#it's one of those aus I may never actually write the full fic for but lives rent free in my house

[innytoes]

missing Kidnapped by the fae moments (dunno if u still create for it) so here i am asking for some crumbs

Okay so you know the fae probably Went Hard on stuff like the summer and the winter solstice. Even though time moved differently over there.

So when the boys are back in the human realm, there's a bit of an adjustment. For one, LA doesn't have seasons the way the fairy realm did. And Reggie and Luke came from places in the US where winter was a thing, so they're kind of adjusting too. Though Luke is pretty fine with it, since he wears a beanie and no sleeves no matter what.

Willie and Reggie kind of miss the snow. I think Willie didn't care much for snow until Caleb stole Luke, who taught him the Joys Of Snowball Fights and Snow Men and Sledding.

Snowball fights were very much only a 'Caleb and the other fae are Out Hunting' thing after the first time a snowball went wide and hit one of the fae it was Not A Fun Time For Luke And Willie for several months.

So yeah, the boys are lamenting how they miss snow and sledding. Making sand-men on the beach is just not the same. Throwing sand at each other is Bad actually.

But, they get the bright idea, they could totally make a sled out of two skateboards and some cardboard, right?

Ray has a Very Bad Day after that. At least there were no broken bones this time but Reggie's on crutches for a week (it should have been more, but well, the boys aren't fully human yet) and Willie is Grounded from Skateboarding for just as long. Ray didn't even take his skateboard away, he just used the 'I'm not mad just disappointed' voice and explained it was unfair if Willie could skate when Reggie couldn't even walk

First time Reggie tried to walk through a wall with his crutches (what? his hands were full and doors are hard to open like that!) he went through fine... the crutches did not.

The boys do embrace other parts of the season, though.

Alex and Reggie really like baking. It's soothing, the steps are all laid out, everything smells nice, and there's food at the end. Julie and Ray and Carlos supervise the first few times just to make sure they understand the oven, but after that, they have free reign.

Reggie is the one who discovers the TikTok Baking Twink and starts trying more out there recipes. Some of which, Alex put his foot down to say no. He already lived through the horrific things that did with aspics and pineapple once, thank you. He has no need to relive it.

Luke of course is obsessed with modern Christmas music. Because he hasn't heard it seventeen billion times before, he really loves 'All I want For Christmas Is You' and he sings it to Julie once, really sincerely. Julie is utterly charmed.

He doesn't get why Flynn laughs at them.

When they try to explain Santa to Willie, he just nods sagely. Ah yes, he says, like the fae. You leave him offerings, he decides if you are a good person or a bad person, and rewards or punishes you as he sees fit. And he uses magic.

They are all very creeped out about Santa after that.

Willie does love the idea of gifts, though. Being raised by fairies, he has a very warped relationship with them, but when they explain that you get people you care about gifts for Christmas, he is all on board. Especially when Flynn introduces him to Sparkly Wrapping Paper.

(Yes, Ray has a conversation with Willie that if he wants things from stores, he must use money to buy them and not ask his crow friends to steal it.)

When Willie starts leaving them gifts, it's at random, in the weirdest places. But the right person always discovers them.

It starts normal enough, with some Fun Socks for Alex. Julie gets some sparkly glitter pens. Flynn gets some really weird soda she's never heard of before that has the same effect as seven sodas.

Luke and Reggie get rocks he found that look like a guitar pick and a dog, respectively. They are just as touched and excited as the others, though.

Carlos gets a videogame. It's a game that isn't supposed to be out until next year. Ray is starting to get a headache but Willie earnestly tells him it's not from a store.

Ray gets sweets he loves and misses from Puerto Rico. He has never mentioned these in front of Willie or any of the kids. He knows for certain they're not available in the states. He is scared to ask.

The gifts only get weirder but just as heartfelt from there. Food appears while Julie is studying that she didn't even realise she was craving. Sheet music for long-forgotten songs Luke only remembers snippets of.

Dogs appear whenever Reggie is sad, and once he's cheered up, they happily trot off to wherever they came from. Ray keeps checking the local facebook pages but nobody seems to notice their missing dogs.

Ray is almost relieved when Christmas comes around because hopefully it will stop the ever-increasingly-weird gifts.

He sits through the kids opening their stockings first. His new 'foster kids' are very easy to buy for, because there's so much they've never had and they appreciate just about everything. And yes maybe he did get them all little puzzles in the hopes of distracting them long enough that he can have a quiet afternoon.

Thankfully, the gifts on Christmas seem pretty normal. He maybe gets a little teary-eyed at the World's Best Dad mug the kids all got him together. And everything was bought in stores with money, just like Willie promised Ray.

Until the solid gold barbecue tongs.

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? It’s more likely than you think.

This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.

Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ‘s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred and his scars.

CW: 24k • explicit sexual content • MDNI • gang-related violence • mentions of blood and broken bones • mentions of murder/death • loss of virginity • creampie • vaginal fingering • some angst

I have plenty more of this AU written, so if y’all want more, just let me know 🫡

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

The first is simple: once you’re in, you’re in.

Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but don’t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.

And don’t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. There’s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one you’d had before. No separation. You’ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, you’re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.

This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that he’d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira — the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.

The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that he’d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.

Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies — mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

Largely monetary debts — collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.

But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money — it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.

Life debts.

In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.

Their executions had been quick and without fuss — or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.

But even though the spray of their brains hadn’t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemi’s hands.

He will never be able to wash them clean.

But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences — for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom he’ll do anything — be anyone — if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.

The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).

And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is don’t get attached. Keep your circle small so there’s less collateral to be used against you — against the organization that owns you.

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.

But then he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in and that’s when everything falls apart.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.

They were late.

The job was simple, and well within Sanemi’s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzui’s joints that he’d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldn’t get elsewhere.

He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldn’t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the chance to smash the pervert’s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d thrown open the steel door of the Maeda’s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as he’d begged for mercy Sanemi hadn’t been hired to give.

The stupid, greasy fuck.

By the time he’d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the vermin’s back as he sobbed). But he’d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.

And that’s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maeda’s small warehouse, Uzui’s payment split into two rolls that he’d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members he’d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then they’d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.

Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But he’d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.

Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.

Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.

Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty — disquietingly so.

Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.

Sanemi’s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. It’s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.

He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.

One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits —

A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.

The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.

The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.

“Pigs!” The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. “Pigs!”

“Shit,” Sanemi growls. No doubt Maeda’s bruised ego sold them out. He should’ve taken the time to smash the asshole’s phone.

He’ll be dealt with later — and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.

Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corps’ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.

So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He can’t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.

He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.

He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.

The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.

Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there —

A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.

No good.

“Fuck.” It isn’t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While he’s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadn’t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options — the side streets to the left and right.

Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasn’t fully fucked himself.

Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street — one that borders the city’s western wing.

It’ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.

He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop — a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.

But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other — the store’s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerk’s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.

He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.

Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.

It’s now or never. And, because he’s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.

His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You know him; you’d known him most of your life, even if you’d never spoken to him. You’d gone to the same school in your youth — all thirteen years of it, in fact. He’d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.

You know he’s from the Silo — a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.

But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.

It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

So you hadn’t been surprised when you’d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before he’d even graduated high school.

You shudder to think what he had to have done — what he’d become — in order to achieve such status and notoriety.

If he’d been anyone else, you wouldn’t have helped; you would’ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.

But you owed him.

Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.

But one afternoon, when you’d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, she’d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.

Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.

But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though he’d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, he’d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parents’ home.

You’d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sister’s white-haired savior. They’d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but he’d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was “no big deal.” As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.

His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.

You’d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.

Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerk’s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.

There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.

A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isn’t stupid enough to try and shift.

One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.“You haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

The cop grimaces. “You haven’t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like they’re running?”

You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. “I’m afraid you’re my first customer of the day, sir.”

The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counter’s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.

But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.

“They’re gone,” you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.

There’s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.

In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But it’s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.

That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well — at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.

However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle he’d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.

You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.

He has scars he’d not had in your youth — jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.

A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.

“Can’t thank ya enough,” he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. “You really saved my ass —“

“Get out of my store.” You order, your voice hard. “Take your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“As you wish, Princess,” and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. “Just need somethin’ for the road.”

He snags a small novel — a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.

“Later,” he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. “You have to pay for —“

But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.

—-

By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. He’d met up with Uzui and forked over Maeda’s payment. Though, the Corp’s head pimp hadn’t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.

As it turned out, Maeda hadn’t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other — the driver — had managed to escape, though he’d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.

There’s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.

He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash he’d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.

He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book he’d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.

Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.

Take your trouble somewhere else.

Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which you’d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.

You know what — who — he is. In Sanemi’s world, that’s a liability.

Though, in fairness, he can’t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and it’s a coveted one. It wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude that you’d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.

What concerns him is he doesn’t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe you’re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

The Corps isn’t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.

The Kizuki.

In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.

Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadn’t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.

Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.

There are whispers that they’ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious — perhaps you’re in league with them, and you’ll hand him over the moment it’s most convenient for you to do so.

Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. You’re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.

But that’s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.

Either way, he doesn’t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he can’t afford to make.

Sanemi doesn’t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, he’ll decide how to proceed.

He eyes the book he’d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if he’s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.

Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and don’t visit home often, if ever.

Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.

Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But it’s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.

Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.

Or so he tells himself.

The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parents’ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.

He’d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, he’d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your mother’s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.

The memory of how you’d looked at him — a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when he’d met your stare head on — remained fixed in his brain for years after.

And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.

He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he can’t remember if he had. He should’ve; especially now when it seems as though he’s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.

Sanemi’s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen — instructions, only by way of an address and an amount — chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.

With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.

He wonders what will kill him first — whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because there’s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corp’s behalf.

Ultimately, he knows it doesn’t really matter. He won’t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life that’s anything but this. He’ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. He’ll die under the mask he’s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasn’t yet bonded with his skin.

But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where he’d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.

And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.

—

Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.

Sanemi doesn’t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguro’s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.

The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. He’d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.

That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.

So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.

His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.

He doesn’t know her by name — only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But it’s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps that’s because she’s looking for an escape just as much as he is.

Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.

Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.

At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. She’s licking and nipping at his lips in a way he’s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.

And, after all, he’s the one desperate for relief.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.

He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girl’s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. “We’ll be done in five.”

—-

Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.

He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.

He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that day’s sins.

The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.

Step.

A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that he’d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasn’t worth shit when they’d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

The crush of bone under the iron pipe he’d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.

Green; the color of the money he’d found stashed in a duffel, the debtor’s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.

Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstore’s front steps.

For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.

The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night you’d helped hide him from the cops.

He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and he’s pushing the door open.

His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.

That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.

“This isn’t a library,” you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. “You have to pay for the books here.”

It’s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Look — didn’t even crack the spine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. “That loss came out of my paycheck — which is scant enough.”

That piques his attention. “Didn’t you say this was your store?”

His question makes you turn pink, and you’re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. “I work here,” you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. “But I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesn’t ever come by.”

You wrinkle your nose. “So yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.”

Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.

You’re beautiful; he’s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if you’re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.

He doesn’t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.

“Fine, here,” he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.

He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

“Nothin,” he shrugs. “Just think it’s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.”

Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. “I live here, idiot.”

He snorts. “Didn’t you want outta here? Do somethin’ different?” He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours — that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.

“This can’t be your dream life.”

You don’t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.

Like he’s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.

Sanemi continues. “It’s strange for people not to want for more — to not dream about somethin’ different.”

“And who are you to say I don’t?” You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. “I have a dream of my own. Just because it’s not one you would pick for yourself doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Woah, woah, I never meant any offense.” He pushes back from the counter. “My bad.”

His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.

You slide his book across the counter. “Have the day you deserve.”

His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. “You too, Princess.”

You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you don’t see him toss another note on the counter.

He’s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. “Sir, you dropped your —“

“Nah, I didn’t,” he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.

Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.

—

His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. It’s unplanned in that he’s annoyed and it’s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.

You’re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerk’s counter startles you.

You frown. It’s him again — all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.

“This book was shit,” he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. “I want a refund.”

You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

“But it was shit,” he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didn’t create. “You let me waste twenty bucks.”

“I did nothing,” you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. “You’re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.”

You glance down at the discarded novel. “Figures,” you scoff. “He’s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.”

“Woulda been nice if you’d told me that before you let me give him my money.”

You hum idly as you cross off the log’s boxes for new releases. “I suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasn’t really paying attention to your shit choices.”

“Oh?” And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. “The Princess has claws, does she?” He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. “So, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?”

“I’m not your Princess,” you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. “Call me by my name or call me nothing at all.”

His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. “Alright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?”

The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish you’d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.

Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.

You’ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.

Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt he’d owed (their words, never yours).

Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most won’t speak about.

But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. It’s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.

Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. “Fine, here.” You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemi’s.

“Read that.”

His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. “This ain’t a book; it’s a brick.”

“It’s a classic,” you counter. “One that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.” Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Love and lust.”

His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps he’ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then he’ll leave you alone.

Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. “If you say so,” he sighs. “But if it’s shit, I’m taking my refund.” And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Regardless of your shitty little policy.”

You refuse to let him see how much he’s knocked you off-kilter. “So I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so I’m prepared.”

His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. “Worse,” he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. “You’ll owe me a date.”

He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. “Though, I might just take you out anyway.”

“You assume I’ll say yes — or are you planning on kidnapping me? I’m sure you’re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.”

Something dark flashes across his face, and it’s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.

Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.

But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemi’s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.

“You’ll say yes, Princess. You won’t be able to resist the temptation.”

“Temptation?” You force out a laugh. “And what makes you think I can’t?”

Sanemi’s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.

It’s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.

You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. “Habits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.”

You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.

——-

Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what you’d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).

Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and he’s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.

And, he’d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that he’d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. You’d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldn’t have given two shits if he’d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money — and the lengths some would go to keep it.

Yet he’d paid you back — paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.

Since that day, you’ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. You’ve managed to glean small things here and there. That he’s a Hashira, and Hashira means he’s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family — the heads of the entire organization.

That he’s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that he’s known for his swift brutality.

That he’s more than just a flirt; he’s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.

You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.

Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And he’s said to be very well-endowed.

It’s more information than you care to know, but you can’t deny that your curiosity lingers.

You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And you’ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.

—

“You look like shit.”

You startle up from where you’d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.

You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.

Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, you’d thought you’d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.

“Is that the only descriptor you know?” You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. “Is everything either shit or not-shit to you?”

Sanemi shrugs. “Pretty much,” and he holds something out to you, waiting. “Here.”

It’s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.

Your stomach grumbles fiercely. You’d foregone eating breakfast when you realized you’d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure you’d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.

The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.

But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. “Is it poisoned?”

He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, I’d pick a far more convenient way to do it — and one that didn’t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.”

Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.

Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. “It’s a thank you. For that book you recommended,” He smirks. “It wasn’t shit. It was good.”

You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.”

“You’re the one who grabbed that last book,” you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. “That had nothing to do with me.” You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “So, no date, then?”

The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. “Sorry, beautiful. I don’t actually date.” And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. “Gotta keep things casual in my world.”

The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. “And you don’t look like a casual girl.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. “You seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.”

“Experience,” he offers easily. “I know casual women.” He turns his head away before quietly adding, “And you ain’t one of ‘em.”

It’s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as you’re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you haven’t yet been able to pick apart.

You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when he’s been such a consistent pain in your ass.

Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you don’t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.

You see only the boy on your stoop; the one who’d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.

And it’s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, “So, friends, then?”

Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile — a real, genuine smile.

And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.

