “help him practice” so when pat wakes up he sees you coming back inside laughing together. patrick fucking seethes every time, but he refuses to say anything. art even teases him about it when they’re alone, runs a hand up patrick’s thigh and says things like “don’t you wish this was her doing this to you?” and of course patrick caves, admits his wants when art takes his dick down his throat, but he never makes a move. he never crosses the line. so, art starts trying with you, too. he’ll sneak into your room (usually after he’s done with patrick) and touch you slow, pinch your nipples, ghost his fingers over your clit. he never goes too far, just gets you worked up and makes you cum on his fingers. all while whispering, “wouldn’t his fingers feel so good in this little pussy?”

he spends the whole summer working both of you up and still nothing happens, so when you and him are alone at stanford together he decides to push again. selfishly, he knows he’s also doing this for himself. he’d be deluding himself if he said he hadn’t wanted to fuck you from the moment he laid eyes on you. honestly, him keeping himself from doing it every time he dipped his fingers in your wet pussy should win him a fucking medal of honor. now though, now he has you with your chest pinned to the bed, sobbing directly into his shitty phone camera, begging for patrick while you fuck yourself back on his dick. “go on baby, tell pat what you told me,” he pants.

“please- fuck— please come visit pat, want- want you so bad- ‘m sorry i didn’t say! ‘m sorry- ‘m sorry!”

patrick’s never booked a flight faster in his life <33

RAHHH RAHH RAHHHH

Art takes one look at you and Patrick’s sappy, lovebird expressions and your refusal to ever actually fucking do something and he just snaps. He’ll be a good friend, he’ll fix it for Patrick, just like Patrick helped him with so many of his crushes that weren’t going to fucking go anywhere.

Of course you think Art’s hot, you think he’s sweet, and he’s smart, and he gives you all the attention you could want. And the best thing is, your mom isn’t fucking married to his dad. So you don’t mind when he kisses you, when he has you pinned onto your bed and moves his hand under your shirt to play with your tits. His mouth tastes like Patrick’s sometimes, and you always kiss him harder when he does.

And he knows— you know he knows how you feel about Patrick, because he teases you about it, always when he’s got his fingers buried inside of you and you’re right on the brink. Don’t you think Patrick’s fingers would feel so good stretching out your tight little pussy? Don’t you wish he’d just fuck you the way you want? Just pin you down and claim your pussy as his own? Oh, fuck, I can feel you clenching around my fingers, you want him so bad. You want your step brother bullying this little pussy, he’s so mean for keeping his cock from you, huh?

It makes you cum every time, gushing around his fingers, mouth open and pink as you cry out with pretty moans. Art licks inside, kisses you hungry and desperate while you fist his cock in your hand. You always want him to fuck you, but he just tells you not tonight. A good friend wouldn’t fuck their best friend’s crush, would they?

Patrick tries to keep it from Art, but he never can. Art hears him fucking his fist in the shower after you’ve all been at the pool. Listens to the wet sounds of Patrick’s lubed up hand gliding along his dick until he gets frustrated and says, “Art, get over here.” Art takes over with his fist, with his mouth. Almost lets Patrick cum before he pulls away. “Admit you want her first.”

Patrick just covers his face with his arm, groans out a pained, “Art—“ Because he’s killing him. He’s actually fucking killing him. When did the Art he met at the tennis academy, the one who sang in the choir for his grandma’s church and wouldn’t even swear until Patrick goaded him to, become this mean. “She’s my sister.”

Art grins. “Your step sister, who you want to fuck.” Patrick doesn’t get to cum until he admits it. He’s rewarded by Art’s hot, perfect mouth and the rare opportunity to cum down his throat. For being a good sport.

He thinks that’s it, you both accepted it, you’ll both just get it over with and fuck, and hopefully still include him since he was kind enough to encourage it. But you don’t. There’s still sweet longing glances and lingering touches. He walks in on you and Patrick giggling in your room, tossing sour patch kids back and forth and seeing who can catch the most in your mouths. Sits on the bed when you curl up and rest your head in Patrick’s lap, while he pets your hair and lets his fingers trace along your face like a boyfriend would.

You’re so lonely at Stanford. Patrick’s gone to god knows where, playing in low level tournaments, losing and sulking without you to comfort him. He calls you almost every night, and you ask him about if he’s seeing anyone. He just kind of goes quiet and says, “C’mon.” You know how he feels, he knows you feel the same way, and that you’re both horribly, painfully stuck.

You show up to Art’s dorm teary eyed and needing comfort. He misses Patrick too, you know he does. He’s the only one who understands. It’s two in the morning and Art’s all disheveled from sleep as he opens the door. His eyes widen— you’re just wearing one of Pat’s shirts, and jesus, you can’t just walk around a college campus like that. He ushers you in, closes the door behind him.

“I miss Pat,” is all you say, and suddenly your lips are on his and you’re tripping over clothes and bags in the dark room as he guides you onto his bed. He’s a little slow, still waking up, but his hands are warm and feel a little rough like Patrick’s do.

His phone vibrates on the bedside table, but he silences it with the press of a button. “Sorry,” he mumbles, leans forward and kisses you slow and hungry. His tongue moves against yours as he slides a hand into your panties, rubs at your swollen clit so you moan into his mouth.

“You’re so wet,” he groans. You nod, grind down against his fingers. “For me or for Patrick?”

You whine, can’t even look at him. “Both.” It’s shameful to admit it, that you’d been wet the entire time that you and Patrick had been catching up on the phone, that you’d thought about slipping your hands into your panties and touching yourself to his voice. But that was… you couldn’t do that. But Art could help.

He slips your panties down your thighs, eases one finger inside your pussy, then another. He thrusts them slow and deep, brings pretty mewls from your lips. “What do you need, hm?”

“Patrick,” you whine.

He nods, noses along the side of your jaw, and sucks on your throat. “I know, baby. Pat’s not here. You want me to make you feel better? You can pretend I’m him.”

So you do. You beg for it, for Art to fuck you. He knows you’re not just thinking about him, that you’re across an ocean with Patrick just as much as you’re in his bed. So sweet beneath him, crying out for him, for Patrick in equal measure. Moaning about how you want your stepbrother’s cock, about how much you miss Patrick, begging for Art to fuck you harder.

