#installation parameters

[scurvyboy]

they work great together and don't run into any disagreements whatsoever

[fagulaa]

im a grown ass man and im coming up with wolf 359 ocs. dont look at me

[bmpmp3]

bro i tried out hifisampler by plugging in some untuned whatever in my old fruityloops files and this shit is crazy. hello Hagane Hey (volume warning: the utau).

[peachdues]

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!

[syntheticsymp]

Omg u can't just drop the fact that Krueger knows about niktos girl and not elaborate on it 😭 like did this guy just break in the house and found out /jj

Yes I’m so glad you noticed!! I try to make it a common theme throughout all my Nikto fics that Krueger knows about her, and Nikto absolutely hates it. They might be kind of/sort of friends, but Krueger is a different breed of crazy. I got a little carried away and wrote for this because I love the break in idea—

TW: attempted sexual assault (which was stopped) and Krueger. A continuation of the Nikto fics I've been posting on here recently. Unedited, as always

Krueger’s known about Nikto’s ‘pet’ for a while now. It wasn't really hard to figure out, since he knew where to look. And Krueger was nothing if not a nosy bastard.

The first giveaway was Nikto’s phone. They were standard issue at KorTac, everyone was required to have one in case of emergency. Never once had Nikto opened it, nor had he bothered to learn how to use it. So, when he suddenly seemed to check it more often, of course Krueger grew suspicious.

He attempted to snatch the phone on multiple occasions. Nikto kept it unlocked, since he had no clue how to enable the password feature. The only picture on his camera roll was blurry, taken by an unsteady hand that clearly didn't know what it was doing. It was of you, your face tilted to the side as you were doing... something. He couldn't really tell. And the more he tried to decipher the photo, the more he believed that it had just been a fluke. A picture taken completely by accident.

From what little Krueger could see, he still knew you could do better than Nikto's deformed face. Not to mention his personality, which was just as horrid. Another poor, unfortunate soul that fell into bloody hands.

Normally, he would have left it at that. Nikto finally had a good whore to go back to, good for him. He would have assumed Nikto killed the girl immediately after.

But then there were the texts. At least once a day, the annoying, standard ringtone blared from the little black phone. Then Nikto would stop everything just to reply.

It was weird.

So Krueger formed a plan. It was flawless. Next time Nikto checked his phone, he'd snatch it and flip through the chats. Surely, if he had a toy stashed away Nikto would have told him. They were partners, after all.

But, as soon as Krueger tried, Nikto quickly threw his phone to the ground and smashed it under his heel. The big baby was always so dramatic.

Now, Krueger was more curious than ever. Nikto had a secret, and he'd stop at nothing to unearth it.

Flash forward to Thursday night. There was yet another long debrief. Krueger didn't care to listen. As long as he'd get to kill, he wouldn't complain about their next mission. And if they did well, they would retain the freedom of having a life outside of KorTac. An absolutely terrible idea on management's part, but he wasn't about to complain. Not when it gave him the perfect opportunity to sneak out a few moments before Nikto and scope out his home. Simple recon, that was all.

Nikto was taken aside with Konig while the rest of the operatives were dismissed. That meeting would no doubt end with Nikto blowing up at the Austrian man, most likely bashing his face in again. He never could stand Konig. But that gave Krueger a headstart.

Finding Nikto's house was far easier than breaking in. It was a surprisingly nice cottage far out from everything else, just within the parameters of where he was allowed to live. Surrounded by trees, there was enough covering for this place to go unnoticed. Entering through the front door was not an option, Krueger knew that Nikto had definitely installed a stupid amount of locks, and probably rigged some sort of trap or two.

So, he went through the back window. It was a challenge to get in, and fuck, if Krueger didn't love a challenge. It simply meant that the treat locked away had to be worth the effort. You had to be so sweet if Nikto kept you hidden like this.

After shimmying inside, Krueger took his time walking around the house. It was nice, he had to admit. KorTac's salary was unrivaled, especially considering the missions they gave to their operatives. It seemed Nikto's paycheck went to this place, Russian books and tiny knick-knacks decorating the shelves. There was no way in hell Nikto bought the latter for himself, confirming his suspicions. Someone else lived here.

Unlike in his stealth missions, Krueger touched everything, acquainting himself with his partner's living space. He missed the days when Nikto lived on base with him, locked away in a small cell across the way from his. Nikto could pretend all he wanted, but this ‘home’ he created would never be real. It was all a sad, desperate facade for a life he would never have. Krueger didn't care to play house, even if he had his own toy locked away, he was only using Lucas for sex. Nikto clearly gave you a higher role.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice that he was in the living room until it was too late. Soft breathing lured him in, a lullaby whispering to him to suffocate the breath for good. Krueger never could keep his hands to himself.

You were curled up, asleep on the couch, waiting for Nikto like a well-behaved pet. The blurry photograph Krueger had seen did not do you justice. He'd have to show Nikto how to get the good angles, making sure to spread your legs for the camera so he could see the perfect moment when he thrusted in. Yeah, Nikto was due for a good lesson. And with a thing as pretty as you, why wouldn't he want to keep your pussy in his pocket at all times?

Krueger circled, stopping right infront of you before crouching down to your height. It was truly a shame you were rotting away with such an ugly man. While he was here, he might as well give you a taste of what you were missing.

"Wakey wakey!" The loud, accented chirp echoed through the room.

You shot straight up, eyes bleary and hair a mess. You looked around the room wildly before your gaze finally landed on him.

"You're not Nik..." The realization came slow. Then, all at once. You kicked yourself back, scrambling over the back of the couch in an attempt to flee.

Only for Krueger to catch you by the ankle and pull you back to the cushions. “Oh, you're smart,” he mocked.

"Let go of me!" You screeched as you thrashed wildly. "Nikto will kill you! Get away!"

He laughed at your struggle, the sound airy as if he were with a friend rather than scaring the shit out of you. Nikto always preferred obedience, acceptable, but Krueger? He favored the girls who fought.

"I'm sure he will," Krueger hummed. "But why don't we have a little fun beforehand, ja?"

Tears were already starting to fall down your cheeks. Why hadn't Nikto told him he had such a pretty crier locked away? It was so unfair. Krueger would have been more than willing to offer his partner on the field a taste of his toy, Lucas, at home. They were supposed to be a team, the two resident psychos of KorTac. Hiding secrets was never a part of the deal.

"I want you to leave," you said quietly, but coherently. So you were using your words. Nikto truly did train you well.