—-

In retrospect, Sanemi knows he’s probably fucked himself.

His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps — number Three, in particular.

But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows it’s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations he’s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesn’t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better — far safer — city.

It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.

Yet, he can’t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldn’t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.

He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though he’s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he won’t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.

It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what he’d thought otherwise, you’re not nearly as prim and haughty as you’d tried to make him believe.

You’re sweet. Genuine, in a way that’s rare for him to encounter in his world.

Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.

He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though he’s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, he’s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests — movies, shows, music — and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.

And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie you’d swiped from the store’s limited collection, he can’t find it in him to tell you no.

The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.

For starters, the neighborhood you live in isn’t the safest. It’s not the Silo, by any means, but it’s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzui’s business — another Hashira.

And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, you’d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.

He supposes he can see its appeal — you’ve certainly turned it into a home.

You’ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.

A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he can’t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once you’re distracted.

Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere — in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.

It’s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.

But it’s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.

Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock — the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though he’s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.

The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because he’s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once he’s finished.

The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.

Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring, and it’s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.

It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isn’t the kind of switch he imagined he’d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.

With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.

He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but you’re picky about your order. If it’s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If it’s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.

He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and it’s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.

In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life — namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, you’re always there to pull him back.

Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.

He can’t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He can’t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He can’t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.

Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit he’s guilty for.

It’s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But you’re the first person he’s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesn’t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.

So, he makes a promise. He won’t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they don’t.

With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.

And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

“You never told me what your dream was, y’know.” Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.

“What dream?” You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.

He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. “Your big dream — the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.”

You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno. Curious.”

“Thought you’re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.” And you shoot him a sly grin. “You ought to be careful.”

Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. There’s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, he’s the only friend you have. “I want my own bookstore.”

“Yeah?” He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. “Aren’t you practically running this one? That ain’t enough?”

“I don’t own it, though.” You frown, setting your clipboard down. “I just work here. You’ve seen my paycheck.”

And he had, having found a paystub when he’d gone snooping under your counter. You would’ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way he’d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.

His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.

“I want something that’s mine — that I own.” You continue. “I’ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to live under anyone’s thumb.”

Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.

Your cheeks heat. “I know it sounds stupid —“

“It doesn’t,” Sanemi says earnestly. “Wanting your freedom can never be stupid.”

You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that — arguably better than anyone you know.

Sanemi clears his throat. “So, a bookstore?” And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. “Consider me your first investor.”

—

Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.

By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.

You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. “Are you walking me home?”

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

You grin and it’s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldn’t do it, as often as he does. He’s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way he’s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But it’s dark and late, and you don’t have a car, and he’ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.

Better he’s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.

Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.

He wouldn’t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But you’d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.

Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.

He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if he’s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.

You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. “Did you finish that series I recommended?”

Sanemi grins. “Last night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.”

You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.

Your door gives way and you turn back to him. “‘Til next time?”

It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.

“‘Til next time,” he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.

You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.

“You never told me yours — what your dream is.”

He should leave. You’re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you — tell you the truth, at that.

That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. He’d settle for anything, really; anything at all.

As long as it was more than this.

But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. “To wake up in the morning, Princess. That’s all I can ask for.”

———

Sanemi’s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

Over the course of the last year, you’ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You’ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you can’t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

More importantly, you’ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that he’s merely involved with the notorious gang — at least, not any more than the two of you are just “friends.”

Town gossip aside, Sanemi’s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.

Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.

It’s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.

But perhaps the most significant detail you’ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while you’re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you won’t see him for the rest of the day.

It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.

Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother — Genya — to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genya’s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadn’t anyone to want those things for him.

Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect it’s because he doesn’t believe he will have one.

That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.

A cop-out, is what it is.

But his reading habits betray his darkest secret — betray the truth — and that’s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.

The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. He’s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.

He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.

But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.

You opened to the first page of of a tale — an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beast’s rose.

You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes — the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.

Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True love’s kiss, or something along those lines.

True love.

And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemi’s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.

And that’s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.

He wants out.

He wants a happily ever after. He doesn’t think he’ll get it.

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after he’d first burst into your bookstore.

It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.

Sanemi’s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.

You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.

You open the door and the flutter of excitement you’d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.

There is a bruise forming along Sanemi’s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.

The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.

Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.

“You got liniment?” He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. “And water?”

“You mean icy-hot?” You’re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.

You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where they’re propped up on the back of your chair.

You’ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).

Once, in the early days of your friendship, you’d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.

Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.

He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. You’d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.

But, you’re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.

And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.

Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.

“Need ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you don’t mind,” his voice is muffled against his arm. “I hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it — fuckin’ hurts, now.”

You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, he’d once explained. Not unless you’re bleeding out.

You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful he’s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.

Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.

“Motherfucker,” Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. “Shit stings.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss — an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasn’t been reset properly. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Your medical expertise is astounding,” Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.

“I’m not a doctor,” you shoot back. “And since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.”

You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.

“You’re in luck. It seems like you won’t die,” you say dryly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise.” You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. “And this says you’re supposed to rest — not overexert the joint.” You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don’t suppose you’re actually going to do that, though.”

He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. “You know me too well, Princess.”

You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.

You’re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just can’t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.

You wouldn’t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but there’s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.

A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.

Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” His tone is unreadable. “Like a collar, ‘cept it’s permanent.”

Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.

But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin — the one that stands for Kill — is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemi’s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.

A chill snakes down your spine. You’d had your suspicions, of course, you’re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.

Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you can’t see his face. “Guess it’s fitting, since I’m their dog.”

There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You don’t know why you’d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.

Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.

“It’s barbaric,” you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you aren’t someone he can confide in.

But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. You’re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.

He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.

You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. You’ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways — you’ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.

But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.

Intimate.

Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone — the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.

But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps it’s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.

You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.

Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.

Yet, you don’t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.

You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.

Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I would’ve done without ya.”

You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. “Oh please, I’m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.”

A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.

“No,” he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “No, you’re more than that.” His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. “Much more.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’ll lean in; if he’ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.

And then he turns and leaves.

You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you can’t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: you’d wanted to kiss him.

And for a moment, you swear he’d wanted to, as well.

An old rumor, one you hadn’t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.

The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.

Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You don’t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And what’s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt toward anyone.

You’re in love with Sanemi.

It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; it’s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when you’re desperate and aching.

It’s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks you’re actually worth something.

You’ve never really known love before. But it’s because you’re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is — what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you can’t.

You won’t.

—

Three rules. That’s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.

Don’t speak. No patterns. And don’t get overly attached.

It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corps’ rules. Number three, in particular.

Until you. Until the day he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in.

Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. He’d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And he’d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.

Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.

He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.

But now, he’s too deep; Sanemi knows he’s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.

Until this moment, he imagined he’d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when he’d let himself blur it.

As it turns out, he’d been dead fucking wrong. Because he’s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary he’d set for himself when it came to you.

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

You huff, impatient. “I want you to fuck me.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — as though you haven’t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.

If he didn’t know you were dead serious, he would’ve laughed in your face. And that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

You’re a virgin; he knows that, because you’d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer he’d brought over for your weekly movie night together.

Admittedly, he’d been surprised. You were beautiful — not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didn’t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he would’ve thought you’d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.

As it turned out, you’d never been in a relationship, either.

Between long gulps of your drink, you’d asked him to fix it and he’d turned you down — his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasn’t the type to sleep with someone who couldn’t fully consent.

So he’d let you down — but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure he’d never fully known what home truly felt like.

And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.

He’d boldly kissed you twice more after that night — one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.

The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.

One of Sanemi’s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadn’t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When she’d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.

They’d found her in the kitchen of the small home she’d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.

Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.

Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.

Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadn’t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.

He hadn’t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, she’d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.

The hours passed by in a blur once Kocho’s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didn’t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when he’d begun walking in its direction.

He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldn’t bother you —

His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.

Despite the late hour, you’d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.

Safe; you were safe.

Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.

You’d broken away long enough to ask, “S-Sanemi — what —?”

“Shut up,” he’d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. He’d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet you’d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.

He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though he’d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.

You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense he’d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up — to let him in.

And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.

His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare — completely bare — beneath your hoodie.

That you’d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that he’d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.

But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.

Without a word, he’d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.

He’d sent a text only a few minutes later — a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.

He hadn’t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.

So, yes, he’s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, he’d never allowed himself to go further than that.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And it’s because he knows he can’t cross this last line — can’t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.

“You’re better off asking someone else, Princess. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me.”

Never mind that you’re already tangled up with him — but he’s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he can’t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.

“I don’t want to ask someone else,” you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.

A low growl of your name is his warning. “You don’t know what you’re asking —“

“It’s you I want. I don’t care what the rumors say, I don’t care what anyone thinks — including you.”

The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. “And I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.”

He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never — but he wants to shake the sense you’re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.

Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months — so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And he’s pent up. He hasn’t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.

Really, it’s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing — no one — has come close.

More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there aren’t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where he’s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.

But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization he’s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.

He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.

He will rot you from the inside, out.

His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that — he’s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.

You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he won’t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.

Sanemi won’t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.

Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or you’re used as a weapon against him.

In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.

He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.

You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and that’s how he knows this is wrong.

Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.

You’re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.

And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once you’ve had your fill.

(A lie, but it’s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)

But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious — far too precious to him to continue to indulging.

He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.

A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.

He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell can’t ever be yours.

Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.

He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.

“You want me?” He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.

His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “You want to say you’ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?“

Your eyebrows knit together. “Sanemi, that’s not —“

But he can’t stop his venom. “Bragging rights, that’s all you’re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories — the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.”

“Stop it,” you bite, and your eyes harden. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

You’re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m not acting like an asshole. I am one.”

Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. “I know you want to believe you are, but you’re not —“

Sanemi’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. “Is that so?” You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. “Then maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.”

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard father’s son, and that he’d be no different, no different at all. He’s a brute, and you don’t want that, you don’t want him —

“You can do whatever it is you want,” you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemi’s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. “Do to me what you like; I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.

It isn’t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, he’s only shown you he’s entirely capable of doing so.

It’s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that you’d do it with a smile not unlike the one you’re wearing right now, soft and earnest.

Fuck, you just did.

And it’s that realization that has Sanemi’s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.

You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front he’s put forth crumbles to dust.

He is a monster, but not for the reasons he’s used to justify this ugly display of his. He’s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable — an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.

Worse, he’s done the one thing he’d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.

He’d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

He recoils from you like a kicked dog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’ll go,” he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t —“

Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. “I want you to stay.”

“You don’t owe me anything —“

“It’s not about owing you,” you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. “I want you. I want this.”

You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.

“You deserve someone else,” Sanemi can’t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. “Better.”

But you’re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. “There is no one better; I only want you.”

Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. You’re an idiot.

You can’t possibly believe he’s as good as it gets. He’s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things he’s done and what he’ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.

He will hurt you; it’s in his nature. It’s unavoidable. He can’t be what you deserve.

But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.

Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.

This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemi’s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash you’d be better off leaving out on the street.

The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemi’s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh he’s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though you’d been burning and he was your balm.

Ironic, considering he’s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.

But there’s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.

Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though he’s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.

You want more, and he needs you, too.

His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.

One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.

He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful you’d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. “Let me — please.”

Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.

Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. He’d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.

But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest — have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?

“Holy shit,” your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.

Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire — rich, hot need for him.

Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. “Come here.”

He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until he’s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.

More. He needs more.

He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.

Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other — including his with the Corps.

Sanemi’s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.

The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this — you.

As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.

He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.

“Beautiful,” he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. He’s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isn’t a picky man; he’ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.

But you? Celebration isn’t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.

He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that won’t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.

He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemi’s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.

He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.

Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.

He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.

With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’m not in any rush.”

“N-now?” You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.

“Not yet,” he groans against your mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I am ready -“

“Not like that,” he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.

“Found you,” he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.

He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.

You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.

A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. “Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Can’t hide from me now, sweetheart’.”

He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where he’s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.

One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.

A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. You’re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.

The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.

He won’t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when he’s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where you’re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how you’ll move under him; how you’ll moan.

His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.

You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.

Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, you’re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.

“Sanemi! I think — oh, I think I’m -“ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.

He smothers a curse into your skin. You’re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.

Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“There. Feel how wet you are?” His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.

“For you,” your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesn’t feel like he could get drunk on it. “It’s all for you.”

His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. “That’s right,” and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. “Because you’re mine.“

It’s not fair. But he wants to pretend like it’s true, if only for a while.

Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.

He’d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, he’d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasn’t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.

The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.

But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. “Here.”

His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers he’d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.

“Go on,” he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. “Taste how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of what’s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight — whether that’s something or nothing — you will never be just friends again.

Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.

He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.

Finally bare, he’s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.

He doesn’t have a condom but he’s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. He’s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who he’d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, he’d always been sure to have protection on hand.

Children are a gift, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.

But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesn’t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.

“It might hurt a moment,” he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. “But I promise I’ll be gentle — as gentle as I can.”

You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, he wants to say. You shouldn’t, and you should run far away from this — from me.

But Sanemi knows you won’t just as much as he knows he doesn’t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.

He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemi’s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.

The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.

Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. “Fuck.”

His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.

The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.

The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.

Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where you’re concerned.

Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, you’re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.

With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.

His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.

Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.

“There you go, that’s it,” his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.

He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.

“Ready?” His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.

There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isn’t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.

Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.

You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single “Please.”

With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.

You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.

But then Sanemi’s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand he’d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.

Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way you’re constricting around him so tightly it’s nearly painful.

It’s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but he’s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. He’d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.

With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.

You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.

He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.

He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.

When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows you’re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.

His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.

And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.

He starts slow. He doesn’t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.

Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.

Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemi’s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.

One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.

His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

“Tighter,” he gasps. “Hold me tighter. Please.”

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.

And then he’s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until you’re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.

His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. “Talk to me, angel,” the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. “Tell me how you feel — tell me what you want.”

You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.

The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You can’t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.

“Closer!” You gasp. “I — I need you closer.”

He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesn’t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants — he needs — to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.

Sanemi’s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. “Deeper,” he confirms between throaty groans. “You want me deeper?”

You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.

He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.

So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.

The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemi’s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.

Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.

It’s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.

Really, he can’t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. You’ve come before with your own hand, but this — this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.

You try and tell him you’re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’ve got you.” And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.

“I’ll take care of you, sweet girl,” he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. “Just keep your legs around me.”

Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.

With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.

You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. “Sanemi —“

“It’s okay,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. “It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.”

Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

“You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you —- that’s it.” He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. “Yeah, yeah. You’re my fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

A single wail of his name is your only response, but it’s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.

“You are,” he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

You’re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.

The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.

Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.

But he needs to see you, first.

“Look at me,” his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly you’re right back at that edge, only this time, you’re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.

“S-Sanemi —!” It’s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.

Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Sanemi’s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. “Fuck!“

He’ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.

But he’s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet — all because of him.

He is selfish and he is weak; it’s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.

Sanemi’s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.

He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.

He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good.” He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.

One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster he’s always known he was —

“I love you,” and then you’re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. “I love you, Sanemi.”

It would’ve hurt less if you’d shot him.

Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.

Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.

He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.

It hits him, then. You aren’t waiting for an answer — you said it only so he would know, and you’d not expected anything in return.

All you’d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesn’t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you — including him.

He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.

He pants as he breaks away. “‘M gonna pull out — might be uncomfortable for a second.”

You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemi’s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.

A low whistle blows past his lips. “Damn, I made a mess outta you.”

For a moment, Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.

His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. “Let me clean you up.”

Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. “Don’t leave — not yet.” You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. “Please, can you just hold me for a bit?”

