#the last one though is so self aware

[quil12]

Why are they threatening me...?

Bonus:

[asydicsydney]

Oh, I haven't stopped thinking about them since I made that first post

For those unaware, this is my Steam Powered Giraffe fanbot, Pluto! Their design is inspired from the Rococo fashion from when I was in Cinderella, the painting Starry Night, and the aroace flag. If you want the whole story you can read that over here

Cut has close up pictures, the sketch, and the Minecraft skin I made a bit ago that finalized their design

[57sfinest]

actually i do want to make this a post. it’s so interesting to think about harry from other people’s perspectives, especially if they’re people who were around him before martinaise. because the thing about harry is: he’s a spectacle. there is not a single person left to him who genuinely *cares*. but there are people who take an interest for interest’s sake. harry is the car crash that people can’t look away from, and it’s such a rich lens to view him through.

let’s exclude jean, judit and trant because there’s already enough you can say about them as the sole remaining members of the major crimes unit. think of the other officers who worked at the 41st. whether they worked in c-wing with him or not, they were exposed to him. they had to be around him in some capacity. as a lieutenant, he was “responsible” (i use that term loosely) for overseeing a number of subordinates under the rank system. 

like put yourself in the shoes of a patrol officer at the 41st. you know harry as, in a word, unstable. a deeply unreliable man of extremes with alarmingly few personal attachments to keep him in check. he’s also practically untouchable as long as he keeps getting results, which he does, at a cost. so there’s never any point in formally complaining about him- he’s never going to be corrected or fired, so you just do one of the following: 1) keep your mouth shut (if you’re polite or playing it safe), 2) only bitch about him out of earshot (if you’ve got something to say but you’re nonconfrontational), 3) start shit with him but in a “playful” way that is secretly sincere (if you’re ballsy/have known him long enough), 4) or start shit with him for real (if you’re jean, or have a death wish). 

and the thing about the last two of those options- *especially the 3rd, which seems to be the favorite of his fellow C-wingers*- you have to know him VERY WELL to pull it off without ostensibly getting your nose broken (or worse). you have to know his moods and his triggers and what exact cocktail of bullshit he’s displaying that day so you know where the line is for this particular shift. whoever figures it out first passes it along to everyone else- hey, you can fuck with him about dating today, but don’t bring up the drinking or last week’s case or he’ll go ballistic. and it’s just like... he’s a specimen. you may not know him on a personal heart-to-heart level, but you know him the way a zookeeper knows their tigers, or the way the falconer knows their hawk. you know when to feed and when to back away with your arms up. it doesn’t make things better, but it stops them getting worse. (for you, anyway).

then martinaise happens and if he comes back- his instability is still there, but it’s not the same. you don’t recognize the way he’s acting. maybe some things are not as bad as before, but all of it is different and it’s impossible to get a read on it. you have no idea how to approach him now, or if you should approach him at all. there’s a new layer to his unreliability and it’s somehow even scarier than before. there’s a tiny tiny calm in his storm, finally, and you don’t know when it’s going to break or what’s going to break it. you hear he’s finally actually kicking the booze and maybe you just scoff and move on, or maybe you let yourself root for him. really it all depends on how long you’ve known him, how many times you’ve seen him *try*. how sympathetic you are to his conditions and how patient of a person you are. how many times he’s hurt you (because that number is rarely going to be zero). no matter what, you’re going to be left wondering. you don’t know how much of him is gone. you don’t know how much is going to come back. you’re not sure how much of each you *want*.

[gabv1el]

Alas, poor Yorick.... oh, how did it go?

[trannakinskywalker]

.

[yuukei-yikes]

dude have you seen skip and loafer. dude. harutakacore. dude,.

DUDE WHAT THE FUCK THIS FREAKED ME OUT I LITERALLY FINISHED READING THE MANGA LIKE 2 HOURS AGO actual reply in tags

[bumbleblurr]

I gotta hold myself accountable to when I'm making content that's not really based on canon at all, so I remain self aware & whatnot, but I still occasionally think things like "but blurr should be arcee's number one fan 🥺.... bc i said so........"

[hotmess-exe]

i no longer believe in code-switching. it's never an active decision to do it, but i've come to realize that has never made it any less taxing for me. the only switch i'm bothering with anymore is professional, for obvious reasons. no more switching for the room, the audience, the authority figure, the hypothetical. no more.

i'm too old for that shit!

[exopelagic]

sooooososososo tored

[dredshirtroberts]

sooooo many things are simultaneously kicking my ass right now thank god i don't play cod or i'd have to also suffer the humiliation of 12yos kicking my ass too

[mademoiselle-red]

Other emperors in Chinese history: In order to prevent my tomb from being robbed, I’m going to build it on a remote mountain, hide it in a vast underground palace, and set a bunch of booby traps

The controversial and self aware emperors: I will do all of the above and hide the location of my tomb so my enemies cannot find it and desecrate it after my death

Liu Bei, Emperor of Shu: My tomb is in a royal temple right smack in the middle of my country’s capital, in the busiest area of the city. I am buried in a mound with my belongings, above ground.

Liu Bei’s son: I’m going to put Zhuge Liang’s temple right across the street from my father’s temple and grave

A governor of Sichuan, a few hundred years later: Zhuge Liang’s temple is much more popular among the everyday folk than the royal temple across the street. In order to uphold royal honor, let’s combine the two temples so that people have to pay their respects to the late emperor when they want to pray at Zhuge Liang’s shrine!

The people of Sichuan: Okay, we’ll refer to the combined temple as Zhuge Liang’s temple because we like him more, even though it’s technically also Liu Bei’s grave

Grave robbers, when they find the graves of other emperors: This grave is in the middle of nowhere, the closest village is a few days walk, and nobody even remembers where the grave is anymore so it should be safe for us to camp out here for a couple days, locate an entrance to the grave, and dig!

Grave robbers, when someone suggests robbing Liu Bei’s tomb: Everybody knows his tomb is in Zhuge Liang’s temple, which is one of the most popular temples in the province. The temple is in the busiest and thus one of the most closely policed districts in the city, surrounded by restaurants, markets, and residential homes. This is the temple where the city people come to pray for good luck and hold their annual festivals. I don’t think we could get away with camping out and digging here in the middle of the city.

And because for the last ~1800 years the city remained densely inhabited and the temple popular among the city folk and visitors alike, Liu Bei’s grave became the only royal grave from the three kingdom’s period that remained undisturbed by robbers.

[thejeangreysummers]

boxer au simon “ghost” riley

⁃ everyone is exiting a kickboxing class you show up doe eyed with your little matching set and a bag the same color. simon immediately crosses the gym before soap or gaz get a chance to.

⁃ “i think i have something you’ll like.” simon offers hesitantly, if any other tall masked stranger approached you like that you’d leave for the sake of self preservation. but he’s so hesitant in the way he offers looking above your head and not making direct eye contact. his shoulders are drawn together like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

⁃ he ducks behind the desk and pulls out some Everlast hand wraps in the same color as your clothes.

