#This is all Honda's fault

[waru-chan8]

I need Honda and Mooney to close their line ups because that is blocking Moto2 grid.

Like D'antic and Master Camp both want Fermín but he won't say anything waiting for Mooney, and they are waiting for Honda. And Honda is refusing to make a decision until Mooney have a replacement.

Also Master Camp is interested in Alonso if they can't get Fermín.

Peak of Silly season

[ensigntii]

CRIES IN NO VCR THAT CAN PLAY JAPANESE TAPES AND NO STORAGE SPACE

(Anyone want to lend me the €350 + shipping and import taxes for them anyways? /j)

Yoinked from this listing on Neokyo

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[rosiebbydoll]

The Right Time - Sukuna x Reader - Chp. 3

Chp. 2 - Chp. 3 - Chp. 4

summary: Your life was blissfully chaotic. Being a single mom and raising a daughter with a bigger attitude than yours was a challenge, but you love every second of it. You decided to move to the city to be closer to work. You’ve been at your new apartment for about three weeks now and everything has been great. Until, your annoyingly hot neighbor decided to open his mouth.

cw: female reader, modern au (no curses), 18+, enemies to friends to lovers, mechanic!sukuna x librarian!reader, slow burn, fluff, smut, crack, angst, toxicity, Sukuna is emotionally constipated, Nobora is readers daughter, Choso and Yuji are Sukuna’s nephews, Toji is a present father in this, LOTS of family fluff, manga spoilers? (more tags will be added)

wc: 10.2 k (I got carried away)

chp warning: Toji & Sukuna pov, fluff, tension, angst, crack, sexual content, toxic traits (from reader & Sukuna), mentions of violence, the kids being cute

a/n: time to meet the baby daddy and play uno! enjoy! <3

Saturday morning's hangover had been absolutely brutal - a fitting punishment for your late-night adventures. You'd woken up to find Toji passed out on your couch, his muscular frame sprawled awkwardly because he's too big for normal furniture. He was drooling all over your fancy throw pillows that you spent forever picking out. The sight would have been amusing if your head wasn't pounding like a bass drum. So, you just trudged slowly to the bathroom to search for medicine to ease the hangover away.

To add to the mess, you were still wearing Sukuna's shirt like some twisted walk-of-shame souvenir. The memory of that infuriating wink and the way his scent lingered on the fabric came rushing back with nauseating clarity. You were dreading the moment you would have to return it back to him. It was honestly more embarrassing he saw you completely wasted. Returning a shirt from a one night stand would have been nothing compared to the events of Friday night.

Toji didn't say much that morning. It didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells or anything. He just knew you were truly upset and sometimes words don't solve shit. A simple "sorry" wouldn't fix anything, so instead, he'd been trying to make it up to you in his own way. Helping with errands, bringing you coffee, doing all the little things a best friend should.

It wasn’t like Toji had actually done anything wrong. The irritation came from somewhere messier—the fact that he was friends with the one person you decided to be your mortal enemy. Yeah, maybe that sounded dramatic, but in that exact moment, it felt like the entire world was conspiring against you. For the longest, it had been just you, Toji, and the kids against everything else, and that made it feel both comforting and isolating at the same time. When you spotted Toji walking up the stairs, something in your chest tightened, and for a brief second, despite all the noise around you, you felt utterly, painfully alone.

There was no need for words about what happened—none were said, and none were needed. Yet Toji understood deep down that your anger wasn’t real, not the kind that lasts. When you woke up and quietly made breakfast for the two of you, it spoke volumes more than any apology ever could. In moments like that, silence carried a weight no conversation ever could, filling the space between you with a quiet understanding.

That was four days ago.

Now it's Wednesday, and you're even more pissed at Toji than before. Poor guy landed himself in the same boat as Sukuna. This time around it's honestly your own fault- actually no, it's not. The motherfucker should have had his door closed. Basic office etiquette, really.

You'd left work early today to have Toji look at your car. The old Honda had been struggling to start most mornings, requiring a jump just to sputter to life. You'd been avoiding the inevitable repairs for months until Toji finally convinced you to let him take a look. After much hesitation, you'd agreed.

It’s not that you don’t trust Toji with your car—he’s reliable, and when he’s focused, he knows his stuff. But there’s a reason that man ended up a landlord and not a full-time mechanic. His “fix-it” methods sometimes feel more like experiments, and you’ve learned to brace yourself for whatever creative solution he’s about to try next. Still, when it comes down to it, you’d rather have his questionable skills than having to pay for it.

So, here you are on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon, heading to Toji's office at the apartment complex. You'd texted him four times already to confirm it was okay to come by, and he'd responded with his typical one-word answers.

He's always been a painfully dry texter - the kind who responds to paragraph-long messages with "k" - so you can never really gauge his mood through messages. But nothing could have prepared you for what you saw when you walked in without knocking.

Toji getting head from some random woman, right there in his office chair.

Now, you love Toji. Truly, he's like your brother and has been there through everything. But there was a shift after his wife passed, and he transformed into a total manwhore. It annoys you to no end, but what can you do? The man's grieving and coping however he can. He's also a single father, handling that responsibility as best he knows how. As his best friend, you reserve the right to get pissed off and make fun of him for his escapades.

Today you were already on edge, probably because of your car troubles. Though for the past week and half, you'd been blaming everything on Sukuna, that walking pain in your existence. So naturally, this was somehow his fault too. Maybe he put Toji up to it just to get under your skin.

Okay now I’m just being ridiculous.

As you stand there in shock, Toji immediately shoves the girl off and hurriedly tucks himself back into his pants. The woman looks stunned to see you standing there like some disapproving mother, while Toji just chuckles and shakes his head, completely unfazed.

Sukuna may have been wrong about many things concerning you, but he wasn't wrong about Toji and his women.

"Hey pretty, did ya come to join us-" You immediately raise your hand to shut him up and turn to the girl.

"You know he has a wife, right?" The words tumble out before you can stop them, and now you're committed to this lie. Toji stares at you like you've completely lost your mind.

The girl cocks her head to the side, confusion written across her features. "What?" She turns to look at Toji, who lets out a long-suffering groan.

Well, now you feel bad - kind of. This girl looks about your age, and Toji's only four years older than you, so it's not that inappropriate. But you did just bring up his wife - who is very much deceased. In your defense, the man had to have known you were coming. You'd texted him enough times to fill a novel. But now you look like the bad guy, yelling at this random ass woman.

God, I hate all men.

Toji pushes back from his chair, slipping an arm around the girl’s waist and starts guiding her toward the door. You, on the other hand, don't want to stick around to hear the inevitable lecture that’s about to come crashing down. Instead, you make a beeline for the exit, practically bolting as if the floor might swallow you whole if you linger any longer.

"Uhm, I'll talk to you later! You guys have fun!" you call out as Toji deadpans at your retreating form.

The girl looks up at him with raised eyebrows. "I thought you said your wife passed away?"

Toji lets out a low, soft hum, the kind that carries more weight than words. “She did.” Without missing a beat, the girl steps closer, giving him a gentle side hug and rubbing the tension from his back.

“And who was that?” she asks, her fingers now absentmindedly playing with the dark strands of his hair.

Toji chuckles, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "My deranged sister."

The woman hums again, a casual, almost teasing sound, as her fingers absentmindedly play with Toji’s hair. It’s the kind of touch that’s more about passing time than comfort—light, easy, with no promises or weight behind it. Just a moment of distraction, nothing more.

Meanwhile, you're stomping up to your apartment, absolutely fuming. You're mad at yourself again, wondering why shit like this always happens. And why does Toji have to be such a whore-

BAM!

Lost in your internal rant, you slam right into what feels like a brick wall. As you wince in pain, you look up to see that shit-eating grin that's been haunting your dreams.

Oh. Not a wall - you ran straight into him.

"Shit, my bad," you mutter, backing away and picking up your tote that fell during the collision with this mountain of a man.

Sukuna's smirk widens, flashing those perfect teeth. "Damn, it's only noon. Already drinking, drunky?" He laughs and bends down to retrieve your phone from the floor.

"Don't call me that," you snap, digging through your tote for your keys. Your stomach drops when you realize they're missing.

"Fuck," you sigh, scanning the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, with one eyebrow raised. You noticed that they both had slits, which was incredibly hot-

Focus.

"Lost my keys."

"Need help?"

You turn to him with the fakest smile you can muster. "No, I'm good, thank you though."

Sukuna rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh and strides past you without a second glance. You catch yourself trailing behind him like a shadow.

He turns back before entering the parking garage. "Which one's yours?" he asks, nodding toward the sea of vehicles.

You point toward your silver Honda CR-V parked near the far end, its familiar dents and scratches standing out against the polished rows of newer cars. Sukuna’s gaze locks onto it, and without hesitation, he strides toward the car with that unmistakable air of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. You huff under your breath, a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement bubbling up as you realize what he’s doing.

"I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't leave my keys in my car," you shout as he approaches the vehicle.

Sukuna waves off your protests like they’re background noise, leaning in to peer through the car window with a sharp scoff. “Ya sure about that, drunky?” he says, voice dripping with skepticism.

You roll your eyes but can’t help following him over to the car. He looms over you, his shadow stretching long as you both fix your eyes on the keys sitting there in the ignition, like some cruel joke. And, of course, the doors are locked tight.

You groan, pressing your forehead against the cold, unforgiving glass, the chill doing nothing to cool your rising frustration. “I’m going to scream,” you mutter, voice eerily calm despite the chaos of the moment. Sukuna just huffs, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Curious, you glance up to find him already pulling out his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he texts someone.

“My guy’s on his way to unlock the car for you,” Sukuna says like it’s no big deal, his tone casual as if this is just part of the daily routine. You tilt your head, suspicion creeping in. “Your guy?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Sukuna shrugs. “Yeah, one of my workers at the shop. He’s also a locksmith, so he can handle this kind of mess.”

You nod slowly, the pieces clicking together in your mind. So that’s the mechanic friend Toji mentioned too many times without actually saying his name. Suddenly, this whole situation feels a little less hopeless.

As you wait, a thick, awkward silence stretches between you, broken only when Sukuna finally turns to you with that trademark smirk. “Have you gotten that Gameboy fixed yet?” he asks, eyes glinting with mischief.

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden question, then let out a tired sigh. “No, haven’t had the time, honestly. I’m thinking I might just replace it instead of fixing it.”

Sukuna hums, tapping his fingers against his leg as if weighing the options. “I know a guy who could probably fix it, and it wouldn’t even cost much.”

You raise an eyebrow, a small giggle escaping. “Do you have a guy for everything?”

He can’t help but smirk at that, his laugh low and genuine, like a rare crack in his usual cool exterior. The silence that settles afterward isn’t uncomfortable—it’s different. Almost peaceful, like two people sharing a moment without needing to fill the space with noise.

The locksmith pulls up shortly in his battered truck, the engine settling into a low rumble as he hops out with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, he’s unpacked his tools beside your driver’s side door, moving with the kind of calm confidence born from doing this a thousand times before. Then, with a satisfying *click*, the door pops open.

Caught up in the relief and gratitude flooding through you, you do the last thing you expected—you sprint over and wrap your arms around Sukuna in a spontaneous hug.

“Thank you! I owe you—” The words catch in your throat as the reality of what you’re doing hits you mid-sentence.

Sukuna’s face goes unreadable, a mask hiding the chaos inside. His heart is pounding so hard he’s pretty sure it’s audible. You pull away quickly, cheeks burning, stammering apologies as you turn to thank the locksmith properly.