Sanemi’s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He can’t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know the source of your anxiety — or that you didn’t have reason for it. Sanemi isn’t known for lingering.

But this is different — you’re different. You’re not some temporary distraction. You’re everything. His everything.

“Shhh,” he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. “I’m staying right here, sweet girl. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.

Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemi’s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.

He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way he’s disregarded every rule, every boundary he’s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade he’d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the rubble.

What he does know is that there’s no putting things back to how they were.

His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.

But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.

Perhaps that is what you’ve done to yourself, and you’re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.

He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.

But he can try.

He mouths I love you against your hairline — he does not voice it, not yet, though it’s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Detour 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Thor

Summary: You find yourself stranded in a small village.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You refuse to spend your vacation pent up, especially in this place. You put on your most walkable shoes, felt boots with a low heel, and clothes suitable for walking. Cigarette pants and a sleeveless turtleneck. You grab your purse and call down to the front desk to request a taxi.

As you come down to the lobby, you see the preparations for the ridiculous event in full tilt. Ugh. This place is backwards. How can a grown man plan a part akin to that of one half his age. If you were to guess, that cretin is like pushing forty, and that’s being generous.

You roll your eyes and strut down the steps. You tap your heel at the bottom as you wait, hip pushed out with one leg at an angle. Finally, a minivan rolls up and the driver reaches over to the crank down the window.

“You call for a cab?” The man asks.

“Yes, sir,” you hesitate, thinking he might have the decency to open the door for you. When he remains as he is, you do it yourself, sliding open the back and climbing inside. 

“Where are we going, miss?” He prompts as you roll the door shut.

“Hm, I saw in the hotel itinerary there is a bakery in town. They have coffee?”

“Sure do, all those fancy foams and flavours,” he chirps as he shifts into gear, “didn’t know anyone was visiting town.”

“A brief detour,” you assure him and turn your gaze out the window.

“Ah, well, you can call me Paulie. I’m the only taxi in the village.”

You don’t offer your name in return. You aren’t paying for conversation. He’s a driver, not a therapist. You sit in the buzz of the radio, the outdated tunes static as the signal wanes and waxes.

“Just up here,” he announces as he comes to flat ground, steering between the only dense line of buildings, “one with the red sign.”

“Sir,” you pull out a bill and adequate tip for his trouble.

“You have a good one, ma’am. If ya need a ride back, you just call,” he calls after you.

You step out and shove the door closed, quickly marching onto the pavement. You peer up at the bakery, eyeing the facade. It isn’t as nice as your preferred cafe but there are no alternatives. How can people live like this? Is variety not the spice of life?

You’re aware of the looks you get from the village elders on the street. You ignore their sideways glances and enter the bakery. You approach the counter as you browse the menu, chin set. You are dying for a latte.

“Hello, I’d like an oat latte, half pump of vanilla, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, and a touch of honey,” you outline your typical order.

“Uh, okay, that was a latte–”

“Oat latte,” you correct, “latte with oat milk…” the girl behind the counter squints and keys in the order, “with cinnamon–”

“Half a teaspoon, don’t cake it on,” you demand.

“Um, alright,” she stops and rips off a piece of blank receipt paper, making a note on it.

“With honey,” you enunciate clearly.

“Honey,” she mumbles as she writes, “anything else, ma’am?”

You sniff and lean back on your heel, looking up and down the display case, “are any of these vegan?”

“Sorry, I don’t think so.”

“Gluten free?” 

“No, I don’t–”

“I might do with the raspberry white chocolate scone,” you step back up to the counter.

“Sure,” she taps the buttons and reads out your total. You pay with your card and cross your arms as you strut to wait at the other end of the counter.

You look around dully. There’s a man sitting by the window. He has frosting on his fingertips as he picks at a cinnamon bun. He gives a goofy grin and wipes his hand on a napkin, several others sticking to him as he tries to tidy himself up. You shake your head and return your attention to the counter.

Your scone is served first on a small plate. It takes some time for the latte. You taste it and suck your teeth. You look at the employee as she watches you nervously. Even if you tell her she added too much cinnamon, you doubt she’ll get it right on a second try. Like everything around here, you’ll settle for it.

You take your order and sit in the corner. You slide out your phone. No bars. This wretched place threatens to bore you to tears. 

A chair scrapes and a throat clears. You narrow your eyes in the messy man’s direction as he approaches you. He’s tall with sandy brownish blond hair and a trim of overgrown stubble along his jaw and cheeks. He wears plaid under a tan vest with too many pockets. Backwoods chic, how gauche.

“Uh, hey, you new in town?”

“Passing through,” you utter tersely.

“Really? You staying up at the B&B? Odinsons are good people.” He nervously plays with the zipper on his vest, “I’m Cole–”

“I don’t want to know your name. The moment I’m free of this place, I hope to forget everything about it,” you spit.

He blanches, “uh, sorry, miss–”

“You will be if you keep bothering me.”

“I was just being friendly,” he begins.

“Let me tell you something, I run circles around friendly men like you. In fact, men like you, beg me to step on them,” you sneer hotly. “And trust me, you can’t handle me, so go on and finish your snack, little boy.”

He stutters and looks around. He nods and backs off, a dumb look on his face. He turns and walks stiffly back to his table. He stares ahead and slowly drops his head into his hands. You scoff.

Does every man in this forsaken place store their brains below their belt? You pick at the scone as your eyes drift over to the barista. She watches the man with a worried look then glances at you and winces, quickly hiding behind the display case.

You turn and peer out the window. This must be purgatory. It is possible you crashed your car and now must wait out your eternity in this hellscape.

[thisbuildinghasfeelings]

It's been a tough year in a lot of ways, but one thing I've been able to consistently count on to bring me joy is the incredible writing in this fandom! I feel like 2023 has been almost a golden age of Tarlos fic. With both the sheer quantity AND quality of fic, it has been a wonderful time to be a Tarlos fic reader! In celebration of this golden age, I wanted to share a list of some of the fic that brought me the most joy in the past year.

Of course, this is not a comprehensive list...as much as I may want to, I can't possibly read everything this fandom has to offer. There's still a lot to get to on my to-read list. And even from the fic I did read, I'm sure I'm forgetting some amazing ones. There's just SO MUCH. But here I have listed (alphabetic by author) some of the fic that most resonated with me the past year, fic that I still think about and reread, and fic that has taken up full time residence in my brain!

There are A LOT...so I'll be putting the list under the cut.

all my blood for the sweetness of his laugh by @alrightbuckaroo

A truly beautiful little fic about Carlos' feelings about TK's laugh. A bit of angst and a lot of love.

anger has told me her real name is grief by alrightbuckaroo

An excellent 4x17/4x18 fic that deals a lot with Carlos' grief and the journey he goes through in those two episodes.

my beatin' heart belongs to you by bartsy

A fic about Carlos' anxiety after the death of his father, manifested in his fears for the safety of his husband. This fic is so beautiful and very in character. I would love it so much if the show would go even a tiny bit in the direction of exploring Carlos' anxiety!

It Beats for You by @basilsunrise

A 4x04 coda, porn with feelings and bottom Carlos...truly, what more could I ask for?? Very hot and SO MANY feelings!

she has almost killed me with love for that boy by @beautifulhigh

Another 4x04 coda (there can never be enough) that's also a study of the different types of love, all of which Carlos has in his life.

How quickly we change overnight by @birdclowns

A pre-canon fic about TK and his relationship with Alex. I particularly love this kind of thing where we have so little concrete information in canon. It's a perfect opportunity for fic, and I really love this one. Alex could easily be handled as some horrible villain, but the way he's handled here is far more realistic and I think it makes my heart break for TK even more.

Even if the World Ends Tomorrow by @bonheur-cafe

A post-apocalypse AU that's a little terrifying but ultimately very hopeful. This is one that I kept thinking about long after I read it.

can i be close to you? by @catanisspicy

A 5+1 fic about TK asking Carlos if he'd still love him if he was a worm. A true delight! This is another fic I still think about all the time.

slowly, then all at once by catanisspicy

A fic about TK and Carlos loving each other, which is one of my favorite things in the world.

The Center of the Maze by @carlos-in-glasses

7 times TK and Carlos thought they would never get married and one time they actually did. This fic covers so many of the most significant moments of their relationship and is so very beautifully written. I think my favorite part is (predictably) the section related to the soulmates scene.

When Soulmates Swim by carlos-in-glasses

A wonderful AU where TK and Carlos get to know each other while swimming together. It's everything: hot, sweet, beautiful, poignant, and sometimes incredibly hilarious.

Release the Hand to Relax the Animal by carlos-in-glasses

A fic that's all about touch and the great sex, past and present, that TK and Carlos have had. A true masterpiece.

We Have Suffered Enough by @chicgeekgirl89

A 4x16 coda. Oh, the soulmates scene! I'm automatically going to love anything even remotely soulmates scene-adjacent, and this one is particularly beautiful.

Shiner by chicgeekgirl89

A 4x15 coda dealing with Carlos finding out about TK's black eye, which is something I desperately wanted to see on screen. I love the way it goes here. It's incredibly sweet.

Cold Feet by @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

A lovely little fic that has Carlos feeling some big feelings about his soon-to-be husband.

When I'm Like This by cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

An early season 1 Tarlos fic with a lot of angst and feelings, which is always one of my favorite things. This one is ridiculously hot, yet also filled with so much emotion and feelings and gorgeous writing. Just thinking about it makes me want to reread!

to build a home by @freneticfloetry

A Carlos character study, from pre-series through season 4. If there was ever a character I wanted to study, it's Carlos Reyes. And this fic is beautifully done, expertly exploring the complexities of his character and the gaps canon has left to be filled.

The Sting by @goodways

Shortly after they're married, Carlos gets involved in an FBI sting operation that requires him to go on a date and flirt with another man, something that TK is not thrilled about. This fic is at times funny, emotional, hot and sweet.

First night by goodways

The first time TK and Carlos have sex and all the feelings and attempted avoidance of feelings that comes with it. So many feelings!!!

Take my hand, take my whole life, too by @heartstringsduet

HANDS. What more could I ask for? This fic is an absolutely gorgeous exploration of TK and Carlos' intimacy across their whole lives together. I'm ready to tear up just thinking about it!

But most of it was beautiful by heartstringsduet

An at-home Tarlos honeymoon fic. I call a lot of fic on this list beautiful, but sometimes there's no better word. This fic is beautiful.

broken glass by @irispurpurea

A beautiful, heartbreaking exploration of Carlos' grief. It's all fragmented and non-linear, which only adds to how moving and powerful it is.

a little bit more by krissyloowhoo

An installment of a series in which TK and Carlos adopt a baby girl. This one features Carlos in love with what a good dad TK is.

Stand your brand of love by @ladytessa74

A Tarlos honeymoon fic written prior to the end of the season. This was a go-to reread for me in the weeks leading up to the finale. Even now, when it's no longer technically canon compliant, the emotions hit just as hard.

How I linger to admire by ladytessa74

This fic is pretty much my dream season 5. It has everything: Carlos solving his father's murder, TK and Carlos getting held at gunpoint, and Lou II saving the day. Several items on my wish list for season 5 were directly inspired by reading this fic.

Do it all over again by ladytessa74

TK tries for a do over of the proposal because he thinks Carlos deserves better, which leads to a series of funny, adorable and touching moments. The writing is beautiful, and it even inspired a cross stitch! I have many favorite things about Tessa's writing, but one of my very favorite things is the way she writes the intimacy and affection and touch between TK and Carlos. This fic is filled with some of my favorite examples of that.

All Your Colors Make Me Feel Alive by @lemonlyman-dotcom

This wonderful fic uses the music of Beck to explore moments in TK and Carlos' relationship. Angst and fluff: the best combination.

I'm Not A Fortress, But I Will Try To Protect You by lemonlyman-dotcom

TK and Marjan have a conversation in the wake of the events of 2x04. One of my favorite parts of Lemon's writing is the incredible amount of backstory detail, most particularly the friendship between TK and Marjan. There are hints of this in canon, but here it's beautifully developed and I love it so much.

Call Me If You Get Lost by lemonlyman-dotcom

TK and Carlos go for a romantic weekend while also looking out for a friend. This fic is a delight and so much fun!

Love From the Other Side by @lightningboltreader

Exes to lovers and only one bed...what could possibly be better?? I particularly enjoy the conversation between TK and Carlos that leads to their reconciliation.

We were in screaming color by @liminalmemories21

I was looking forward to this season 4 fic since before the season even started airing! I can imagine it must have been particularly difficult to write, from the ridiculous season 4 timeline to all the plotholes and inconsistencies that the Iris storyline and Carlos' sudden two sisters created, but it was done beautifully. It made me think about so many season 4 details and moments in different ways and ultimately led to an enhanced appreciation of the season.

I need you so much closer by @marjansmarwani

A 4x04 coda. This one focuses on all the many people who love Carlos. I always love to read about Carlos being loved!

where the empty space is a saving grace by @maxbegone

Carlos talks with Gwyn in the time before he's revived by TK and the narcan in 4x04. Beautiful and poignant.

etched in gold by maxbegone

A lovely little wedding moment where TK and Carlos get some alone time during the reception.

By Your Side by @never-blooms

The Reyes kitchen through the years. If there's anything that deserves more exploration, it's the Reyes family and all their complexities. This fic does an incredible job of this and is so beautifully written.

The Calling by @orchidscript

This is a fascinating and beautiful fic about TK using his experience with addiction to help people in the course of his job as a paramedic. It's something I would love so much for them to explore on the show!

Under A Star Spell by orchidscript

In this AU, Carlos practices folk magic. The fic itself is absolutely magical. One of the things I love about it is how different it is from pretty much every other Tarlos fic I've ever read.

Lost and Found by @paperstorm

A 4x04 coda (if there's one thing about me, it's that I love a 4x04 coda). I loved this episode so much but there was so much more I wanted, particularly to see what happened in the aftermath at the hospital, which is why this fic is so appreciated.

Ritual by paperstorm

An installment of Andie's spectacular Missing Moments series. I could easily have put every installment on this list, but I chose the one for 2x11, which is my favorite of the season 2 fics. I'm always a sucker for Carlos working through his feelings about his relationship with his parents!

The Firehouse by paperstorm

An incredible AU with TK and Carlos as childhood friends who meet again years later when Carlos is undercover and TK is living a life of crime. The angst in this one is spectacular, and the payoff is beautiful and earned and extraordinarily satisfying.

peace by @redshirt2

Carlos post-breakup. This little fic is heartbreaking and perfectly captures Carlos' desolate state of mind as he's left alone.

dream this night away by @reyesstrand

A pre-season 4 honeymoon fic where TK and Carlos end up in a motel after their flight is cancelled. A little bit of angst and a lot of love and tenderness.

to which there is no reply by reyesstrand

An absolutely gorgeous honeymoon fic, this time canon-compliant, that features Carlos struggling with his grief and being loved by his husband.

balancing act by reyesstrand

TK and Carlos sharing food and falling in love. What could possibly be better? This fic is so beautiful and it spans the entirety of their relationship. An incredible achievement and a true gift to readers!

the strong will never fall by @rmd-writes

Another 4x04 coda (I truly can never get enough). This one is incredibly tender and emotional.

shine some light on my day by @rosedavid

A sweet, fluffy, gentle fic about TK and Carlos waking up and getting ready for the day together. Domestic fluff at its finest!

and salt the earth behind you by @safeashousespdf

TK brings Carlos to New York 6 months after Gwyn's death and TK grapples with the ways things have changed and the ways he has changed. This fic is incredibly powerful. I read it months ago but I still think about it.

you and me, forevermore by @strandnreyes

A gorgeous wedding coda that made me cry multiple times.