“your favorite color.” he says jokingly

“how’d you know?” you laugh and for the first time he looks you in the eye and something shifts in your chest.

“you’ve got good taste.” he quips

he’s extends his hand in front of yours and you’re so dazed, you just hold his hand. simon is already tipsy of your laugh he considers kissing it. he begins wrapping your hand and the realization makes you flush with embarrassment.

⁃ until he starts talking… he’s explaining how the wraps work and which gloves he recommends and your initial reaction shifts into annoyance. you want to fuck with him just a little bit, because who is he to explain anything to you? he probably doesn’t even work here and you’ve been kickboxing for the last two years.

the stress relief it gave after your last break up worked wonders.

⁃ “do you want to practice with me love?” he offers after he lingers on your wrist

you concede and slip under the bar of the ring. his eyes tell you everything. eager to be close to you he explains a hook and a jab, of course you nod and smile feigning ignorance as he tells you how he’ll explain the kicking afterward. you’re feeling a little triumphant when the false jab distracts him as you sweep him, he falls and makes a jagged hurt noise.

⁃ your playfulness turns to panic

“are you okay? i’m so sorry i didn’t mean to actually hurt you. i kind of expected you to grab my leg or move or laugh? i didn’t mean to—” you fall to your knees beside him worried he hit his head. he shifts on to his back leaning lazily on he’s elbows and he’s smiling at you. that little fucker. or huge fucker honestly, he’s so tall he’s practically scraping the celling.

⁃ “you’re such an asshole.”

“wounded my pride, worse than a physical injury honestly.” simon looks up at you cheekily

“how long have you been doing this? do you work here? why did you come up to me?”

simon wants to toy with you a little more. he loves your short temper paired with your softness it’s intriguing. you’re so sweet worrying about him, would you be like that at one of his matches? anxious fluttering around saying a hail mary he won’t get hurt? or would you bask in the stadium lights, proud that he belongs to you? he intends to find out immediately.

“well ‘m a professional love, a man’s got to eat someway. my trainer, price, doesn’t love when i frighten the clients, but you’re too pretty to avoid.” simon winks at you like his voice isn’t flirtation enough

“i’m not afraid of you.” you lean in front of him on the mat and he gets a long look at your tits when he meets your eyes again you’re aware of how public this display is. you scramble to you feet and extend a hand to help him up and simon doesn’t move.

“get up.” you command in a harsh whisper

he shakes his head shamelessly drinking in your figure.

“seriously, get up someone could come in here.” you urge extending to gently kick him and in a moment he’s pulling your ankle shifting to ensure you fall directly on top of him. he places a gentle hand on the small of your back, respectful almost hesitant.

“now we’re even.” he teases

he smells like mint a touch of lavender and something distinctly him. you want him to lower his hand even though you’re in public. you almost want to kiss him, but then he’d get the wrong idea about your intentions. you were supposed to be scouring the price for this gym across from your apartment nothing more. he probably does this with every pretty customer that walks through the doors. you push yourself up using his chest as leverage.

“we are not even, you tricked me!” you scoff

“then let me make it up to you let me buy you dinner.” he offers

you can’t date this stranger at the gym across from you apartment. you’d see each other again, after dating your co-worker you decided not mix buisness and pleasure. boxing is an essential part of your routine, it’s safe and consistent. he’s roguishly attractive and probably not staying in the country.

“no thanks, you’re something but y’know you’re not from around here. i want a serious relationship.” you know your honesty will scare him away and you’ll never speak again

“well if you get off me, i can get on my knees and propose” simon smirks

you realize that you’ve been leaning directly on top of his chest, not shifting or standing.

“it’s one knee.” you counter as you slide off him and stand up

“for you i’d beg.” simon admitted

the way he looks at you for a second you almost believe him.

“i’m sure you offer that to ever pretty girl who walks in here.”

simon is serious about the begging, he’d wait as long you wanted to have you underneath him. but someday soon the sweet sound of you whimpering his name would be fill the room. you’d be the one pleading for him just to put the tip in.

“come to my match tonight. if i win, you let me buy you dinner. our first real date.” simon promises

he’s such trouble and you want him despite it.

how many girls batting their eyelashes and love struck boys come to his matches longing to see him afterwards? one of them will surely take your place if you don’t attend.

“what if you lose?”

“i won’t.” simon drawls

“you think you’re that good?” you taunt

“i think you’re lucky.” simon breathed

[becca-e-barnes]

It might be toxic of me but I really love when men let their jealous, protective side out during sex 🤤

I love the thought of Bucky cradling his girl's face in one hand while he holds himself up with his other, driving his cock in and out of her while whispering the filthiest thing in her ear.

"Shit, you were made for this, weren't you baby? Made to take my load." He's so lost in the way you whine, telling him he's right and he knows it when he feels the way your body clenches and flutters around him.

"Can't believe a pretty little thing like you is all mine. You know you are. You're my girl. Nothing else could even make me feel close to how you do." His dick slides into you, as deep as it can possibly go before he draws back again. His rhythm is manageable but you're pretty aware that your fingernails are digging into the broad expanse of his shoulders and back. It's not like you can be held responsible for that though.

"It's like you were made for me. Sweet and tight and wet and so fucking pretty. You're a dream come true." His self control never lasts too long and you feel the strain on it already. He wants to take you. He wants you squealing and whimpering and screaming his name so all your neighbours know who he is. He wants to make sure you go to work in the morning in a daze, unable to think of anything but the earth shattering orgasms he's dragged from your body. He wants to flood your body with his cum, filling you to the brim, claiming absolutely all of you.

"You're my pretty girl, aren't you?" He asks, using the hand on your face to guide you so your eyes meet his.

"All yours. Don't want anyone else." Your legs tighten around his waist, keeping him close in a way that feels desperately romantic. His skin on yours feels perfect and you find you just don't want to separate, not even for a second. Feeling consumed by him doesn't concern you, instead it's comforting. It's lovely to be his; to be wanted and needed by him and to know he's yours in entirely the same way.

[chososdiscordkitten]

Kneel.

Synopsis: pt 2 of this fic ^-^

Pairing: Priest!Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: pwp, not as much church stuff as the last one, lots of flirting, breaking church vows, nanami trying to justify his actions as permissible, lots of pleading to his god, hand stuff, rough (?) sex, cream pie, multiple orgasms

Taglist: @eliuriastwo @ingojo

MDNI

It plagued him. The severe tension ran thick every single Sunday after mass. Where you would sit in his office chair- this look of smugness on your expression with the corner of your lip curled as though you were aware of the torment you were inflicting onto him. 

Insinuating conversations of the carnal sins you would confess to—barely even sins— just thoughts that plagued your mind unwillingly. 

Middle of the third time he saw you- the way your eyes dared to sparkle as you confessed the so called disgusting thoughts to him. His mind started putting the pieces together. 

“Cold showers aren’t working anymore, Father. I had to. I had to rid myself of the hellfire that burned in me.” Your lips bordered on smiling as you watched the Father lower his gaze. 