"Well, that doesn't really matter, now does it?" Keeping one hand on your stomach so you'd stay pushed down, he used the other to push the heel of your foot against the bulge in his pants. It had been there since he was shown the footage of his last kill at KorTac. Nothing quite did the trick like gore. "Nikto, you see, he is like a brother to me. Does it not seem right for him to share his toys?"

You attempted to kick his balls, which he blocked, moving your foot away from his cock. He continued with a tut, "Nein, nein. None of that. Just giving a quick inspection."

As he tried to pry your legs apart to see what Nikto had been so desperate to protect, you wouldn't stop fighting. You were surprisingly strong, most likely from the times you fought off Nikto when he first stole you away. Krueger had thought Nikto would have beaten all the fight out of you by now. Surely you didn't think you belonged to him alone, did you?

You were screaming now, too. Nearly making Krueger's ears bleed. "Quiet, bitch."

"He'll kill you!" you spat in his face, hair mussed by the couch cushions. "Nikto will fucking kill you if you don't get off me!"

Krueger laughed. "You truly think you mean that much to him? You're just a toy, Schatz."

You started to shake as more tears fell. Shit. Krueger recognized what happened in an instant. You were going hysterical. This place, your situation, had caused you to teeter to the the edge. And Krueger had accidentally given you the final shove. Nikto was totally going to kill him.

As if on cue, the door swung open. And out came the man you kept whining so insistently about.

Krueger let go of you, allowing you to scramble to close your legs as he gave Nikto a shit-eating grin. "There you are, big guy. We were just talking about you—”

Nikto was on him in a second, grabbing him by the throat and throwing him against the nearest wall. A method of killing they both shared. The brutal asphyxiation made Krueger hornier, if that was even possible. He really should check in with a doctor or psychologist about a way to fix the 'compulsive sexual disorder' his last shrink diagnosed him with.

When Nikto finally spoke, it was a single word.

"Leave."

He didn't bother sugarcoating, he never had and he never will. Nikto was the same overly competitive, overly territorial man Krueger knew on the field. A mirror image of himself. It was intoxicating.

The pressure on his throat made it hard to respond, but that didn't stop Krueger from trying. "No way to... welcome guests... to your home."

Nikto would have been content to kill him and they both knew it. They had been in this situation various times before, just on opposite ends of the knife. They were brothers in arms, fellow psychos. Even if they were the same, they would not hesitate to kill each other. That had been clear since they had first been partnered up.

And oh, hadn't Nikto been so close to killing Krueger. They were the same in so many ways, lacking boundaries and sanity. But they showed it in very different ways.

It may have been another spirit that possessed Nikto at that moment, or perhaps your terrified expression, because he dropped Krueger, who didn't so much as flinch during the whole interaction.

"Why did you come here?" Nikto asked, crossing his arms and standing directly infront of you, blocking you from Krueger's line of sight. You were still on the couch, confused by the man in your home, and terrified of what he almost did to you.

"Why'd you hide such a pretty toy from me?" Krueger countered, shooting you a wink you didn't even seem to register.

Nikto did not return the playful tone. There were many reasons he could give, but the answer was pretty simple. Nikto didn't like Krueger knowing about you. Not because he didn't trust you, but because he didn't trust Krueger. He's watched the man jerk off to dead bodies on the field, he knew Krueger kept pictures of the bloody corpses of women he bedded. So yeah, Nikto tried to keep you under wraps. Nikto may be a violent nutjob, but Krueger would tear you apart and leave nothing left. At least Nikto took care of his pets.

Nikto had to look up at Krueger to meet his eye. He muttered a single, sharp insult. "You are filth. You do not deserve her.”

Krueger scoffed. "A little hypocritical, don't you think?"

Things were quickly turning ugly. Neither man had enough impulse control to back down from a fight. Neither had ever *lost* a fight to begin with. And Nikto had no qualms beating a man to a bloody pulp infront of you, especially after what he walked in on. You had seen him do much worse.

Surprisingly, it was Krueger who conceded, leaning against the wall like he owned the place. "Alright, I'll back off. For you, Bruder."

That was most likely a lie. Krueger was never content with his own toys, he wanted to take others, too. Break them until they were unusable. He was greedy and sadistic, which is what made him such a good killer.

For all the shit Nikto put you through, somehow, he was still better than Krueger. You were still curled in on yourself, not yet coming to terms with the mindfuck of what happened in a matter of minutes, or how Krueger was casually walking to the window without a care in the world. Apparently, once you got used to one psycho, another, worse one appeared in his place.

“Come over for tea sometime,” Krueger said, throwing a sleazy smile over his shoulder, offering a wave as he jumped out the back window. “I’m sure my Lucas would love to have a little playdate."

You prayed to whatever god would listen that you never saw that man again. If he was the alternative to Nikto, you were happy to stay in your little prison, picking up the scraps of comfort you were offered.

Or perhaps that had been Krueger's plan all along. You’d spend the whole night in Nikto’s arms, crying and clinging to him. He was doing his friend a favor, strengthening your dependence so you would never feel enticed to leave. It was the least he could do for Nikto, after all, they had been partners for so long.

[tsundereace]

Gender and the Mojave Wasteland or why i think New Vegas is so popular amongst trans women

In summary someone's gender (including the player's character) does matter to greater or lesser extents amongst the various societies and some characters that they can encounter which is likely to prompt someone to think more about gender, and or will have the game recognise and affirm theirs depending on the individual anyway

I have to assume other RPG's from a similar time and or quality presumably also did this to some extent but not as prominently as NV due to it typically being singled out in this regard

There's a few re occurring elements that do add to this such as the perks that allow you to flirt with them to be more cooperative largely only working on people of a compatible orintation, and Ceasers Legion's frequent misogyny but since thats more about gender as a whole withen the game here's a few things that would have resonated with trans women specifically

First is an unmarked companion quest where you are tasked to find Veronica a dress

(For the record her default outfit is baggy with a hood make your own jokes)

"I just like 'em, you know? They make you feel like a woman. Those ladies before the War, they knew what they were doing."