Come what may, I'll still stay by strandnreyes

Carlos struggles with his work-life balance when he becomes a detective. It gets worse and worse until he makes a pretty big mistake that shows him just how bad things have gotten. Lots of angst, but also lots of happiness by the end and so much love permeating through every bit of it. This was one of the THE fics of the year for me and it still lives rent free in my brain!

no rules in breakable heaven by strandnreyes

An AU where Carlos takes a job as a private chef in the Hamptons for TK's family. Jen wrote so many incredible AUs this year, but this one was my favorite. Just the right amount of angst with a proportionately happy ending! And the descriptions of the food Carlos was preparing always made me very hungry.

As long as it's with you by @tailoredshirt

TK and Carlos spend their first Valentine's Day as husbands in the ER, but it's nothing too serious. This fic is mostly soft and sweet. I still think about it all the time, especially the little gestures and affectionate touches between them. It's a lovely little fic that's guaranteed to make you smile.

tell me how by @theghostofashton

Carlos and his grief leading up to the wedding. Beautiful and heartbreaking. I loved this so much.

Back to You and Me by @three-drink-amy

A lovely 4x16 coda. In celebration of finding out that TK doesn't have to worry about Huntington's, TK and Carlos go back to the honky tonk where it all began!

The Weight of Grief by @wandering-night19

This is an absolutely riveting fic that has TK near-death in a coma (again). It's poignant and heartbreaking. One scene in particular in the final chapter makes me want to cry just thinking about it! Some chapters deal with Andrea and Gabriel backstory, which eventually links up to the ongoing story in the present. The whole thing is so well written and beautifully constructed.

living at the centre of a wound still fresh by @welcometololaland

A heartbreaking, beautiful masterpiece of a fic. Carlos struggles with his grief on their honeymoon, but TK is there to help him through. Just thinking about this one makes me want to cry...and also reread!

a long time ago (we used to be friends) by welcometololaland

A masterpiece of an AU, exes to lovers with private investigator Carlos and wrongly accused of murder TK. They work together to clear TK's name and come back together in a beautiful way.

[yannights]

Thoughts

Am I the only one surprised about the lack of Yandere Wriothesley content?

Upon his first appearance in the "Ouverture", i was deeply exited to his full appearance, and when the drip marketing arrived I was bouncing off the walls.

I had always been a fan of Yandere content with the Genshin men, like Childe, Diluc and even Alhaitham, but i had finished all the Yandere content concerning these particular characters and upon laying eyes on Wriothesley, i knew that he would be added to the favourites. I couldn't bare a day without looking forward for the version 4.1 and meet the character and all the stories following with him.

However, despite the amazing fics out there, I was surprised to not see as many as I expected, because most of the fics leaned towards the " sweet devil's tango" side of things, and that may please a lot of people, but I thought it was kind of sad.

I think it is a missed opportunity, he has the prison, the isolation, the handcuffs and a unique personality setting him quite apart to the yandere genre.

This ultimately made me one of the people who sent out the most requests on Yandere Wriothesley. While I didn't force I did hint with a sledge hammer that he is indeed quite the interesting character in that sort.And upon having a lack of it now there's also pushed me to become a writer here so I guess you could say it's good somehow for me right.

I understand that portraying him like this is quite off upon further inspection on his personality. If he were to be reality he would never do such things but I find Yandere genre being different kind of au, and that the way he acts in those kind of things his entirely up to you. I'm also noticing quite the lack of genshin yandere lately so yes, you could say I'm also growing a little desperate myself.

You guys cannot imagine how much I thank all the people who have created fics on Yandere Wriothesley. There are so many good, that I recommend and I think Yandere Genshin writers a should give him a try even if it's short. There are so many things about the character in self that digs deeper than ocean.

I'm not forcing anybody to write about him just for my entertainment if people want to write about him they write about him and if they don't that's fine too but it was just to say that I was actually quite surprised to see that not many people wrote about him. Even though he has quite the big audience I still actually think he's quite underrated.

So yeah hope you enjoyed

(Also, he is handsome soooooo...)

[girlboybug]

California Gurls

"warm, wet n’ wild, there must be something in the water."

or the one where joel hasn't been to california in god knows how long, but, one thing's for certain. he loves, california girls.

what’s playing 🎧 : california gurls by katy perry

pairing : joel miller x cali!girl reader

word count : 2k

CONTENT WARNINGS : SMUTTY HEADCANON LIST, age gap, public sex, light themes of exhibitionism, heavy petting, bikini fetish, is that a thing? it is now. unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampies, oral f!receiving, blowjobs, doggy style, riding, multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, switch coded joel and reader, joel still leans towards top/dom, edging, forced orgasms, drunk/high sex

TRIGGER WARNINGS : umm i honestly can't think of any besides sex under the influence of both alcohol and weed but neither joel and reader are sober so its all around consensual as always :) if i missed anything plz lmk!

a/n : hi baes, im sorry that ive been slacking on uploading, ive been a bit burnt out, and i recently just got a job! so i fear my uploading may become more scarce but i will try my best to not let it get too bad.

ive had this au in mind for awhile n thought a headcanon list would b perfect hehe and i might make it a full fic in the future. i have a very special fic im almost done with and then a few more requests, thank u to those patient ppl who requested it, i promise i havent forgotten abt u!!! anyways sorry this is so long kjjdsjhdjsj plz enjoy and if there is anyway i can make my writing more inclusive pleaaase let me know!

joel didn't even want to be in california, but it was on the way to where him and ellie needed to go, and it was supposed to be just them two passing through, nothing less, nothing more.

but then, and of course there's always a but, on the journey both joel and ellie stumble upon a beach.

a beach with you.

culture shock for joel, like immediately. it's almost like the virus never spread to california, specifically their beaches. girls girls girls, all clad in the skimpiest bikinis and swimwear he's seen in years - or ever actually.

ellie convinces him to stay, just for a little while, and of course, he obliges, begrudgingly. the begrudging feeling and furrow in his brows slowly melts away when he's left to unwind in the warm sand, wandering eyes traveling across the beach's very underdressed inhabitants.

he lets ellie play in the water, he's more than content enjoying the view surrounding him in the sand.

you’re quick to notice the newcomers, instantly excited upon meeting new people

you make it real difficult for joel to maintain eye contact while he talks to you, he feels like he needs to physically hold his eyes in place so they don't drift down to the way your tits spill out your bikini top

he can smell the salty water, the semi sweet and unforgettable scent of sunscreen and a hint of coconut on you, and it's honestly mind numbing

and when ellie begs to stay in california for a bit longer than they planned, he surprises both himself and ellie when he jumps to say yes.

NSFW UNDER THE CUT

ੈ✩‧₊˚

you make joel never wanna leave california. when it's dark out, with the beach left empty and void of half naked and sunburnt people, it becomes a space for just you and joel.

he loves fucking you right on the sand, loves setting up your bright pink beach towel across the sandy floors just to push your face down onto it, smushing your cheek until your pretty lips pucker and sob his name when he bullies the fat head of his cock into your fluttering hole.

it was so easy getting joel to crack and fuck you, it didn't take much convincing, if anything, it took more convincing on his part to not bend you over upon immediate introductions. but when he finally lets himself have you, it's all he ever wants to do

it was a massive shock that he could keep up with your stamina, he's like what, 56? and you're a 20 something year old full of life and energy and yet he was giving you a run for your money, almost making you tap out when he forces a third orgasm of the night out of you

he loves to drag his tongue across your skin, loves to sink his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder when he fucks you from the back, he loves tasting the remnants of the ocean that lingers on your skin

loves to sneak off with you behind the lifeguard tower, and he loves hearing you plead with him to give you some attention.

he loves to make you beg for it. he loves pushing those tiny bikini bottoms that cover not enough, just to lap and lap and lap, at your soaked cunt.

loves to eat it til you cry, he doesn't stop until you have to push him off. he loves it when he gets to flip you on your tummy, he pulls your hips up and buries his face in your pussy, licking you up until your legs shake and can barely keep you upright, but it's okay, he's always there to keep you in place.

you enjoy feeding his ego when you tell him he's the best you've ever had, which isn't a lie

but the way he forces your knees near your ears when you whine about how his cock is the best, and the way he plunges in so deep you can feel him kiss your cervix, makes you feel like you'd say anything else he wanted to hear to get him to keep fucking you like that

sometimes he just can't keep his hands off you, so he'll pull you away to the secluded part of the beach, and make you ride him

oh you love riding him. you like feeling the slight shift in dominance that occurs when you get on top. you love pushing his chest down, letting his back connect to the sand, tons of little grains getting lost in his hair when you keep him down like that, fucking him the way you like, using his fat cock like your personal toy. 

you don’t care about how sensitive he is, you make him take your tight cunt, he's the one that wanted this, so it's only fair he finishes what he started after all.

it's your turn to only get more turned on when you see his pretty brown eyes line with tears when you're fucking him through his second orgasm back to back.

you're insatiable when you're like this, drunk on his cock, and drunk on the power trip of being in control. you’re unable to stop your hips from rocking down onto his, guiding his fingers to your needy clit.

you lower yourself down to his chest, kissing his freckled shoulders, teeth grazing over his collarbones when he's whimpering in your hair, feeling too much everywhere but he doesn't tell you to stop, he takes everything you give him

loves pulling you into his chest when you've ticked him off, he keeps your back to his front, he spreads your legs and keeps them open with his ankle hooking around your's.

his strong bicep, that you love, keeps you in a loose chokehold, his free hand teasing your soaked cunt, bringing you to the edge of release just to rip it away from you. he loves kissing your sunkissed skin, feeling the warmth from being in the sun all day while he whispers for you to, shut the fuck up and behave.

his fingers circle around your clit, switching between that and burying his thick digits in your aching hole, scoffing when you sigh and whimper in relief when he pushes his middle finger in

doesn't let you finish despite your pleas and cries

he's so mean when he's mad at you. :(

he takes your bikini bottoms, pocketing them away and tossing you his flannel if you're gonna complain that much about being bare even though you're practically naked 99% of the time.

you immediately go home, throw his flannel over a pillow and hump it, trying your best to focus on the scent that wafts from his flannel, and lingers on your skin, pretending the friction you felt was from his fingers

you love getting back at joel, like when you're sitting at the tiki bar, and he's trying his best to converse with your friends

you'll snake yourself in his arms, hopping onto his lap while he sits in the barstool, accidentally letting your wet bikini bottoms soak his drying swim trunks

you also unintentionally squirm around in his lap, 'not realizing' you're grinding your ass right on his hardening cock, looking up at him in faux concern when he starts stuttering and stammering mid-convo

he grips your hips, his fingers digging into your warm skin, silently warning you

you don't heed his warnings, naturally, and instead hop off his lap, announcing to the group that you've decided to go for another session in the water, leaving him to awkwardly swivel his barstool away as to not flash his aching erection beneath his swim trunks to all your friends.

of course joel always gets the last word, he's pulling you away from the water, tugging you along with him by the rocks near the shore the furthest from everyone

little girl is gonna learn today, he mutters to himself, and you have to hide your squeals of excitement, knowing he's gonna fuck you stupid

and that he does, he makes you work for your orgasm, and that’s only if he feels nice enough in the moment 

he has you on your knees in front of him while he leans his back against the sturdy surface of a large rock, his hand resting behind your head while he grunts for you to take every inch of him down your throat 

s’what girls like you are good for, i’nt that right baby? 

your cunt flutters at his words, he always makes you tingly from just speaking 

when he’s about to cum he can never decide which is better, seeing your pretty face covered in his seed or watching you swallow it down without a single flinch 

before you, joel hadn’t done anything like this in like, 20+ years, so when you think you’re done, you’re not. 

his cock stays hard sometimes, and he’s more than willing to use you over and over until he’s satisfied, not that you complain, you’re always so pliable and compliant for him. 

he sits you up, pulls you into his lap and makes you put it in, loves watching his fat cock disappear into your greedy cunt, sucking him in and wrapping around him like a tight glove. 

holds your hips down and keeps you in place while he fucks up in to you, tugs your bikini top down and sucks on your chest, tongue messily dragging all along your salty skin, teasing your sensitive nipples with his teeth 

sometimes he’ll play nice, he’ll rub your sweet little clit, cooing and kissing at your neck and cheek when you collapse in his chest, rutting on his cock while he fucks you through your all consuming orgasm. 

buries his face in your neck to breathe in your scent when he’s close, whispers to you if you’ll let him cum inside, and you always say yes 

grunts a few utterances of your name when he cums in you, he slowly fucks his cum inside you, the wet sound from your grinding bodies turns him on more than he can even describe, addicted to how it feels and how it sounds 

loves to slowly pull out, and watch his cum leak from your hole, loves knowing he’s the first and only one, who gets to do that to you. 

and when he’s at your small place, with ellie being at a girl her age’s place for the night, he unwinds in your bed with you, passing a blunt back and forth

you give him sips from whatever fruity alcoholic drink you’ve concocted that night, giggling mid kiss when you taste the mixture of a mango pineapple drink and weed on his tongue 

and he always gets the munchies on nights like this, but not for food

loves devouring your pussy when he’s high, he’ll make his way on top of you, eyes ablaze, mouth parted with low breaths, eyeing you down like you’re his prey 

you try to tease him by closing your legs, but that’s fine, he can work with that

he grabs your ankles, taking them in one big hand, pulling you down towards him before he lifts your legs up by your ankles, smirking to himself when he pushes your panties to the side and dives in tongue first 

he can eat you out for hours, he’s just so hungry, and he can’t get enough of you

and when you’re shaking, trembling, struggling to breathe, he loves watching the violent jerk your body makes when he pushes his cock inside your messy and soaked hole, loves holding you down while you shake beneath him from your burning orgasms you just had back to back 

fucks you nice and slow, wants you to feel every single inch, and every single vein inside of you, wants you to know who’s fucking you this good

and when he can’t hold off on leaving california any longer, he tries to convince you to come with him. and in the time that the pair has stayed in california, ellie has grown to like you, and naturally joins him in his pleas, begging you to come along with them. 

and as much as you want to go along with them, you can't get yourself to leave. california’s your home, and it could be their’s too, you try to tell them, but you both know where the other belongs. 

when he leaves, he kisses you hard enough that you pray it bruises into your lips for the rest of your life. 

you make him promise to try and come by at least every summer, and with a wide smile, he says he can do that. 

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

The Song We Are Drawn Towards; Azul Ashengrotto

A song rests in the heart, calling out to the one who completes the harmony. Their match pulls at them, as the moon does the tide.

Main Character: Azul Ashengrotto

Supporting Roles: Mama Ashengrotto, Jade Leech & Floyd Leech

Content: Soulmate AU (I use the term soul match instead), gender-neutral reader, hurt/comfort but comfort is only at the end, can be read as familial, platonic, or romantic and that was done on purpose, wet cat Azul, 99% genuine fic 1% crack (actual math said 0.002%)

Content Warning: mentions of injury, brief mention of divorce (Mama Ashengrotto), self-doubt/self-loathing on Azul's part, mention of an age gap but there isn't one

Word Count: 5.5 K

Author's Note: Please do not repost my works to other websites or into AI software. I may or may not write parts for other characters; if you want to be tagged for those please let me know. I am not sorry for the ending. I switch between third and second-person point of view, if that bothers you, sorry. Spell check done by Grammarly. I wrote this in like one or two days, help.