He didn’t know when, but his index and thumb had started toying with the little fly of his zipper, flipping it up and down—something to keep his hands busy as you spoke. 

“I know that must be a sin, isnt it father?” you placed your hands between your knees, leaning over in the slightest and exposing even more of the crevice of your chest to him. His eyes tried to avoid the tempting ploy. 

Little wired glasses on the bridge of Nanami’s nose as his eyes betrayed him- Unwillingly, they flashed down to your breasts, catching himself and looking back up to your face. 

You raised your eyebrows in the slightest, as though you had caught on to his urge to look. 

Nanami cleared his throat, pulling off the little glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “The Bible- says it is, yes. Against the sixth commandment-” Looking back to your expression that seemed even more unbothered than before. 

“If it is a sin,” you whispered, pinching your eyebrows in question of the Father’s faith. “Then why does it help?” 

Nanami cleared his throat for what seemed like the hundredth time in those 30 minutes. “God made us sexual creatures,” he mumbled, trying to make it sound as business-like as he could. 

You let out a little giggle- something that sounded like a siren trying to lure him into a trap. “Then god made me too sexual.”

Nanami inhaled- taking a little swipe at his lip with the tip of his dry tongue, parting his lips and averting his gaze. “How…” he inhaled sharply, “How did it feel?” barely legible, but the words deepened your smirk into something crueler.

A sigh of contentment left your lips, “As though I had chipped away at the temptation in the slightest.” you took a deep inhale- the skin of your chest pressing against the edge of your low cut top and daring to spill. 

“It felt so good, Father. Freeing almost.” You continued, seeing Nanami’s blush spread through his cheeks down his neck in the slightest. 

The thought of how freeing it would feel had he acted as callously as you did in your own desires made the Father realize he needed a freezing shower by the time he went home. He couldn’t give in as quickly as you did. 

His hand halted the little flipping movement on his zipper. Gulping in the slightest and leaning back into his chair- “And your prayers… didn’t help?” trying to change the daring topic he had brought on. 

“If I could be honest, father?” you sat up, pushing your shoulders back and lightly tilting your neck. Collarbones exposed to his nervous eyes with that same self-satisfied smile on your painted lips. 

“Please, be honest.” 

“I think my prayers have caused the opposite effect.” 

Nanami nodded softly, thinking up something else to offer you besides the strained words he practically forced himself to say. 

“Maybe a place in the community?” he asks, thinking that if you and he try to debrief these issues, you’ll get nowhere but a very frustrated priest who just wants to ‘help’. 

He inhaled sharply, opening a little drawer in his desk and reaching for a flier, “Next Sunday, we’re having an Easter event for the children- you could find your place in our community.” 

Placing the little flier onto the wood in front of you, your eyes scanning the colorful sheet with a half cocked smile. “Help serve the food, or just stay for a while. You’re welcome to it.” 

And the following Sunday, you showed up bright and early, sitting through Easter Sunday mass. Noticing that, compared to other times, the Father wore a black short-sleeved dress shirt this time. 

He excused it because he knew it would be hot that day and was getting ahead of an issue before it arose. 

“Excuse me for being so indecent today,” he joked in front of the congregation before continuing his sermon. 

But the little flexes of Nanami’s bicep strained against the tight sleeve of the shirt when he grasped the side of the podium. Or how, with every inhale, his plentiful chest would press against the buttons of the black shirt in strain. 

It made that Sunday even more special. His arms were exposed, and how that shirt was at least a size too small for the man. Tempting. It made you wonder if it was you trying to lure in the tortured man or the other way around. 

And when the service ended- a few stolen glances and raised brows at the stumbling of his words before all the church people gathered at the back of the building. A patch of grass and a few tables covered in colorful plastic tablecloths. 

You did as he asked, served the children and the churchgoers food and waited for them to start their hunt for plastic eggs. And your effort didn’t go unnoticed; the Father would look over every now and then to see you happily serving the people of the church. Glad to see you enjoying yourself.

As though his attempt to help you was finally working- maybe all you needed was community and congregation to rid yourself of the shameless confessions you’ve made in his office. 

But you- now standing on one end of the grass patch, derived from any sort of community the Father thought you were participating in. 

Though it didn’t bother you, making friends with bitter church women was neither your task nor the conquest you sought. 

But when your eyes caught the Father excusing himself from a few people of his parish- dashing into the church’s back entrance- you chose to follow. 

Placing the little cup of lemonade onto the table before walking past the doors the Father had dashed past. Following him to the little cracked door of his office, hearing the light shuffling of papers. 

You knocked twice- pushing the door open to see the Father jump at the sudden noise and the sight of you at his doorstep. 

“You haven’t said a word to me, Father.” you thrummed, stepping into his office and closing the door behind you. Be it the general conquest or how delectable he looked in that tight short sleeve, you wanted to push even further this time. 

He let out a little sigh with a smile, “You’ll have to excuse me- today has been very laboring.” his brows furrowed with stern eyes looking for the pages he swore he left at the very top of a stack of paper. 

“Anything I could do to help?” taking on a sweet tone as you stepped closer to him. 

Nanami let out a little laugh, almost in disbelief. “You’ve done more than enough to help today,” he said, his shoulders stiff from your presence standing at his side. 

“I couldn’t ask for more,” he whispered, feeling your eyes pierce through him as he moved the stack of papers- the cotton around his bicep suffering from the flex of his arms. 

Looking down at his hands. Spreading the papers, tantalizing thick fingers with a prominent vein standing proud at the top of his hand. Swallowing lightly at the image in your mind. 

“I want to help, Father. Tell me how I can assist you.” reaching down to the top of his hand and placing yours atop his- halting its movements and causing Nanami to look over at you as though you were deranged. 

Nanami parted his lips- derailing his train of thought entirely from the seemingly innocent touch. “What are you looking for?” you murmured, lightly caressing your thumb against his skin. 

The first thing that popped into his mind was nowhere near priestly or godly. But he gathered his thoughts and mustered the words. 

“The choir-” he inhaled a choked breath, “They need the lyrics for the service on Wednesday,” he whispered, looking at your low eyes with your hand still atop his. 

“Your parish made you leave an event to look for song lyrics?” you teased- as though that was some lame excuse he made up on the spot. 

Nanami let out a little laugh, pulling his hand from beneath yours and going back to looking for the pages again. “I know,” he mumbled, but you weren’t quite done urging you to be there to help. 

You placed your hand over his again, looking at him with all the earnesty you could muster. “You are such a good priest, father.” picking up his hand from the desk and holding it in both of yours. “If you need help-” and there went the corner of your lip curling with sadistic intent. 

“You can ask for it.” you assured, caressing his hand lightly as his lips parted with an inhale, “You can ask me for it.”

His heart was pounding in his chest—the words themselves weren’t filthy. Were they spoken by anyone else, it would’ve been heard as a simple offer.

But the honey soaked in the way you said it- the sparkle in your eye and the tenderness in which you held his hand. Nanami knew you were not offering an innocent way of assisting him. 