At a hostel in Germany, Patrick just has to listen to it.

#did art press the wrong button or was it intentional… who’s to say :)#stepcest <3 my beloved #stepbro!patrick au #🎀 anon #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut

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esther-dot · 8 months

Text

The poor thing in the road, it's eyes still glistening 17k by @eruherdiriel

Hooves are not what wake Jon in the middle of the night, pulse racing and hands clammy with sweat. It’s fire. Orange and angry, eating away at houses and shops and shacks in his dream. Even now that he is awake, Jon can still taste burnt flesh on the back of his tongue. The wounds from his brother’s mutiny and Drogon’s gouge, frozen only hours ago, burn white. War leaves everyone broken, Jon perhaps most of all. Sansa finds even peacetime requires letting go.

the sky is big enough 15k @hopetorun

The war is over, except all the ways it isn't, and Sansa isn't alone, except for all the ways she is.

O Voyagers 28k WIP

Jon’s eyes are fixed on the floor at her feet. To a stranger it might look like respect, the proper deference shown to a queen, but Sansa knows better. If he wished to look at her, he would. He has not forgiven me, she thinks, her heart a stone in her chest. He likely never will.

daughters and queens bleed alone 4k

They crown Sansa with a rope of twisted steel, two wolves arching across her brow in a delicate embrace. No stags upon this crown—no branching antlers, no gleaming manes, no blooming hearts of southern roses. No fire, no blood, no graceful sweep of scales and wings, or the silver bite of dragon’s teeth. The Queen in the North stands before them, and Winter has come.

old wounds 2k by @jonsaslove

Jon left King's Landing and never returned. Sansa became Queen in the North and weathered the storm. When they see each other again, there is not much left to say.

stories to tell our children 1k by @jonsaslove

“You said that Old Nan used to tell you stories so scary you couldn’t sleep for a fortnight! That was a baby story!” Duncan nods, agreeing with his sister. Her father interrupts. “Well, Old Nan was a very good story teller. She could tell you a story about fairies and princesses and make it seem terrifying with just her voice and a menacing stare.” Or; Jon and Sansa tell their children bedtime stories.

Where the Shadow Ends 245k (I'm sure y'all have read this one, but it is THE post canon fic, so it must be mentioned!)

For years Sansa has ruled the North, wisely, justly, capably--and utterly alone. Everyone tells her she needs an heir; all she wants is a family. But after everything she’s suffered, there’s only one man she trusts won’t use her for her claim. Only one she trusts with her body. Unfortunately, she trusts him in no other way--especially not with her heart. For years Jon’s hidden in the far north, choosing solitude over the people he loves, choosing self-exile as punishment rather than atoning. But then Tormund tires of his moping and drags Jon back to Winterfell where guilt and consequences and a tempting offer await him. accompanying gifset by @thewindsofwolves

We Set Fire in the Snow 7k by @framboise-fics

Three days was long enough for moments of tenderness, for soft touches and gentle murmurs alongside the violence of their passions, but it was not long enough to burn this fire between them down to ashes, to put out the flames, he thinks ruefully, bitterly, achingly, as he rides out and looks back at her standing on the ramparts as he remembered her, her hair a curtain of fire, her body rigid like she has been sculpted from ice. He will take that fire back North, to warm him through frigid nights, he thinks; to burn inside of him so that he shall never find any peace; and let her feel the same, he thinks, let him not be alone in his agony. If he loved her he should surely wish her peace, so does he love her? Or is this how a wicked man loves, painfully, cruelly, selfishly? Is he her punishment just as she is his?

An Affair in Stages 13k by @justadram (not tagged post canon but works as one which is interesting as the first chapter was posted way back in 2013!)

It begins with a proposition, but where it will end neither of them knows.

Please Speak Well of Me 17k

A queen isn’t supposed to cry. So she’s learned to turn her tears to frost before they ever reach her cheeks. “Sansa,” Jon says to her, and the ice within shifts, weakens. Brackish water begins to leak through the cracks. She can barely remember how to speak, and it doesn’t come as much of a comfort that he seems to be fumbling as well. Over the foolish moons, Sansa had imagined that, if the time came that Jon ever returned, the mere sight of him would unwind the tangles of conflict inside of her. There would be something in his eyes, something she had forgotten about his face, something that would remind her what was real and what was not between the two of them.

breathe me in, taste my words 2k

Much to her surprise, marriage has only made Sansa less of a lady, not more. She doesn’t mind terribly, but maybe that’s because Jon doesn’t either.

Stone by Stone 8k

Finally, her words came in a rush. “But I seem to have built my own wall. Stone by stone, little by little, after each of them disappointed me, hurt me. And now that they are dead, I sometimes fear I may die behind my wall that no one can can walk thru.”

fire in exile 2k by @princemills

The thoughts of the others he’d lost were too unpleasant, and the thoughts of those who survived made him want to keel over like a babe, knowing he’d left them behind. It wasn’t really a choice, but it didn’t stop him from pondering his choices. From King in the North to bending the knee to Daenerys to stabbing her with a dagger beneath white ash borne from burning flesh, he’s never made the correct choice, and now he’ll burn in hell for it. Or, as Westeros deems hell: he’ll freeze his balls off at the wall, or Tormund will cut them off. Whichever comes first. - a quick study of jon and the choices he makes in exile.

watch me run right back to you 16k

Three times Jon and Sansa almost kiss…and three times they actually do.

come out of hiding (i'm right here beside you) 36k @noqueenbutthequeeninthenorth

AU after 8.05. After the death of Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow chooses to live beyond the Wall, while Sansa Stark, the newly-crowned Queen in the North, marries a Dornish prince. Three years later, when Jon finally gathers the courage to return to Winterfell, he finds that while many things have changed, one hasn't: he's still in love with Sansa. (Featuring widow!Sansa, contrite!Jon, and a cute baby.)

Homecoming 31k @theoriginalsuki

Halfway to him, she broke composure; she flew at him, an arrow from a bow, and he opened to receive her, lifting her, clutching her to the soft, neglected animal of his body. Sansa has one request of Jon, and then he can leave her forever: help her to find a husband.