Jade's Story | Floyd's Story

Once a year, during the week of the largest full moon, merfolk are forced out of the ocean at night, their aquatic halves melting into legs. The process itself was not a pleasant one, often described as stepping on broken glass for the entire duration. This annual week-long nightly excursion typically starts the year in which the merperson turns sixteen, corresponding with the age at which the mermaid made a deal with the Sea Witch to go on land and try to be with her soul match.

Some considered it as a blessing, as a chance to find their soul match beyond the waters they knew, to find the singer of the silent song that rested in their hearts. To find the person that they felt magnetically drawn towards, no matter the distance that separated them, like that of the moon and the tides. 

Others, however, viewed it as a curse, as there was a catch alongside the pain of walking. If their soul match happens to not be a merperson, one of the parties would have to leave their old life behind in order to be with the other. The surface dweller would have to trade their legs for fins, or the mer would have to trade their aquatic half for legs. Permanently. Such a steep price had some mers taking drastic measures to avoid that fate, not wanting to be forced to leave the life they knew behind or wanting their soul match to leave theirs, even if it meant they would both live their happiest years together. In the search for answers, some were able to concoct an elixir that would stop the transformation for that year. Unfortunately, there was also a drawback to it as well. If a mer were to take it for three years in a row, they would no longer be able to go on land, even with the aid of potions. They would be bound to the sea for their life. It is easy enough to avoid, but it was still tiresome.

But what of mers already living on land? What happens to them during this week? 

For those mers who call the land their home, they revert back to their merform during sunlight hours, regardless of how many potions or spells they may try. They only get their legs back when the sun sets and the moon rises. It is more of an inconvenience than anything else. 

And this cycle of returning to land would continue until they found their soul match, forged a bond with another, their match forged a bond with another or their match died. But they would feel when their match died the instant it happened, as the pull would stop and their inner song faded into silence. And for those who had lost their match, they were never the same again. It was considered as one of the most painful experiences a mer could live through.

Mers would be able to feel their soul match and hear their song by their sixth birthday. If they did not, it was often seen as a bad omen, as it was an extremely rare occurrence. And looks of pity and sadness were given when the child disclosed this information, but no one outside of their family would answer their questions.

… ... ...

Azul could not fall asleep, no matter how many songs his mother sang, or how many stories she told him. The little cecaelia stayed awake, his tentacles subconsciously mussing with blankets.

“Mama, what did it feel like for you?” He murmured, trying and failing to suppress a yawn, eyelids drooping. “Did it feel like the mermaid’s from the story? Can you tell me it?”

Miss Ashengrotto held onto her son’s little hand, rubbing her thumb gently across his palm. “Hm, well it felt like there was a rope tying me to someone. I couldn’t see or touch them, but I knew they were out there somewhere.” She hummed, placing a kiss on Azul’s forehead. “But it was the song,” she placed a hand on top of her heart and then placed one of her tentacles on Azul’s chest. “It sings from here, and in theirs is where the harmony is complete. It felt like…” A wistful sigh left her lips, “It felt like home. Not quite like the mermaid’s, but similar in a sense.” A soft smile graced her lips as she looked tenderly at her son. “And I met him six years ago. I met you, my little cuttlefish.”

Azul giggled at the nickname. “What about dad? I thought he was your soul match?”

“He’s not,” she frowned slightly, knowing that she would have to tell him eventually about the divorce, but not wanting him to go through what many children of divorce had to. Especially not now. “But that’s okay. We can love people who aren’t our soul matches. Plus soul matches can come in very many ways. They can be romantic, like the mermaid’s, friendships, or familial, like you and me. Some people even have more than one. For every person, there is a different kind of soul match, no two are the same.”

Azul leaned into his mother’s touch, and clung onto her side, “I love you, mama.”

“I love you most,” and she attacked his face with kisses and raspberries, making him squeal with laughter. “Now, you should really try and get some sleep, love. Tomorrow is your birthday after all!”

Azul wrapped himself into a blanket cocoon, “Okay, mama. Night night.”

Ms. Ashengrotto gave one final kiss to his forehead and turned off the light. “Sweet dreams, Azul.”

He looked towards the skylight, seeing the gentle light softly radiating from the full moon above. He wondered if they saw it too if his soul match was seeing the same beautiful moon that he was seeing now. He wondered if they felt like the warm gentle kisses of the sun's rays on skin, or perhaps the cool embrace of the moon’s light. Maybe they felt like something completely different. Azul let out a happy but nervous giggle and waved goodnight to the moon before falling into the land of dreams.

…

Azul woke up the next day, but his excitement morphed into worry and then panic. He didn’t feel the pull. He didn’t hear the song. He was supposed to wake up on his sixth birthday and feel the pull and hear his soul match’s song, but there was nothing. Nothing but silence and his own thoughts and racing heart. He buried himself back into his cocoon, tears starting to threaten to fall.

“Azul, honey?” His mother poked her head into his room and saw that he was still in his bed. “Come on, love, time to get up. I made your favourite breakfast! Azul?” Her chipper tone toned down as she heard the small sniffles, and instantly was at her son’s side, holding out her hand if he wanted to hold on to it. “I’m here if you want to talk, baby.”

Azul slowly pulled the blankets down, eyes bloodshot from crying, and a bit of ink leaking out. “It didn’t happen, mama,” his voice cracked, and he let out a little cough. “Why didn’t it happen?”

Ms. Ashengrotto wiped away some of the stray tears and gently held his face. “That…” she paused, trying to come up with something that would help him but also be true. “That happens sometimes, love. It doesn’t always happen exactly on everyone’s sixth birthday. It might mean that they aren’t here yet.”

Azul rubbed at his nose, “But Rielle said-”

“Tch, tch. Last time I checked Rielle is Rielle, and you are Azul, my sweet, smart, and charming Azul.” She placed a kiss on each cheek, earning a small giggle in return. “So ignore Rielle. It will happen eventually Azul. Besides, you’ll always have me. Now, would you like some breakfast as we wait?”

Azul grabbed onto his mother’s hand, “Maybe just a little…”

And they swam hand in hand towards the kitchen, but both of their minds and hearts weighed heavy at what this could possibly mean.

… ... ...

Azul sat at his desk in the Mostro Lounge VIP room, going over some contracts even though the new school year hadn’t even started yet. Normally, he would be more smug about the whole ordeal, but his mind was elsewhere, wandering. No matter what contract he tried to make to find his soul match, it would always lead to nothing, nothing but a bitter feeling and a restless night of sleep. Ever since he turned six all those years ago, he still hasn’t felt the magnetic pull or heard the song play in his heart that he overheard others talk excitedly about. Perhaps it was a lost cause… Perhaps he was meant to spend this lifetime alone… Perhaps he wasn’t good enough for someone despite all he has accomplished… 

A familiar rapping at the door caught his attention. Pulling himself out of his rapidly tunnel-visioning thoughts, Azul dusted himself off and straightened up his appearance. There’s no use in dwelling in the past and on what-ifs, there are more important dealings at hand. “Come in.”

“Azul, the carriages have started arriving,” Jade spoke, opening the door. 

Azul adjusted the hood on his robe and joined Jade in walking towards the mirror chamber in silence. Floyd was probably off somewhere looking for a source of amusement while the house wardens and vice wardens saw that their new underclassmen got situated. As long as he didn’t have to repay for damages he didn’t mind what shenanigans the other Leech twin got into since it could always be smoothed over at a later date. 

As he was walking down the stairs though, he nearly fell, pausing dead in his tracks and clutching onto the bannister. Something was pulling at him so strongly that he nearly toppled over. And he could hear singing so loud that he could almost hear nothing else save for his own rapidly increasing heartbeat. His soul match. He wasn’t alone. Everything else seemed to disappear, nothing else mattered. But the moment of shock, awe, and soul-shattering happiness of finally knowing that there was finally someone out there, broke. Shattered into a thousand pieces. If it was happening now that would mean… it would mean that his soul match just entered into the world. That happiness morphed into bitterness. He would be at least seventeen years their senior, and he instantly felt ill. 

Jade had noticed the odd behaviour and stood there waiting and watching. Seeing the different emotions flash across Azul’s eyes. “Hmm? Something the matter?” A coy smile slowly made its way onto his face, amused at whatever had caused the brief moment of clumsiness.

Azul’s face flushed blue, but he cleared his throat and continued on, ignoring the stare that was practically searing a hole at the back of his head. “Nothing for you to be concerned with,” he stated cooly. He was anything but cool though, quite the opposite really. He wanted nothing more than to retreat back to his office, even considering hiding away in his octopot after all of these years. Jade, however, did not need to be privy to any of this, lest Azul wanted to be teased for admitting to such a thing. “Now, let’s move along. We shouldn’t be late.”

The magnetic pull and song did not stop, if anything it kept on growing stronger. Azul had to grit his teeth to avoid his carefully crafted mask from falling. But there was a small part of him that wanted nothing more than to follow the pull, to find them. A part of him reasoned that soul matches were not always one type of relationship, some are purely platonic whereas others took on a more familial role, like what his mother told him many years ago. But no one was the wiser of his thoughts as he entered the mirror chamber, people more focused on first-day nerves and sorting out their new charges. 

“New students,” he started, putting on a welcoming yet calculating smile. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your achievement. As dorm leader of Octavinelle House, I am honoured to have the opportunity to support you in what I hope will be a fulfilling campus experience.” He looked around the new sea of faces that would call Octavinelle home. That’s odd though, the headmage seems to not be here.

Other dorm heads started muttering about the headmage’s absence, but soon enough he appeared, dragging along some grey creature and a new student in their robes. Azul winced, the song was deafening and despite how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus on what was being said.

But upon hearing, “I sense no magical powers from this one. Soundless. Colourless,” that piqued his interest and the song faltered slightly. “Shapeless. Utterly vacant. Therefore, no dorm would be appropriate.”

But the moment of silence was ruined, trying into chaos, since the grey creature decided to get loose and spew blue fire everywhere.

“Everyone,” Riddle shouted, “get down!”

The others were not much help, taking to bickering amongst themselves or trying (and failing in some cases) to not get licked by the flames.

Azul cleared his throat, “Allow me to handle this, Headmage Crowley. If none of you are up to the task of catching a small animal, I will accept the responsibility.” He would recount to others that he remembered the proceedings of that day, but he would be lying, as he could only recount the pull and the song that made it hard to hear or focus on anything else. Even the snarky banter with Riddle was forgotten. It was only the song that occupied his thoughts.

… ...

The song had quietened since it first showed up, now just a constant humming in his head. The pull though would vary in strength, meaning that his soul match was closer to him. He wanted nothing more than to run to them, but he knew better than to go into this blindly. He told himself that he would wait for six years, and talk to their guardian about him being in their life as a familial bond. The only inkling that Azul was thinking all of this was the occasional far-off look in his eyes, or singing the same song under his breath.

“That’s new,” Jade hummed. 

Azul faltered, realizing that he had been singing his soul match’s song unknowingly. “I suppose it is,” he said, measuring his actions carefully. He knew that Jade would see through any lies he attempted, so he knew that telling the truth was a far better option. It would just have to be handpicked truths though, as to make sure not to lay everything bare, as he wasn’t ready for that yet. “I heard it recently and haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”

Jade placed a cup of tea on the desk, careful to avoid any papers that were strewn about. “That so? I don’t recognize it.” His smile turned sharp, calculating, but he tampered it down to something more cold and polite. “Perhaps we can find the person who made this song?”

Azul stopped what he was doing, and looked at Jade with a raised brow. “There is no need for such… drastic measures,” he said, wanting nothing more than to hide away. Of course that damned eel would notice his off behaviour and put two and two together. “Besides,” he brushed himself off, “it would be foolish.”

“It would be foolish not to,” Jade replied. Soon the sharp smile returned, “Speaking of fools, there has been talk of the new Prefect of Ramshackle. Apparently, they have… won over Riddle and Leona. And they seem to keep rather interesting company as well. They seem intriguing.”

Azul pushed up his glasses and faintly recalled the face of the Ramshackle Prefect from the mirror chamber. “The magicless Prefect? And by company you mean those two first-years in Heartslabyul and that cat creature? Hmm, they did just sign these the other day.” He pulls out the three contracts, looking up at his friend(?), fellow business associate(?). “And that dorm, as… rustic as it is would work wonderfully for our latest business venture.” A small smug smile starts to bloom. “Let’s see how foolish they can be.”

… ... ...

When Azul overblotted, the song returned, practically screaming in his head, and the pull felt like he was next to a black hole. That’s all he really remembers from the incident, the rest of it being filled in by the others. But why was the song so loud? How was the pull so strong? He groaned, dragging his hands across his face. “Why is this happening,” he breathed out, staring up at the ceiling of his room. “Why now?”

And on top of all of this, the largest full moon of the year is happening next week, just his luck. At least the professors were understanding and gave the merfolk the week off of studies, and even if they could attend classes, everyone would have been too distracted to focus on the subject material. Perhaps he could take this week and work on revising the Lounge’s menu.

He sighed, it was no use trying to get any sleep at this rate. “Sea Witch,” he huffed, “why did you spin me this fate?” No one answered, just the calm light of the moon falling down from above, painting everything in cool silvers and blues. Perhaps a walk around campus would help clear his swimming thoughts and allow him to at least get a few hours of decent sleep before his first class of the day.

As he walked through the empty halls, Azul hummed the song that never ceased in his mind. He let the gentle pull of his soul match guide him. He knew it would lead somewhere, and he would stop himself from going any further if he felt it get too strong. What he wasn’t expecting was to hear someone else humming the exact tune, the same lyrics, harmonizing perfectly with his, echoing off of the corridors from out of site.

Both parties stopped. The gentle tugging now felt like a gravitational pull. And Azul was conflicted; should he continue ahead or turn back? His soul match had just happened this year, if they had indeed just entered into this world they shouldn’t be here, at the college, let alone at this hour. And by the tone of their humming, he would guess that they were around his age, not an infant as he first thought. Then why did it take so long for the song and pull to happen? What did that mean?

But the hurried footsteps which fled in the opposite direction of him were an indicator enough; they weren’t ready. They didn't want to meet him.

A lump formed in his throat. His soul match was here? For all this time? At the school? A slight panic arose. Did they know? Were they able to tell who he was based on the faint humming? Is that why they ran away? Because they knew and wanted nothing to do with him? After all this time why should he think any differently? Of course, his soul match would choose to run away from him.  Why wouldn’t they? After his overblot, he wouldn’t expect them to stay. If he were them, he would have run away as well, far far away. He couldn’t blame them. He would have run away from himself too.

… ... ...

The week of the full moon came far sooner than Azul would have wanted. Instead of going home as many of the others did, he stayed, holing himself up in one of the private pools in the Octavinelle dorm during the day or his office when nighttime came around. Of course, he wasn’t so lucky to be the only one who stayed. Jade and Floyd had stayed to ‘keep him company’, but he knew that they only stayed to tease him even though they had their soul matches out there somewhere.

“Jade told me that you’ve been humming a little song,” speak of one the devils. Floyd poked his head into the crevice that Azul had crammed himself into at the deep end of the pool. “So you’ve been hiding the little siren song from us, that’s not fairr!~ Come on, sing, Azul!”