Nanami felt it in his gut. It made his mind fuzzy- made him unable to think coherently. 

It made him forget the white collar around his neck, the years he had spent as a priest and at the center of a church, and his vows—and for the first time in a very long time, his mind wasn’t judging the thoughts that raced inside of it. 

You took a step closer to him—just one step and your chest was mere inches from his. His eyes flashed from your half-lidded ones down to your plush lips. You could feel the little tremble in his palm between your hands.

“I-” he started with an exhale, being able to breathe in the sickeningly sweet aroma of your skin. How it whirred in his mind should’ve been a sin in itself. 

You tightened your grip on his hand, whispering a sweet, “Do you need help, Father?” watching his adam’s apple bob past the white collar around his neck and blinks become hazy. 

The hand atop trailed up his forearm with a ghostly touch, feeling the light goosebumps rise beneath your fingertips. 

It wasn’t till he saw your gaze turn dark- that’s when it clicked in the Father’s mind. That’s when the pieces came together. 

You weren’t some lamb in desperate need of guidance; you weren’t innocent of the invading thoughts that the devil tried to tempt you with. 

‘You were put before me as a test.’ was the one clear thought that broke through the mist in his mind as he looked at you. 

And what he feared most—Nanami knew that if you had continued offering your assistance, he would have failed this test put before him by his cruel god.

Only the sound of a harsh knock startled him from the invading thoughts of what he could do to you in that room—or what you would have done to him had nobody interrupted. 

A parish member cracked the door open- “Father, have you found the-” halting their entry as they looked at the sight before them. Furrowing their eyebrows before Nanami cleared his throat- pulling his hand from yours again. 

“I’m afraid I’ve lost them entirely- I’ll reprint them tomorrow morning.” his tone stern and clear as the parish member nodded- unsure of Nanami’s words as you stood there. 

You flashed a small smile at the parish member- “Father, the deaconess is looking for you.” they continued. 

Only you crossed your arms beneath your breasts and rested back onto the edge of the Father’s desk- too smug for what they had just witnessed. 

“Thank you, I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Hesitatingly, the parish member closed the door and left. Leaving you and the Father in a devastatingly thick with tension room. You placed a hand onto his upper bicep- the same bicep that had been tempting you for the entire service. 

“I’m available anytime you need me, Father,” you whispered before you left the troubled man alone in the room. Your touch lingering on his bare skin as he placed his hands flat onto the surface of the desk. 

The very same desk he was picturing you bent over in his mind a mere few seconds ago.  

His hands were clammy against the surface, an ache rowling in his tummy as he closed his eyes and tried shaking away the thoughts of your breasts daring to spill from the low cut neckline of your dress. 

Or how tight the fabric looked pressed against your hips when you walked away from him. 

In the end Nanami was still a man with eyes- not even a priest could control their wandering gaze. 

He wanted to tell you- he needed to say to you that he couldn’t help you anymore. That little arrangement after Sunday mass, where you would lure him in with descriptions of the proclivities taking place late at night, couldn’t happen anymore. 

Nanami was sure that the next time he saw you, he would tell you to get out of his church and find someone better suited to your troubles. 

Yet he sat there again, twiddling his thumbs to avoid the urge to reach for his zipper. 

A week of cold showers were, as you said- they didn’t fucking help. On mornings when Nanami would wake up with urge bursting from his boxers or by just remembering the sweet tinge the air had once you left- the appendage between his legs would twitch in betrayal. 

The realization that you were a test made him even more intrigued, as though it pushed him further into your clutches. He was desperate to know if he would succeed in this test his god put before him. 

And sitting in that chair, hearing you speak of the filth that raged in your mind without shame. 

A feigned chime of disappointment in yourself when you fell back into the temptation again, but this time, Nanami saw it was false. That the slight curl your lips had wasn’t a defense mechanism; you found humor in the trouble inflicted on him. 

As though you could smell the fear in his very soul from the chance of succeeding in enticing him. 

And yet, Nanami still sat there listening. A masochistic churn in his brain had him listen to every temptation. 

“You’ve never felt this way, Father?” you whirred, the amused look in your eyes masked by the fanning of your lashes. “As though you started something you couldn’t stop doing?”

Yes, he did know the feeling. He knew once he met you he wouldn’t have been able to stop seeing you- speaking to you. Even if you were trying to bewitch him, he knew in his mind he wouldn’t be able to stop saying yes to your requests for these sessions. 

“Has it helped?” He murmured, straightening his back and interlocking his hands. 

You let out a little giggle, “If anything- it hasn’t. But I can't stop.” taking a little nibble at your bottom lip, “It makes me crave more.” That was the sentence that made Nanami look at you more dangerously than before- 

Now, Nanami knew you needed more, and you didn’t care to stop the urges. 

Keeping a low tone, “I yearn for more.” you spoke- clearly so he could hear. Nanami gulped, tingles rushing into his cheeks making his brain nervous. “For the warmth of another person.” 

Nanami had to bite his tongue- pretend he heard your thoughts as a church priest and not as a man. 

“I’m sure you’ve never felt this way Father. You’re an extraordinary priest- It must be jarring to hear my inner monologue.” You spoke softly, so sure he would agree.

Nanami inhaled, “Not at all. Life as a priest is very lonely.” he smiled, his mouth dry at the words that dared rumble in his mind. “I’ve found myself craving the warmth of another person before. It’s normal.” 

Except it fucking wasnt- not for a man with as much ressolve as he did. Not once in those ten years of being in the priesthood did he find himself craving warmth to surround and twitch around him as badly as he did now. Especially now. 

And when the time came to walk you out of his office, you stood at his desk. 

He took the place next to you in the very spot he pictured you bent over in before. Standing the very same way you were the last Sunday you were in his office. 

Only this time- there was no chatter outside his window from the event. In that church it was only you and him. 

And as though you knew, you looked into his eyes, testing the space between you, leaning in mere millimeters at a time. 

And the Father, tormented by the choice of stepping back or falling into the temptation you had to offer. Your lips parted as you gazed into Nanami’s eyes, his jittery and nervous pupils trying to figure out if you were getting closer or if he was just crazed enough to picture it.

“Can you help me, Father?” you whispered, raising your hand to his bicep and touching it lightly. 

His lips were agape- inhaling as much air into his dry mouth as he thought of the words to say. The only ones he could process; “How?” 

Your nose no more than an inch from his- you inhaled, a fire burning in your tummy and pooling between your legs at his dissolve. “Touch me.” was all you could whisper before he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to yours.

Warmth. The warmth of a human he had craved for days now pressed against his lips made his shoulders shiver. Raising his hands from his side and placing one as lightly at the side of your neck. The other lacing behind your back and pressing against the little curve above your bottom. 

His lips took a gentle approach- slotting them with care against yours as his hands urged you to rest on the edge of his desk. 

Burning in his loins was an ache- an ache that grew with the haste he made in slipping his tongue past his lips and against yours. Leaving behind any last reservation he had to stop this before it went too far. 