Sukuna leans against the car, watching you interact with the locksmith, fighting to steady his breath. That hug had knocked him off balance—so genuine, so warm, so unexpectedly... right. And now, of course, he’s pissed for feeling this way. Toji had made it clear not to mess with you.

The locksmith nods toward Sukuna, holding out a hand. Sukuna blinks out of his thoughts and steps forward. “Thanks, man,” he says, the dap quick but solid.

The locksmith climbs back into his truck and drives off and you're still burning with embarrassment but trying to act normal. "I really do mean I owe you one."

Sukuna’s smile is slow, knowing, and it twists your insides in the best and worst ways. “Don’t worry about it, drunky.”

Fuck.

Sukuna opens his mouth to say something else, but just then your phone blares an alarm—Nobara’s pick-up time. Your eyes snap wide as you glance at the clock.

“Shit!” you blurt, fumbling to unlock your car. “I’m supposed to pick up Nobara in fifteen minutes!”

“Fuck,” Sukuna mutters at the same time, pulling out his own phone. “I totally forgot about Choso and Yuji.”

You both share a quick, knowing look—the universal parent panic that hits when you realize you’re about to be late. Without a word, you jump into your car while Sukuna strides toward his Mustang parked a few spots away.

As you pull out of the lot, your eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching his car turning the opposite way. Your mind drifts, the warmth of his chest during that hug lingering like a soft echo. It had been solid, grounding even, before reality slammed back in. And that smile he gave you afterward—different from his usual cocky smirk—something quieter, almost genuine.

Meanwhile, behind the wheel of his Mustang, Sukuna takes the back roads, trying not to dwell on how perfectly you fit against him in that brief hug. Or how your laugh actually sounded real this time, not the usual forced thing you do around him. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, annoyed at himself for noticing.

You both arrive at the preschool from opposite sides, parking in spots that feel deliberately far apart. Across the lot, he catches your eye and gives you a small nod—not his trademark cocky head tilt, but something softer, almost friendly.

You find yourself returning the nod with a slight wave before heading inside to grab Nobara. Something’s shifted between you two, though neither could say exactly what.

Maybe running into each other—literally—wasn’t the worst thing after all.

It’s been almost a month since you met Sukuna, and you’ve given up on trying to completely ignore him—mostly because it’s impossible with how often your kids spend time together (not because he makes your heart race every time you see him, of course). Nobara, Yuji, and Choso have become inseparable, their friendship blossoming with that effortless, instant connection only kids can pull off.

You and Sukuna at least nod at each other in the halls now. Sometimes the kids knock on each other’s doors, claiming they’re just being “neighborly”—though Choso always apologizes quietly for bothering you, his polite seriousness is a stark contrast to Sukuna.

Sukuna had slowly started to learn more about you. Yuji and Choso would talk about how you’re the “book fairy”. Nobora started bringing books over and to school to show them. They thought you were magical and Sukuna soon peaced together that you were the librarian friend Toji had talked about for years.

At school pickup, you watch Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi walking out together, hands linked, chatting about who knows what. Nobara’s always been a social butterfly, but seeing the usually reserved Megumi warming up to the crew is a small joy.

Of course, this new peace between your families means you’re forced to interact with their infuriatingly attractive uncle more than you’d like. The way Sukuna leans casually against the wall waiting for the kids, or how his eyes crinkle slightly when he actually smiles—not the usual smirk—at something the kids do, it’s getting harder to keep up your carefully crafted wall of annoyance.

Meanwhile, Toji’s been busier than ever. Some tenants moved out recently, so he’s been knee-deep in renovations, hustling to fix up the place. You’ve been helping when you can—picking up Megumi, running errands, juggling whatever needs doing.

Sukuna’s been pitching in too. When he’s not at his shops, he’s at Toji’s place, laying down new flooring or handling whatever handyman work needs doing. The trio of you working together has become the new normal, even if it sometimes makes your head spin.

None of you have really been able to hang out. Just catching glimpses of each other here and there—quick hellos in the hallway or passing nods during pickup. Hell, the kids get to see each other more than you do, their laughter and chatter filling the spaces where you and Sukuna barely find time to exchange more than a few words. It’s strange how your lives have intertwined through the kids, yet the grown-up connection still feels like a fragile thread stretched thin across busy days and competing schedules.

Work for you had been going great. The library feels unusually quiet—Ino’s out sick, dramatically claiming he has “definitely the plague,” though you’re pretty sure it’s just a stubborn cold.

You’ve spent most of the day setting up a brand-new “What’s Hot” section for readers, meticulously arranging everything from the latest spicy romance novel to that thriller everyone’s been buzzing about. The display is your pride and joy. You even made little handwritten recommendation cards, something that never fails to bring a smile from the regulars who stop by.

Between organizing the new section, you’ve sat through a handful of meetings about upcoming visits. The local elementary school is gearing up for their annual field trip—you’re already bracing yourself for the inevitable chaos and the senior center’s book club wants to reserve the conference room for their monthly gatherings. The day’s been busy but somehow flew by, maybe a little too fast.

You’re wrapping up around three, ready to head out. Nobara has art club until five today, so you figure there’s enough time to knock out some errands and sneak in a quick catch-up with her dad. It’s nothing heavy—just your usual monthly check-in to go over Nobara’s schedule and make sure you’re both on the same page. Between both of your packed workdays, once a month is about the only window you can carve out to sync up without juggling too many balls at once.

There’s no drama between you—just two adults trying to navigate the business of co-parenting with as much grace as possible. Today’s meeting follows the usual rhythm: reviewing Nobara’s upcoming activities and making sure nothing falls through the cracks. She’s buzzing with excitement about starting jujitsu, which has you freaking out more than you’d like to admit. On top of that, she’s just signed up for the art club and of course, summer camp is right around the corner, adding another layer to the carefully balanced schedule you both work hard to manage.

Every day, you silently thank the universe that her father is such a wonderful person. It’s almost annoying how wonderful he is. But you’re beyond grateful. Without him, you’d be lost. What you don’t realize is he feels the same way about you, and that thought lingers quietly between both of you, unspoken but deeply understood.

Now you’re finally stepping out of the library, already tasting the sweet reward of a well-deserved sweet treat from the coffee shop before heading over to his office. You’ve been holding your breath every time you start your car since that day—Toji never actually fixed it, and you haven’t had the nerve to bring it up since. The memory of that afternoon lingers too heavily, so you refuse to mention it again.

“Come on, you piece of...” you mutter under your breath, turning the key once more. The engine responds with a sad, pitiful clicking sound that definitely isn’t normal. After the fifth failed attempt, you throw in the towel and dial Toji—the guy who’s become your unofficial mechanic, ever since he tried to bring your radiator back to life with duct tape and a prayer.

“Pretty, I can’t come right now. Megumi’s got a dentist appointment,” Toji’s voice comes through, distracted and full of background noise. Megumi is firing off endless questions about whether dentists are actually certified. “I’ll send someone over for you.”

You start to ask, “Who—?” but the line’s already dead. Typical Toji. One of these days you swear you’re going to give him a good punch in the arm.

Fifteen minutes later, the low rumble of a motorcycle rolls into the parking lot, and your stomach twists into knots. A familiar figure pulls up next to your car, the sleek black Kawasaki purring as if it owns the place. The bike’s dangerous curves mirror its rider perfectly—smooth, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

Of course. Of fucking course Toji would send him. Which honestly you’re grateful a mechanic is actually here. But you would never say that to his face.

Sukuna swings off the bike with that maddening grace, peeling off his helmet to reveal that stupid, infuriating smirk you’ve come to both dread and anticipate. His white t-shirt clings to a chest you’ve tried not to notice, his arms covered in intricate tattoos flexing as he runs a hand through his helmet-mussed hair. The pink highlights catch the afternoon sun, and you hate that you even notice.

You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms as he approaches. “I didn’t know you had a bike.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to your car. “Car trouble, drunky?” he asks, completely ignoring your question as he saunters over like he owns the whole damn lot. His boots scrape against the asphalt, each step deliberate, measured, and annoyingly confident.

You cross your arms tighter, leaning back against your car door. “No, I just love standing in empty parking lots. It’s my hobby.”

He chuckles, closing the distance between you. “Don’t you need my help? Play nice for once.” That damn smirk stretches wider, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Did Toji tell you what’s wrong?”

“Nah, just said you needed help.” Now he’s close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne mixed with motor oil and leather—a dangerous mix you stubbornly refuse to admit affects you.

“Pop the hood.”

You nod and pop the hood, stepping back as Sukuna leans over the engine bay. The way his shirt rides up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned skin makes your eyes drift, catching the edge of a tattoo winding beneath his waistband.

“See something you like?” he asks without looking up, voice teasing.

You snap back to reality, realizing you’ve been caught staring. “Yeah, a functional car. Think you can manage that?”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes as he moves to the steering wheel and tries the ignition again. The same pitiful clicking noise greets you.

Sukuna straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans with a sigh. “Starter’s shot. I can have one of my guys come pick it up and get it fixed by tomorrow. We’ve got the parts at the shop.”

“Tomorrow?” You groan, dread sinking in. “How am I supposed to get home?”

He pats his motorcycle with a grin, the black paint gleaming under the afternoon sun. “Got a spare helmet. Even padded for that hard head of yours.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Scared?” His eyes glint with challenge, and for the first time you notice a fleck of gold shining in one iris, sharp and mischievous.

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life,” you admit, trying not to let the nervous edge creep into your voice.

“I may not be the best at first impressions,” he says with a cocky grin, “but I’m pretty damn good at driving.” He winks—again. Seriously, there should be laws against being this annoying and this attractive at the same time.

You roll your eyes and scoff, but beneath you feel your resolve is starting to crumble.

Focus. You’ve got shit to do.

While Sukuna calls his shop, you try hard not to get distracted by how effortlessly competent he looks taking charge—his voice sharpening into business mode, calm and controlled. You catch him absently chewing on his bottom lip as he listens to his employee’s response, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm against his thigh. The sunlight catches the silver rings on his hands, glinting just enough to pull your gaze again. You definitely don’t notice any of that. Nope.

“Car will be ready tomorrow afternoon,” he says, ending the call with a satisfied snap. “Tow truck’s on its way. Now…” He holds out the spare helmet—a sleek black with a subtle red pinstripe running along the side. “You coming or walking?”

You eye the helmet like it might bite. “If you kill me, Nobara will never forgive you.”

He smirks, voice softening just a touch at the mention of your daughter. “Guess I better keep you alive then.”

“That’s not very convincing coming from you,” you retort, trying to keep the edge in your voice.

His grin widens as he steps closer, the air between you thick with tension. “I can be very convincing when I want to be.”

You take the helmet, partly just to have something to do with your hands, and clear your throat, turning your head away. “I’ve got a few stops to make before you take me home. That cool?”

You try to sound tough, but the edge is fading fast.

He just smiles and nods. “Tell me where we need to go, drunky.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” He winks, and you mentally groan.

Rolling your eyes, you swing a leg over the bike. Sukuna’s hands are surprisingly gentle as he helps strap the helmet on. The soft touch sends an unexpected jolt straight to your nerves.

“Alright, where to?” Sukuna asks, already shifting the bike into gear.

“Downtown. I need to meet Nobara’s dad at his office,” you say quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

He squints, the gears in his head clicking. “What’s his office? I’ll GPS it.”

You mumble the address, watching his expression twist as the name sinks in.

“Higuruma & Associates?” His eyebrows shoot up, like you just dropped some wild secret on him. “Wait, the law firm?”

“Yeah.”

“Your baby daddy is a lawyer?” His tone is tinged with skepticism and a hint of amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Sukuna. Her father is a lawyer. Is that so hard to believe?”