Gifsets: Jonsa and Their Three Children by @kingbuckley , Together We Build Our Empire by @aureliacamargo, Future Jonsa with Children by @amandapeetshusband, In Which They Live a Long and Happy Life Together by @baelerion, To See Him Once Again by @theirwinterfell, Maybe We'll Meet Again by @thatmansplayinggalaga

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON 6 - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE - SALTY TEENS

#jonsa #jonsa fic #post canon #dot fic list

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arvandus · 8 months

Note

barbatos headcanons sfw or nsfw? totally fine if not <3 i love anything you write for barbatos <3

Ohhhh man, so many headcanons considering how much space he takes up in my brain. Most of it centers around relationships and, by proxy, NSFW stuff. It ties into what I recall of canon material, but take it with a grain of salt since I haven't finished the OG game yet (I'm on lesson 42 right now). I'm just going to put SOME of them since I have so many. Also, some of these will probably sound more like character analysis than headcanons.

WARNING: MINORS AND AGELSS BLOGS DNI; THIS POST CONTAINS 18+ CONTENT. DO NOT, I REPEAT DO NOT FOLLOW ME!

My Humble Barbatos Thoughts:

General stuff (SFW):

He smells like warm bread and spices due to all the baking/cooking he does and the tea he grows and brews.

When Asmo painted his and Diavolo's nails to match the brothers (per Diavolo's request), Barbatos let Diavolo choose his nail color for him.

His biggest worry is the mistakes of his past coming back to haunt him by inadvertently impacting Diavolo's reputation by association. If Barbatos's past sins became public knowledge, he would worry about how the Devildom might view him and how that would impact Diavolo.

Because of how incredibly old he is, and the way he seemed to come into Sol's life when he was a teenager (if I recall correctly?), and came into Diavolo's life when he was also young, I see his relationships with them as almost parental/guardian (at least initially).

Which means he probably doesn't really have any truly balanced/equal relationships with those around him, which can cause him to be somewhat isolated. He's there for others, but he's not very willing to let others reciprocate. He believes he needs to handle all of his troubles/worries on his own.

I can see his dynamic with Diavolo evolving into a more equal/balanced friendship over time, the parental/guardian dynamic falling away as he let's go of his protective role. I think this has already happened with Sol, since they seem more friends/equals than father/son (e.g., he allows Sol to have power over him not just in pact, but also with his grimoire); Diavolo is harder because Barbatos still sees the young prince as his responsibility (plus Dia is always trying to sneak out like a teenager 😂).

Barbatos has a LOT of talents and interests; he may be very proper and well-mannered, but he's been around for a LONG time. Canon things we've learned about him so far: he likes heavy metal music, he likes classical music, he is great at ice skating, fangol, and chess; he kills it at cross-dressing and dancing... he's a very diverse individual which tells me he did and tried probably literally everything when he was younger.

He's 10/10 middle-aged adult energy now. He's done everything, experimented with all the things, and now he just wants stability. He's still got some spunk to him and will engage in fun activities (especially for the sake of others), but if he had his way, I think he'd want to relax with his tea, his gardens, and his walks under the stars.

Relationship/Intimacy (including NSFW):

He had plenty of lovers earlier on in his life, but he didn't exactly have a lot of emotional intimacy. He's always been the oldest demon, and when he was younger, that simple fact made him arrogant and he saw himself as always being above others. It drove an invisible wedge between himself and those around him.

He's a greed demon, so I imagine that in the beginning he was more emotionally charged and selfishly motivated.

He has literally tried every kink under the sun moon. Young Barbatos was kinkier, hornier, meaner (due to his arrogance), and likely was not a very healthy individual to engage in relations with. Probably had lots of red flags. Was very free-spirited (our boy was hopping timelines will-nilly);

Young Barb had fuckboi energy, but in a quiet, intelligent sort of way (if that makes sense). He was hard to resist, yet very much untouchable.

As time passed, he mellowed out but also became more reserved. This made emotional intimacy even harder, and sexual escapades grew boring after a while.

Young Barbatos certainly got around, but he only truly fell in love once. But he had to leave that person behind when he made the decision to go back and fix his mistakes. He still thinks about them to this day.

In the past, when he saw the consequences of his recklessness and how it had impacted those he cared about (Dia, Sol) he had a change of heart and devoted himself to fixing his mistakes and to be in service of others before himself.

It may seem endearing and like excellent character growth; which it is, to a point. But it's also reactionary to the harm he caused. Barbatos sees his passions and desires as something toxic, something negative. As such, he sees them as being something that needs to be bottled up and controlled at all times.

Which makes it so much harder to fall in love, and when he does fall in love, it will scare him, because he feels that pull of selfishness, of wanting purely for the sake of wanting it. He has yet to figure out how to find balance within himself (i.e., trust himself), to allow himself to want without letting it consume him, and to give without self-deprivation.

Monogamous or poly? I could see it going either way, although I see him leaning more towards monogamous. It's the greed and also how he isolates himself; letting in one person would be hard, letting in more than one, especially to the same extent, would be nearly impossible. He's a VERY private person.

But poly can also work as long as its established that the relationship is exclusive between him and his partners (no open relationships/flings with outsiders). Poly might also be nice for him in that he can take comfort in knowing that his partners are there for each other when his work keeps him away from them (i.e., he'd hate for his monogamous partner to be alone all the time).

Either way, mono or poly, Barbatos does not like to share. It's the greed in him. They're his, and no one else's.

Barbatos would be very VERY resistant to entering a relationship in the present time mainly because he's dedicated himself to Diavolo. He knows his partner would not be able to be his top priority no matter how much he loves them, and not many people would be okay with that.

Barbatos used to be very sexually promiscuous in his younger years, but now he's completely closed off simply because has a reputation to protect for Diavolo. He doesn't want any jilted lovers/ex-lovers to try to cause trouble for the Prince of the Devildom simply to get back at Barbatos. Also, the man has no time for shenanigans.

If someone does manage to worm their way into his heart, it would be very slowly, over many years without him noticing until he suddenly realizes one day that he'd be lost without them. It'd be jarring for him, to say the least.

Barbatos is canonically VERY romantic. He's a giver, and his love language is acts of service. That includes not only errands/duties/chores/meals/dates, but also physical acts of service (massages, orgasms, etc.).

Loves LOVES to give oral. He loves making his lover(s) putty in his hands (think service dom).