Whispers of groans took form of small whimpers as your hands dragged down his torso and guided his hips to rest between your thighs. Never did he appreciate how good this felt before- the feeling of tongues slathering against each other and being able to taste you on his tongue. 

Never in his days before becoming a priest did he appreciate the feeling of warm plush skin beneath his hands, the hand on the small of your back lowering to the clothed swell of your ass and taking a desperate grip. 

The one on your neck lowering to your chest- cupping his hand on the side of your rib with his thumb curled at the bottom of your breast. 

Nanami knew that he could come undone from just this- no stimulation to the leaking with excitement mess in his black slacks, just his hands full of plentiful skin and his lips busy with feeling the muscle of your tongue swirl against his. 

But your hands roamed down to the buckle of his belt, being able to feel his ache press against your thigh. Nanami pulled his lips from yours begrudgingly- “I can’t-” he breathed, slowing your moving hands and hearing his plea. 

“I can’t.” he closed his eyes and furrowed his eyebrows; only one of your hands reached up to his neck, pulling his head onto your shoulder with your lips at the perfect angle of his ear. 

“You are a good priest,” you whispered, placing a light kiss on his cartilage and continuing your other hand in slowly unbuckling his belt. The tips of your fingers softly grazing the short blonde hair of his undercut. His hands went unmoved from your clothed skin as he fought the mental battle. 

You placed another soft kiss on his warmed ear, “Tell me how long it’s been since you rid yourself of the poison, Father.” you whispered, undoing the button of his slacks slowly as his breath grazed against your collarbone. 

“Far too long.”

You licked your lips at the image of how much seed he’ll spurt- undoing his zipper at an agonizing pace, “Tell me to stop and I will.” you murmured, your breath tickling his ear as your hand rested on his hip. Waiting for his permission. 

Nanami swallowed harshly; his hands had a bruising hold on your skin as you offered what he yearned for on a silver platter. 

“Please,” he whispered, not knowing what he was pleading for.

A little exhale with a giggle grazed Nanami’s ear, “I need to hear you say it.” you whispered, the hand on your button roaming down the side of your thigh and grazing the hem of the skirt you wore. 

“Please touch me.” he whispered- your hand trailed to the band of his briefs, his breathing hitching against your skin with a mean grip formed on your thigh. 

The gasp that left his lips bordered on a whimper as your fingers dipped into his briefs, being able to feel how hard he was immediately. Wasting no time in pulling out his strained desire as he held you closer, bracing for what he had asked for. 

Taking a light hand as you wrapped your fingers around his shaft- heavy and hot in your palm as he inhaled sharply. “You are a good man, Father,” you whispered, starting slow strokes at his crying cock. 

“You deserve to be helped,” 

“To be touched.”

His strained cock threatened to release his mess right then and there- the scent of you filling his nose with the slow strokes of your wrist, added with your assuring words; Nanami swore he was about to. 

But your hand didn’t let him, cutting your strokes short right before you could roll over his cockhead. Opening your mouth and placing your lips onto his neck, lightly lapping at the skin- his groans deepening in response.

Pulling his forehead from your shoulder, pressing his lips onto yours again in urge- Nanami wanted to do as you had asked. He wanted to touch you. But his hands couldn’t focus on anything other than groping at whatever body part he could find. 

His lips moving in unpatterned movements against yours- speeding up the pace of your hand and feeling his groans rumble onto your lips. Your eyes half-lidded and watching the little sheen of sweat form at his blonded hairline. 

Amused at how worked up he was from a few strokes- but your hand isn’t moving fast enough for him. Nanami started bucking his hips into your hand with urge. His balls clenched as he felt the estranged feeling of an orgasm build. 

His nose huffed out strained breaths as his kisses became sloppy, tightening the grip of your hand and watching his brows pinch together. Pulling his lips from you and letting out a drawn out groan. 

Nanami’s hips stuttering as his orgasm rolled over him in hot waves. Oozes of his seed coating your fingers with every thrust he made. And it was so fucking much- it made you regret not hiking your skirt up and taking it inside wether than on your hand.

His breathing was coarse as your wrist assisted in riding him down, kissing softly at your exposed collarbone as his still-hard cock pulsed in your hand. Making you wonder just how backed up he really was. 

As though his hand heard your thoughts, they reached down to the hem of your skirt and started hiking it up. You looked into his eyes—dark and full of want, with a goal shimmering in them. 

Smiling softly, “Father-” you teased, feeling his strong hands grip your bare thighs before roaming back to the little zipper of your top and undoing it slowly, wasting no time in unclasping the band of your bra along with it. 

Pulling back and looking at you- bare and as he had pictured you. 

Nanami didn’t have a thought in his mind- completely mush and with only one goal in mind. Guiding you to lay back on the desk, his hands roaming down to your thighs- being able to see the growing dark spot of your lace panties. 

Your skirt bunched up at your hips as he reached a hand up to his collar. Pulling it off and closing his eyes with a small exhale. Undoing the top button of his black dress shirt and feeling his cock pulse. 

His lips moved in a soft whisper- almost in a prayer. But his hands trailing to the damp center of your lacy panties told you that prayer isn’t working. 

Nanami didn’t pray for the strength to stop- he didn’t want to. He started the prayer of forgiveness knowing that he didn’t want to stop. Some kind of assurance that the sooner he started begging for forgiveness, he would be pardoned. 

A soft gasp left your lips as he traced his middle and index finger up your damp cunt. Looking at the enticing sight with his mouth watering, lightly circling the tips of his fingers onto your perched clit as you hummed. 

His other hand going to his cock- pained and daring to run red from the neglect. You bit your lip softly at the sight, his hair disheveled and an unashamed blush on his cheeks. 

Stopping his prayer and looking at the painting hung on the wall in front of him- a saint looking at him in disgust. He waited a second- as though he was waiting for the voice of his god to come thundering down.

But it didn’t- “Forgive me.” he muttered, placing his fat cock onto your slit. His heavy shaft resting against your clit with a little sigh. 

Bucking his hips with soft grunts as your warmth radiated on the underside of his cock. Frotting his cock against you- another way of justifying his sinning. He wasn’t actually fucking you- so it didnt count right?

But every whimper and moan your lips would make, added with the feeling of his heavy cockhead bumping against your clit made it fucking tempting. As fast as the first orgasm build in his tummy- the second one came even quicker.

And he knew he could hold it- no matter how many thrusts his cock brushed against your cunt with vulgar squelches- Nanami was determined to wait.

But the smile on your lips at the lack of resolve curled into a wicked smile: “Put it inside—please, Kento.” The one time you had said his name—what kind of man was Nanami to deny you such a request?

He pulled his cock from your slick with various strings of your arousal as he angled his tip with your entrance. 

Nanami’s face was troubled, as though he was still hesitating. “Just the tip,” you whispered, smugly knowing he barely had the resolve to hesitate. He would listen to you. 