He repeats the name slowly, testing it out like it’s a foreign word. “Hiromi Higuruma? The top lawyer in Tokyo? That’s who you…” He trails off, waving a vague hand.

“Had a baby with? Yep.” You’re enjoying his discomfort a little too much. “Why? Expecting some deadbeat?”

He shakes his head, turning the bike on with a low growl. “Nah, you just keep surprising me.”

“And what does that mean exactly?” You wrap your arms around his waist as he pulls out of the parking lot, trying to ignore how solid he feels beneath your hands.

“Just surprised you’re making poor life choices,” he calls over the roar of the engine. “Like getting on this bike with me.”

You squeeze his middle harder than necessary. “Just drive, asshole.”

The ride downtown is a blur of honking horns and flashing lights, but you’re too focused on the close contact to notice much else. Holding on to him feels oddly natural—his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, the way he instinctively shields you from the wind when rounding corners. It’s unsettling how easy it is to fall into the rhythm.

As you approach the towering glass facade of the law firm, Sukuna’s disbelief only seems to grow heavier, his eyes narrowing as they scan the sleek, polished building like it doesn’t quite fit the story he’s piecing together. He eases the bike to a stop with a low whistle, the engine’s rumble fading into the hum of the city. His gaze lingers on the reflective windows, tracing the sharp lines and glossy surfaces with a mix of skepticism and something else—curiosity.

“Can you wait out here? I won’t be long.” You begin to tug off the back of your helmet, feeling the cool air hit your hair as Sukuna steadies the bike beneath you.

“I gotta piss,” he announces abruptly, already swinging his leg over the side to dismount.

You raise a brow, exhaling a tired sigh, and mutter a distracted ‘whatever’ as you start up the steps toward the entrance.

Sukuna doesn’t really have to piss. It’s just his way of sneaking a peek, a subtle excuse to linger and get a better look at this ‘famous’ baby daddy of yours.

At the security desk, the guard looks up and immediately recognizes you. “Good afternoon! Mr. Higuruma is in his office,” he says with a nod, opening the way.

Sukuna’s eyebrows shoot up as the receptionist waves you through without a second glance. The elevator ride up is quiet, but you can feel his gaze on you. You avoid eye contact at all costs by staring at the polished linoleum.

The law firm’s reception is all sleek surfaces and expensive artwork, the kind that screams power and money without saying a word. By the window stands a tall man in a perfectly tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back with precision. When he turns, his stern expression softens just a bit when he sees you.

“You’re late,” Hiromi says, but there’s no real bite behind the words.

“Car trouble,” you reply, nodding toward Sukuna. “This is my… neighbor. He gave me a ride.”

Hiromi nods and gives you a hug and a kiss on the cheek. His sharp eyes flick to Sukuna, taking in the tattoos, the motorcycle helmet in his hand, the way he stands just a little too close to you. A flicker of something knowing crosses his face.

“Appreciate you bringing her,” Hiromi says formally, extending a hand. “Hiromi Higuruma.”

Sukuna shakes it, and you have to bite back a laugh at the nearly imperceptible shock on his face. No doubt about it now—Hiromi’s face has been on magazine covers and news stories enough to be instantly recognizable.

“I’ll wait outside,” Sukuna mutters, giving Hiromi one more look.

As he steps away, you catch Hiromi’s subtle smirk. “Neighbor, huh?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, already bracing yourself. “Let’s just talk about Nobara’s schedule.”

Still, you can’t help stealing a glance at the door, knowing Sukuna’s probably out there, trying to wrap his head around how you—the mouthy librarian next door—ended up having a kid with one of Tokyo’s top lawyers.

Hiromi chuckles, settling into his chair with that same effortless elegance he’s always had. “Ah yes, our little firecracker wants to try jujutsu.”

You smile despite yourself. ‘Our little firecracker’—that’s what Hiromi’s called Nobara ever since she came screaming into the world, loud enough to shatter everyone’s eardrums. It’s strange how you look at Hiromi now — layered with years of history. One wild night at a bar sparked something neither of you expected, something messy and imperfect, but precious all the same—even if romance was never part of the equation.

“She won’t stop talking about it,” you say fondly. “Megumi’s been showing her some moves during recess.”

“Fushiguro’s boy?” Hiromi raises an eyebrow, rifling through papers. “She talks about him constantly. Along with… Yuji and Choso?”

“The neighbor’s nephews,” you say, trying to sound casual. Hiromi hums as he watches Sukuna through his glass office walls.

“The tattooed neighbor who’s making my receptionist nervous?” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “She’s usually unflappable.”

You cut in before it goes further. “Can we focus on summer camp? Registration ends this week.”

“Already handled,” Hiromi says, sliding a neatly organized folder across the polished surface of his desk. The soft thud of the folder hitting the wood feels oddly reassuring. “Both the regular camp and the jujutsu classes are taken care of. And before you start,” he holds up a hand, cutting you off with that familiar, knowing look that tells you he’s been through this dance a hundred times, “I know you can pay for it, but I want to, so don’t even think about complaining.”

You accept the folder, the weight of it somehow grounding you. His straightforward approach is exactly what keeps your complicated arrangement from unraveling. Just two adults who created something incredible together, and who have learned to make it work on their own terms.

“Thank you,” you say softly, meaning every word. “She’s going to be so excited.”

Hiromi raises an eyebrow, a playful glint lighting his otherwise serious eyes. “She gets that energy from you.”

You can’t help the quick retort that flies out, “Pretty sure her attitude is all you.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm, filling the room like a familiar melody. “Speaking of attitude… the neighbor?”

You shoot him a warning look. “Stop it.”

But you catch the corner of your mouth twitching, betraying your amusement.

“As the father of your child, I feel obligated to point out you’re blushing.”

You roll your eyes. “And as the mother of your child, I feel obligated to tell you to fuck off.”

His expression softens, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes your heart ache a little. “It’s good to see you flustered over someone. It’s been a while.”

“I’m not flustered,” you say quickly, though even your own voice sounds uncertain.

“Of course not,” he replies smoothly, his tone laced with gentle teasing. “Just like you weren’t flustered that night at the bar when you told me my tie was stupid.”

“It was stupid. Still is.” You gesture to the tie he’s wearing now—exactly the same one from that night, a stubborn little emblem of how little things change.

He adjusts it with exaggerated dignity. “It’s classic.”

“Yeah, boring,” you shoot back.

He smirks, undeterred. “Says the woman who rode here on a motorcycle with a man covered in tattoos.”

You roll your eyes, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. Then, suddenly, the room slips into a quiet that feels heavier than it should.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” His voice is softer now, serious.

You look at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Yeah, for sure. You okay?”

He hesitates, swallowing before he speaks. “I’m fine. I just… need to talk.”

His formal tone tightens the knot in your stomach. Hiromi’s never this hesitant unless something’s up.

“Well, that’s never good,” you try to joke, but your voice wavers, and a wave of nausea creeps up your throat.

“So… remember that woman I told you I started talking to?”

You nod slowly, the memory of that passing mention during Nobara’s last pickup still fresh.

“Well, we’re getting serious,” he says, gaze steady. “And I want to know if it’s okay if I bring Nobara around her. Actually…” He pauses, fingers nervously fiddling with the edge of his tie, a rare crack in his usual composed armor. “I was hoping to introduce them to eachother tonight.”

You’re stunned.

Stunned for two reasons.

First, because he actually asked for your permission. That’s never been a written rule between you two, but it’s a line he’s always respected without being asked. Hiromi values your role as Nobara’s mother in a way that’s quietly steady and sincere—a rare kind of respect that means more than words.

Second, because another person in your life is moving into something serious—like a whole new chapter that you never quite saw coming. The universe must be having a private joke at your expense, watching you stumble through your own tangled mess while Hiromi steps forward with someone else.

It’s a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you: a pinch of envy, a stab of loneliness, and beneath it all, a reluctant sense of relief. How pathetic it feels to be caught off guard by this, to realize that while you’re still wrestling with your own chaos, life keeps moving forward for everyone else—sometimes faster than you’re ready to catch up.

“Of course it’s okay,” you manage to say, pushing down the swirl of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “You don’t need to ask.”

“I do, though.” He leans forward, earnest and raw in a way that catches you off guard. “You’re her mother. Your opinion matters. Always.”

You swallow hard, the question catching in your throat more than you expected. “What’s she like?”

Hiromi’s entire demeanor shifts—softens in a way you haven’t seen before, like a mask peeling back to reveal something quieter, more vulnerable. His eyes soften, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as if recalling something precious. “She’s a professor at the university,” he starts, voice low and almost reverent. “She teaches philosophy—always questioning everything, pushing boundaries. Sometimes to the point of driving me crazy, honestly. But that’s part of what makes her so... sharp. Fiercely independent, but with this unexpected warmth that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. The kind of person who remembers the smallest details—your favorite coffee, how you take your tea—and somehow manages to make even the toughest days feel lighter just by being around.”

Hearing him speak like that, you feel a strange ache in your chest—not jealousy, but something softer, more complicated. It’s the quiet, almost boyish affection in his voice that unsettles you, seeing this usually composed man become so openly tender.

“She sounds perfect for you,” you say sincerely, the words catching in your throat. “I’m happy for you, Hiromi.” Without thinking, you reach out and pull him into a hug. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, grounding you in the moment.

“Thanks,” he murmurs softly, and you hum in response.

But then his expression shifts, growing serious again, searching. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? With tonight?”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight behind the question settle deep in your chest. “Hiromi,” you say softly, voice steady despite the storm inside, “all I’ve ever wanted is for Nobora to be surrounded by people who love her. If she makes you happy, if she’s good to our daughter... that’s all that matters.”

He studies your face carefully, eyes probing for something beneath your calm. “There’s something else. You look... sad.”

You shake your head quickly, denial rushing out before you can stop it. “I’m not sad.” But the words ring hollow even to your own ears. “I’m just... everyone’s moving forward, you know? And I’m still just...”

“Still just being an incredible mother, building a career you love, and apparently making my receptionist question her life choices by showing up with a man who looks like he could bench press my desk?” His voice lightens, teasing, but with unmistakable warmth.

You roll your eyes, but can’t stop the smile creeping across your face. “Shut up.”

He leans in, voice dropping to that gentle-but-firm tone he uses in court—the one that demands attention without raising volume. “You’re not standing still. You’re choosing your pace. There’s a difference.”

You stand, gathering your things, the flutter of nerves and uncertainty still humming beneath your skin. “Pick her up at five? Her club’s done by then.”

“Perfect.” Hiromi rises too, and before either of you can stop it, you pull him into a quick, unexpected hug.

“Good luck tonight,” you murmur, stepping back. “Try not to be so... lawyer-y.”

He adjusts his tie with mock offense. “I’m always lawyer-y. It’s my charm.”

You roll your eyes again, turning toward the door, but your mind is already racing—thoughts swirling about tonight, about Nobora meeting someone new in her father’s life, about how everything is shifting faster than you’re ready for.

When you step out, Sukuna straightens from where he’d been leaning against the wall, his eyes flickering briefly to yours. You walk past without a word, jabbing the elevator button maybe a little harder than necessary, your chest tight with a tangle of emotions you’re not quite ready to untangle.

The elevator’s silence wraps around you like a thick fog, heavy and electric. You can feel his eyes on you—watching every subtle shift, every flicker of tension in your shoulders, the way your bottom lip catches between your teeth like you’re holding back a secret. It’s obvious he’s bursting to ask something, but he holds it back, the question hanging unspoken between you.

Somewhere between the twelfth and eleventh floor, the pressure becomes too much. You let out a dramatic sigh that echoes in the cramped space, loud and deliberate.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, waiting patiently, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

“You got any plans tonight?” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.