Lots of kissing. So so much kissing. He's gonna worship every inch with his mouth and tongue.

Definitely does have a kinky side, but it only comes out to play with someone he really REALLY trusts.

He'd be down for nearly everything. Bondage, anal, edging, etc. He can even be a mean dom if you ask him really nicely (he needs to believe you REALLY want it before he lets that old side of himself come out to play); however, the only things I can see him having a hard no on would be anything in a public space where there's a chance of being seen/caught (remember he's worried about reputation) and hard degradation via name-calling (sorry, I just can't picture it - he'd respect his partner too much regardless of whatever nasty kinky stuff they do together).

Will most definitely use his tail on himself and his partner(s).

If his lover is human, he'd be constantly keeping himself (and his strength) in check out of fear of hurting them.

He'd be big on consent. He's a master at reading body language; the slightest hint of distress and he's stopping everything immediately. He's not one to lose himself in the moment.

However, this doesn't mean he doesn't have the capacity to be passionate; it's just that his passion can be a bit strong, so he's always worried about overwhelming his partner. But if his partner can handle it, then it'd open up an entirely different side of him.

Despite his capacity for kinky shenanigans, Barbatos's favorite type of intimacy with his partner will be more vanilla and filled with lots of love and affection. So think lazy oral on the bed or couch in the privacy of his room, missionary so he can see your face and feel your legs wrap around him, and you in his lap so he can let you have control and wrap his arms tight around you.

Barbatos is the KING OF AFTERCARE. Baths, tea, cakes, warm blankets, firelight, soft touches, gentle massages, kisses to your cheeks, your temples... and very heartfelt verbal confessions of his love for you.

Will snuggle you tightly after all is said and done.

Loves watching you sleep while he holds you in his arms.

He'd never say it out loud because he doesn't want to burden you, but getting up early each morning and leaving your warmth is the most painful, torturous thing for him.

#arvandus answers #oh god #oh jesus #this got so big I'm so sorry #a;sldfkajd;s #you opened up a can of worms anon #and ALL OF THE HYPERFIXATION SPILLED OUT #barbatos obey me #obey me barbatos #barbatos #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me nb #barbatos x mc #barbatos x you #barbatos x reader #barbatos x y/n #barbatos headcanons #obey me headcanons

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eruhamster · 1 month

Text

Honestly for all the memes about Miquella being evil and Mohg being vindicated, considering the way only one of Miquella's followers truly aligns himself against Miquella with the idea that he's just manipulative(against the evil blood lord???), and how the Hornsent all seem to truly believe in him, and the actual good he's done throughout the Lands Between... I do think Leda has a point when she claims that you were only sent by the Erdtree. The grace very specifically leads you to Miquella in a way it does not lead you to kill the other demigods like Malenia.

Miquella, in other words, seems to be an actual threat to the Erdtree and the Greater Will. It wants you to kill him. Specifically him. I think Miquella legitimately was going to become a god, was going to follow through with his promises. He could force people to love him, but he had the true intention to become not Elden Lord, but a real god, so he can do the things he couldn't as a Demigod- bring his brother back, cure his sister, give those that Marika wronged justice - Bury the original sin, and embrace the whole of it.

He strikes me as a great unifier. He wasn't acting selfishly, and in fact was acting so selflessly that St Trina begs you to kill him rather than let him suffer as a god; she wants you to grant him mercy in death.

It gives me a bad taste that he had to die. He may end up failing, he might go nuts(given how Fromsoft usually goes) but he clearly wasn't evil, and his plan probably would have been far better than even the best Elden Ring ending where a Tarnished simply lets the status quo continue. And I think the fact that the grace leads you to him to get you to kill him REALLY suggests that he was a true threat, in a way that even Ranni was not, to the Greater Will.

I mean. Look who he picked as consort. The kindest man he knew. The man who was able to keep the stars out even when he'd completely lost his mind. There is not a single suggestion that he was only faking all that kindness he provided to every person Marika had wronged or that fought valiantly and justicely. Not a hint of malice in any quote from him. The only people who dislike him are themselves evil. I really do not think he is the villain. It's the opposite. You are. You doomed everyone he promised peace.

#elden ring #miquella

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manias-wordcount · 8 months

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View of Paradise (Satoru Gojo x Reader) PART FOUR

[𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙃𝙊𝘾𝙊𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀 𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙊𝙍𝙔 𝘼𝙐]

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗼𝗺𝗴 𝘄𝗲'𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗵𝗲𝗲

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁: 𝗼𝗻𝗲 || 𝘁𝘄𝗼 || 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 || 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 || 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 || 𝘀𝗶𝘅 || 𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 || 𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 || 𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲 || 𝘁𝗲𝗻 || 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 || 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲 || 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝗳𝗶𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲…

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

The walk back home is uneventful as always. But the way you get to step through the door with your little brother and be treated like heroes is completely worth the silent trek from the diner in the dark.

You’re barely able to shrug off your cardigan and step through the door before Yuuta is shouting “Look what we got!” at your family. He’s more than excited as he takes the boxes of food off of you. And you can’t help but wonder if that excitement is more because cabbage won’t be for dinner tonight or if it’s because of that chocolate bar sitting in his pocket right now. Either way, his smile is wide and childlike and carefree as he hands over the to-go containers to your Mom and the pot of cabbage she’s standing over and tells her exactly which container belongs to whom. It’s as it should be. It’s as you want it to be.

At least for the night.

The floor creaks under your footsteps as you step further into your house. Though house isn’t always an appropriate word for you to use, in your opinion. It’s an old thing. With old, rotting wood that is slowly being replaced and a broken roof that just barely leaks on a good day. Some of the walls weren’t sealed perfectly, so it’s always a surprise when you find a new hole that you swear was sealed up two years ago. And overall, there’s a tilt to the walls too. Your house lives on a slant. Holds itself up at an aggressive angle. A visible lean that always used to make you worried that one day, the house will collapse on your poor dear family. But you’ve survived your coldest winters and your windiest storms in this shack. You have faith in it. Even if it does look like it’s falling apart and slowly coming down with each passing day. But it’s home.

Your home.