He gulped with a little grunt, placing his tip at your slick entrance and gasping at the sheer warmth. You hummed lightly when his hips finally pushed in the slightest, pushing past the seal of your cunt with a moan soaked with bliss. 

Unable to remember when he felt such pleasure that made him want to say thank you. 

And as though your cunt was trying to suck him in- his hips didnt stop, “I’m sorry.” he whispered, sinking himself into you and planting a hand onto the wooden desk, allowing himself to lean over on top of you with a drawn out moan. 

You let out a light hiss at the sting of his girth- placing your hands on his back and holding onto him as he stayed still. 

His shoulders trembling and his hips urgent in moving. Even if it was you who was making him go mad- Nanami still had the decency to allow you time to adjust. 

Your breasts pressed against his chest as you waited for his hips to start moving. But he didnt want to, as though having his cock inside of you was still permissable, but the movement of fucking you wouldn’t be. 

“Move-” you hummed, hands braced against the back of his dress shirt with your velvet walls twitching around him- pleading at the Father to give you what you wanted. 

Nanami only let out a shaky breath- “I can’t,” similar to a little sob but laced with a grunt. Your lips pressed against his temple, brushing them against his ear with a smile. 

“Give me what I want.” Whispered and invaded his ear as his grip on the desk turning his knuckles white. “I want this Kento-” you whined, trying to convince him to move- to fuck you like you knew he could. 

“I want you.” 

Nanami groaned at the little clench your walls made around him- “I can feel you trembling-” kissing his ear with a little damp spot left in wake. “Just pull out of me- then push back in.” feeling his hips follow your guidance as though you controlled them.

He whimpered in a breath at the sensation, “Doesn’t that feel good?” you hummed, digging your fingers into his back in the slightest. 

And it did- it felt like heaven on earth for Nanami. And as though he couldn’t control it- he did it again. As slowly as he could, with his tip brushing your gspot on every drag of his cock. And every slow thrust he made- grinding his pelvis against your clit from how deep he was pushing himself in. 

You only whimpered at the slow thrusts- being able to feel the hesitance in the pushes Nanami made. 

One side of him kept the appearance of being kind, making sure to make this about you, whereas the other side of him was yelling at him, pleading with him to speed up- faster and faster. 

Fuck into you as you had been begging him to from the moment you first walked into his church. 

You laced your lips with his again. Had his hands had any more strength, they would have cracked the wood of the desk from how desperately he was gripping. 

Barely able to withstand the sluggish strokes he made- as slow as you had instructed him to. But you pulled your lips from his, want and demand in your eyes as he looked at you- completely broken down and yours in that moment. 

“Fuck me-” you whimpered, watching the urge to make this about you dissipate behind his eyes. 

With one drag of his cock- he jabbed back into you. And again and again- rougher and with intent as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

Nanami didn’t even know what words spilled from his lips- laced with grunts and the crude plapping of his heavy, full balls slapping against your ass. Pleads for nothing in particular- ‘Please, please-’ 

Apologies muttered into your ear for having his way with you, ‘I’m sorry- m’sorry.’

“I have to- I have to-” muttered between his grunts as a mantra to keep him sane.

His frustrations with the chaos you caused in his mind aided in drilling into you with mean thrusts- your whimpers full of content and moans littered with one more request of him- “More.”

And he gave you as much as he had- Nanami had given himself up to you entirely and was fucking glad to do it. His tortured mind had metamorphosed into pure bliss, with his body buzzing in sheer excitement for his second orgasm. 

Grunts with one question- “Can I-” barely legible and laced with the sounds of vile squelching coming from where you linked with him. “Inside,” huffed in the same breath as a groan. 

You huffed a happy exhale- glad he wanted to spill himself inside of you. 

“F-fill m-” was all you managed before he took on a rougher pace- pounding into you as though he was made for it. His skin burned beneath the black clothing and pressing his lips onto yours again. Barely able to kiss you- pearly teeth clashing against yours at every turn of his head. 

The joint groan that left you both when he halted his thrusts- burrowed deep inside of you as your walls clenched around him. Shallow pumps were all he gave before searing, thick seed spilled inside of you. 

Shakingly breathing against your lips as he eased down the pinnacle of his second orgasm. Thinking the realization of what he had done would hit him like thunderous fear- but it didn’t. 

In the moment of the afterglow bliss, Nanami didn’t care what happened after this. He knew in his marrow that this was worth it—you were worth it. 

Even if he had failed the test sent down by his god, Nanami knew he would never have found anything or anyone that gave him half as much serenity. 

Not in the years he had spent in the priesthood did he find half as much peace as he did now. Balls deep in the coated walls of your cunt in the office meant for a godly man. 

That’s what peace was to Nanami at that moment. 

-

(a.n) this was very hot to write ^-^

[karalovesallthegirls]

Kara has always dreaded the day she’d meet her soulmate. 

There’s relief in knowing she has one, of course. The person meant for her didn’t die with Krypton. That’s something! Even still, it’s hard to feel excited for the moment they meet, because that’s the moment Kara will hurt them. She’s had their exclamation of pain inked into her skin for as long as she’s been on Earth. In some ways it’s better. Most people have phrases like “good morning” or “hold the door please” as their soulmate’s first words. They have to endure hundreds of almosts, breath held just in case that stranger really is the one. Kara won’t have to do that. Her words are far too distinct.

It's agony, thinking about how their meeting will go. She spends years imagining every possible scenario, each one more painful than the last, yet the day it happens she barely even registers it. The words wash right over her, drowned out by the loud crack as her hand makes sudden contact with a stranger's face. The telltale crunch of contact shocks her. She hadn't registered anyone was there during her dramatic retelling, otherwise she would have kept her gestures small. She wouldn't have flung her hand out with such force.

The woman she's hit is hunched over, clutching at her face. She gasped loud and sharp when it hit, and now she's just wheezily breathing in shock. Kara can see blood starting to drip down her wrist.

“Did you," the woman gasps, and her voice sounds wet. "Did you just break my nose?” Kara wants to die.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay? I am so sorry!”

People are looking at them and the woman keeps cursing under her breath and Kara really, really doesn’t know what to do. Her hands hover uselessly over the hunched figure, desperate to soothe but scared to touch in a moment like this. “I didn’t mean to – I was telling a story and I got too excited with my hands I guess, I didn’t see you there. Are you- can I-”

She looks to Alex for guidance, but she’s just staring at the interaction with a wide-eyed wonder. Typically her sister knows what to do in a scary situation, but now she’s looking just as clueless. They’re both barely awake at this point – it’s six in the morning and they’ve been at this airport terminal since midnight, miserably watching their red eye flight push into a mid-day departure. They’re both half-delirious, which is fun when you’re goofing off but less so when you’ve just broken a stranger’s nose. 

And then it hits her. The words she’s carried on her arm for so many years are tingling, she realizes, and they’ve been tingling from the second her skin met the girl’s. 

Did you did you just break my nose?