Azul glared at the intruding twin, “It has nothing for you to be concerned with.” He tried to push Floyd out of his personal space, but he just took it as a challenge to try and shimmy his way in further. “I don’t meddle in your… affairs,” he hissed, finally having enough of the meddling eel-mer and punching him in the gut with a tentacle, shooting him out of the rocky cavern and his personal space. “Now leave me alone!”

“Eh? Tch, whatever, you’re no fun like this, moping about,” Floyd pouted. His eyes soon lit up though, and he turned to his brother who was lurking in the background. “We should grab Little Shrimpy tonight! I wonder how they would react if we pulled them in for a swim?~”

Jade chuckled, “Their reaction would be quite amusing I imagine.” He swam over to Azul’s hiding crevice, and shot him a look that he knew too well; he was planning something, something that was sure to give him a headache.

Floyd swam about excitedly, twisting and turning, turning up the sand at the bottom and clouding up the water. “Swimming with Shrimpyyyy,” he sang with glee. “Heh heh, wonder if Shrimpy has their own song?~ Eh, but humans only have the song if their match is a mer…”

Azul groaned, what with Floyd’s babbling and the song being stubbornly loud today, he could feel the beginnings of a migraine. Why couldn’t there be large enough pools in their bedrooms so he could avoid all of this? “Seven’s, put me out of my misery,” he grumbled to himself. 

“Ah, Azul,” Jade tutted, “we can’t have that now. After all, your match is around here, somewhere.” That earned the eel a tentacle punch as well, much like his brother. “No need to be rude now. We’re just trying to help is all.” But that smug shit-eating grin of his said otherwise. “Floyd, let’s go, the sun is setting. We’ll retrieve the Prefect closer to dawn.”

And finally, Azul was left alone. But the brief moment of peace was broken, hissing in pain. The transformation was happening. Upon completion, he poked his head out, making sure that the coast was clear before making his way towards his office and bolting the door shut. “At last,” he sighed, sagging against one of the sofas. “Some peace and quiet.”

As he busied himself with revising contracts, the day’s earnings, and going over notes on what subject matter to study for an upcoming test. But he wasn’t all there. Despite how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore the song, and the tugging was strongest during this week. But after that night, when he heard them run away, he didn’t know if he wanted to find them anymore. What if this… whatever it is that the Sea Witch gave him, wasn’t right? He could have been content eventually, content with knowing that he didn’t have a soul match out there. But this, knowing and having one but having heard them run away before he could properly meet them? That was almost worse. He would always know that they were out there, and they had run away before even really getting to know him. Could they have been happy? Could they have been a friend? Could they have been like family? Could they have been… in love?

Eventually, he had to return to the pool, as he didn’t want anyone seeing him crawl back in his mer-form. When he got back he noticed the twins were still gone, but they would be back eventually, so he took this time to properly stretch out. Yes, being in tight spaces gave him a sense of security, but it felt nice to stretch out his tentacles and relax without worrying about someone interrupting him or making a rude comment. It felt nice to take up space.

“Come on, Shrimpy!” Floyd’s yelling alerted him, and he quickly went down to his hiding crevice before he was spotted. “Let’s go for a swim!~”

The door to the pool room opened with a loud bang, Floyd carrying the Ramshackle Prefect over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Even from under the water, Azul could hear them shrieking in protest. “FLOYD! Put me down!”

He hid further in his hiding spot, not wanting them to see him like this. He also clutched his hands over his ears, the song only increasing more and more. And the tugging at his soul grew even stronger.

Jade was of no help, just watching the chaos ensue. You shot him a glare, but he just chuckled at the action.

“Eh? Okay then, Shrimpy, if you insist,” Floyd got that familiar glean in his eyes, the kind that meant no good.

 “Floyd, do not throw me! Don’t you dare throw me,” but he had already made the decision for you, and you could do nothing to stop him. He threw you into the pool, following suit by splashing in after you, drenching Jade in the process who shot his twin the side eye. “Why?” You seethed.

Floyd swam up beside you, now in his mer-form. “Cuz it’s more fun like this,” he sang, poking your cheek with the tip of a claw. “Right, Jade?!”

Jade was now also in the pool and swimming towards you. “While I wouldn’t personally throw them in, it was quite amusing.”

“You two are awful,” you sighed, giving into your fate. Despite being just thrown in, the water was quite pleasant but you wouldn’t admit it, since they would tease you mercilessly. Jade chuckled, and Floyd gave you a large smile, but neither of them denied the statement. 

You went and laid on your back, floating and staring at the ceiling. To others, it would look like you were relaxing, but you did this not to relax, but rather to stay afloat. As you felt like an anchor was trying to pull you into the dark depths of the pool. There was nothing pulling you down physically though, and other odd things have also happened since you showed up at Night Raven College. Yes, a world filled with magic, merfolk, fae, and beastmen was quite the shocker, but none of that explained why you felt like something was always pulling you towards something, and the same song kept on playing in your head. And now, alongside the pulling, it was the loudest it has ever been, even louder than during Azul’s overblot when it felt like it was rupturing your eardrums. But it was more pleasant this time, not painful.

You hummed, “Just curious, but does everyone hear… a song in their head on repeat all the time?”

Floyd stopped splashing about and was in your face in a millisecond. “SHRIMPYYY!!!” And he tackled you into a hug that would definitely be leaving some bruises later. You should have been used to this kind of behaviour, but you still winced with him nearly screaming in your ear and the pressure of his squeezing. 

Jade had also swam into your personal bubble, eyes filled with curiosity. “Oh, that’s rather strange. Have you always heard this little song of your’s, Prefect?”

You wiggled out of Floyd’s grasp, sputtering out some wayward water that had managed to get into your mouth, leaving behind the taste of salt. “No,” you grimaced, spitting out some more water. “Which is why I’m asking.”

Azul peered up, this exchange catching his attention, but still kept himself hidden.

“It means you have a soul match!~” Floyd giggled.

You frowned, “A soul match? Never heard of that.”

“A soul match is something rather common here,” Jade said. “For humans, it is quite rare. It is far more common in beastmen, fae and merfolk. The fact that you have such a bond is…” he paused for a moment, “rather interesting.”

You heaved yourself out of the water, as you didn’t feel comfortable staying in the pool what with the pulling and the off chance that it did eventually pull you underwater never to surface again. “Cryptic as always, Jade,” you raise a brow at the eel-mer. “Just answer the question please.”

Jade put a hand over his heart, “Oh, how you wound me.” He saw you roll your eyes, and he decided to elaborate on your request. “Mers are gifted soul matches by the Sea Witch. A song rests in the heart, calling out to the one who completes the harmony. Their match pulls at them, as the moon does the tide.” He leaned in close, eyes flashing. “So, to answer your question, Prefect-”

“Shrimpy’s match is a mer!!!” Floyd interrupted with glee, throwing his arms out, splashing you in the process. 

Jade sighed at his brother’s antics. “Which is what I was going to say before you interrupted me, but he is correct. You have a soul match with a mer.”

You blinked in confusion. You, with a merperson? “But why? How,” you questioned, looking at your reflection in the water. Why me?

“That, I believe, is for you to discover on your own,” Jade hummed. You shot him the side eye. “Oh, don’t give me such a look, Prefect, you know I can’t give away everything. Besides,” he peered down into the depths, “if you follow the tug, and sing the song, you will find them eventually.”

With that, Jade dove into the depths, calling Floyd to follow him. You were left alone at the edge of the pool, with nothing else to accompany you but your dripping clothes and racing thoughts. And of course, the song that played in your head.

… ...

Somehow that night, Jade and Floyd had managed to pry Azul away from his desk and paperwork.

“Leave me alone,” he protested, glaring at them. “Go look for your soul matches without me!”

Floyd flung his arm across Azul’s shoulder, effectively trapping him into joining along. “But Azulll, we should find them together!~” Why did he insist on being so? So?! So annoying?! “Plus, I wanna see the look on your face when you see them for the first time! Maybe you’ll turn blue, or even spew ink!~”

Why did he befriend these two again? “I will do no such thing!” His voice cracked, going up an octave and he felt his face flush. And Floyd wore an even larger grin, poking at his cheek.

“See! Already proving to be fun!” He ran ahead suddenly, leaving Azul alone with Jade. 

Azul massaged his temple, trying to regain whatever composure he had left. Didn’t he just say they would be searching for their soul matches together? Why in the Sea Witch’s name did he just run off without them? 

Jade walked behind him, making sure he couldn’t just return back to his office and hide for the night. “Floyd is just a bit excitable is all,” he answered Azul’s silent question. But he knew that the eel was plotting something.

The pulling was getting stronger, and the song blocked out everything else. Azul had to close his eyes and dig his nails into his hands. He was not running away. He wasn’t the same little octo-mer that hid away from the world. 

Just as soon as he had left, Floyd was back, and he had a tag-along. “And Shrimpy is joining us in the hunt!~”

Without thinking, both Azul and you stepped forward, being drawn together by an invisible force. And suddenly everything was silent. Sing. Azul’s mouth opened and shut, but nothing came out. He didn’t have to start though, as you sang the first notes, and he joined in. The two of you stood there, humming your harmony. And all those thoughts that plagued his mind earlier vanished, knowing that you were the right one. That the Sea Witch knew that you were the only one for him.

…

Bonus!

Jade and Floyd looked at the two of you curiously, with Jade having to hold back Floyd from interrupting the tender moment.

“Wondering if Shrimpy will stay human or decide to turn into a mer,” Floyd whispered to Jade. “Would they be a shrimp or octo-mer, to match with Azul?”

Jade turned his attention away from the two soul matches, “That’s for them and Azul to decide, we shouldn’t meddle.”

Floyd shot him a pout, “But when you meddle it’s fine? How did you even know they were soul matches in the first place?”

“It wasn’t all that hard,” he quipped. “I heard the Prefect sing some of the lyrics under their breath, and I also heard Azul quietly singing them as well.”

“See, meddling.~” Floyd looked at his brother expectantly, “Well, what were they?”

Jade looked at you and Azul, still humming the song to each other, a soft smile coming to rest on his face. “I believe it was, ‘Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down.’ Quite sweet if you think about it.”

Floyd also smiled, looking at the two soul matches. “Heh, it suits them.~”

. . . . .

Fin!

Now I dare you to read this again, knowing full well what the song is, because I swear it will make you see it in a different light and have you cracking up in parts. Please don't kill me, love you!

Link to Masterlist

[hannie-dul-set]

LOVE VOMIT [n.] — the term when you become too full with your feelings too quickly and too frequently that you end up spitting everything out before even getting the chance to digest. this happens to you more often than you’d like to admit— every quarter, actually, ever since starting college. but what can you do when the prospect of falling in love is just too good to say no to? what can you do when maybe the next desert might actually stay inside your system this time?

or, wherein you fall in love with a different guy every season but fail to notice the one that’s been looking at you the whole year.

PAIRING. choi soobin x female! reader (ft. the rest of txt x reader). GENRE. slice of life, romance, humor, mild angst, SLOWBURN, college! au, orgmate! soobin, pining to the highest degree, multiple love interests, featuring some members of seventeen, enhypen, and le sserafim. WARNINGS. swearing, drinking, annoying org jargon, both mcs are pathetic, unrequited feelings. WORD COUNT. teaser: 429 | full fic: est. 25-30k. RELEASE DATE: late june to early july.

NOTE. i said i was going to post the preview at the end of the week but i got too excited 😭😭 this may be a soobin fic but. u see. i am in love with all five of them so YOU will also fall in love with all five of them i don't make the rules.

i also wanted to jump back into my comfort zone of writing ordinary college life tingz, especially now that i actually have 2 years worth of experience to draw reference from. anyhow, send me an ask/dm to be addded to the taglist. preview under the cut!

THE TIME IS SPRING. A soft musk in the air, freshly bloomed flowers lining the sidewalks, and the start of a new semester. There’s something gentle about springtime, reminiscent of crisp blankets straight from the dryer with lavender seeping into its cotton folds and sunlight leaking through pleated sheer curtains. The season is for cherry blossoms and picnic baskets, outings and first loves. You’ve always associated these things with spring, however none of these sensibilities are present tonight. 

Instead of clear skies and bright sunlight, the view through the diner windows is lit up by artificial lights and signages in the middle of a March evening. There’s no lilac nor daisies in the air, but cheap beer and the savory smell of fried chicken. It’s noisy, it’s loud, and it’s far from the gentleness of spring, but you’ve never felt more alive at this time of the year.

‘Why did you join Shutter.TXT?’ reads the sheet of paper sitting on your table. You’re all smiles as you listen to the answers of those sitting at your table, mindlessly nodding along after being three glasses in. Tonight is an orientation-slash-welcome party for the organization you impulsively joined upon entering the university. 

Because photography is my passion...because I want to explore other fields…because, because, because.

The answers carousel around the table, and honest to god, you stopped listening at some point because it’s getting repetitive. You don’t understand the purpose of this activity. Why else would you join a club for photography, videography, and editing if not for photography, videography, and editing? 

“Are you kids having fun?”

You perk up. The empty smiles you’ve been giving suddenly becomes brighter, your eyes crinkling at the corners. Spring came belatedly tonight, and it came in the form of your extremely pretty senior suddenly appearing behind your seat and you’re instantly all the more conscious about your posture when he leans down to check in on your group. He cranes his head to look at you with a smile. “Is it your turn?” he asks. The back of your neck is burning.

“Ah, yes,” you cough, clearing your throat to introduce your name. “I major in public administration. I know it’s pretty far from my discipline, but I decided to join Shutter.TXT because I didn’t want to be constrained in one field throughout college. I’m sure this organization will make my university experience a lot more exciting and interesting.”

Lies. You joined because of the very face that’s smiling at you this very moment.

“I look forward to working with you.”

love vomit. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[skyartworkzzz]

COTL Headcanons ramble

Felt like sharing these in case I take a long ass time to draw it out These are still raw in my mind, so some things may change futurely or the way I explain it might not make sense BUT ALAS it is fun to ramble

SO WATCH OUT FOR THE LIST UNDER THE CUT!!