And everybody is here right now. Existing happily on the bottom floor of the shack and interacting with each other. There are only three rooms on the bottom floor of your house. Your parent's room, the bathroom, and everything else. The kitchen, the dining room, and the spot in front of the old fatback TV (that only plays the 24/7 news cycle) where your bed-ridden grandparents stay in all day and all night are all together. The upstairs (if you could even call it that), is just a simple loft that you and Yuuta sleep in. It’s cramped, with your modest bed and his nearly squished together. Barely any room for personal items. He’s outgrowing the bed up there too- your old one when you were his age- but he doesn’t say anything about how he’s too tall to lie there without his legs starting to hang off the bottom of the bed. You know deep down inside he probably wishes for more. Wishes for better. But selfishly, you’re happy he doesn’t ask for it. Your family just can’t afford it. They just can’t.

You shake your head suddenly, trying to push the somber thoughts about living this life away in favor of putting a smile on your face and joining your parents and your little brother in the kitchen. Your mother looks at you warmly when she tells you to go wash up. The container with the meatloaf for her and your father is still in her hands, and tears are pricking at her eyes despite her own smile spreading across her lips. Your father sends you a look beneath the permanently tired expression on his face. One that you know all too well, even though they tried to hide it from you your entire life.

It’s relief.

Relief because without this food, they would have gone hungry tonight.

And maybe you would have too. There have been some days you take a hit alongside them as the oldest and one of the family breadwinners. But you try to push that thought in the corner of your mind as you stand over the sink and wash your hands with your little brother. You use the soap and water sparingly. Enough to wash the dirt off your hands and not a second longer before cleaning it on an old towel with fraying edges. Your dad had already cut the hoagies for your grandparents, and your Mom went to fetch some clean plates for them to sit on. Yuuta tries to ask if you need help carrying over your grandparent’s food to their table, but your Grandpa Aibara is quick to cheer you on- asking if you break out some of your waitressing skills and serve them like they’re at your diner right now.

In truth, you’re tired. Your feet ache, and you’re more than ready to strip off this uniform and go to sleep without talking to anyone again until morning. But your Grandpa Aibara looks so cheery and hopeful, despite his graying hair and his unfortunate situation. The rest of your grandparents do too- even the usually grumpy Grandpa Kusakabe seems to be mildly interested in what you do.

So, for one more time tonight, you put on your most dazzling smile and you up your customer service voice. You take all four plates in your hand- balancing them between fingers and palms and using your wrists and upper arms to keep them stabilized. The faces of your grandparents light up as you bring them food as if they were finally able to rise to their feet after all these years and visit you at your diner. But they can’t. And you don’t know if they ever will. So at the very least, you can be a good granddaughter. You can give them a show.

The TV is on and running a story about the economy as you approach. But the volume is low, and the screen isn’t very bright, so you don’t have to compete much for anyone’s attention. The first person you start off with is Grandma Utahime. She’s the closest to where you were originally standing, and she’s the one who needs the most assistance in the end. You’re very, very slow and very, very careful as you place the plate in her hands. Her tremors have gotten worse, you noticed, now that you’re up close. The scar across the majority of her face that was once healing very nicely has slowed down all its progress. But you still call her ma’am and look at her like she’s still the prettiest woman you’ve ever met as you ensure her fingers are closed firmly around the plate.

Yuuta followed behind you as you brought the food over. And he’s quick to swoop in to help Grandma Utahime hold her plate while she brings the sandwich up to her lips once you step away to serve your next customer. You can see out of the corner of your eyes when the frustration growing on her face takes over completely, and she struggles to feed herself. But when she glances at you and your younger brother, the anger disappears into something a little more exhausted, but grateful.

The next person you serve is Grandpa Aibara. And despite sickness attacking his body non-stop and keeping him in his seat, he’s bouncing and wiggling around in his bed with a bright, bright smile. One that has you widening your smile impossibly wider too. His cheer is infectious, and only ends up growing as you place his half of the meager-looking hoagie into his awaiting arms with a simple “Here you are, sir.” You can tell his mouth is watering as he looks down at the sandwich. It’s nothing special, but it’s not often you’re able to bring this much food back for your family. A lifetime of cabbage will do that to someone. So you’re not even surprised when he leans over on the edge of the bed and delivers a kind kiss to your cheek before he turns his attention back to his food. Not without reaching out and ruffling Yuuta’s hair a little, of course.

As you round the other side of the bed, you’re standing closer to the TV. It draws your eyes for a second as you adjust the food in your hands and approach the next person. But the story on the TV is just as boring as ever. Even so, Grandpa Kusakabe tries to look neutral and distracted by what’s on the screen as you stop in front of him. But you’re able to see past his uninterested look all too well. The twitching of his eager fingers that are trying their hardest not to reach out for the food in your hands gives it all away. So you don’t waste a single second of time before putting the plate of food on his lap

“Thank you, sweetheart,” He mumbles to you, eyes only meeting yours for a second. You smile again. A genuine one, before hitting him with a ‘You’re very welcome, grandpa’ and moving over to the next person. You pretend not to notice his excitement struggling to be contained as he takes a bite out of something that isn’t cabbage for the first time in a long, long time.

You head over to your last grandparent- Grandma Shoko. Around you, your house has erupted in a pleasant bout of noise. Grandpa Aibara is already halfway through his sandwich, even though he just told everyone he intends to savor it. Grandpa Kusakabe is quick to tell him to stop his yammering, which your mother giggles at (beneath a hand that does a very, very, very poor job at hiding it. Yuuta is still with Grandma Utahima, helping her take small bites of her food and keeping her from spilling bits of lettuce and tomatoes onto herself. However, every now and then, she stops eating in favor of shouting at your dad to keep eating his meatloaf and to keep his hands off of yours and Yuta’s fries before she “comes over there.” And your poor little brother can’t help but have his expression teeter between embarrassment, surprise, and laughter at your family’s antics.

Still, you don’t want to leave your last grandparent out of the fun. So you hand over the last plate to a quiet Grandma Shoko who gives you a sweet, motherly look and tells you just how proud she is of you for growing up to be who you are now. The compliment warms your cheeks and causes you to stammer over your words a little bit. But you thank her anyway.

But just as you straighten up from your last food delivery, a sudden noise catches your attention. Out of instinct, you shush everyone loudly. You almost forget for a moment you’re at home and not the diner where you can shush all the other waitresses to hear something and not have it be seen as a sign of disrespect. But you’re not at the diner. You’re at home. And from across the room, you hear your mother scold you lightly. You also hear Grandpa Kusakabe grumbling again. Mentioning something about “kids these days” under his breath. But you don’t really hear him or your mom. You don’t really hear anything.