“Oh wow,” Kara says, dumbfounded. “It’s you.” The woman falls silent. She must be realizing too Kara thinks as she fumbles with her sleeve, pushing it up enough to show her inked arm. The woman's eyes drop to the tattoo that's brought such shame to Kara for so long. She feels her eyes like a touch. “I – I’m so happy to meet you! I’m so sorry it happened like this.” She laughs and it sounds strained. Her hands are shaking. The woman doesn't look up from her arm.

Even hunched over in pain, it's clear the woman is beautiful. Important, even, considering how she's dressed. She's dressed like she's en route to lead a business conference, her tight black skirt and matching blazer scream business professional. Though the effects are tampered a bit by the splattering of blood that’s dripped down her white blouse. Kara wonders how old she is to be dressed like that. She must be older to look like that. At nearly nineteen, Kara has never had anything more than a graduation to dress nicely for, and even then she wore her stained dress pants. This woman - her soulmate - must be much older than her, which feels strange to think. She looks Kara's age, maybe even younger. If not for how clearly tailored to her body her clothes are, she'd almost look like she was playing dress up.

Kara feels self-conscious then, sharply aware of how she must look to her soulmate. As smart as it felt to come to the airport in pajamas for her all-night flight, standing in rubber duck pajama pants while trying to have a conversation with her goddess of a soulmate did little for Kara's confidence.

When Kara’s eyes finally track back up to her face, she finds sharp green ones staring back. They're the prettiest eyes she's ever seen, and they don't seem interested in looking away. That's fine with her - she's more than content to stare right back.

It's only the soft plop of blood hitting tile that draws her attention back to her crime, and she can see the way the woman's hands have become covered in blood. "Oh gosh, here - let me…”  Kara fumbles in her backpack for a moment with no clear plan. All she knows is she has to do something to fix this. She fumbles about before pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Here. For the-” She holds it out to the girl and gestures at her own face. Slowly, like she’s scared Kara might grab her or something, the woman takes the offered shirt. She wipes the blood from her face and hands, dabbing beneath her nose. The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least, and the shirt helps contain what's escaped. Watching a stranger wipe blood on her high school band t-shirt shouldn’t thrill Kara as much as it does, and yet.

Kara laughs again, the sound nervous and high-pitched, before taking a step towards her. Her soulmate’s eyes go wide, tracking her movements, and Kara's heart clenches when she steps away. The rapid race of her soulmate's heart beats into Kara's ear - she can literally hear her fear. She holds her hands up in surrender, stepping back to where she’d been before. The last thing she wants is for her to be afraid. “Does it hurt?” she asks, and her soulmate shakes her head no. “That’s good. That’s good. I- uh." She has nothing more to say, and her soulmate's certainly not contributing. Kara’s palms are sweating. She hasn’t sweat since she was thirteen, but one look from this person has her rubbing her hands on her pajama pants like a middle schooler at a dance.

The woman finishes wiping up and lets her arms fall, blessing Kara with her first real look at her face. Bloodied and skittish, she’s beautiful in a way Kara can hardly comprehend, in a way she could never imagine. Kara's pretty sure she's blushing now for some reason, and she has to flex her toes to be sure she’s still touching the ground. “My name’s Kara,” she says, and then gestures over her shoulder. “That’s my sister Alex. We’re flying home for winter break. Midvale - Midvale is home for us. Where- where are you flying to?”

The woman stares and stares, and Kara's starting to panic thinking she'd given her soulmate a head injury that's muted her somehow, when at last the woman speaks just barely above a whisper.

“Home,” she says. It feels like her heart might burst just from hearing that one stilted word. Kara wants to hear a thousand more, wants to hear nothing else for the rest of her life.

“That’s awesome. W-where’s home for you?” The woman's lip trembles as she opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

 “I’m sorry,” she says, and then throws the t-shirt at Kara’s face. 

Kara fumbles catching it, distracted by the shock and gross factor of having a blood-soaked shirt hurled at her face, and it takes her far too many precious seconds to realize her soulmate is gone. Bewildered, Kara looks around before just catching sight of her vanishing around the corner, high heels and racing heart clattering away. She looks at Alex. Alex waves at her, frantic. “Go!” Alex yells, and Kara takes off.

Pretending to be a human has never been harder than it is while chasing after her soulmate. Normal human pace - especially what's acceptable at an airport - is not fast enough for this, not when the woman has already gotten so far ahead. Kara must look ridiculous, bursting into sprints only to trip suddenly into a walk over and over again, her ears locked on to the thudding heartbeat and faint whispers of her soulmate mumbling, “crap crap crap crap,” ahead.

Kara’s thankful they’re in an airport, at least. Her soulmate can’t just run outside, and Kara is fine embracing the romcom trope of following her love onto the plane. Her soulmate stops moving ahead and Kara speeds up, nearly wiping out twice tripping over luggage and small children. Her heart is in her throat as she clears the corner her soulmate is behind and pushes her way into the door she's passed through. All the wind knocks out of her lungs then when she sees her again. The woman looks up at her in shock, as if she didn't think Kara would chase her. As if Kara would just let her go. With a visible gulp, her soulmate flees around a corner and disappears out of sight. Kara manages a single step forward before a body blocks her way, and she looks up to see a massive security guard staring down at her.

“Membership card, please.”

Kara tries to peer around him. He steps in her way, cutting her vision off. Her soulmate led her into some private place you can't just walk into, she realizes, glancing around at the sleek appearance and exclusive atmosphere. “I- uh, left my card in my other bag,” she says, gesturing back over her shoulder. She can hear her soulmate’s breathing and it's all she can focus on. She’s right there. Just out of sight. Kara is so close. “I’m afraid you need your card to enter the fly lounge,” he says sternly. He starts pushing gently at her, trying to nudge her back out of the sliding glass door she’s come in. Kara almost forgets to let him move her. “I- I’m sorry, someone I need to talk to just went in there and I-” She stops in the doorway, hand firm on the wall. She can hear the way the guard huffs against her solid pressure. She’s not acting very human right now and she knows it.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, ma’am," he says, pushing more forcefully against her. Forceful enough that she knows she has to move even as all her instincts war against it. “Can- can I buy a membership? Like a day pass or something?”

The guard looks over at the front desk, making eye contact with a woman who looks like she would rather watch Kara be flayed alive than allowed another step inside.

“A day membership is $189 plus tax,” she whines out in a nasally voice, tone making clear she already knows Kara won’t be affording that. Which is accurate. Kara barely has enough to buy a meal. 

Looks like her soulmate is rich, then.

The man nudges her back again and a flash of panic echoes through her chest. For a moment, she envisions herself throwing him out the open door, tossing aside anything or anyone that tries to keep her from her future. But she’s already scared her soulmate enough for one day, so she smiles with forced bashfulness and allows herself to be walked back out of the lounge.

The frosted glass door marked High Flyers Club Lounge shuts her out mockingly. But it’s fine! Eventually her soulmate’s flight time will be here and she’ll have no choice but to come out and face her. Kara just has to be patient. (Kara hates being patient.)