He quirks a smirk, the corners of his mouth turning up in that irritatingly confident way. “Why? Ya asking me out, drunky?”

You flush, heat rising to your cheeks. “Never mind,” you scoff and roll your eyes, but he closes the distance between you, stepping in with that infuriatingly casual ease, invading your space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“My dad’s got the boys this weekend,” he says, voice low, almost a hum. You nod, caught off guard by the softness in his tone, the way his presence suddenly feels less like a challenge and more like an anchor.

The motorcycle ride home is different—lighter, somehow. The usual tension that had wrapped around you both like armor has softened, melted away into something unspoken but real. Without thinking, you rest your head against his back, arms looping around his waist in a grip that feels both desperate and comforting. It’s strange—only a month ago, you barely tolerated him, kept your distance like he was a storm you wanted to avoid. And now, here you are, clinging to him like he’s the only thing steady in a world that’s suddenly spinning too fast.

When you asked about his plans, Sukuna probably pictured something entirely different from what was unfolding now. Here you were, sprawled across your cramped living room floor, deep into a heated, slightly slurred game of drunk Uno. The night had slipped away faster than either of you expected, empty beer bottles scattered around like markers of chaos. The game had long since abandoned any semblance of normal rules, devolving into a ridiculous mess of house-made additions and laughter that echoed off the walls.

“Draw four!” you shouted, slapping your card down with way more enthusiasm than skill, a hiccup punctuating your excitement.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering across his face. “You’re cheating.”

You shot him a challenging grin. “Prove it.” A giggle escaped despite your best attempt at a serious poker face.

Yuji’s old Uno deck was a little worse for wear—sticky here and there, evidence of a long-forgotten juice spill—and Sukuna had found it buried in a drawer somewhere. Neither of you cared that the cards were far from pristine.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the rules work,” Sukuna muttered, reaching for another beer, his voice low but amused.

You mimicked his gruff tone perfectly. “I’m pretty sure I don’t care,” you shot back, and that was the exact moment he hurled a card at your head.

The apartment was chaos—a fortress of couch cushions tossed on the floor, your work bag abandoned near the door, and a half-eaten pizza sitting forgotten on the coffee table. But none of it mattered. Not tonight.

“Your turn,” you hiccupped, waving a hand in his direction.

Sukuna just stared at you, that look sharp in his eyes like he was trying to solve a puzzle. A puzzle made of you, this night, and whatever unspoken tension simmered between you.

“What?” you pressed, your voice a little too loud in the quiet room.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, too sharply. The kind of ‘nothing’ that always meant something.

The game went on, each round more competitive, more ridiculous, and more drunk than the last.

“Red!” you shouted, slamming your card down like it was some grand victory.

Sukuna took a shot of tequila—because why the hell not—and that’s when you spotted it. A glint of silver when he stuck out his tongue, muttering a curse under his breath at your move.

“Holy shit,” you blurted, eyes widening. “You have a tongue ring?”

He smirked, deliberately flicking his tongue over his teeth. “Observant, aren’t ya?”

“When did you get that?”

“I was sixteen,” he said, tossing down a draw-two card with casual defiance. “Rebellious phase. Pissed off my old man.”

You snorted, disbelief coloring your voice. “You? Rebellious? Never would have guessed.”

“Fuck off,” he laughed, low and rough. It was the kind of laugh that held memories, a little rough around the edges but genuine all the same.

“I bet you were a handful,” you joke, nudging him with your elbow.

Sukuna throws his head back and sighs. “I was a little shit,” he admits, eyes sparkling with mischief. You both keep laying down cards, the game slipping into a rhythm that feels surprisingly easy.

The room falls into a comfortable silence for a moment. You take another slow sip of your drink, the warmth spreading through you.

“Ya know,” you start, voice softer now, “Toji talked about his mechanic friend for years. I was honestly surprised it was you.”

He raises a brow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Surprised?”

“Yeah,” you giggle, sticking your tongue out teasingly. “For a huge asshole, you’re pretty successful.”

Sukuna’s face heats up just a little, a rare flush that makes him look almost boyish. He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well, Toji always talked about his gorgeous best friend who’s a librarian and a great mom.”

He pauses, and you catch him taking a slow sip of his beer. The silver glint of metal flashes again as he flicks his tongue—your eyes lock on the subtle tongue ring for a second longer than you mean to.

“Guess you’re not too bad,” he says, raising a brow and pouring you another drink. You laugh, the sound easy and genuine, and for a moment you forget about everything else.

This is actually fun. You don’t know why you invited Sukuna—of all people—over, and you’re not sure why it’s so damn easy to talk to him. It’s annoying, really.

“So,” Sukuna breaks the silence, voice low and deliberate, “the lawyer.”

You freeze, card halfway in the air. “What about him?”

He gestures vaguely between you. “You two… how’s that work?”

You laugh, sharp and a little bitter. “One night stand turned co-parenting. Definitely not a romance novel.”

“Seriously?” His eyes widen, genuinely surprised.

“Hiromi was just… a good guy. Smart as hell. We were both in a place where we needed something. Ended up with the best thing either of us could’ve imagined.” You slam down a draw-two card, your tone firm. “Draw two.”

Sukuna takes the cards, studying you like he’s trying to read between your words. “You never thought about getting back together?”

“We never were,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We’re friends. Good friends. But romantic? Nope. We’re better as Nobara’s parents than we ever would’ve been as a couple.”

“Huh.” He seems to be processing it all. “Most people would’ve tried to make it work—for the kid.”

“Most people aren’t us,” you say simply, flipping a card triumphantly. “Uno!”

He groans and throws a pillow at you. The game might be falling apart, but neither of you cares.

Suddenly, the door swings open and Toji walks in, key still in hand, freezing at the chaotic scene before him. Two drunk adults sprawled on the floor, Uno cards scattered everywhere, empty beer bottles littered around like casualties of a war.

“Just because you’re my landlord doesn’t mean you can barge in,” you tease, barely looking surprised.

Toji blinks, taking it all in. “What the hell are you two doing?”

Sukuna doesn’t even glance away, raising his beer with a lazy grin. “Uno.”

“Drunk Uno,” you clarify with a shrug, as if that explains everything.

Toji’s eyes flick between the two of you, a mix of confusion and something else—was it amusement? Suspicion?—softening his usual guarded expression.

“Your turn,” you say to Sukuna, completely ignoring Toji’s sudden presence like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Sukuna’s grin broadens, the silver flash of his tongue ring catching the light as he flicks a card down. “Red.”

Toji sighs, drops his keys onto the cluttered table, and slides down onto the floor beside you both. “Scoot over,” he says, settling in like he belongs here.

“Thought you were at the dentist,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

“Got done about an hour ago. Megumi’s with his grandparents,” Toji replies, grabbing a beer from the half-empty six-pack. “Deal me in.”

Sukuna picks up the deck and begins reshuffling with practiced ease. Even through your drunken haze, you can’t help but notice how big his hands are, how effortlessly they move as he splits the deck and deals the cards evenly.

He smacks a card down with a grin. “You first, drunky.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname but play along, laying down a yellow five.

Toji methodically organizes his cards, taking a long swig of beer before asking, “Where’s Nobara?”

“With her dad,” you say, tossing down a blue card. “Hiromi’s introducing her to his girlfriend tonight.”

Toji’s brow arches in surprise. “Girlfriend?” Sukuna raises a brow too, and suddenly it clicks why you acted that way in the elevator.

“Yeah,” you explain, voice steady but quiet. “Seems nice. From what he’s told me.”

Toji studies you carefully, eyes sharp despite the beer. “You okay with that?”

You snap back, a little sharper than you mean to. “Why wouldn’t I be?” But there’s a flicker of vulnerability in your voice that betrays you.

Before things can get heavier, Sukuna cuts in, slamming down a card. “Draw four.”

“Asshole!” you laugh, but the relief of the distraction is clear in your smile.

Toji watches you both with a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Whatever’s shifted between you and Sukuna, he’s picked up on it—and he isn’t missing a thing.

"Your deal," Sukuna says, sliding the deck toward you. His fingers linger a moment too long as you take the cards.

A crash of thunder makes you jump, cards scattering everywhere. None of you had noticed the storm rolling in, too caught up in the game and drinks.

"Shit," you mutter, looking out the window at the now-pouring rain. Lightning illuminates the sky, and the lights flicker ominously.

Toji checks his phone. "Power's out in half the building already." He stands, landlord mode activating despite the beer. "Should check on the other tenants real quick."

"Need help?" Sukuna offers, but Toji waves him off.

"Nah, stay here. Make sure this one doesn't burn the place down trying to find candles." Your face deadpans and you flip him off as he grabs his keys, already heading for the door. "I'll be back after I check everyone's okay."

The moment the door shuts, the lights go out.

"Perfect," you mutter, fumbling for your phone. The flashlight beam catches Sukuna's face, shadows playing across his features. You try not to notice how the darkness makes his eyes seem more intense.

"Scared of the dark?" he teases, but he's already moving to help you find candles. You start opening drawers and boxes in the kitchen, not remembering if you had unpacked them yet.

"I fucking hate this" you grumble, trying not to notice how close he is as you both search through your kitchen drawers. "I hate-"

"Me?" he finishes, his voice low and amused. He's standing right behind you now, close enough that you can feel his warmth.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the kitchen. For a split second, you see his reflection in the window, the way he's looking at you.

You turn around slowly. "I was going to say I hate how unorganized I am, but yeah, you too." You suddenly see the package of candles under some paper in the box you had yet to go through and grab it in defeat.

He laughs softly, taking the candle from you. His fingers brush yours in the darkness. "I can help you unpack the rest of your shit one day, drunky." He sits the candles in the counter and you ignore his statement and begin to search for matches.

It becomes silent again. Only the roar of the rain can be heard. Another crack of thunder, closer this time. You definitely don't jump, and he definitely doesn't notice how you instinctively step closer to him.

"Found matches," you say, trying to maintain some distance - physical and emotional. But in the small kitchen, with the storm raging outside, distance feels impossible.

Sukuna lights the candle, the small flame casting a warm glow between you. "Better?"

.You open your mouth to answer, but your phone buzzes sharply. A text from Toji, “Checking basement circuit breakers. Stay put, doesn’t look like it's gonna die down.”

"Looks like we're stuck here," you say, showing him the message.

Sukuna could easily head back to his own apartment—his place is right next door, after all. But you haven’t said a word about him leaving, haven’t even hinted that the night’s over. So here he is, standing in the dim light of your kitchen, just watching you. His posture is relaxed but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes track your every small movement.

He lets out a dry, sarcastic, “Terrible,” but there’s something softer beneath the edge—a flicker of concern that catches your attention. He glances at you, noticing the way your eyelids are heavy, the subtle slump in your shoulders, the exhaustion etched across your face.

Lightning flashes again, casting flickering shadows across your features, the candlelight dancing over your figure and it mesmerizes him for a moment.

Without a word, Sukuna steps closer and gently reaches out, steadying you as you wobble slightly. “Hey, you look wiped. Come on, let’s get you to bed baby.”

You try to protest, but the exhaustion weighs too heavily. He gently guides you toward the couch, his touch softer than you’d expect. With surprising tenderness, he eases you down into the cushions. The moment your body sinks into the familiar fabric, the night’s weight crashes over you like a wave, dragging you toward sleep.

Sukuna doesn’t move away. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor beside the couch, leaning back against the worn fabric with a slow, steady sigh. The silence between you thickens but doesn’t suffocate—there’s an unspoken understanding in the stillness.