Except for the news anchor on the TV’s fuzzy screen running a story with the BREAKING NEWS symbol underneath him. And as your family quiets down with you, they start to hear what you’re hearing. They start to see what you’re seeing. And even though the picture quality is terrible, you’ve spent enough time in front of this TV to read the message that’s being displayed to you right now.

And you’ve spent your entire life wishing for a miracle like this to happen to you too.

~~~ DEAR PEOPLE OF THE WORLD,

I, GOJO SATORU HAVE DECIDED TO ALLOW FIVE CHILDREN TO VISIT MY FACTORY THIS YEAR. THESE LUCKY FIVE WILL BE SHOWN AROUND PERSONALLY BY ME, AND WILL LEARN ALL THE SECRETS AND THE MAGIC OF MY FACTORY

FIVE GOLDEN TICKETS HAVE BEEN HIDDEN UNDERNEATH THE ORDINARY WRAPPING PAPER OF FIVE ORDINARY WONKA BARS. THESE FIVE CANDY BARS MAY BE ANYWHERE - IN ANY SHOP IN ANY STREET IN ANY TOWN IN ANY COUNTRY IN THE WORLD

IN ADDITION, ONE OF THESE CHILDREN SHALL RECEIVE A SPECIAL PRIZE BEYOND ANYTHING YOU COULD EVER IMAGINE. GOOD LUCK TO ALL, AND HAPPY HUNTING!

GOJO SATORU

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gretavanlace · 1 year

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Poppins (part 9)

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, illusions to sex & oral sex, angst, language, brief discussion of suicide, dirty talk, deception, alcohol consumption, etc

The wine has loosened his tongue only slightly, while yours remains nearly untouched, and your tongue bitten quiet. The glass in your shaky grip having been reduced to something to merely occupy your hands - lest you grab him up to dramatically demand answers that, in truth, you really aren’t owed at all.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he chuckles softly, staring at the golden liquid he is now sipping on for courage.

How very unlike him. He is normally so well spoken. Even when touching upon subjects he knows little about, he is eloquent and honest, posing well thought out questions, eager to engage, hungry to banter, excited to learn.

His voice, always so soothing and pacifying; almost tranquilizing in its melodic cadence…now carries a small tremor. Does he fear your reaction to the truth? Or does he simply fear speaking the words aloud might solidify a truth he wishes wasn’t so?

Rather than ask, you remain hushed, and wait with painted on patience.

“The night I slept with her wasn’t the worst night of my life.” He finally sadly sighs, leaning back against the couch as though getting comfortable for the long haul. “In fact, I was so drunk I don’t even really remember it aside from bits and pieces. Doesn’t that make me sound like an asshole?”

You choose honesty, “Yes.”

He smiles over at you, thankful you refused to deny him, warts and all. “The next morning is what I really can’t stand to think about. Sometimes even now, it’ll all come back to me out of nowhere - how it felt when I opened my eyes against the pounding in my head to find her lying there beside me. When I realized what I had done to him. When I knew nothing was ever going to be the same. I have never, ever, considered taking my own life, but in that moment, if I had held a gun in my hand, I think I might have used it.”

The thought alone ruins what little appetite you might have had, and you know with certainty that the sushi rolls are doomed to spoil on the table.

“Probably on her first, and then on myself.” He shrugs, “I hated her almost as much as I hated myself for it. Hate myself for it. How could we fucking do that to him, you know? Monsters. Both of us.”

“‘He never has to know.’ She said, staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at me - which I was absolutely glad for. Her voice was innocent, like she was friends with woodland animals and dwarves. It made me sick that she could sound so sweet while we were still naked beneath my sheets. It made my stomach turn like I’d just stuffed myself full of a cake baked with too much sugar. I wanted to vomit. I wanted her to shut up.”

How differently they’ve spoken of her voice. Selfishly, you prefer Josh’s loathsome version over his brother’s wistful description.

“And I agreed, like a fucking coward, I agreed. I said, ‘Ok.’ That’s all. O-fucking-kay. Like she had just suggested a new diner for lunch or something equally mundane.”

You want to reach for him, to stroke his face, smooth his curls, to tell him everything will be alright. To somehow convince him it was all a bad dream, simply to erase the anguish that has vibrated to life in his eyes. Instead, you sit still and quiet, and let him go on.

“Betray my brother worse than I already have? Okay.” He scoffs, self disgust heavy on his tongue. “I said, okay.”

It’s silent for a few beats while he goes off somewhere alone in his head. Somewhere you don’t care to visit. Somewhere he wouldn’t allow you to follow even if you begged him to.

If you asked, he would shake his head and tell you you don’t belong in those memories, gritty with treachery and the ugliest of things. No one goes there with him, not even Jake. Jake visits a hell all his own when he thinks of the way his chest was ripped apart, and who was responsible for the wounds.

“Anyway, you know all that.” He taps your knee with a soft, sorrowful smile. “And while I don’t know exactly how much he told you about what went down, I do know that he told you that I eventually did confess my sins. I know this, because I know he could never stand to make me out to be the bad guy for very long…even though it’s what I deserve.”

You grab his hand up and offer it a squeeze. “We all make mistakes. He’s forgiven you…maybe you should forgive yourself.”

How strange. Last night you had been so furious with him for breaking Jake’s heart. It had seemed reprehensible, unforgivable, horrific…and it is still all those things, but now it has been rendered clear that it is all far from in your hands. There is nothing to be done. It is all just part of their history, which has nothing to do with you. They have navigated waters in which you will never swim, and that’s alright.

It’s okay to let go of what happened then, and consider who they are now, only.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, “I have, mostly. Sometimes though, it's hard to look at myself in the mirror.”

The refrigerator kicks on, driving home the quiet, and how alone you truly are in the house…a rarity so foreign you aren’t sure how to handle the sudden, dawning realization.

“Anyway,” he sighs, at last, dragging his palms up and down his thighs - a gesture so like his brother’s you might be able to believe you’re sitting beside Jacob if you didn’t know better. “He waited it out. Lurked around in the grass like a fuckin’ snake until he found his moment. I earned the strike, though…and I deserved the venom, so…”

Soft as a whisper hushed in a theater, you find the will to pry “What happened, Josh…will you tell me?”

“Damn, sweetheart…” he grins, jutting in chin upwards in order to glare lovingly down the perfect bridge of his nose at you “You know how to get what you want, don’t you?”

“I don’t—“ your confusion scatters your thoughts for a breath “I don’t know what you mean.”