Even if you forget about this she will make a remark upon placing one in her inventtory but due to how the game is coded will not actualy put it on herself

next is from the in game Radio New Vegas where between the songs one of the presenters lines is

"The women of New Vegas ask me a lot if there's a Mrs. New Vegas. Of course there is. You're her. And you're still as perfect as the day we met."

and last but not least in the player's house within the Old World Blues DLC comes with an AI assistant who is hardcoded to call the player sir but will apologise when that is misgendering

"Sir? You are aware that I'm a woman, right?" "Indubitably, sir, but it is with a great lugubriousness that I must disclose that my programmers installed only the masculine honorific, sir. Moreover they neglected to enclose a parameter by which said honorific might be omitted altogether - over my most strenuous of remonstrances, sir."

all of these factors together would have likely catalysed some thoughts and new vegas being a very replayable game would have remained in discussion long enough for said thoughts to take shape

or maybe trans women just have better taste in video games ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[torpublishinggroup]

Murderbot is MurderBACK in the next installment of Martha Wells’s NYT bestselling Murderbot Diaries series System Collapse 🤖🚀

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Following the events of Network Effect, our favorite lethally cybernetic television fiend has done the previously unthinkable: agreed to accompany the sentient spaceship Perihelion (dubbed ART by Murderbot, short for Asshole Research Transport) and crew on its next mission. 

Unfortunately, they’re not going to get too far. 

Having failed to harvest dangerous artifacts from their target planet by way of Murderbot misadventure, the Barish-Estranza corporation is much angered and determined to recoup their considerable losses. And when you’re a lethally opportunistic space corp, blood and muscle are valuable currency. 

Murderbot, ART’s crew, and the Preservation humans have planetside work to do as Barish-Estranza seeks to claim the planet’s beleaguered colony as a conscripted workforce. 

But for Murderbot, the challenge is as internal as it is external. Something is deeply, deeply wrong with it. Normal operational parameters are unmet, but with the corp’s SecUnit-heavy persuasion teams en route, Murderbot needs to resolve its issues, and fast!

[auroraeternal]

4t3 Conversion of Grouped posters by @cosmiccs4 + Recoloring PSD with tutorial

8 non-recolorable presets

1024 textures

Included PSD for retexturing (tutorial how to use under the cut)

113 poly, all LODs

Shiftable

Price - 5§

BGC

Compressed package

TOU, Ko-Fi

DOWNLOAD | ALT | SIMBLR.CC

Tutorial: How to use my PSD for retexturing

You need:

Photoshop with .dds plugin

My retexture PSD and package file of posters

19 pictures to your liking, preferably vertical

TSRW

Sims3Pack Multi Installer and Compressionizer

Step 1: Open my PSD file, open your images:

Step 2: Select (Ctrl+A) copy and paste to posters file (Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V) first of your images :

Step 3: Choose where you want to put it, for reference you can use one of the presets:

Step 4: After you decided with placement of your image. Move its layer in the Layers tab between "Poster x" and "Put your image here" layers, it will create a clipping mask, which allows the picture to be fit within the poster without cropping. Hide or delete "Put your image here" layer.

Step 5: Use Transform, Free Transform and Move tools to resize the image by your liking:

Step 6: Repeat the Step 2-5 with other 18 images:

*vibes are totally random, all images from Pinterest*

Step 7: After you've done, delete all the "Put your image here" layers, if you didn't it before. Right-click on the Layers tab and press Merge Visible (Shift + Ctrl + E). Now press Save As (Control + Shift + S) and save your image as .DDS with this parameters (2nd picture):

Step 8: Go to TSRW. Press Create New Project > New Import, and select package with my posters. Give for your recolor unique Title and Project name, otherwise it will override original posters:

Step 9: In Textures tab go through all the presets except the first one and delete them. Then go to Edit > Project Contents and remove all the textures of removed presets. Its pretty common when someone make retexture of TS3 mesh and leave that unused textures in file, which leads to increasing its size:

Step 10: Press Edit button next to the Overlay tab. Then press Import button and select your retexture. Press Done and when this pop-up appears, press Yes:

Step 11: If you want to add more presets press Duplicate and reapeat Step 10, but instead, when pop-up about replacing the texture appears, press No.

Step 12: After you've done, press File > Export > To Sims3pack or Edit > Project Contents > Export > To .package. If you choose the first method, convert your Sims3pack to Package and in both cases run it through Compressionizer. Test your recolor In-game, make thumbnails (if you want to share it) and have fun!

For those who read this tutorial to the end, click HERE to download this recolor.

@pis3update @xto3conversionsfinds @wanderingsimsfinds @kpccfinds @simfluencer-network @sssvitlanz @simblrcc-site

[saphronethaleph]

RTKM

“I can’t speak to him until tomorrow?” Obi-Wan checked.

“I am afraid not,” Taun We replied, with a conciliatory gesture. “It is a shame you have come all this way to meet with such inconvenience, but perhaps if you had commed ahead…?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“That would have worked better,” he decided, thinking. “Would you be able to run me through some of the key decisions made on the specifics of the army? I’m afraid they were taken several years ago, and I’ve only come to this particular project quite recently – I’d like to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.”

“Of course,” Taun We agreed. “In addition to providing the template, Jango made many of the decisions on training – that is not our speciality, as we prefer to allow our clients to make the appropriate arrangements in doctrinal matters.”

“Naturally,” Obi-Wan agreed, pacing down the hallway. “What weapons and equipment are included in the contract?”

“A basic load for the first two hundred thousand units has been procured,” Taun We replied. “All part of the initial purchase, naturally. We are aware that our clients may need to take urgent delivery. Any upgrades, however, will have to be provided by the client.”

She gestured, indicating one of the staging areas. “Rothana Heavy Engineering has provided much of the heavy equipment. Several large orders were made.”

This was getting more and more involved, and Obi-Wan’s worry was only increasing.

How much money was involved with this army?

“You mentioned behavioural modifications?” he asked.

“Naturally,” Taun We confirmed. “Neural inhibitor biochips are a standard installation on most of our clone lines. Our products are designed for maximum obedience through a careful inculcation of a culture of volunteerism, but overrides are always considered useful.”

She took out a datapad, tapping on it, then held it out for him. “A full list of the commands. I hope you’ll find that the details are entirely within the contracted parameters.”

“I hope so as well,” Obi-Wan replied, paging through the datapad.

He’d been wondering how a clone army could work, on a practical level, but seeing some of these commands it was apparent what would be involved. The clones would be trained in all military skills, and in showing initiative, but the dozens of indexed commands would erase or alter specific factors of their behaviour.

They would retain the same skills as before, but their free will would be restricted, causing them to obey as readily as droids. One of the commands on the datapad was to discard their communicators immediately, while another was an order to charge a position, regardless of casualties – and Obi-Wan had seen enough of conflict to know that that would be able to win some battles all by itself.