Your breathing evens, eyes fluttering shut. He notices the slight tremor in your shoulders and, without thinking, pulls a blanket from nearby, draping it over you with care. His fingers linger a moment on the fabric, smoothing it as if to shield you from more than just the cold.

Minutes pass in quiet comfort. The storm rages on outside, but inside the room, the soft glow of candlelight and the rhythmic sound of your breathing create a fragile peace. Sukuna’s head slowly tilts back against the couch, eyes growing heavy. Before long, he’s dozing, the steady rise and fall of his chest mirroring yours.

Suddenly, the door creaks open, and Toji steps inside, pausing as he takes in the scene. There you both are—fast asleep, you curled on the couch, Sukuna slumped on the floor beside you, leaning against the couch like a watchful guardian who finally gave in to exhaustion.

Toji lets out a sigh and decides to crash on your bed because he refuses to deal with whatever the hell is happening between you two and your bed is much comfier than that stupid recliner.

But for real, what the hell is happening between you two?

summary/notes: hello my lovelies! I am oh so sorry it took me forever to update. I graduate university in two days. So, I’ve been a busy gal. I do plan to start posting more with the free time I have!

Anyhoo, I really loved writing this chapter so much. I read it out loud to my bf and he’s very invested in the plot lmao (he’s a sukuna and toji simp). I also had to add Hiromi because I’ve been obsessed with him since I read the bath scene years ago.

Please let me know what you guys think! I love to hear your input and suggestions! I love you all so much! <3

taglist is open: please comment and let me know if you want to be on it!! (:

@sukubusss @poopooindamouf @tojiswifeforlife @emochosoluvr @bookfreakk @withtanxp

@pandabiene5115 @fava-boi @not-aya @jkslvsnella @saltypuffin1040 @777pluto

[seat-safety-switch]

People don't talk about this anymore, but our society just doesn't have enough sliding doors. The decline of vans since the 1980s has meant that portals-on-tracks have been rendered just about extinct in the modern day.

It's not their fault: everyone wants SUVs, with the doors that don't open as far and are less easy to load kids through. After all, if you're not dinging the door of the car next to you whenever the wind picks up, are you really a good parent? Plus, the kids put their French fries and spoons and Goldfish crackers in the track, and then it wrecks the bushing on the little wheel when it goes through the Goldfishified grease, and you have to pay the guy at the Honda dealer $150 for a new one and this all could have been avoided with a nice traditional hinge, you know? Like on a Mustang. Now that's what you should have gotten. A real sports car, assert your independence, live life to the fullest. We'll just get an SUV next time.

Me, I love a van. Not just for the massive cargo capacity, but mostly because a sliding door is cool as all hell. It makes an awesome sound, for one. Whoosh! Vrooooosh! If your regular goofy-clown-ears doors make any kind of a sound at all, then that means they're broken. And the nice square opening makes it easier to load weird-shaped items, like four boxed toilets, half a VW Beetle, or a Mopar A727 automatic transmission, without scraping up the bumper, damaging a door card, or punching a hole in a window.

In fact, whenever I'm driving a van, I get irritated that the driver's door – the most important door – doesn't slide. If I'm just zinging down to the post office to mail a letter, I don't get to use the sliding door at all, just the regular dumb one! Sometimes when that happens, I go into the grocery store and come right back out, just so that I get that nice whoosh-vrrrr from their sliding door. This used to be normal behaviour, folks. Look how far we've fallen.

[anaon-ash]

☠︎︎🕸𖤐 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𖤐🕸 ☠︎︎

𝙃𝙖𝙢𝙯𝙖𝙝𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙓𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧! 𝙩𝙤𝙭𝙞𝙘 𝙚𝙭 𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝘼𝙐

Contains: Explicit language, Gaslighting, Use of pet names, Use of Y/N, Drugs/Alcohol, Smut (Established Relationship obviously)

Summary: Hamzah sits outside of your house at 2am and texts you from a text now number (you blocked him lol). He asks you to come outside and invites you over for a drink and a blunt and to talk, but you know exactly where this is really going and you fold anyways.

Authors note:THIS IS SUPERR LONG so im sorry, i was rlly scared to publish this as this is my first written work on tumblr so i really hope you all like it and let me know how you feel about it! enjoy it, freak

The quiet rumble of the engine of Hamzahs car reverberates throughout the silent neighborhood in the early hours of the night before it stops in front of your house. He picks up his phone and navigates to the text now app, his finger hovers above it, unsure if he should go through with his intentions tonight.

You and Hamzah struggle staying away from each other, you dated for 2 months before you had your first of MANY breakups, on and off. He was toxic, and that brought out the worst in you. It felt like it impossible to go a week without arguing and you could never really pinpoint if it was your fault or his, he’s a manipulator, possessive and controlling of you and you hate it. You hate that you can’t do anything, you hate that somehow ALL of your friends are bad for you, you hate how he talks to you, you hate how he hurts you and does something that makes it ok then you forgive him just as quickly as it happened. And you especially hate that you know all of this and somehow you keep falling for it.

That’s why you weren’t surprised when you heard a notification that woke you up at 2 am.

————————

Unknown Number

“Come outside.”

“Who is this?”

“You know exactly who this is, come outside y/n”

“I just want to talk.”

————————

“Oh my fucking god.”

You set your phone down and ran your hands through your hair, balling your fists up in the strands. You dont know if you can forgive him after what happened in your last argument that led up to yet another breakup.. And honestly…You dont know if you can take this splitting up and reconciliation cycle anymore either.

You drop your hands to your sides and sigh loudly.

“If i go out there… it’s going to be to end whatever we have going on… i can’t do this anymore.”

You sit up and grab your phone, sliding your feet into the slippers by your bed, they were soft and provided you something to use to ground yourself.. to remind yourself that this time, isn’t going to be like the last times..

You take a deep breath and walk downstairs, grabbing your house keys from your coffee table and softly closing and locking the door behind you. Stepping outside you feel the cold breeze of the beginnings of a blizzard.

It was dark, only the light from the lampposts outside and hamzahs headlights were visible. Slowly You began to walk to his car, psyching yourself up into being strong and setting boundaries for once.

You lightly tap on the window, and hamzahs gaze meets yours, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smirk before pressing the button to unlock the door.

“Hey.” his voice calm and laced with something softer than normal. “Hi hamzah.” You reply stedily, closing the door and plopping down into the seat.

You missed this car, it was an older beat up red honda with lord knows how many miles on it and lord knows how many memories. The cloth on the seats were covered in burn holes from all of the joints and cigarettes smoked in it, and it smelled like those same cigs poorly covered up by one of those little trees you put on your rear-view mirror.

You look around and you can still see the reminants of the stickers you put on his dash and notice he still has the poloroid picture of you and him still on his sun-visor.

Both of you sit in silence for a moment, simply taking each other in, he’s wearing black sweats and a stupid hoodie with the words“nap queen” on it. His hair is just finally starting to grow out after he shaved it and bleached it blonde, its definitely one of his best looks.

“How are you..?” He finally asks after a pause “Hamzah. please.. I came here to talk and talk only. Don’t try to make this into something it isn’t.” You cautioned, sounding more like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

“I didnt want to feel like a divorced couple begrudgingly speaking to each other over the shared custody of their kids” Hamzah chuckled

“I was hoping this could be casual and we could maybe smoke a little” he smiled before pulling a joint and mini bottles of alcohol out of the middle console “And I have some shots too if you’re down.”

“I dont know hamzah..” You mumbled “Come on y/n.. This doesn’t have to be hard.” He pleaded, slightly tilting his head to the side and gazing into your eyes “we can take it easy..”

He was so good with his words, so good at convincing you of anything..

You bit the skin off your lip and looked away at the ground and thought about his proposal before you hesitantly agreed. “Fine. But im serious. im only here to talk about what happened and…”

You clench your jaw before stopping yourself from speaking.. There’s no way you can tell him you want to go no contact right now right off the bat.. Maybe after a joint and a few shots you’ll have a bit more courage.

“And?” he questioned. “Nothing.” You stated, before you took the 2 mini bottles of fireball from his hand and downed them, his eyes widened and looked at you clearly shocked “okay! yeah! that works.”

He quipped, placing the joint between his lips and lighting it cautiously. The lighter illuminated his features with a soft orange glow, highlighting his plump lips, his sharp jaw, and focused eyes. He takes a few puffs trying to get the ember to catch before handing it to you and placing his hand non-chalantly behind the headrest of your seat.

Hamzah watches intently as you take your first toke and inhale, the smoke filling your lungs almost without any control before you exhale, coughing and gasping before you grab the nearest room temperature half dranken waterbottle in his cupholder and guzzle it down.

You could see hamzah stupidly grinning in your peripheral vision at your reaction and you couldn’t help but to crack your first smile since you entered his car.

You felt the tension you first had, start to dissipate and the energy of the space changed into something else, something more relaxed. The weed and the alcohol were combining into something beyond you.

“There you go.. that’s the pretty girl I know..” Hamzah softly spoke, there was a permanent smile etched onto your face and you didn’t even realize it..he reached out and lightly took the joint from your fingers, your hands slightly grazing one another.

in your excited state, it felt like lightning, all your senses were amplified by 100 and you could feel.. everything. your ankles slightly exposed from your pjs, the breeze of the heater, the texture of the armrest, and hamzahs scent, you felt so much all at once, and you didn’t know how to handle it.

Hamzah puts the joint back into his mouth and takes a few more puffs before rolling down the window and putting it out on the outside of his door, You hiss at the temperature change, the harsh wind numbing the tips of your fingers and chilling the front of your face.

“sorry..” he replied, a lopsided grin tugging on the corners of his lips as the effects begin to take hold of him as well

“M’k lets talk…” You say, trying to remind yourself why you’re here. “More casual now.. according to your wishes.” You say sarcastically

“Yes.. more casually now.” He quips back “First… I wanted to say that im sorry for our fight.. And im sorry for the way that I talked to you.. I should’ve listened to you. And im sorry for lying to you too.. I wont even try to defend staying out so late and not telling you where I go, and im sorry for taking advantage of the trust you had for me, I never purposely wanted to hurt you princess..” he confessed, and without warning you feel the corners of your eyes start to sting and then start to well up with tears from his words.

“You mean the absolute world to me and no late night out or time with friends can ever compare to how much i value you, you’re an amazing woman and im only rough with you because I love you.. I love you so much and I can’t help it, I can’t help how selfish I am..how much I need you.. I promise it was a stupid mistake ill never make again. I can’t lose you.” Hamzahs hand reached out to your face, his calloused touch sending shivers down your body and a familiar heat beginning to build within yourself. “Give me another chance.. Just one more… I wont hurt you like this ever again.” Hamzah pleaded, wiping the tears from your eyes.

You could barely think anymore.. the combination of the alcohol and weed, his words and his touch, it was all so overwhelming, your heart is racing and your whole body felt like it was vibrating, you knew this was just another apology, the same ones he gives just before doing the same shit again a couple of days later, but its almost as if your mouth seemed to speak before you could think, or maybe… You believed it.

“Okay…” you say nearly breathlessly, both of you sat in silence, just staring at one another, all that you could hear was the music softly playing from the radio and the combined sound of you twos heavy breathing.

His hand moved down to your jaw, his thumb grazing over the soft skin of your lips, dipping slightly into your mouth before spreading your spit over them, and you cant help the groan that escapes your lips, every single touch feels like fire on your skin.

Hamzah noticed your desperation and stifles a chuckle, teasingly, he brings his lips to your cheek, moving down to place kisses along your jawline. You inhale sharply at the sensation, his mouth moving down to your neck, where he started to suck and nibble on the sensitive area, leaving searing marks in their wake, a slow gentle exhale escapes your lips.