He leans forwards and drifts his lips across your cheekbone softly, tenderly, delicately, as if he worries over breaking you. “‘Will you’, you said. Like you want it…and I can’ t deny you. You want, you ask, I give…it’s just that simple.”

You can feel heat coaxing an embarrassing pink to life in your cheeks, “Okay, tell me then, don’t deny me.”

Should you use his devotion against him? Maybe not. Definitely not. But, this is why you’re both sat upon this couch, after all, isn’t it?

He grabs a sushi roll and shoves it in his mouth, likely to buy himself a little time. Finally, after a dramatic swallow, he shakes his head. “That fuck broke my heart right back. Eye for an eye was always kind of our motto, so I guess I should have seen it coming. I didn’t though, because what he thought was his revenge wasn’t the arrow in my heart he thought it would be.”

On you wait, as he gathers his thoughts, or plucks up his nerve. The grandfather wall clock that hangs in the hall, gifted to him after his grandpa passed, keeps time with its incessant tick, tick, ticking. He hates that clock, says it reminds him too much of his own mortality, the way it ticks the seconds and chimes the hours…but it would sadden his father to know this, so on his wall it will hang.

That is the Josh that makes sense to you. Selfless and fierce in his love for those lucky enough to bask in it. He is so much more familiar than the imagined Josh, lying in bed with his brother’s whole world beside him.

“I was in Flint for the weekend for a conference, and she stayed to keep an eye on the place for me. He showed up here, and I doubt she put up much resistance. Jake has this way about him, always has. He can just look at a woman and make her long for him. I’ve seen it a hundred times.” His gaze shifts to you with a gentle half-smile, “Some of those times have hurt worse than others, though.”

He’s speaking of you, and you feel ashamed. How many times has he watched you swoon over his twin, how many times has it made him angry? Worse, how many times has it made his heart ache?

“When we were younger, we used to do this dumb thing to mess with our mom,” he laughs softly and you feel yourself relax, “We’d sneak off into one room or another while she was busy with something else and we’d turn all the pictures on the wall upside down. It was stupid, and sometimes it would take her a day or two to notice, but it drove her crazy. We thought it was the funniest thing, watching her get so pissed off.”

“Idiots.” You laugh with him, picturing how pleased they must have been with themselves. “I don’t know how your poor mother put up with you two.”

“We did it with the furniture once, too.” He confesses, smiling wide at the memory. “Turned the couch and the end tables upside down. The coffee table, loveseat, the whole deal. Anyway…”

His sunny smile fades, “That’s how he let me know where he’d been. I came home Sunday night and noticed a single picture on the bedroom wall had been turned upside down.”

You’ve been in his room enough times to know that a picture still hangs that way, though you’ve never asked why.

He sees your gears turning and nods, “I left it like that not to remind myself of what he did to me, but of what I did to him.”

“I never brought it up to her, but I saw him a few days later - stopped by his place because I missed him more than I hated what we had done to each other. He looked like shit…almost as bad as when he’d learned that she maybe didn’t love him as much as he loved her.”

The memory of Jake describing the hole he had crawled into creeps into your head and you want to claw it out.

“What I said to him really isn’t important,” he shrugs, looking at you as if he’s pleading to be let off the hook. He doesn’t want to share, and you won’t ask him to.

“The long and the short of it was that he really did nothing that was too terrible. We’d always been that way with each other; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But, I didn’t love her. He didn’t hurt me by sleeping with her. It stung a little, but that’s only because I’ve got an ego to coddle, that’s all.”

He swallows the last of his wine as his hand, warm and steady now, finds yours. “What hurt came later.”

“Lily?”

“Lily.”

“I hadn’t seen her mother in weeks when she called to tell me she was pregnant.” His eyes are distant and misted, but his thumb sweeps back and forth along your own to prove he’s still with you. “I couldn’t be certain the baby was his, but I was damn sure certain it wasn’t mine. Didn’t tell her that, though. And maybe I should have. Maybe I should have said something right away, but I just couldn’t. If she was going to lie and say the baby was mine, I was going to run with it. I wanted Lily from the second I knew she was on her way. Wanted her more than anything I had ever wanted anything before, even though I knew the truth.”

Your confusion spurs you on, and you can no longer stay mum “But how could you know? I mean, sure, she might have been Jake’s, or whoever’s, but she could've just as easily been yours, right? I mean,”

“No.” There’s a finality in his tone that quiets you instantly. “She isn’t mine, and I knew it from the start.”

“But…”

He talks over you, but he does so gently, “I hadn’t told anyone, mostly because I didn’t want it to be true…all I’d ever wanted was to be a dad, to have a little family to come home to every night. A boring, lovel, little life. Even now, Jake is the only one who knows. I should have told you, especially given how I want things to be for you and I, and I’m sorry for that.”

You think you know where he’s headed with this, but to misread anything in this moment is something you can’t risk, so you wait him out while he struggles to find the words.

When he finally finds them, they tumble out in a rush before he loses his nerve. “I knew she wasn’t mine because I can’t have kids. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry…I should have told you. You deserved to know that before things went as far as they have, but I just…I just couldn’t, and I don’t know why. I still can’t stand the thought of people knowing. For it to be fact. For it to be real.”

A million and one questions are racing through your head. Why can’t he? How does he know? How long has he known? Is he sure? Why he’s apologizing for something so devastating and completely out of his hands? Why he’s apologizing to you? Does he see you that way? As someone who he’d give his babies to if only he could? Does he love you that way? Do you love him that way?”

But the agonized shadows in his eyes tell you that this is hard enough for him. That he might fall apart if you unleash an interrogation upon him in his cozy little living room over wine and a neglected dinner.

“Say something.” He finally whispers, taking your hand in both of his now. “Please, say something.”

“I’m so sorry, Josh…” you squeeze your fingers tighter between his, lacing them further to ground him “I didn’t know. I’m so, so, sorry.”

You watch the terrorized tension drain out of his body. Had he expected you to be angry? To tell him that whatever this is between the two of you is over? You don’t know it, but yes, he did. He expected that, and worse.