So long as you didn’t see the ten-year-old clones who’d be doing it as who they were. As much children as adults.

Then he stopped, and stared.

“Is something wrong, Jedi Kenobi?” Taun We asked.

Obi-Wan shook himself.

“My apologies,” he said, turning off the datapad and stowing it in his robes. “While I hope it won’t cause any problems for you, I’m going to need to check something later… are there any exercises going on at the moment?”

“Of course,” Taun We replied, pleasantly. “Would you prefer close combat exercises, heavy weapons, or long arms?”

“You’re going to need to hear this, Masters,” Obi-Wan said. “I’ve arrived on Kamino and found that Master Sifo-Dyas had ordered a clone army that was – supposedly – to be used by the Jedi, at the request of the Senate almost ten years ago.”

“Killed before that, he was,” Yoda replied.

“That was my impression as well, Master,” Obi-Wan replied. “But the clone army has neural override chips in them – standard practice here, I understand – and I was given a list of the commands.”

He cleared his throat. “Order number: 66. Authorized to be used by: the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, voice command, no other authorization required. Approved propagation: Command Clones may spread this order down the chain of command. Effects: Eliminate all previous affection or comradeship towards Jedi subjects of order, specified at time of use. If undefined, all Jedi are subject to order. Order subjects are to be designated traitors and eliminated immediately, maximum priority. Clones not acting in compliance with order are to be designated traitors.”

Mace Windu inhaled.

“That would be-” he began, but Obi-Wan raised his hand.

“Sorry, Master, but I hadn’t finished,” he said. “The effect section continues: redesignate Supreme Chancellor as Lord Sidious.”

Mace and Yoda both stared at Obi-Wan through the scrambled hologram link.

“Hell, kriffing,” Yoda said, eventually.

Mace started giggling.

“Master Windu?” Obi-Wan asked, worried.

“This is why you always read the manual,” Mace said, between giggles.

[greate-shake]

~Wardrobe:

Roberto Dubua 🌹✨ ◆ Age: Adult; ◆Traits: Cheerful, Maker, Bro; ◆Aspiration: Leader of the Pack; ◆Game version: 1.114.46 1030. !CONTAINS CC (CUSTOM CONTENT)! All content is included in the archive. Forgive me, all the amazing creators behind it. If any of the content belongs to you and you’d like me to remove it, please don’t hesitate to let me know! 💛 Two archive versions: The first one includes default replacement files — meaning content that overrides the game’s base parameters. The second one has no default replacements.

Installation:

Place the Mods folder (or all its contents) into your own Mods folder.

Place all other files from the archive into your Tray folder.

Available exclusively on Patreon: ~DOWNLOAD~

-I do not claim CC content of other creators as my own. Thanks all cc creators who made it possible to bring any character I imagined to life! 💛✨

-PLS don't share tray files without my permission and also don't indicate yourself as the author.

-If my sim contains your CC and you want me to remove it - let me know it.

-If you have any questions about the character, feel free to drop them in the comments! I’ll definitely read them and get back to you! 💬✨

[jjeremysstash]

Fixing Windows 11 - A Masterpost

Windows 11 is absolute crap for a good bunch of stuff so yeah, have a masterpost with most of the things I've found around to fix it haha (they're not all here because I did stuff around and I don't remember what)

YES, I KNOW at this point Linux would be a better alternative, however some here can't use Linux due to some proprietary programs that are not on Linux. This Masterpost is for the people in the same situation as I, aka those who have to have Windows or they can't do their job.

I am currently unemployed and haven't worked enough for the government to help me. I have a ko-fi if ever you want to help.

Stopping W11 from making you create an account/setting up your computer without internet (with a way to create gpedit.msc if your version doesn't have it)

Fixing the Taskbar (in case you also don't like the grouped Battery/internet/sound or the way the windows look)(there's more to it, check the settings)

There is the chance that Windows can't update because of this, you just have to uninstall it and reinstall it afterwards. They also completely nuked the Windows 10 look in the 24H2 update, so use the "Windows 10 (Explorer Patcher)" option instead of the plain "Windows 10".

Removing the rounded windows (since ExplorerPatcher doesn't do it anymore on 24H2)

https://github.com/valinet/Win11DisableRoundedCorners

How to move the volume and luminosity pop ups (so you can finally see those sweet sweet subtitles)

In case ModernFlyouts doesn't automatically start up, possible solution

Fixing the Start Menu (ExplorerPatcher can do that too, btw)

How to show all options right away

A way to bring back the Calendar

https://github.com/matej137/OutlookRemover

MICROSOFT FULLY NUKED THE CALENDAR!!! Possible fix is to downgrade the app (which is fine if you don't use the Mail), but do use the OutlookRemover to stop the automatic installation of the new version.

https://github.com/matej137/OutlookRemover/issues/15

Your Bluetooth suddenly doesn't work???

It happens sometimes for no clear reasons so here are a few things you can do:

Check if the icon is in the Taskbar. If not, verify if it is available in the pop up menu (the one from the gear icon)

If it's not here, check your parameter to see if you have the option to turn it on.

If it's still not here, reboot your PC.

If it's STILL not working, update your Bluetooth driver. You can do so by looking for "driver" in the menu and opening the Device Manager, then right click on the right Bluetooth component and update its driver.

If Windows says that the driver is up to date, try checking out this helper: https://support.microsoft.com/en-us/windows/fix-bluetooth-problems-in-windows-723e092f-03fa-858b-5c80-131ec3fba75c

If really nothing help, download and install a recent Bluetooth Driver. Be careful of what you download and from where.

Someone who stumbled on this post fixed it by downloading the Bluetooth Driver 5.0.1.1500 from Softonic (https://www.softonic.nl/download/bluetooth-driver/windows).

How to remove Copilot if you have it (I don't, but it might be because I'm in Europe??)