Hamzah pulled away, admittedly looking very different, he was completely focused on you, his heavy-lidded eyes filled with an animalistic, desperate energy from your body responding to his touch, he wanted to consume you, to explore every little bit of you, and he didn’t need to tell you he did.

“C’mere..” he mumbled before his lips crashed against yours, both of you moaning into the kiss.

His hands roamed your body like they were trying to memorize every inch of your skin, it felt like lava against you, your spine arched as you took in the taste of weed and his mint gum and his cologne invading your senses.

His teeth grazed your lower lip, biting it and taking it in his mouth as you suck on his upper lip, your tongues danced together, fighting for dominance, and your hands began to wonder too, making their way to the growing bulge in Hamzahs pants.

you palm his errection from the outside of his sweat pants, feeling him taking in a shaky breath from the new-found friction.

“F-fuck.. your hands feel so much better than mine.” He whined against your lips, his hips lifting to meet your touch as his grip on your waist tighten.

“Yeah? you like when i touch you like this?” you whispered.

“Mhm” Hamzah managed to barely hum. “God i missed you so much..”

You giggle at his admission and suddenly stop moving your hand.

“Wh- whyd you stop?” he looks at you with desperation.

“Lets go to the back..” a sultry smile playing on your face, as you turn to climb into the back, you feel a sharp slap across the soft of your ass which earns him a yelp.

“What was that for??” “For making me lose my self control.”

Smirking, you plop yourself down into the seat and wait for hamzah to meet you, after he climbs into the back he pulls you onto his lap and grips your waist, pulling you down onto the tent in his pants, rocking your hips back and forth and his meeting yours trying to find a rhythm.

The both of you are trying not to lose control, slowly grinding yourselves onto one another, hamzahs breathing becoming more unsteady as quiet curses flow from his lips.

“Mmhm baby.. you’re doing so good for me.. just like that..”

His soft praises filled your stomach with butterflies and made you bite your lip.

Your next kiss was sloppy, messy, and desperate, the drugs were making even just grinding on one another feel so so good, you both moaned into eachothers mouths as he guided you to move quicker and with more pressure onto his dick.

He tugged at the waistband of your pjs before pulling down, practically trying to rip it off of you.

“Take these off, now.”

You obliged and lifted your legs up, not even bothering to take it all the way off as the fabric pooled around one ankle, and Hamzah took his off just as quickly, leaving the only thing separating you two being thin pieces of fabric.

You felt your own slick leaking through, coating his clothed cock as you throw your head back.

“There.. you.. go… does my big dick feel good on that pretty.. clit of yours?”

he managed to choke out through groans of pleasure.

“Y-yes.. fuck- yes Hamzah..”

“i can’t take it anymore i need to be inside of you, you’re soaking my Cock.”

He roughly grabs your ass and digs his fingers into the fabric of your underwear before ripping it off of you and roughly pulling his cock through the hole of his boxers, he sits you down on it and moves your hips forward and backwards.

You feel the heat radiating off of him as you slide along his member, the feeling of it rubbing against your clit was almost enough to make you cum on top of him.

“fuck- i can’t- its too much..” you cry out

“you can take it..i know you can.. i know it feels good, i know….”

“i need you so bad” You pant.

“Then watch it go in.. inch by inch, baby.”

He aims the tip of his dick up to your opening and slides it slowly in, it’s a tight fit and you can feel him filling you and stretching out until you reach the base.

Both of you sigh at the feeling of shared pleasure, his eyes are unfocused, glossy, breathing ragged, and he’s holding onto you tight.

“Wait.. wait..dont- oh god..don’t move, i’m so close already- i didn’t think you would be so tight..” he confessed

You wait a bit before you slowly start to ride him, adjusting to his size every movement is hitting your g spot in just the right place, Hamzah pulls you close and raises your shirt up to take your breast into his mouth, sucking on your nipple as he thrusts into you.

You scream out in ecstasy, unable to form a sentence only letting out lewd sounds.

“Does this feel good?”

“Hah- ah-“ You nod your head yes

“Use your words baby.. tell me how good i make you feel..” Hamzah groaned

“I-cant… think..im so- im gonna-“

“cum for me.. cum all over my dick princess, it’s all yours, i’m here..”

And with that, you lose all sense of control and the coil deep inside of you finally gives way as pleasure overtakes your body, your walls flutter and tighten around him while a cry escapes your throat.

You throw your head back and dig your nails into his chest and he simply holds you tighter as he fucks you harder and nears his climax

blinding white pleasure engulfs your senses and you can’t control your legs closing tightly to try to stop the overstimulation, but that only fuels his aggression as he forces them open with his free hand and starts to rub circles around your clit with his thumb.

“mhm- fuck- good girl.. take this dick..” he curses under his breath “you’re making me feel so good…im getting so c-close..”

the rhythm you two managed to create became staggered, as his hips lagged behind, his breaths became shallow and quickened and you knew his peak was coming quickly

“y/n- i can’t.. i-im cumming” hamzah moans before he cries out, cumming inside of you and pumping thick ropes of cum along your walls, coating them white with each twitch.

You both ride out your climax before collapsing on one another, chests heaving and basking in the after sex glow, while the sounds of the radio comes back into focus. Hamzah rubs the small of your back slowly, some time passes in silence of catching your breath before you break the silence.

“We cant keep doing this.”

“Why not? it seems to work out just fine every time” He smirks

You roll your eyes and sigh knowing you’re never going to escape him.

I hope you guys liked it! please leave your thoughts in the comments and of course any feedback, i’d love to know what i could change ! 😸😸 also let me know if you’d like shorter or longer stories too!!

[roosterforme]

Aim for the Sky Part 24 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Spoiled beyond his wildest dreams, Bradley tries to take some time to appreciate everything he has on his birthday, but it can be hard to contain his excitement.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, lactation kink, body image, oral sex, anal sex, DILF Roo

Length: 3800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

Bradley was eager. He didn't want you to know how eager, but he was sure it was obvious by now.

"Your cheeks are pink," you whispered, cupping them in both of your hands as he buckled you in. "Did all the dancing and hot sauce get to you?"

"Something like that," he murmured, kissing you so thoroughly, you gasped when he pulled away. The look you gave him beneath the dome light was indecent as he dragged his hand up your body and between your breasts so he could stroke your chin and your perfect cheek. Oh, you absolutely knew why his face was flushed and his hands were so grabby. But it was your fault anyway.

"Should we head home for the night?" you asked innocently.

As if you hadn't been talking about how your ass was all his since this morning.

Fuck. Every year, you gave him the most perfect birthday. When he turned thirty-six, you took him to La Jolla, and he couldn't wait to take you back there next week when your parents came out to watch Rose. Last year when he turned thirty-seven, he fucked you so hard in the backseat of your wretched little Honda Civic, he totaled the thing. At least you got pregnant with Rose that night.

And this year, he got to spend the evening reminiscing and enjoying the company of his wife and his daughter. He couldn't even remember how fucking bad every other birthday was between the year he lost his mom and when he turned thirty-five right before he met you. Since then, he'd been treated like a king. Today was no different. Tonight would follow suit.

"Yeah," he grunted, "let's go home."

The drive back to Coronado was mostly quiet while Rose slept. You had your hand on Bradley's thigh, and he had his hand on top of yours.

"You're excited," you whispered into the darkness. "I can practically feel your anticipation, Roo."

"Oh, fuck," he groaned. He was a complete mess for you tonight, and you knew it. He might as well just say it, but he didn't want you to think you didn't satisfy him all the time. He ran his left hand over his face when he stopped at a red light. "I'm really horny, Sweetheart. Somehow you know just what to do that's going to make me go wild. You've always known."

He could feel you preening next to him as the light turned green, and he hit the accelerator. "I like making you excited on your birthday."

"You do this to me every day," he insisted.

A few minutes later, he was rushing Rose inside in her car seat, and you were locking the door behind him. "I'll put her down in her crib if you put Tramp outside?"

You were already heading for the sliding glass door as you said, "I'll meet you in our bedroom."

He grunted in response, unclipping Rose from her carrier and depositing her gently in her crib. "I'll come back to change your diaper," he promised, straightening out her outfit. 

He needed to calm the fuck down, because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. But when he walked into the bedroom, you made eye contact before pulling your dress over your head and tossing it onto the floor.

"You're killing me," he groaned, already working at his shirt buttons as you climbed into bed in your matching red lace bra and thong. He wrenched the fabric over his head and nearly fell down as he tried to take his shoes and jeans off at the same time. 

Just as he was about to dive in bed after you, he watched you hold up your hand and whisper, "Go get the lube from the bathroom drawer, birthday boy."

Bradley felt dizzy as he turned toward the open doorway and dug around inside your drawer until he was rewarded with exactly what he needed. Armed with the water based lube and a massive boner, this time he did dive into bed with you. The bottle came to rest next to your head, and you giggled as he dipped down into a push up to kiss you.

"You are eager."

"There's no point in lying, Sweetheart. I am fucking eager." 

It was almost better that this was a rare occurrence for him, because he just knew how good it was going to be as you tilted your chin up to kiss him. He could feel your hands on his abs before they slid inside his underwear. His eyes fluttered closed against the feel of your fingers teasing him, and he whispered, "I'm already turned on. Let me turn you on, too."

As he worked his way down your body, he felt your hands on his face. "Don't look at my belly," you whispered, pushing him further down toward your pussy.

"I like your belly," he grunted, pulling your underwear down so he could get to your tattoo and kiss you everywhere. "I like everything about you. Why do you think I'm so turned on?"

"Because you're about to have anal sex."

"With my wife." Bradley's lips skimmed your pussy as he spoke. "I'm turned on, because I've been thinking about you. And how fucking hot you are. And about the fact that you trust me not to hurt you. And how you let know every intimate inch of your body."

"Roo," you whimpered as he licked your pussy before kissing you there.

"I don't really care if we have anal sex tonight or never again," he said, looking up your body and meeting your gaze as your fingers gripped his hair. "But don't act like the mere notion of me getting to explore and enjoy your body isn't going to drive me wild. You know me. You know what you do to me."

He watched your lace covered chest rise and fall as you sighed deeply. Bradley took your thighs in his hands as you spread your legs wider for him. "I want you to enjoy every inch of me."

He ran his nose through your slick warmth, kissing you everywhere while he said, "You're absolutely fucking perfect, Baby Girl."

-----------------------------

You weren't expecting to feel emotional tonight, but while your husband ate your pussy, leaving you a squirming, writhing mess in the middle of the bed, your heart skipped a beat as you replayed his words. 

I like everything about you. Why do you think I'm so turned on?

He told you so frequently that he thought you were perfect, and you kind of felt perfect as you sucked in deep breaths in nothing but your red bra while he gave you an absolutely killer orgasm.

"Oh god," you whined, your right heel digging into his back as he sucked on your clit and hit that mind-blowing spot inside you with two firm fingers. Bradley knew just what to do because you'd willingly let him explore your body to his heart's content for years. And you wanted him to have more, because you knew he'd give you more in return.

When your back arched off the bed and you came for him, you saw colorful stars at the edge of your vision. It was just that damn good. It took you a few seconds to catch your breath, but when you did, you rolled onto your stomach and looked back at him.

"It's your birthday, not mine," you whispered, and he raised one eyebrow before crawling until his body was covering yours. "Why am I the one getting all the orgasms?"

"Because I love you," he replied, kissing your cheek. You could feel his erection against the back of your thigh, and you wiggled your rear end against him until he groaned. "If you keep teasing me with that thing, I'm going to make a mess all over you."