She takes a seat against the wall across from the lounge entrance. Her glasses rest low on her nose as she stares her soulmate, soaking in every inch of her as she paces in the luxurious lounge. Her heart is racing, she seems on the edge of a panic attack, and Kara wants desperately to be in there with her talking her down. But she can’t, so she’s left to watch – at least until the girl steps into the private restroom. She stops watching after that. Instead, she settles down to listen to the comforting beat of her soulmate’s heart, closer now than it’s ever been.

Her mind wanders as she waits, mentally reviewing every moment of their interaction. Considering where she failed, where she succeeded. Making lists about what to say to her next. She never got her name, for one thing, and she still doesn’t know where her home is. There’s so much for her to learn.

Her mental meandering is so consuming that it takes her a bit to realize the heartbeat has moved farther away. At first she thinks her soulmate is just moving around the club, but no- she’s moving away from the airport.  A quick glance through walls shows her that her soulmate isn’t in the club anymore. The heartbeat is elevating, she realizes, and Kara runs to the glass wall just in time to see the plane - small, private, with an apparent access point from within the lounge – take off. 

Horror and confusion overwhelm her, bringing tears to her eyes. This doesn't make sense. Why would she just leave without saying a word? Why would her soulmate do that? It's almost unbearable, the pain of it. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, face pressed to the glass, listening as the heartbeat grows quieter and quieter before vanishing all together.

Kara learns a lot about grief after that. 

She knew a lot already – far more than any one person should ever know – but that grief carried a different weight. The loss of her people wasn't a choice by them. They didn't want to die. The loss of her soulmate is its own beast, sharp and cruel in her heart, because this time the person she mourns chose to abandon her. Her soulmate chose to leave. She saw Kara that morning and decided that one look was enough, that Kara wasn't worth any more of her time. She left her there with nothing but a bloody t-shirt and a thousand questions. Kara never even learned her name.

She goes through the stages – she feels her anger burning out in her eyes, feels the sorrow take hold. She denies it, she bargains with everyone, anyone. She calls the Flyer’s Club, tries calling the FAA. She tracks flight logs and makes cold calls and still finds nothing at all. She writes about it on soulmate websites and Medium articles, casting a wide net so that someday when – if, her mind reminds her. if if if - her soulmate ever looks she’ll be able to find her.  

Time dulls the sharpness, though, and the years shift that rejected feeling into a more muted anger. Kara doesn't care about the love lost. She doesn't care if the person is her other half. All she cares about is the anger. Finding her feels more like a hunt than a quest for love – she’s got a lot to say to the other woman when they finally meet again. She just wants one more meeting, that’s all. Just enough time to tell her exactly where she can go. Kara doesn’t need a soulmate, after all. Her life is full of love and joy and adventure, and she doesn’t need another person to complete her. She graduates college with a degree in English, minor in Journalism – her attempts to track down her soulmate really ignite the journalistic bug in her, and with Clark’s constant encouragement it feels inevitable. She moves to a big city despite her small-town fears and she gets a job almost no one survives. Kara is thriving.

It almost shocks her, then, the way her heart trips over itself when she sees her again.

They’re watching the trial, her and Alex, and Alex is halfway through a lecture on how she’d always known Lex Luthor was evil by the way he wore his pants – (“Good guys don’t wear their pants that high, Kara, it’s common sense.”) – when Kara's nerves jolt like a lightning bolt has rushed through her. Her gasp is so sharp Alex screams almost in sympathy. 

“What? What is it?” Alex yells at her, looking around for some danger lurking nearby. Kara tumbles to the floor practically crawling to the television screen. Someone new has taken the stand, someone she'd recognize anywhere.

“Alex,” she says, jamming her finger against the somewhat grainy image projected on her television. “It's her.” “What!” “My soulmate!" Kara knows it like she knows herself, even after all this time. She looks different. Six years of struggle sit clear in her hard gaze, her mouth twisted into solemn resignation. She looks almost casual on the stand, sitting comfortably despite the eyes of the world on her. Like it's just a regular conversation. Like she’s not about to help send her brother to prison for life. “Lena Luthor, sister of the defendant” reads the helpful banner beneath her grim face. Even after everything, Kara is struck by her. She's breathtaking. Kara kind of hates her for it. “Hold on, that’s- you barely even saw her when you met! You don’t know for sure.” Alex sounds desperate, which is fair. The younger sister of the man who tried to kill Superman is certainly not an ideal soulmate for someone like Kara, but it doesn't matter. It's her. “I’m sure,” she says, and feels the truth of it deep in her bones.

A giggle hits her then that's so inappropriate for the moment it makes her feel crazy, but she can't help it. As Lena Luthor begins to explain the piles of evidence she’s gathered against her brother, Kara giggles away. She feels almost drunk on it, smug and satisfied. “Found you,” she says, almost like a taunt. She drags her finger over the screen, feeling the static of her ancient television biting back at her as she caresses Lena Luthor's face. The anger that’s long settled inside of her seems to reignite with every charged word Lena speaks against her brother, with every glance she makes at the camera. She can feel Alex’s nervous energy behind her but she doesn’t care. The politics of this, the implications - none of it matters to Kara. What matters is she has a name, and she has a general location. She's so close she can practically taste it. “See you soon, soulmate,” Kara whispers, and for a second it feels almost like Lena is staring right back.

[peachdues]

COMPASS / CHAPTER 2

bad boy!Sanemi ♢ modern gang AU

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

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

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

chapter one // masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need it.”

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

No matter how in love with you he is.

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

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

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

Sanemi blinks. “But you’d never —“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about you? Are you okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

—

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

No matter how shitty it is.

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

So, he doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A warning. A reminder. 

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m in this shit because of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two – 

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

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

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

“Clear.” 

Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales. 

—

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

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

Fuck, he hates when he’s rattled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time and time again, that was their mistake. 

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

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

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

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

Their hands aren’t yours.

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

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

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

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

Neither woman bothers with an answer. 

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

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

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

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

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

But Sanemi knows better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He only hopes she understands. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, Sanemi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Crunch.

“P-please! I’ll p-pay, I s-swear —“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t have the cash to fork over. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Message received; job done. 

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

Not someone who deserves to have you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waits only two rings when the other line answers. 

“Aniki?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line picks up on the third ring.

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

—-–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He still prefers his bike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency. 

—

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

Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.

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

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

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

Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff. 

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

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

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

“Aniki!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw your midterm grades. Good work.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. That thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s a girl, Gen.”

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

Sanemi wrinkles his nose. “Close your mouth.”

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

“Yeah.”

“A real one?”

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

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

“That’s ‘cause I don’t see anyone.” 

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

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

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

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

“You…like her though, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

All of it is for him, after all. 

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

It killed him, every time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sayin’ I’m a grouch?” 

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

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

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

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

Just two boys. 

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

“Guess you gotta hit the road, right?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

Until you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is there any choice left to be made at all? 

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

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

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

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

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

So what does he want? 

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

He wants you. Only you.

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

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