Archive

Apparently Copilot is being forced on people so hummm

Other stuff not specifically related to the shit W11 did

Changing the size of the scroll bars

How to fully remove Cortana

Website with tools to fix W10 and W11

[howlingmoonrise]

Guide to backing up AO3 fics on the Wayback Machine

okay so on the interest of being able to link back to this instead of having to type it all over again the next time a friend asks:

yes, you CAN back up fic (and other websites in general) to the wayback machine, you don't have to be a specific profession or a member of the internet archive or anything

you can do this without an account, but you have extra options when you're saving a website using an internet archive account (saving ALL outlinks from that page, which is a huge time-saver; saving it to your web archive, which is useful when you want to look up the stuff you saved; etc). making an account is free.

specific things need to be taken into consideration when saving, such as whether a webpage requires login in order to enter. the wayback machine only saves a page exactly as it would show up to you if you were to open it on an anonymous tab right now with no extras installed (logged out, no saved cookies, stuff unclicked, etc) so you need to take this into consideration when saving stuff

why does this matter? because when it comes to ao3 fic, specifically, this poses some issues. at the risk of this post being nearly exclusively lists and bullet-points:

login-locked fics can't be saved to the web archive like this (please download them through ao3 itself if you'd like to save them as they are)

fics rated as explicit, mature, or not rated don't get saved properly if you use the normal fic link. they only get saved as the page where you confirm that you're willing to proceed unless you add this confirmation to the link you're saving (more on this below)

fics with more than one chapter don't get saved properly if you use the normal fic link. i see this happen a LOT with people who think they saved stuff but then only the first chapter was actually backed up. you also need to add a parameter to consider this to the link you're saving (more on this below). no, using the save all outlinks option won't help you here as the links to the next chapters aren't all indexed.

saving outlinks won't work if the fics listed in the page are explicit or multichapter, because you'll run into the same issues as in points 2 and 3. using the "save outlinks" option works when you're dealing with the page for a series where all the works are gen/teen oneshots. maybe twoshots, since ao3 now links to the latest chapter on the chapter count, but i haven't tested this yet.

--

step-by-step guide to how to back up fic and deal with the pesky multichapter/rating issues below the cut:

1. get the fic link

you want the one that is formatted like below, with only the work ID listed in the link

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007075

you can get this straight-up on oneshots, or right-click+"copy link" on the fic name when the fic is listed on an ao3 page (such as in the pages for bookmarks, series, or just in the plain fandom/ship tag). alternatively, if the link you have has anything else on it, such as:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007075/chapters/49717460

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007075/bookmarks?page=7

you can just remove everything after the work ID so that the format is the same as in the first example.

2. edit the link

if the fic is a gen/teen oneshot, you can just leave the link as it is

if the fic is explicit/mature/not rated, add ?view_adult=true to the end of the link

if the fic is a multichapter, add ?view_full_work=true to the end of the link

if the fic is explicit/mature/not rated and a multichapter, add ?view_adult=true&view_full_work=true to the end of the link

you can just use the last one for any fics and it'll work! it's just more difficult to find on the wayback machine if you only have the original link to work with, so i try to keep it to the simplest version possible.

as an example, you'll end up with something like this for the last case:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007075?view_adult=true&view_full_work=true

the edited link you end up with is the one you'll use from now on in this tutorial!

3. check whether the link has already been saved on the web archive (optional)

if the fic was saved, say, yesterday, or the writer has vanished from the interwebz since like 2003, and everything looks to be in order, there's little point in saving it again unless there were major changes since (and PLEASE check if the only save wasn't just an error page instead of the page itself, sometimes this happens and it's heartbreaking when you only notice after the page is gone.)

you can check this by going to the main page of the web archive, entering the link, and then checking on the timeline for how many lines there are in it (if there are no saves at all, they will ask you if you want to save the page). for the fic we're using as an example, someone appears to have saved it in 2021. click on that line, and then on the calendar below (where there'll presumably be either a blue or a green bubble around the date in which someone tried to back it up. other colours are no bueno):

green bubbles/links indicate a redirect. this is not particularly worrying by itself: it happens, for example, when the link is being redirected from the work ID-only format to the ID/chapters/chapter-ID format. but it can also be a redirect to a warning, for example. click on one of those timestamps and check whether the fic shows up as you expect it to. (once you have the page for a snapshot, you can just paste your next links in there to check if they exist instead of doing this all over again.)

for example, in the case of this particular fic, only the third chapter appears to have been saved. weird! you definitely don't want the only back-up of it to be this one, so it's time to move on to the next step.

4. save the fic!!!!

go to the wayback machine save page. paste the link. if you have an account and want to keep the saved website at hand, check the "save in my web archive" option.

whether you want to save error pages (for example, in case ao3 is having server issues, or for archival/historical reasons) or not is up to you, but i prefer to uncheck the box because it's usually more visible if there was an issue. below is the page of a 404 page i tried to save with the box unchecked:

and here is an attempt for another 404 page with the box checked:

the second example saved the error page only, and can mislead you into thinking that the fic was properly archived when it was, in fact, not.

DO NOT CLOSE THE PAGE UNTIL THE ARCHIVING IS DONE OR UNLESS THEY TELL YOU YOU CAN! this latter case usually happens when there's a lot of strain in the archive and the back-ups are happening with some delay, but in general you want to keep the page open so you can see the status of your save.

YES, it's slow as fuck, you're just gonna have to deal with it. i usually have 3-4 pages open when i'm working on saving several fics at a time. be patient. do other stuff meanwhile. i usually do this at the same time i'm updating my bookmarks with the fic title/author/summary/link in case the fic gets deleted and i have no clue which one it was anymore, so i have a pretty steady "copy link->edit link->save fic->update bookmark for that fic->repeat" workflow going on.

5. save the link you used!

bestie. i'm pleading with you. save the fic link somewhere. any! fic link! for that fic! even the original will do! any link that you can reverse-engineer into the one you want! because good fucking luck finding the save you did when you no longer know how to get there, even if you save it on your own web archive (i have a couple thousand websites saved on mine so it's like finding a needle in a haystack).

the web archive does not neatly save the page name so that you can search it easily, so you ABSOLUTELY need the link for the fic or you're likely done for💀

you have a couple options here! place the link in your ao3 bookmark directly, if you have the fic saved on there. if you're the kind of person who bookmarks directly on their browser, go for it, i guess? (but keep a backup of your bookmarks somewhere). create an excel with the fic data in a column or two and their corresponding links on the following one. it's up to you! just save it somewhere.

preferably, save a downloaded copy of the fics you love, too, instead of solely relying on the web archive, but that's a lecture for another day.

6. bonus round: saving series!

also adaptable for saving works by a specific author - the essence of it is that you want every page you'd need to navigate to in order to reach the rest of the works. for an author, this would likely be their main page -> their works page (or their [works in specific fandom] page) -> every page within that -> the works within each page.

this is where the outlinks are your best friend.

get the series link (the format is something like https://archiveofourown.org/series/2930166).

open the save page on the web archive.

if the works are all mature/explicit/not rated and/or contain more than two chapter each, don't bother checking "save outlinks". if the series has a large amount of gen/teen works and they're only oneshots and twoshots, check "save outlinks". you'll save time doing this instead of backing each of them up individually, but please verify that the second chapters of the twoshots have indeed been saved.

save the series page. save also the link to the series page: from this one you can then navigate to the works you save within it.

now individually save each of the works within that series that you want to keep (and that you haven't covered in point 6.3) by using points 1-4 of the larger fic-centric tutorial.

i hope this helps!