Before Narinder was banished, a feeling of mistrust was already growing amongst the siblings, and one of the reasons for such a thing involved envy (except for Shamura, I like to think they were above finding themselves lower or greater than anyone) Ever since a young age Narinder has always been a fast-learner, and quite skilled at everything he did. Gardening, fighting, cooking, strategizing, he was good. Definitely not perfect, but alarmingly good So as time went by, the Bishops grew colder with him until he eventually turned against them all, and thats where their feeling of envy turned into fear. For both of their own lives and their brother's, because that's when they realized his "flawless" abilities were always and clearly prone to turning him into the monster he then became (smtng like Anakin Skywalker if the image I have of him in my head makes any sense-) Naturally, a feeling of guilt lingers in them for not having been able to see it sooner and stop it, but as Shamura pointed out after Narinder was sealed, this was meant to happen. He was meant to be a monster, and a really good one

Aym and Baal were secretly given to Narinder by Shamura; they performed a ritual by themselves and killed the kits to send them to the Gates. When the brothers arrived, Narinder reluctantly took them in and naturally grew fond of the twins as time went by, but because they were sacrificed as offerings, Aym and Baal were half-immortal (something like the Lamb once they receive the Crown), meaning that they still had mortal needs such as eating or sleeping At the time, Ratau was serving Narinder as the bearer of the Red Crown, and amongst the rat's adventure, the god of Death eventually introduced the red chest we use to sell things for gold. He would request Ratau regularly to send in meals and fish in order to feed Aym and Baal (and I feel like a genius for coming up with why that chest exists hi-) When the kits were finally fully grown and well-trained, they ascended to Divine Guardians of TOWW and officially started serving him Despite their Ascension, Aym and Baal were never trapped into the Gates, so they were able to visit the world above but as ghosts of sorts (which means only a few ppl would be able to see them). It was through these ghostly travels that both were able to learn who their mother was and watched her from afar when not serving TOWW

The Bishops were once mortals before becoming bearers of the Crowns, a long time to ago, meaning that they likely have a life they no longer rememeber For the funs and giggles of it, I like to imagine that this "long time ago" for them was around the times animals still did not wear clothes nor knew how to speak aside from their respective noises AUHAUHASDJSD ALSO POSSIBLY LESS HUMANOID I like the thought of them looking either much more beast-like or just- tiny. Very tiny. As the animals they are AUHAJMDKADS

The Lamb doesnt know how to do SHIT aside from fighting. Im writing my Lamb as an artist in my Death After Life fic for the sake of the angst, but in actuality, they do not care about art that much. I like to think that they'd prefer small silly doodles over full-blown paintings, but if they do put in the time and effort, they manage to make smtng Mona Lisa-esque. So the skill is there, but they prefer to not use it unless for smtng specific. Its like those kinds of hobbies nobody knows u have til u make smtng CRAZY yk This also goes for cooking, except they are truly a Terrible cook, in modern AU Lambert lives off from cheap pizzas and dollar-stored cupnoodles u cannot change my min-

Leshy is the one who'd soften up the most for me. Obv still a fcking GREMLIN but I think he'd be much more considerate than his former self My guy would go from "kys /srs" to "kys /j" ALSO I like to think his and my yellow cat's love language is gifts and/or acts of service, theyre oftenly pampering each other out of the blue <3

This idea is still in the approval stages but.............Shamura remembers a bit of their pre-Bishop life. A bit. And that bit revolves around the fact that they might have known love in the past. Perhaps a romantic one, Im still not sure- Which now that I think about it would make the most sense as to why theyre so forgiving to Narinder, since the Bishop of War would probs want anything but peace with those that wronged them, unless they had a good reason not to cause havoc immediately............

[snootlestheangel]

COD AU Ideas

Yup, just a big list of AU ideas I've had rattlin' around in the ole brain. I may not ever get around to doing something with most of these. Some might be very thought out and others a simple sentence of a concept. These are all my concepts, so have the expectation that these will eventually become my fics.

I'm unsure right now if any of these will turn into actual works, cause goodness knows I already have too much on my plate right now, BUT for the most part, what I put here is/will be what to expect if I actually do something with them. In other words, these will serve as "fic descriptions" but just for fics that may never come to be.

The first one I didn't include a "fic" description just cause it's such a niche AU and I really want to inspire others to write their own stuff for it. So please let me know if you want my idea for the work!

Anyways, here's some brain rot!

Prison Break AU

SoapGhost AU where they're both in prison and plan an escape together. Based simply on the idea of "We escaped prison together, and oops we fell in love along the way". SO MUCH angst potential, so much comedy potential, so much potential!!!!

I'll definitely do something with it one day, but we don't have any of these bad boys (that I'm aware of) so please ask me/tag me if you want to write a Prison Break/Prison AU of our boys!!! Like, a Prison AU is a phenomenal idea why have I not heard of anything like this existing already???

Cryptid Hunters AU

AU in which Task Force 141 is actually an entire section of the modern military dedicated to controlling/monitoring the cryptid/monster populations of the world. Sometimes this means killing really rare/dangerous ones. Would contain PriceNik (subject to change into including Graves), SoapGhost, GazAlex.

It's the 141 boys just hunting cryptids with the help of Shadow Company (the North American version), Kate Laswell, and a few others. *honestly not my favorite AU, most likely to be forgotten about*

Cryptid Hunters AU but a bit to the left

Same concept as before but Ghost is a cryptid himself. Ghost still acts like a normal dude, and is a part of the 141 because they're actually super helpful for him, as a powerful cryptid-most-likely-ancient-deity. Helpful because they remove competition/keep most cryptids under check. But not helpful cause they stress him out, they want to find The Ghost and put "it" down cause it's apparently super dangerous.

He's a modern cryptid, meaning stories about his cryptid-self are recent (last like 20 years), which makes him that much more terrifying. He's actually one of the most notorious English cryptids; known for his abilities to phase in and out of shadows, creating pillars of solidified black sand, changing his size from massive to incredibly small, and causing incredibly vivid hallucinations of deceased loved ones. He earned the name Ghost cause of those hallucinations and how he often appears like the ghost of a person long deceased. Cue SoapGhost happening and lots of angst potential with that. Also so much comedy cause they're all like "Damn Ghost was spotted again" and he has to act surprised by what they find when they investigate the area. Soap openly defending the entity of Ghost by saying that he's "never killed anyone! 'Sides we should study him and learn about him! He's probably the only one of his kind, ya know!" Ghost falling in love with the strange little human that looks in awe at the massive structures Ghost makes with his crystalized black sand. Ghost intentionally making them more intricate as time goes on, letting himself get spotted in his full "demonic" form cause the excitement and borderline insane curiosity on Soap's face is always worth it. Now this?? This is good shit that I really want to write now

Soap is a Healer AU

Can't think of a good concise thing to call this AU so lemme explain! Soap who is part of a small percentage of people that possess unique abilities. Their designed to "heal souls" so to speak. People with lots of baggage in their lives often seek out the comfort of these "healers" because they can genuinely help them "heal" from all of this. Part of this means helping them move on from the loss of loved ones, like friends and family, or even pets. This means they can see ghosts of people that someone is still attached to. It's not the ghosts being attached to the people, it's the living not wanting to/struggling to move on. Healers can interact with a person's ghost(s) and vice versa, which is often how they help people move on.

Make it SoapGhost though where "Healers" shouldn't be in the military. There's been too many that have gone insane themselves from all the pain and misery they see/feel/experience on a daily basis. Even if they never see a battlefield, they're constantly surrounded by those who have and it's a miserable experience. Healers in these positions often take their own lives because "they couldn't save everyone" and it eventually became incredibly difficult for a Healer to get to where Soap is. But Soap's identity as a Healer is known by like maybe 3 people, Price not included. And he's not got the true "Healer" personality: he's not quite as empathetic and self-sacrificing as people like his mum, so he's doing just fine where he is.

Then he meets Ghost and suddenly all that changes. He suddenly meets someone he knows he needs to "heal" because damn. He sees the Riley family: Ghost's mum, Tommy and Beth, Joseph, and even Roach. Soap slowly winning Ghost over with the help of the Riley family. Soap slowly helping Ghost move on, helping to convince Ghost that Roach is gone, it's okay to love someone else, Ghost realizing Soap is "Healer" and getting upset that he's just "using" Ghost or whatever the fuck, Soap having to convince him that he fell in love with him, not that he's trying to heal him because it's what Soap is, but because he loves him. Soap saying he fell in love when he realized how many years had passed since the Riley family's passing, how unusual it is for people to have such strong "ghosts" after more than 5 years, saying he fell in love because it means Ghost is such a deeply caring, loving person. He fell in love because often times the "ghosts" in a person's life just continue on like nothing happened, and seeing the way they love Simon, seeing the way little Joseph just adores his uncle, everything about Simon Riley made Soap fall in love.

Undercover AU

This one's a GazAlex AU actually!

Literally what it sounds like. The two have to work together as an undercover duo, often times pretending to be a couple, as they help track down a big bad. Lot of flustered Alex caused by Gaz simply ~existing~. So many cliche tropes in this bad boy. The "there was only one bed", the "make out in an alley to avoid getting caught", the "pretending to be married".

Just a lot of Gaz being the coolest, most badass mf-er to exist and Alex trying desperately to keep things "professional" between them and failing miserably. Gaz being confident and using it to make Alex even more flustered cause "heh, he's kinda cute when he's all red and embarrassed". Gaz knowing full well the crisis he's giving Alex like 90% of the time, but not pushing Alex out of his comfort zone cause it's clear Alex likes him but doesn't want to compromise anything about their mission.

So much silly goofy potential with this, but also like some genuine good shit. Also Laswell and Price being older, "wiser" gays just laughing at the two dancing around each other.

Definitely going to be a fic once I finish one of my current WIPs. This either means posting all the YouTuber AU drabbles I have in my drafts or the last 4 chapters of my Left4Dead AU. Probably the latter...

Anyways, feel free to ask questions about these AUs! I'd love to get an excuse to share more of my brain rot!

[signiorbenedickofpadua]

"lecturing" for the wip game! xo @hardly-an-escape

Certainly, my dear ❤️ I believe I've described the premise once before, but I'll give you a little recap anyway as well as a snippet! Perhaps this will somehow help this poor fic get out of WIP hell... I know how I want it to end, but I just can't figure out whether to throw some smut in the middle or just...skip it, uncharacteristically enough... A wise reader may at this point ask, "Why don't you just write the ending first then and decide later if you feel like calling it done or if you want to add a sex scene?" Well. That's a good question. Hm. I'll have to think on that.

So, anyway, it's a human AU wherein Professor!Hob (well, lecturer, technically) holds a series of intro lectures on Literary History. A certain tall, dark mysterious stranger sits in the front row every week without fail, watching and listening very intently. Of course, Hob does his best to ignore how attractive this guy is, because god dammit he's trying to be a better person these days and hooking up with his students does not help with that. Except...is he actually a student...? *the soundtrack in the background turns mysterious*

You may find out if you read the snippet below and also PART TWO and PART THREE since several of you asked about this WIP! (List of titles in the og WIP game post here.)

PART ONE

Part of the problem was that the man always sat in the front row, thus giving Hob far too good of a view of his full body, which was just as unfairly gorgeous as his face. His proclivity for the skinniest of jeans did nothing to help Hob in he Sisyphean task of keeping his eyes away, nor did the fact that he kept looking right back.

Of course, Hob was lecturing, and so it was to be expected that his students would look at him when he talked, but he also expected them to look away at least some of the time. At their notebooks or laptops as they took notes, for example, which this bloke never ever seemed to do. Sure, it was not an advanced course by any definition, and he might have a good memory, or was one of those people who preferred not to distract themselves with taking notes during lectures, instead refreshing his memory by studying at home later. Or perhaps he didn’t care about getting more than a barely passing grade for a basic course like this—except he appeared to be paying rapt attention at all times. It was likely this intense focus which made it so hard for Hob to just ignore him. He had taught plenty of good-looking people throughout his career, and it had never been a problem until now. He was quite practised at turning off the part of the brain that noticed such things, and, even when he did notice, it normally didn’t fluster him like this. The man just had a…a weight to his gaze, somehow. His pale eyes were piercing, and Hob could practically feel them boring into him even when his back was turned. He also believed that he had caught them wandering over his body every so often—lingering on his arms when he rolled his sleeves up to combat the heat of a fully packed and poorly ventilated classroom, homing in on the sliver of tummy skin exposed as he had to stretch up to turn the projector on with a pointer when the damn remote control malfunctioned again, and fixating on the hint of chest hair visible that one time he had accidentally left one too many buttons undone on his shirt. He really, really wished that he had not noticed any of this, because the only thing worse than being attracted to a student was being attracted to a student who reciprocated. Fortunately, the man had done nothing to indicate that he intended to actually make a move on Hob, which was some small consolation. In fact, many tortuous weeks passed without him saying a single a word, never raising his hand to answer one of Hob’s questions or ask one of his own, never approaching him after lectures with queries about the curriculum or the final exam, never even talking to his classmates. All he did was sit there, in the same place every time (front row, third seat from the right), silently staring at Hob while nursing a cup of coffee from Bennie’s café two buildings over. Then, every week without fail, he quietly slipped out of the room exactly five minutes before the time was up and the lecture ended, presumably to rush to some other lecture on a tight schedule. Hob could only hope that he checked the information he put up online about suggested reading and the end-of-term examination, since he never stayed to hear Hob’s reminders at the end of the lectures.

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Burdened With Purpose

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Tagging: @evilwriter37 @cabeverian

Summary: A Httyd fic based on the world of Portal/Half-Life.

The world has been ruined, torn apart by robots who intend on replacing all life on Earth, but humanity isn't done yet. Astrid lives in the village of Berk, one of the last few human settlements alive. Hoping to find something to strengthen their defenses, she goes out to find a way and stumbles upon an old research facility that may have everything to do with the state of the world.

Warnings: Mentions of terminal illness, a dying character

Ratings: Teen and Up

Words: 1 050

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Viggo

Pairing: Vigcup

Author's Note:

Sometimes I think of creating an AU based on the world of Portal, but never really got it off the ground. That is until I imagined some of the drama I could write and now here we are. Very excited for this one!

Same rules apply here as with Just a Kid. The rating and tags will change as the story progresses.

Enjoy! :)

-XOXOX-

Viggo Grimborn despises the way his body has turned on him. He should still be in his prime, he’s barely halfway throug his 30s. Yet, he sits in front of the fireplace dressed in his warmest clothes with a robe on top and he’s still cold. The dark circles under his eyes have deepend, he’s lost weight and his dark hair is showing signs of gray. Grimborns don’t tend to gray so early in life.

And he’s wheezing. Coughing and wheezing because his lungs have been utterly destroyed and he has no one to blame but himself.

It hurts to breathe.

With shaking hands, he grabs the pill bottle on the small table next to him and takes two pain killers. They’re strong, it’s double the right dose, but Viggo is far beyond caring at this point. Then he grabs his glass of port wine to wash it all down.

What a wreck he has become. The media and the newspapers wonder why there hasn’t been a public sighting of him for months now and he can’t stomach the idea of coming clean.

He’s sick and that’s a private matter.

A door opens and closes softly, but those hurried footsteps are barely muffled by the thick carpet before a hand quickly grabs Viggo’s glass from him. Unfortunately, those pills are already long gone.

“Viggo, how many times do I have to tell you not to take your medication with alcohol?!” The sickly man looks up to his partner and finds Hiccup glaring down at him, his glass in hand and other hand on his hip.

Viggo huffs and dismisses the lecture.

“What does it matter?” He asks. “I’m done.”

Just a week ago their private phycisian told them the terrible news; he’s terminal. He probably has only months.

Months Hiccup would very much like to have with him, which they can’t if Viggo continues to wash his pills down with a strong drink instead of water.

“You’re not done. Who knows, there could be a way to help you tomorrow or a week from now. We don’t give up!” Hiccup wastes the drink, throwing it in the fire. It fuels it, makes it grow bigger for a second before it returns to its original size. Viggo considers it a good metaphor for his anger. Hiccup stands there, rubbing his temple where a stress headache brews.

“Reckless,” Viggo shakes his head.

“I remember when I took you on exactly for that recklessness. And your unorthodox, brilliant brain, of course. In a mass of researchers and interns and people calling themselves the future of science, you were actually promising,” he reminisces with his eyes closed.

Viggo can’t say he has loved anyone before he met Hiccup. He was just 18 years old then, ahead of everyone else with a head full of ideas no one wanted to listen to and yet with a fire that would burn them all down. The day they met, he knew he had to have him by his side. It’s been two years since then and just a month after their wedding, they were told he was sick.

Viggo opens his eyes to look at him, watches as he appears to stare into the fire deep in thought himself, fist to his chin.

They’ve called him a gold digger and a boytoy. He’s been sneered at and his father refuses to talk to him. For what other reason would he marry a man much older than himself if not because he’s either scheming or too naive to think for himself?