You didn't try to hide your smile as you said, "Go ahead and make a mess inside me. Just go slow so it doesn't hurt."

His dark eyes widened a bit. "In your ass?" When you nodded, he asked, "Are you sure?"

"I'm absolutely sure, birthday boy."

But he didn't jump right to it. He carefully unhooked your bra and slid it down your shoulders so he could kiss the full expanse of your back. "You're so fucking soft," he whispered. His lips and mustache left your skin extra sensitive as he sucked along the back of your neck until you were moaning his name. "That sounds so pretty." Then you felt his hands rough against your ass and your thighs before he made himself at home, lapping at your pussy from behind. You knew you were still wet, and he used your slick to coat up your asshole with his tongue, big hands gripping you.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, and you groaned a garbled answer letting him know that yes, it did. "Want me to keep going?"

You could feel his finger at your opening, and you whimpered. "As long as you use the lube."

He did, and he worked at you for a while, never rushing you to the next stage before you were comfortable. His fingers were thick, but you knew how big his cock was, and you balled your fists up in the sheets and got onto your knees when you were ready for him.

The stretch felt good. Bradley's body behind yours was like a dream, and his voice in your ear as he pushed himself incrementally deeper made you relax. "Jesus Christ," he rasped. "My god, Sweetheart. Oh, fuck." His lips were on your shoulder, and then his face was tucked against your neck as he whined softly, chest heaving against your back. You felt almost too full as his hips met your ass. "Am I hurting you?"

When you wiggled in response, Bradley's nose dug into the side of your neck, a string of expletives flowing from his lips. "It feels almost good," you promised. "Like I couldn't be more full."

"If I move, I'll cum," he groaned. "But I really, really fucking want to move."

You rolled your hips against him, and it didn't hurt, but now his forearms were shaking, and his knuckles were white, and you knew how hard he was trying to keep himself still. "You can thrust slowly."

He did. He gave you three long, languid thrusts where you felt every bit of him, and then you knew by the sounds he was making that he was almost there. One more wiggle from you, and he was up on his knees with his hands gripping your hips, filling your ass with his cum.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he crooned, withdrawing himself inch by inch until you heard him say, "that's so goddamn pretty." His fingers were smoothing along your pussy up to where you could feel the mess he made on your skin. "What a perfect ass."

Then he was a fatigued mess, sprawled out on his back on the bed, pulling you closer to him. "Happy birthday," you whispered, and he looked up at you with pink cheeks and wide eyes.

"I am so spoiled by my wife."

"You are, Roo. It's insane."

---------------------------------

After a quick trip to the nursery to change Rose into a sleeper, Bradley coaxed you into the shower with him where he took the time to clean both of you up. "It's almost midnight, Daddy. Did you enjoy your day?"

"You know I did. It was absolutely perfect."

"There's cake for you in the kitchen."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you still talking about your ass, or..."

"Actual cake," you told him with a laugh. "I baked it the other day and then hid it." He honestly didn't know how he deserved to be treated this well, but he always tried his best to do the same for you. He was too in love not to.

You definitely seemed to be less self conscious now as he ran his hand down your belly before using it to give you a soft smack on the ass. "I would love to have any and all of your various types of cake." He leaned down to kiss the tops of your breasts. "Rosie will probably wake up soon wanting to eat. That's literally the only thing holding me back from going to town on these bad boys."

Your laughter filled the room. "I think you've just about reached your treat limit for the day. But the cake in the kitchen is lemon."

"My favorite," he whispered, kissing your lips. "You're the best."

Once you were both towel dried and dressed for bed, Bradley scooped you up and carried you into the kitchen. "A year ago, I was fucking a baby into you."

"You fucked a baby into me, and you fucked up my car beyond repair. That was a big night for you, Bradley." When he set you down on the counter, you yelped.

"What?" he asked as you cling onto him instead.

"My asshole is sore," you whispered, eyes wide.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

You smiled which made him smile. "I just wasn't expecting it," you said with a laugh as you slid down his body until you were standing. "It's not terrible. Kind of a nice reminder of your birthday present." You reached for the lemon cake which had apparently been hiding with the pots and pans for days when you gasped. "I forgot! I got you another present."

Bradley watched you run into the spare room at the bottom of the stairs, and a moment later, you returned with a gift wrapped in red paper with a silver bow on it.

"Before you open it, please remember that you did ask for this."

Curiosity got the best of him. The day was already too good to be true, but when he tore into the paper, he knew what it was almost immediately. "Another sexy calendar," he moaned, and then his eyes bugged out. "A pregnant, sexy calendar."

"That's what you wanted," you repeated when he looked at you. "I had the photographer take them before you met me at the beach for maternity photos."

He absolutely did remember asking for it, but he couldn't believe you actually did it for him. January was a photo of you in your red bikini, pregnant with Rosie, hand resting on your belly. February was you wearing some kind of flowy dress that left nothing to the imagination. March was you in your unbuttoned jean shorts with your hands over your breasts, adorable bump front and center. April had you in a top with your tits practically spilling out of it.

"Incredible," he murmured, mesmerized by May where you were playing in the water in a wet, white tee shirt.

"You like it?" you asked as you sliced up some birthday cake.

"It's fantastic," he groaned when he got to June. It was a close up of your face and tits in that same wet shirt. "Holy hell." You were holding out a forkful of cake to him. "Are you going to make me a sexy calendar every year for my birthday?" he asked before taking the bite which melted on his tongue.

"Only if you're very well behaved. Those things require me to muster up every fiber of my courage, and I swear the photographer works some sort of magic to make me look so good."

"You always look that good, Sweetheart. If you check the photo gallery in my phone, you look just as hot in every photo in there as you do in the calendar pictures. You look that good right now. And you looked that good at the hot sauce restaurant. And you looked that good with my cock in your ass an hour ago."

Once again, he had you preening before him as you fed him more cake. "If you insist, Roo."

"I insist. I look at you more than anyone else does. I've got to be some sort of expert." He took another bite from the fork. "This is incredible. Thank you for everything today." He propped his new calendar up against the backsplash, open to June. 

"Just make sure you put that away before my parents get here on Sunday," you said, tossing the fork into the sink and wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Right," he replied. You had him so excited about Father's Day and his birthday, he almost forgot they were flying in. "I'll put it out with all my workout gear tomorrow," he promised. "And you better start packing for La Jolla."

"I'll just throw some stuff in a bag before we leave on Thursday," you told him with a shrug.

"But I want you to make sure you pack all of your sexiest outfits. You always look good no matter what, but I love peeling that stuff off you."

You buried your face against his chest and whispered, "Okay." He could tell you were smiling just as Rose started crying.

"Midnight. On the dot," Bradley groaned, leading you backwards through the kitchen. "That kid is punctual."

You leaned up and kissed him, "I love you, birthday boy."

"I love you, too," he said over the sound of his daughter wailing to be fed. His past three birthdays were each more exciting than the last. He had no idea what else could be in store for him, but he wanted all of it.

---------------------------

On Sunday, you sat down very gingerly to enjoy brunch with Maria and Cam. You were still sore from Friday, and then last night, Bradley spanked you for being sassy. It wasn't entirely your fault you accidentally called him Daddy while you were FaceTiming your parents. He was using his commanding voice, going over the schedule for the upcoming week. You didn't think your parents even heard you say it, but you happily accepted your 'punishment' in the form of Bradley's hand on your ass and his cock in your pussy as soon as the call was over.

"Your parents are coming out today?" Cam asked, snapping your attention back to the last bit of your avocado toast and mimosa.

"Yeah. They're staying with Rose for a few nights while Bradley and I drive up to La Jolla. I won't be at work on Thursday."

"Bob and I are going away for Independence Day, too," Maria said dreamily. "He's taking me to Santa Barbara."

"Fuck you both," Cam grumbled, biting into some cinnamon toast. He chewed obnoxiously as he said, "I wish I had a hot aviator. I'll just be at home alone, watching Marvel shows and trying to feel something."

"I'll send you a postcard," you told him, giving him a loud kiss on the cheek.

"How's Rose?" Maria asked, ignoring Cam's comments completely. 

"Adorable," you sighed. "You'll get to see her when Bradley picks me up to head to the airport." 

No sooner did you mention your husband and daughter, and then they appeared. 

"Hey," Bradley greeted your friends, leaning down to kiss you with Rose in his arms. He was wearing his aviators low on his nose, and he looked so good.

"Hi," Cam mumbled, and you could tell how badly he wanted to call your husband Lieutenant Commander Mustache. Maria on the other hand popped out of her seat to get to the baby.

"She got big," she said, scooping her out of Bradley's arms. "Such a big girl now."

Bradley eyed you over his sunglasses, and his smirk reminded you of last night. "We need to leave soon. They land in less than an hour."

"It's my turn to pay anyway," you said, digging in your wallet for some cash before Bradley handed you his credit card.

"I really hate you at times," Cam murmured, and you had to stifle your laughter.

"I only have love in my heart for you."

He rolled his eyes, but both of you were stifling your laughter now as Maria continued to bounce around with Rose. Eventually you signed the slip and handed it back to Bradley along with his credit card. "I'll see you both at work tomorrow," you promised, picking up your bag as Bradley took Rose back from Maria.

When you walked out of the restaurant, you saw several heads turn in your direction as women stared. "Everyone is looking at the DILF," you whispered.

"Where?" Bradley asked in confusion, looking around with his brow furrowed. 

"I'm referring to you," you replied with a laugh as you walked out toward the red Bronco. He rolled his eyes but put a firm hand on your waist.

"Hang on. I want to buckle you in after I put her in her car seat."

So you waited until he was ready before climbing in the passenger seat, and then he pulled the seatbelt across your body before giving you a kiss. "Thanks, Roo."

He kissed your lips and the tip of your nose. "Let's get to the airport. Last time, their flight was early."

It was smooth sailing down the highway, and Rose was asleep by the time the Bronco was parked in the garage where she was conceived. Of course Bradley made a comment about it as he very carefully scooped her up again.

"Do you want to use the stroller?" you asked, but he immediately shook his head.

"I like carrying her like this."

"I know you do," you said, heart melting as you watched him kiss the top of her head. "I just thought I'd ask."

He carried her with both hands, and you tucked your arm around his waist as you headed inside and looked for their baggage carousel number. "This way," he rasped, and you followed him to the far end of the area. You snuggled in against him while you waited, and Bradley kissed the top of your head this time. "I cannot wait to get you in that fancy hotel room and have you all to myself."

You tilted your face up toward his and kissed the corner of his mustache. "Just so you know, my asshole still hurts."

"Fuck, Baby Girl," he grunted. "You always do this to me. You always say or do something to get me all stirred up right before your parents arrive."

You were about to tell him you had no idea what he was talking about, but you heard your mom calling your name. And when you turned, she was rushing toward you with your dad in her wake. "There they are! Oh, and look how sweet Rose looks!"

Bradley glared down at you, and you bit your lip and smiled up at him. "I'll make it up to you in La Jolla."

------------------------------

Happy birthday, DILF Roo. If you have an idea for something BG can do in La Jolla to "make it up to him", I would love to hear it. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 25

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[adrienneleclerc]

Is it possible to request a Lando one were his girlfriend is a well known voice actress that does video games and anime?

Hello, I will TRY, sorry if this took me a while, if it’s short, and if you don’t like it, but I really hope you like it

Girlfriend Reveal

Pairing: Lando Norris x VA! Reader

Summary: Lando Norris fans lose their shit when they find out he’s dating Y/N L/N, the voice of Tohru Honda from Fruits Basket

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors

A/N: i had to google animes I knew and see if the years coincided, I did my research.