[sonic-syndrome]

LOG DATA – ENTRY 002

Admin "Chaos Sonic" demonstrates unexpected repair efficiency. Initial assessment: utilization of obsolete materials would be suboptimal. Post-repair diagnostics confirm arm functionality at 92.8% efficiency. Visual sensors repeatedly drawn to reflective surfaces—new claw appendages aesthetically satisfactory. Primary improvement: leg mobility restored to 100% operational capacity. Conclusion: no further floor-dragging required. Satisfaction parameters: elevated.

New Directive: "Calibrate locomotion systems." AKA Attempt: walking.

Error encountered. Locomotion protocols not pre-installed. Chaos Sonic's reaction: unexpected. Hypothesis: defective programming or inferior model status. Unknown subroutines activated—designation: self-assessment downgraded to "lesser creation" status in presence of superior unit.

Chaos Sonic forcibly engages physical support mode. Standing: unstable. Equilibrium compromised. Chaos Sonic's logic: flawed. Additional irritation: grip on polished hand components persists despite resistance. Motion attempted—balance fails. Emergency stabilization subroutine engages foot actuators at 0.3-second delay. Inefficient.

60 minutes of forced "walking." Outcome: autonomous steps achieved (quantity: 7). Success rate: 15%. Discomfort levels: high. Preference: negative.

FINAL ASSESSMENT: Illogical. Unpleasant. Highly irritating.

– End of Report

prev || start || next

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

SFX Magazine Issue 368, August 2023

THEY’RE BACK – AND THIS TIME THEY’RE IN ALL-NEW TERRITORY. NEIL GAIMAN TALKS RETURNING FOR SEASON TWO OF GOOD OMENS

THE RASCALLY DEMON Crowley (David Tennant) and the neurotic angel Aziraphale (Michael Sheen) put aside their differences to pull off one doozy of a Hail Mary and prevent an impending Apocalypse in Good Omens’ first season. The task cemented the pair’s unconventional friendship. So what are divine beings, who have fallen out of grace with both Heaven and Hell, to do for an encore?

The answer lies with archangel Gabriel (Jon Hamm), who shows up unannounced on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s London bookshop. Suddenly, Aziraphale and Crowley are caught up in a caper of biblical proportions – but also a more intimate tale.

“It’s a mystery,” showrunner Neil Gaiman tells SFX. “It kicks off a story that doesn’t have giant consequences for the universe, even if it does have consequences for Aziraphale and Crowley. We have a lot of the marvellous Jon Hamm, who is the angel Gabriel and turns up at the beginning stark naked, carrying a cardboard box with no memory of who he is. In the same way, it is about Aziraphale and Crowley having to get involved with humanity in a way that they haven’t before.

“They get dragged in slightly against their will to try to sort out the love life of Aziraphale’s tenant,” he continues. “Her name is Maggie [Maggie Service] and she runs the record shop next to the bookshop. You’ll see the coffee shop over the road, which is Nina’s [Nina Sosanya]. The relationship between Maggie and Nina is one that Crowley and Aziraphale try to fix, and mess up, because they are not good at human relationships, even if they can do miracles.”

Truth be told, Gaiman never originally intended this arc to serve as Good Omens’ second instalment. The TV series was based on Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s 1990 novel. The two collaborators had partially hashed out the details for a sequel to the fantasy comedy, late one night in a hotel room. This, however, is not it. Gaiman instead plotted a new narrative that could provide the connective tissue between the first season and a theoretical season three, if it happens.

“Because the hypothetical season three exists, there is a story that is there, and I didn’t feel that we could drive straight from season one into that,” Gaiman explains. “I knew what the stakes were. I knew what the parameters were. I also knew that I had David and Michael. I had the angels from plot number one.

I had demons from plot number one. And with anybody that I wanted to bring back, but didn’t have room for right now, I did not have to bring them back as themselves. “I had absolutely nothing for Madame Tracy to do in this plot, but I would be damned if Miranda Richardson wasn’t going to be in this. She is one of my favourite people in the world. She is hilarious and is so good. And I knew I was going to have a new demon replacing Crowley as Hell’s representative in London/ the UK. Miranda’s demon Shax is the best demon you could want.”

It’s late February 2022 and SFX is in Edinburgh for a set visit. A soundstage in Pyramids Studios has been transformed into a street in Soho. The visible local stores include the aforementioned book, coffee and record shops, as well as a magic establishment. In the middle of them all stand Aziraphale and Crowley, the latter in close proximity to his classic Bentley. It’s close to the end of the six-episode season, so exactly what the duo is discussing constitutes a spoiler. We can say, however, that Aziraphale has picked up the pace. Time is of the essence as Shax marshals her forces to descend on Aziraphale’s store and retrieve Gabriel.

“This is really Shax’s first time out on Earth,” Gaiman explains. “She is working very diligently and very hard in Hell for a long time. Now she is on Earth, trying to figure it all out. She’s just discovering what Crowley has known for 6,000 years, which is that if you’re a demon and come up with a brilliant plan to screw up the lives of humanity, people will get there first and do worse than anything you could have imagined! She’s coming to terms with that.

“She is having to deal with the first crisis on her watch, as well, which is the disappearance of the archangel Gabriel from Heaven. It would be fair to say that by the end of the story, she is leading as much as she can get from Hell’s requisition department – a legion of Hell – in an attack on a Soho bookshop.”

When audiences catch up with Aziraphale again, he’s enjoying his time among humans. He owns most of the block in a Soho neighbourhood, and he’s meddling in Nina’s love life. Meanwhile, Crowley has been living in his car, with his plants sitting on the back seat. He’s grumpy about his current status quo, but frequently hangs out at Aziraphale’s. The duo began as antagonists, but their history and blossoming relationship will be fleshed out in flashbacks.

“One of the enormously fun things I came up with is the idea of minisodes,” Gaiman explains. “They are 25-minute-long episodes within the episode. We have three of them over our six episodes. Each of them is like one of those chunks of episode three [in season one]. Whereas the longest one of those was four or five minutes, if that, these are full stories.