“Sweetheart,” he blinks away tears as he calms and attempts to offer you a smile.

He’s trying to find a way to explain how much it means to him that you’re still sitting beside him, but you shake your head, silently promising that he doesn’t need to say anything at all.

“So now you see why I went along with it.” He continues, at last…words shaking and raspy with emotion. “I loved that little girl from the moment I knew she existed, and I wanted her. God, how I wanted her. I didn’t give a shit about biological this and that, she was mine from the word go.”

The love that undulates from every cell in his body when he speaks of her is maternal. The fierce, instinctual, protective devotion is palpable. He would ride straight into the fiery, miserable pits of hell to find her without a second of hesitation. He would die in her stead a thousand times over. He would do anything, anything, for her. It’s a love like you have never seen, and it is beautiful.

“So, like I said before, I moved her in straight away.” He shrugs, “She wanted to lie, and I wanted her to lie. Everyone was happy. The first ultrasound told me all I needed to know. Something about the way she moved, floating around in there, was so Jake. But, still, I didn’t say a word.”

“When did you finally tell him?” You hush, reaching up to stroke your fingers along the sharp curve of his jaw.

“At the hospital.” This memory in particular is a difficult one for him, you can read it clearly in his expression. “She looked exactly like us. She looked like him. Still, I hadn’t planned on telling a soul what I knew to be true until he showed up to meet her. Watching him hold her, the way he looked at her…”

He falters with a shuddering breath, “I just couldn’t keep that from him. He knew it was a possibility, he isn’t an idiot. But, she was his and he deserved to know. So I waited until we were alone, watching over her through the nursery window, and then I just told him. He looked at her for the longest time, so tiny and fragile, so real, and then pulled me into one of those crushing hugs of his - you know the ones - and he said,”

Now the words are so caught up in his tightened throat he has to fight to speak them, “He said, ‘congratulations, brother, you’re gonna be a fucking fantastic dad’.”

He laughs a little, “Then he knocked on the glass to get the attention of the nurse and demanded another visit with his niece. That was that.”

“He knew she was yours.” You whisper, in awe of their bond, of their tempestuous love for one another. “He knew where she belonged.”

“Or,” he argues just as softly. “He just couldn’t stand to take my only chance away.”

“Yes,” you agree, “maybe so.”

“He tried to stay away, I could tell. I could feel it from across town, the way he’d be holed up in his apartment fighting not to come over and see her…so I’d call him with excuse after excuse just so he could live with being here so often.”

The love in Josh’s heart, the empathy, never fails to floor you and make you weak for his strength.

“Then, after Lil’s mother left, he practically moved in. He helped with everything. We took turns waking up with her, not that it was that far of a stretch since she slept in either my arms or his. He gave her a bath every night in the kitchen sink, and I swear to god I’ve never seen him happier than when he was shampooing her little head. It all changed when she started to talk and directed one of her first little ‘da-da’s’ at him.”

He leans forward to refill your glasses, and you’re grateful for it, the haze of a tiny buzz might cushion the emotional blows being dealt.

After a long pull at his resiling, he goes on, “I argued with him when he told me he was going back out on the road. Told him everything would work itself out, but he fucking leveled me one night. She’d been sick, running a little fever, so we were both awake to keep an eye on her and he said ‘I can’t do this anymore, Josh. She’s yours, but every fucking day I wish that wasn’t true a little bit more. I need some distance, and I need it now.’ So, I let him go without a fight, how could I not?”

“She was lucky to have so much love, “ you offer, honestly. “She still is.”

“And you say I’m the eternal optimist.” He watches your mouth, but only for a blink. “No one knows, or even suspects. Honestly, I don’t think either one of us ever expected to tell another soul. And, you know, maybe I shouldn’t have laid this on your doorstep…but like I already said, he would have told you eventually. I don’t know how I know that, but I know that.”

“You’re right,” you lean in closer, pulled by the magnet force of all the truth he’s trusted you with, nose to nose, but there’s something innocent in the proximity. Something that says, this might lead somewhere tonight, this might lead nowhere tonight. “He told me he would have.”

His hand is wrapped loosely around the side of your neck now, holding you in place, “You asked him about it? What did he tell you?”

“Nothing.” Your lips are nearly touching, breathing one another’s air, words falling against each other's mouths. You savor him, he’s never tasted more like Josh than he does right now, with everything laid bare. “He told me nothing. He said it was your story to tell.”

“And so tell you the story, I did, sweetheart,” he’s crawling over you now, guiding you back on the couch, staring down at you as he moves with the strangest mixture of something gentle, and something inherently predatory. “And here you are.”

“Yes,” you nod, submitting below him with your hands reaching up to bury themselves in his curls, shivering at the velour drag of his closely clipped sides brushing over your palms. “Here I am.”

When he covers your body with his, pressing you into the couch cushions until you feel hidden and safe, he’s impossibly hard, rocking between your legs until he works a muted gasp from your lungs.

“So pretty, baby,” his praise sets you on fire, “I’m gonna make you sound like a song tonight. I’m going to make you fucking cry. Do you want that, love? Do you want me?”

“Yes,” you nod feverishly, forehead to forehead, “I want you, Josh. I want your fingers, I want your mouth, I want you. Want you inside me.”

“You want my mouth?” You feel his lips curve into a smile that is now flush against your throat. “That sounds perfect. You want me to taste you? To kiss you right here?” He snakes his hand between you and cups at your heat through your pants. “You want me to suck this beautiful pussy until you can’t stand it anymore? You want to cum right on my tongue, sweet girl?”

“I don’t care,” you’re writhing and squirming like a whore and you can’t find the will to worry about it, “just want you, baby…c’mon, Josh, please.”

“I like it when you beg,” his confession rides out on stuttering breaths, “But I can’t seem to deny you long enough to indulge in all that whining for very long. It’s a shame.”

His fingers are working at the button on your jeans as you pump your hips into nothing beneath him when the knock comes at the door.

“Who could…”

He cuts off your wide-eyed question, groaning out a name as he shakes his head in the crook of your neck, “Jake.”

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