But Viggo nows better. He knows him intimately. Hiccup was the only person in the entire world worthy of being his equal and he still proves that every day.

Not even Ryker is in his life anymore. And once news of his death reaches him...

“Hiccup, my company…” The man has to swallow. He wishes his lungs would stop burning with every breath. Wishes he didn’t feel so weak, he would yank the young man into his arms and carry him to bed if he had the strength.

Instead, he can’t even sit in a way he considers dignified anymore.

Hiccup turns to him, his features soft and worried. He steps closer, sitting down on the cushy arm chair on the other side of the small table and takes his nearest hand. “Don’t worry about any of that right now. You need to think about yourself.”

Instead of listening, Viggo continues.

“I won’t make it. When I’m no longer here-”

Hiccup takes his hand back and shoots up, refusing to hear another word.

“No! You’ll be just fine!” He argues. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if his husband were to die on him.

“I won’t! And we both know it!” Despite the wheezing, Viggo manages a hard tone.

“When I’m gone. I want you to take over from me. The company and all its assets, both liquid and otherwise, will be yours. Every patent we own will be yours. I can trust no one else with them.”

“You’ll make it,” there’s a crack in Hiccup’s voice. “You’ll make it and you’ll finish your last project and then it won’t be your last anymore because there will be others.”

Viggo is too tired to even shake his head at his stubborness. How can he make him so angry, yet so infatuated with him at the same time? He’s the only one who has ever made him face the fact that love truly does exist. And the way his body used to melt with his when they were still capable of making love made him believe there was such a thing as the divine as well. But his mind, the hours spent together working with him, competing against him, those were the times when he truly felt alive, happy.

Viggo’s body is dying. His very last project was secret even to Hiccup and at this rate, he’ll never see it finished.

Unless… Yes, his body is dying, but that doesn’t mean all of him will be gone. His legacy will continue and Hiccup will be burdened with it.

“My company is yours,” he repeats once more. “You’ll take over.”

“No,” Hiccup crosses his arms, stubborn. “I’m not going to take over.”

“And you can’t make me.”

[rosesradio]

in the midst of ivory rain...

in the midst of ivory rain, i've been working on another fic. i've called it my "scrap fic" due to most of the chapters being relatively short and quick. it is also in an entirely different format than what i am used to writing--some of the chapters are in regular chapter format while others are "transcriptions" of audio files, official forms, and notes left by a variety of characters.

it is an au that entirely reshapes the pjo world, and is mostly told from the perspectives of percy, annabeth, leo, and nico. i don't want to give away too too much (though i'm about to anyway lol) , though i thought i would share some snippets to see if anyone is interested in seeing how the story would unfold.

This is the archive:

To whomever this may concern,

If you do not immediately understand the full context behind the archive, destroy it immediately for the gods' sake.

Actually, if you do understand the full context of the archive, you know you need to destroy it anyway.

---

Annabeth Chase: Hello, this is Annabeth Chase. I am a sixteen year old investigative researcher from San Francisco, and now I live in New York. I, uh...for years, I have been unraveling the larger story around isolated events. As my assistant—as my friend, Leo, said—we, like most, have been the victims of rampant monster attacks. Whenever anyone tries to take a picture of these monsters, it never turns out. It's...blurry, or dark, or comes across as something entirely different than what it is.

---

[The following is a torn newspaper clipping originating from The Manhattan Mirror.]

Amongst the conversation on the origins of these events, religious leaders have drawn a unique conclusion. They have stated these attacks and heroes are indicative of the second coming of Jesus Christ, among other religious implications. @ PeterTheDeciple received backlash for his post on Twirler last week stating: "If you have been the victim of a monster attack, sorry, but that is the price of your sins. I have never been attacked by a monster, but you know who has? My ex-girlfriend, who engaged in pre-marital sex (with someone who was not me). It's better to accept your fate, because God is coming soon, and He will only accept those who accept Him in their heart. I have a course for the low-low price of $99.99 that will show you the light...[Thread Continues]"

---

Just like that, someone like Riptide could take off the mask and blend in with the rest of New York City. Other kids like him, ones that could mess with other elements or fight off the monsters, could be at the grocery store or in Public School #831.

The kid was right. The attacks have been getting worse. Even before that kid's time, the world was a wasteland. But as long as they had heroes to protect them...maybe things wouldn't be so bad.

[wanderlustmagician]

hi friend I am respectfully making demands at risk of siege that you talk about something in your modern au that might never come up in text but is a piece of it nonetheless

you have 72 hours otw canadas next

Somer. You nearly made the temptation to wait on this too much. Luckily I’m a Grade A rambler being asked to ramble and there is a good bit that either won’t or might not ever be in this. Buckle up buttercup. 🤪

So I have included, in some of my ramblings, references that the First Hero (ie the one mentioned in Skyward Sword as being Sky’s predecessor) and that trains will be in this AU. Currently the plan is to make this very slice of life, one-two shot set up for the Before the Adventure stuff and then have a “introduction of plot” fic that’s chaptered… before the rest is back to the one-three shot slice of life stuff. So my opportunity to have many things be brought outa the vault is pretty high. So that said…. This will be pretty much bits and pieces of ideas I had and scrapped but still like or things I’m holding onto but likely won’t write;

That said… Mister First will likely stay as just referenced as the Queen’s companion, until or unless he appears in LU canon and I feel it necessary to include him more. Mostly cause nine is the biggest cast I’ve written for… ever. Which isn’t even the full number for LU but it’s the most consistent one. Also because i don’t know enough to feel like I’ve got a good grasp. Plus it’s fun to make him kind of cryptid like in this quasi-political court field I’ve created.

Then the trains! Spirit Tracks is really cute and very much set far after Wind’s time. So I thought it could be fun to have that as a little teaser to maybe having the train boy come in. We’ll see. I want to go through a little more and see how some others shake out with the plot I currently have.

The Champions were actual people in this! Not just constellations. They did pass in The Calamity and I will likely only ever reference them briefly for feels. Urbosa was the soccer coach at Wild and Flora’s school. Revali was Link’s rival in archery. Mipha was Swim Captain and in a flirtationship with Wild. Daruk was the wrestling coach. Both Urbosa and Daruk taught actual classes. Daruk did Math, don’t ask me which.. pls I don’t like math. Urbosa did the Gerudo language class.

Urbosa was Riju’s cousin, it was distanced though. Daruk was Yunobo’s grandfather still. Mipha and Sidon still siblings, can’t change that. Revali was Saki’s nephew.

None of this will ever really come up because Wild’s past amnesia will only come up occasionally. It’s said that in BOTW that he has regained his memory by the end, so im going to run with a version of Wild who remembers, is grieving, and is trying to move on. So at most there will be a reference to them as his still healing grief comes and goes.

A lot of my world building are things that likely will not be big big in the story, just things I’ve made note of so I remember that they’re important references.

Like Sky and Twi’s nicknames for each other! They defend them ruthlessly, even if they’re a little embarrassed by them. They were penpals as kids, a program ran by their schools to encourage the grade schoolers to practice writing, and got made fun of by their classmates because their names are the same! So the usual school yard taunts of their penpal being themself and things a long those lines. Little kid logic of let’s give each other nicknames and that’ll solve the problem! It didn’t but it made them feel better and special, so they stuck. The nicknames come from their middle names and I haven’t decided if those get revealed in story or not, so no sharing here yet.

There is some funky magic stuff that happened, happens, and will happen. Time and Lullaby do have the whole time magic stuff. So while Time remembers meeting Warriors… Warriors remembers meeting someone much younger and thinks Time is his own younger brother (this may come up, it may not). Warriors did deal with some funky portal magic stuff like from his game, yes Cia was in the middle of it, and The Calamity was a magically driven disaster.

I played around with the idea of the depths also being a part of the Hyrule map and having it be the home of the Twili people… except that was going to be a little much to handle as far as keeping track and mentioning. So I scrapped it.

The Twili people do have a land of their own, it is outside of Hyrule, but it is not a part of Hyrule. Midna lived with Dusk when she was an exchange student. Her phone number was turned off because Hylian phone carriers don’t work in the Twili lands. The Twili people are more nomadic despite being modern times, they still move from place to place. They have ‘Village Sites’ where there are some buildings that they move into when they move. Their clothing reflects that more nomadic lifestyle and they tend to not keep anything that can’t be carried easily.

There will be more probably… once I start actually hammering out full pieces, there will be for sure.

[prettytoxicrevolver]

Soulmate Au Prompt List

Hi!!! Welcome to my mish mash of a writing prompt list!! 

NONE OF THESE PROMPTS ARE MINE!!! I took my favorites from other lists and compiled them all together. 

PLEASE SPECIFY WHETHER YOU’RE REQUESTING A SCENARIO OR A SPECIFIC SCENARIO!!! I had to keep asking people which one for the previous prompt list and some did not get back to me and didn’t get their prompt written :( 

I will say, I have some ideas for full length fics from these prompts so your drabble request may become a full length fic! 

Have fun requesting!

Scenarios:

Sense8 - being telepathically connected to your soulmate no matter where in the world they are (and speaking and understanding their language)

Markings - a soulmate mark that only the soulmates have in common

Platonic soulmates - there are different types of soulmates, some are romantic, some are platonic, some are familial 

Tattoo - when they reach a certain age, a tattoo shows up on their bodies that they have in common

Eye-color - only being able to see everything in the color of their soulmate’s eyes

Gray to multi-colored - only being able to see gray until they meet their soulmate

Sharing injuries - receiving the same injuries (to a lesser extent) that their soulmate suffers from

Empathy - sharing the same emotions as their soulmate when they are close by

Names - their soulmate’s name is written on their body (maybe only initials)

First Word - the first word/sentence they hear their soulmate say is written on their body

Dreamy - seeing their soulmate’s dreams or being able to communicate with them in their dreams

Biggest secret - everyone knows their soulmate’s biggest secret (even if it’s from the future)

No harm done - soulmates are not able to hurt each other physically

Sharing songs - being able to share songs with their soulmate in their heads

Clock - everyone has a clock that shows the time zone their soulmate is in

Danger alert - people can feel when their soulmate is in danger

Tell no lie - it’s impossible to lie to your soulmate

Voice in their head - the voice in their head is their soulmate’s voice

Sharing birthdays - soulmates are born on the same day, share the first breath with each other

Tugging - being able to feel a tug in the direction of your soulmate if they are feeling a strong emotion

Specific Scenarios:

Sharing songs = they keep hearing songs that they can’t find on the internet, finally realizing that they are their soulmate’s own, unpublished songs

Sharing songs = they keep hearing songs that only become famous months later, finally realizing that their soulmate is involved in producing those popular songs

Danger alert = their soulmate is constantly in danger and as soon as they meet, they will have a word with them for worrying them so much

You arrive at a double blind date when all four of your timers go off, leaving you with no idea which date is your soulmate.

You’re at the wedding of a friend when someone bursts in and declares, “I object!”. Before the crowd can even react, your’s and the person’s timer went off.

You try to manipulate who your soulmate is by arranging to meet your celebrity crush / online friend for the first time when the timer runs out.

After an injury, your timer broke and became unreadable. Now, whenever a timer goes off around you, you have to investigate if that person is your soulmate or not.

You’re getting a divorce from your partner and finally sit down with both of your lawyers to finalize things. Your timer goes off at the same time as your ex’s lawyer’s.

Your soulmate is a famous author who writes short stories based on the crazy dreams you share.

Your soulmate is an insomniac who never seems to be asleep at the same time as you.

Your soulmate is prone to nightmares. Maybe they’re ridiculous and it’s silly that your soulmate finds them scary, or maybe they’re terrifying and you wonder how your soulmate can dare sleep when those dreams are waiting for them.

Your soulmate often thinks that their dreams actually happened, so they’ll recount their dreams thinking they’re true stories.

Your words are written in an ancient language that’s long lost to time / a language doesn’t seem to exist.

Your words are very generic (e.g “Excuse me,”) so you make sure that whenever you meet someone, you say the most outlandish thing possible so your soulmate can’t help but notice you.

A childhood accident caused a scar / injury that disfigured your words, making them unreadable.

Your words read, “I can’t believe [celebrity] died,” so you follow that celebrity’s life closely, waiting for the day they die. (Bonus points if you have something to do with the death.)

You expect your words to be spoken to you in person, but they actually come in the form of a text message from a wrong number.

[ashes-writing-corner]

So I'm actually in the process of writing my dragon rider AU, and I wanted to go ahead and include Farah in my little headcanons/fun facts series. As always, dragon art credit goes to Kenny Kwan arts on Instagram. Check it out his art is amazing ^^

Also yes I'm aware I added an extra r in her name in the pic, but as I made this months ago I really don't wanna go back and correct it. I'm so sorry guys :(

Farah and Zaircai

Farah

1. Farah is a dragon rider from another country, Keshye, which is across the sea from Athana.

2. Unlike Edren and Athana, the people of Keshye view dragons as creatures worthy of great reverence. While it's an honor to become a rider, becoming one for Keshyan dragon is harder.

3. Farah was ten when she first approached Zaircai, a dragon who had been feeding off of local livestock for ages and was becoming a tad problematic. Three years of training, bonding, and hard work on both sides earned a strong partnership.

4. Farah is an expert with a longbow, both in the air and on the ground.

5. She rides Zaircai mostly bareback, as saddles and reins are considered taboo when claiming a dragon in Keshye.

6. It takes a lot of balance and a LOT of trust, but she can even stand on Zaircai when in the air, knowing her Winged Shadow will not let her fall.

7. She wants to see the whole world from the back of her dragon, and make records and maps from her findings.

8. Doesn't agree with how Athanians "lock away" their dragons in Dragon's Keep. It's only after talking with Simon and Nova that Farah gets why Dragon's Keep was truly built.

9. Her people also view Wildfyre, the first dragon, as a sort of god-like figure. For Edren and Athana, Wildfyre was a tyrant to be feared and deposed. But to the Keshyen people he was a symbol of freedom and the wild that made up their homeland.

10. She and her brother once served as egg couriers as they sought out new riders. When it was revealed he was stealing and selling the eggs to those who wanted to use the hatchlings inside for other, more nefarious purposes, Farah and Zaircai had no choice but to stop him by any means necessary...

Zaircai

1. A rather young dragon, maybe in his 70s at this point. He doesn't really keep track of his age.

2. Farah calls him her Winged Shadow because he's always there even when she's not on his back.

3. Zaircai tends to overheat easily due to the black of his scales. Because of this, he's often found swimming in any nearby body of water to keep cool.

4. He claimed Farah just as much as she claimed him. They chose each other if anyone asks them.

5. Farah is his first rider, and he's not sure if he'll want another once she's gone.

6. Breathes flames of black with veins of silver.

7. His head and neck are lined with sharp spikes, similar to another dragon I might write about later. It's believed the two may be related but its never entirely addressed, as it's one he REALLY doesn't want to be associated with.

8. At first, Zaircai only lets Farah touch him, until they meet Alex the Wanderer and his dragon, Visha.

9. Is a bit spoiled admittedly, a trait that all Keshyen dragons share.

10. Farah was not the first to try and claim him, just the only successful one to. Many tried only to be burned for their efforts.

And that's Farah and Zaircai! I feel like they're gonna be a fun pair to write, and even more so when Alex is thrown into the mix. Not sure who I'll do next, maybe Graves and his dragon, Vera. Anyway, let me know what you guys think! As I said I'm actually working on turning this into a full fledged fic. So keep an eye out for that! Don't forget to be awesome ^^