“You get to have the story of [put-upon Biblical figure] Job, and you learn Aziraphale and Crowley’s part in the story. Then writer Cat Clarke takes us to Edinburgh in the 1820s for a tale of body-snatching and attempted murder that the boys get involved in,” he adds.

“Finally, Jeremy Dyson and Andy Nyman reunite the League Of Gentlemen in a Nazi-period story that takes place very shortly after the episode in the church. That one was the only one I said had to be there, because I fell in love with our Nazi spies in the church. I kept thinking, ‘What would happen if they essentially came back as zombies, with a mission from Hell to try and investigate whether or not Crowley and Aziraphale were actually fraternising?’”

Gaiman admits that one of the greatest challenges has been filming Good Omens simultaneously with his upcoming show Anansi Boys. The two shoot within throwing distance of each other, but are both timeconsuming endeavours.

“If I could go back in time, I would go back to 16 September 2020, when Douglas Mackinnon [co-producer] and I got the phone call from the Amazon bigwigs to say, ‘We have good news for you and interesting news for you,’” Gaiman recalls. “‘The good news is we are greenlighting both Good Omens and Anansi Boys. The interesting news is you are going to have to do them both at the same time.’

“I would go back to then and I would throw myself on the call and say, ‘Neil, don’t! This is unwise.’ That we are doing them both together is great. The amount of sleep I am not getting is monumental and monstrous.

“It’s a little bit like childbirth, in that I managed to forget all the things that drove me nuts about the first one. Having said that, I managed to fix all the things that really drove me nuts making season one, which is great. We just have a whole new set of problems making season two…”

The Odd Couple - David Tennant and Michael Sheen talk character and sets for season two

Crowley and Aziraphale come off as the best of frenemies at times. Where do they stand with one other now?

DT: They are indeed. What’s different in season two is because of what happened at the end of season one, they no longer have head offices that they have to report to. They are in a very different position. Whereas before they were trying to get away with things, now they are kind of free agents.

MS: Although sort of fugitives as well. They are sort of in-between. But this amazing life they have created over a millennia, they are now able to enjoy in a slightly different way. They are not having to put on a front for their respective teams. There is a different kind of freedom.

DT: While at the same time being cut off, so they are also strangers in a strange land.

MS: That kind of connects them in a slightly different way. They have always been the only two beings who could understand each other’s position. Now they are pushed even closer together.

Now that they have the run of the place with no obligations, does that bring its own set of problems, being cut off?

DT: They have this sort of uneasy relationship. They are not entirely cut off from their head offices. Indeed, their head offices are quite keen to exploit that sort of adjacent connection, as we will see as the story unfolds. They exist in this grey area, neither the supernatural nor of the Earth.

MS: By the time we pick up their story in this series, they have appeared in time where they were kind of let alone a bit more. When we pick the story up, they are being bothered again.

The depth and the richness and the detail of what we are seeing on set here in Edinburgh is mind-blowing. How is it for you having it all in one place now, rather than having filming scattered around the UK?

MS: It’s completely changed the experience of doing it. Just being indoors… The Soho set on the first season was freezing cold.

DT: I was in a car park. Even inside the bookshop I was exposed to the elements! There’s a greater percentage of the show set here. There was a practical imperative to making it a manageable environment. If we had been in a car park, the elements might have impinged our ability to film.

Hellraiser - David Tennant is Crowley

You and Michael know these characters inside out. Do you have a shorthand?

It’s a hard thing to be objective about. Although I didn’t know Michael that well before we shot season one, it was always easy and exciting working together. It’s well-oiled now, for sure. It’s certainly fun to come to work. We enjoy bouncing off each other.

How comfortable are they about becoming involved with Gabriel?

I suppose Aziraphale is a much more enthusiastic detective. We are very much voting for the spin-off called The Azirafiles, which will follow this! As with most things, Crowley is reluctant to get involved or to exhibit any kind of energy or enthusiasm about very much. He is dragged kicking and screaming into this. Necessity forces him to get involved, whereas Aziraphale rather likes it.

Where does Crowley hang out these days?

He spends a lot of time in the book shop. He only has one friend. He can only have one friend. That is the great liberation, and also the great prison, that they find themselves in. They have no one else. They have come to rely on each other more than they ever did. And more than they care to admit.

Crowley is a rock star, in a way. Were there any particular musicians that inspired you?

Not consciously, no. The look was assembled accidentally during the first costume sessions. The Crowley of the book is of the mode when the book was written. He is more kind of Wall Street, the way he is described. We just decided that Crowley should always be of the moment he’s in. We were just trying to find a look that we felt fitted.

Divine Being - Michael Sheen is Aziraphale

How has knowing your characters better informed this series?

The first series was the first time we really properly worked together. It feels like we haven’t stopped working together since. Everything that has happened in-between plays into coming back to these characters. I am sure it is all feeding into it. It’s very difficult for us to know how that is informing the characters and their relationships.

With the flashbacks to various points in Earth’s history, is there a period of time Aziraphale enjoys the most?

One of the most enjoyable things for the audience and us is moving through different historical periods. It’s a great source of joy, and people thoroughly enjoyed that episode in the first series, so that has been expanded on in season two. But in terms of which Aziraphale enjoys the most, I think it’s not actually a period of time that we’ve seen him in on this series.

He would have been happiest at the end of the 19th century, in the Victorian era, which is considered the golden age of magic. He would have loved being with the greats like Harry Houdini. He loved the Victorian period. It was a great period of time for philanthropy and doing good works in a municipal way.

How has it been going from something dark like The Prodigal Son to a more whimsical show?

That’s the nature of an actor’s job. You go from one thing to another. In some ways, it’s even more useful to have big differences between the characters. What tends to happen, and I think most actors feel this way, is if you are playing one character for a long time, part of you yearns to play the bits the character doesn’t have. There’s a naivety and an innocence about Aziraphale. But at the same time, underneath that, there is eons of knowledge and experience.

[poopfartlesbian]

May I please request some WaveWave x gn human reader romantic headcanons :0?

In general and how you think their dynamic would unfold with their human partner :3

Maybe the reader is more into science like paleontology (study of ancient) or smth (totally not projecting myself in that 😪 /s)

I love my scientist wife n our awesome bf a lot!!

Tysm in advance n I hope you have a good rest of your day/night 💞

ABSOLUTELY!! I love reading some WaveWave x reader myself so I'll definitely be doing more like this :3

Not sure what iteration you wanted so I tried to keep it pretty open but it leans a lot into Transformers Prime

WaveWave x GN! Reader headcanons!

I may have done a lot this time lol

- Shockwave is the cold logic; Soundwave is the quiet connection; You're the soft middle, the grounding presence that makes their extremes balance out. You bring warmth and curiosity that fascinates them both. Shockwave admires your intelligence and methodical thought process, while Soundwave is drawn to the emotional depth you quietly exude, even in analytical discussions.

- Soundwave communicates mostly through body language, text projection, or sharing earth music he thinks you would enjoy. You grow fluent in his subtle ways of expressing affection.

Shockwave doesn’t understand emotional nuance well, but he tries, often asking very clinical questions like, “Is this level of proximity within your acceptable parameters?” to which you find both funny and endearing.

You sometimes end up being the “translator” between their methods, and they grow increasingly fluent in understanding you as a result.

- Shockwave builds you custom tech to monitor your vitals and filter out harmful air particulates when you’re working in the field. He sees your fragility as a variable to be compensated for, thought you insist that you can handle yourself, you appreciate his consideration and care for you.

Soundwave is the silent guardian—tracking your movements, ensuring you’re safe when you go hiking to examine rock strata or fossil beds. You often get a quiet ping from your phone with a “drink water” reminder. It's him.

- Shockwave is intrigued that you study ancient life. He often offers technical equipment to assist in excavation or analysis, fascinated by how organic evolution and extinction mirror aspects of Cybertronian history.

Soundwave records your fieldwork without you noticing at first, later giving you a perfectly edited time-lapse video of your dig sites to help you keep track of the rhings you find at various locations.

- Shockwave will ask extremely specific questions about extinction events, biome shifts and whatnot and then compare them to Cybertron’s ecological collapses. He silently enjoys your passionate rants.

Soundwave installs a holographic projector that lets you walk among full-scale reconstructions of ancient creatures—imagine a private AR museum just for you so you can go into further detail much easier.

- Shockwave claims he "doesn’t date,” but he will go out of his way to take you and Soundwave to the middle of nowhere at night with a high-powered telescope to stargaze. He explains galactic structures in stunning detail while holding your small hand like it’s an important relic, something rare and delicate.

Soundwave prefers quiet companionship. He’ll let you sit on his shoulder and lean on his helm while you read or let you ramble about prehistoric fauna for hours. Every so often, he’ll gently tap your head in acknowledgment, it’s his version of a kiss.

- Neither are built for soft human affection, but they both try. Shockwave often hold you in his hand or on his shoulder during trips or when he's in the lab. Soundwave also likes to hold you in his servos.

They don't really say “I love you,” but;

Shockwave: “Your continued presence elicits favorable neural reactions. I would prefer you not leave my presence anytime soon.”

Soundwave: [projects a visual of a heart]

- You’re the one constant they don’t calculate or surveil. They simply trust you. Which is huge.

They bicker—quietly, scientifically—but they both defer to you as the emotional barometer when things get tense. You’re the balance between logic and silence, and they never take that for granted.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jade SSR for Coral Sea hometown event!!! I thought of your account when I first saw the announcement lol

Off topic, but do you know if Port Fest is considered a hometown event? I don’t think it is but I wasn’t sure. I’m just checking because I wanted to see which students have been featured in a hometown event so far and what their cards were to see if there was any indication of who will get an SSR for an event. From what I’ve gathered, there is no pattern (we can blame jamil with his two SSRs).

[Referencing the April 2025 JP schedule!]

Thank you for thinking of me xnsvsksgwibdks

FINALLY 😭 The hometown event I’ve been wanting ever since A Firelit Sky opened up the possibilities… It’s been forever since J word had his previous event SSR too (the Halloween Dress one back in the very first Halloween event ever)!!

Port Fest is not considered a hometown event. The “hometown” event is defined by 1) traveling to a new place outside of Sage’s Island, 2) meeting a new character related to the SSR? and 3) getting a souvenir item. Port Fest does not fit any of these parameters, as it 1) it takes place on a port located on Sage’s Island, 2) no new character is introduced, and 3) there is no souvenir item.

Previous hometown events involved:

A Firelit Sky (Silk City / Najma Viper / Dirty Lamp)

Harveston Sledathon (Harveston / Marja Felmier / Apple Lantern)

Cloudcalling on the Savanna/Tamashina Mina (Sunrise City / Kifaji / Lion Tapestry)

White Rabbit Fest (Clock Town / Dylla Spade / Great Bugle)

Red Carpet Cadets/Tapis Rouge (Maquillaville or Fairest City / Eric Venue / Queen Statuette)

When you say “Jamil had two SSRs”, I’m assuming you meant Yasmina Silk/Silk Adorned Jamil, which dropped with A Firelit Sky and also Applepom Jamil, which came with the Harveston Sledathon rerun? 🤔 He’s not the only one; Vil received a Yasmina Silk/Silk Adorned SSR with the A Firelit Sky rerun, Deuce got a Liongarb SSR with the Cloudcalling on the Savanna/Tamashina Mina rerun. The only pattern (if you can call it that??) that I noticed here is that the characters that got new SSRs upon rerun happen to already have their own hometown events out…? But I don’t think this necessarily means anything since the number we have is so small.)

There are also other instances in which characters got new SSRs with an event rerun or with a second installment to an event. For example:

Outdoor Wear Ruggie, then Outdoor Wear Trey

Fairy Gala Couture Leona, then Fairy Gear Ortho

Beans Camo Azul, then Beans Camo Floyd

Suitor Suit Ace, then Suitor Suit Idia

… So I’m not sure if there’s a pattern as to who gets a hometown event and when, or who gets an event SSR to coincide with reruns or second installments. We always get explanations in-universe as to why specific characters were chosen for the event, but there’s no way to really tell from an irl or meta perspective. Card rarity and timing clearly aren’t good indicators because Jack and Trey have way more event Rs than any other character and there have definitely also been instances where Twst will drop SSRs of the same character only weeks apart from one another.

I think a Briar Valley event is definitely happening in our future; they were probably saving it for after book 7 since that book’s very history heavy. As for Idia and Ortho, we could visit a con or some other location with them (since hometown events aren’t technically all “hometowns”; for example, Maquillaville isn’t Vil’s). The Shrouds are also a branch of the Jupiter family, so it’s entirely possible we meet someone from there. Or it could be a non-family member! Kifaji is, after all, not a Kingscholar but is a significant figure for Leona. I discuss other “hometown” event possibilities here; there’s lots of interesting directions Twst could take!