Lando and Y/N met when she was recording the voice of Black Cat in the new Spider Man 2 video game and he was helping design the black and neon yellow suit. They have been dating for a few months and Lando was streaming with Max.

“Oh fuck!” Lando screamed at his computer screen before there was a knock on his door. “Baby, come in, you don’t have to knock.” Y/N opened the door and walked through

“But You’re streaming, i didn’t want to interrupt. I bought us spring rolls and I got myself some seafood pho, which is delicious, might I add, I’ll be in the kitchen.” Y/N said before walking back out and that’s when his comment section went crazy with fans asking who was that.

“Oh, that was my girlfriend, she’s cute, isn’t she?” Lando asked the chat. “Let’s see what you guys are saying, ‘are you dating Y/N L/N?’ Yes, yes I am, our relationship is growing strong. ‘Did you know she’s a voice actress?’ Of course I knew, that’s how we met, she voices the black cat in the new Spider-Man video game. She’s very talented actually, it almost doesn’t sound like her.” Lando laughed at his little joke. “Um ‘where is she?’ She’s in the kitchen, eating her food. Baby, my fans want you, they keep asking questions about you.” Lando said.

“Let me eat my pho and I’ll come back with the spring rolls.” Y/N said. 30 minutes later, Y/N came back with a plate of spring rolls. “Hey, LN4 nation, how y’all doing?” Y/N asked the fans, while Y/N took over Lando’s stream, he was happily eating the spring rolls they ordered. “‘Am I working on anything new?’ Well not really, I haven’t been called to dub another anime, maybe they’re waiting until the anime is done shooting for me to dub, I don’t know. I could be part of a new animated Disney or Pixar movie, I don’t know.” Y/N kept reading the comments until she landed on.. “‘Can you say a line from Fruits Basket?’ Yeah, i Can do that, let me just.” Y/N cleared her throat. “Yeah, I totally Can, i just need to get better at the whole breathing part.” (I looked it up on TikTok) Lando out down the tray of spring rolls.

“My beautiful girlfriend, the voice of Tohru Honda.” Lando said clapping and imitating the cheer of the audience.

“Ha ha, thank you. It was very fun dubbing the voice of Tohru. Sorry to take the attention away from you, Lando.” Y/N apologized, kissing him. “Did you eat all the spring rolls?”

“Of course not, I left you like 7.” Lando said.

“Alright, I’ll just be right here.” Y/N said, sitting down on Lando’s bed to view his stream.

“I’m back you guys. Yes, I know, Y/N is amazing, I haven’t watched Fruits Basket but I will soon, when Y/N isn’t there, obviously.” Lando said, Y/N chuckled. “Well, darling, hope you’re happy, my fans like you more than me.”

“It’s not my fault your fans like anime.” Y/N commented

“I know, I know.” Lando replied.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m your biggest fan.” Y/N said.

“Thanks, darling.” Lando said before returning to his stream.

The End

Hope y’all liked it!

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Feelings and Faults (Wolverine)

Description: Logan loves Y/N but she’s too caught up on the past.

Word Count: 1,020

Requests: Hi I was just wondering if you could write wolverine x reader smut where he is in love/obsessed with her and she has feelings for him but doesn’t acknowledge it because she doesn’t think she deserves to be loved which could be down to past trauma (it’s up to you) but then they confess their feelings inspired by the scene in the Honda Odyssey just without deadpool please it’s okay if not

Author’s note: I didn’t see the smut part until I went to post so that’s not part of the story. But I hope you like it!

She sat in the Honda Odyssey with a drink in her hand. She never really was one for drinking but times like these it was needed. Everyone was either inside planning the attack on Nova or by the fire drinking. She was in the car, alone in thought. Not realizing that she had someone that could never look away from her.

Someone that loved her and wanted to be with her even though she had fault in that. After losing Erik she never felt like she could be loved again or deserved it. But Logan adored her and wanted her forever. In his universe Y/N and Magneto were the happy couple that he let get killed. He always adored her but could never have her.

Now, she didn’t have Magneto in her life anymore and he wanted to be the one to fill the void. He could tell that she beat herself up over it and the blame was on her. Whatever happened between them, he would never believe that she was fully the one to blame. She deserved love and happiness, even if she couldn’t see it.

After his talk with Laura he walked over to the car that he knew she was in and got in the driver side. She looked over at him and saw a bottle of whiskey in his hand and smirked. He was definitely one for drinking. But she couldn’t blame him. “How did I know that you were in here?” He asked and she shrugged. “Despite what Wade says, I think the Honda Odyssey fucks hard.” She said and that made him chuckle.

Wade hated this car but Y/N liked it. “I also didn’t take you for drinking.” She smiled at him and held up the drink, “Cheers to that. I never was a drinker but after things go south it’s nice to have one.” He watched as she chugged the rest of her drink and held out her cup to fill it up. He gladly poured her another glass. “So about the fight earlier-” “Don’t mention it. He’s fine.” “I’m talking about you. Us.” She looked over at him, “What’s there to talk about? You’re right. I beat myself up over a guy that probably never gave a shit about me.” He felt guilt for saying that to her. “In my universe, you guys were married. Had kids even. You two were in love.” She rolled her eyes, “And let me guess we died?” He nodded and cleared his throat, “Yeah. It was awful. I constantly think back to that night and it haunts me.” “It was probably meant to be.” He looked at her, “What do you mean?” “I’m not meant to be happy in any universe.” He wanted to roll his eyes at her and her stupidity but he kept going, “No. That’s me. You sit here and act like nobody loves you and you’re alone but that is fair from the truth.” She looked at him as he finished off the bottle.

“Y/N, In my universe I was in love with you. I wanted you so bad but Erik beat me to it.” Her eyes widened in shock. His words repeating in her head. “The first second I met you I felt it all come back. Only this time Erik isn’t in the way. It’s you.” She chugged her drink before she could get out the words, “What?” It wasn’t a question of her asking him to repeat what he said or that she couldn’t hear him. She simply could not believe the words that left his mouth.

“Don’t act like nobody loves you and doesn’t care about you. I do! And I always will.” She stared at him with wide eyes. Sure, she had some feelings for him but she beat herself up after what happened with Erik. “You’re drunk.” She stated and he laughed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart out to you and you tell me I’m drunk?” She didn’t know what to say to him at this time. “Y/N, Erik was a fucking idiot for not loving you and trying with you. You’re amazing and beautiful and only a dumb fuck like him wouldn’t see that.” Her eyes filled with tears, “You can’t mean that.” She whispers and he sighs, “Well I do. And if Wade wasn’t there earlier than maybe this would have come out sooner.” She turned away from him and sighed.

This couldn’t be real. There was no way he was telling the truth. Was he? She looked up at the top of the car, “The Magneto that Cassandra killed, that was mine.” He turned to look at her, “The TVA had got him before I could save him. I feel like the biggest fuck up about it. It wasn’t that he didn’t love me or wanted to be with me. It was never known but we had something special.

That’s why I was so nervous about coming here. I was so scared that he wouldn’t want anything to do with me and hated me but he’s dead. That’s worse than him hating me.” She was pouring her heart out to him. “I want to believe you, Logan. But I don’t know. After seeing you and you helping us I realized that maybe Erik wasn’t the one for me and that I could have another chance at happiness.”

“You can. I’m right here.” She turned to look at him to find that he was already looking at her. Maybe it was the heat of the moment but she really wanted to kiss him. As if he was Charles Xavier and could read her mind, he leaned in and kissed her. She kissed back and maybe it was the drink or the kiss but she felt herself calm down and realize that this was meant to be. “Erik wasn’t your fault sweetheart. You are not at fault for that. You deserve love and all the happy things in love.” She felt herself smile at his words. “Thank you, Logan.” she whispered and he smiled. “No problem, sweetheart.” He said before they locked lips again.

[moonshynecybin]

What would happen if Marc woke up in a world where sepang never happened...

ooh the classic what would happen if you got everything you wanted scenario… idk i think we could do a time travel sitch, where he gets his ass dumped into his 2013 body and has to set about preventing one of the more` significant little tragedies of his life, but that would also count on marc having the emotional intelligence to think he did ANYTHING wrong in his relationship with vale, and i don’t think he can do that quite yet lol… maybe it has to be a story where he realizes that he couldve handled things differently? in that clip from his recent interview, he talks about how when he was younger he would go flat out every training session but he doesnt feel the need to do so nowww, so maybe hes processing that sort of internal shift while also looking at vale from the perspective of an injured, post-honda marc who has personal knowledge of how hard it is ego-wise to mount a comeback... maybe this inspires some empathy w vale (he's looking at him and realizing THAT vale is only 4 years older than him and hes like. hm...) and the fic ends up being a character study on baby marc vs marc now PLUS actually internalizing all of the lessons he thinks he’s learned… i don’t wanna make this sound like sepang is marc’s fault lol like to be clear i don’t think he did anything WRONG per se, he was just marc level abrasive in ways that specifically rubbed against vale’s tender bits, but i also think that if he handled vale with more care than perhaps some parts of this could have been avoided ! so maybe older marc's presence removes the ranch nasty and the assen nasty (“marc is only my friend when he wins”) and gets vale out of the 'well clearly marc is sabotaging me' mindset. and then at some point marc has to like. TELL vale about all this after sepang has technically passed and vale. perhaps does not handle that well in conjunction w his title loss anyways BUT this version is closer to marc and its a different sort of less public sexy mess....

OR it could be marc gets sent to an alternate reality of 2025 where sepang maybe doesnt happen, but him and vale still kinda implode a little less dramatically and marc is like well this IS what i wanted but it feels hollow as fuck lol. no new, frothing vitriol between them really, like vale will shake his hand and do the same kinda stuff he does w jlo or whatever (vale shows up to the paddock and takes a pic w marc to get reposted on socials bc the press ask and marc is like ??? bc he has never been a somewhat neutral topic to vale before ever in his LIFE… unsure how to deal w the rivalry treatment that jlo or casey or sete get handed. little does he know vale is still insane, he just has less cause to go nuclear lol) butttt marc still had to leave hrc, still alienated from the academy, still breaks his arm… like realizing that sepang isnt this huge axis that the bad things in his life kinda spin on.... and maybe he sets about interrogating all the ways they would’ve broken up even without the heightened melodrama of the sepang race… starts hanging out w vale even though that’s something they Don’t Do Now and vale is surprised but likes it (and is also. still somehow DEEPLY hurt by how everything went down maybe just less specifically delusional/paranoid to cope in conjunction w title loss. idk maybe he won 2015 here and marc was injured for the back half of the season and they both feel weird about kinda drifting apart)... this fic would have lots of fear from them both about the other leaving, the injury stuff, the age stuff--- all the reasons why sepang happened that they never delt with, just without the actual sepang… and i think it could be sweet idk i like it when they’re fucked up but they spend time w each other and it’s like oh it’s you… of course it’s you…. its always been you

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

50 Shades of Red || Chapter 1

pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

summary: A reimagining of 50 Shades of Grey, featuring a healthy, consensual relationship and safe BDSM scenes. And lesbians, of course. Wanda meets Natasha, and their captivating story begins.

content warnings: none

word count: 4.9k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

Chapter 1

Wanda frowned, running her fingers through her hair. The auburn locks mocked her, laying over her shoulders as she ran her eyes over them. There was something wrong, whether it was the curls or the style, Wanda couldn’t tell. Whatever, fuck her hair, and fuck her roommate for getting sick. 

A groan sounded out from the other room, and Wanda let her frustration slip away. It wasn’t Kate’s fault for getting sick, but it just so happened to be at the most unfortunate time. Really, Wanda should be studying for her finals, her textbooks laying open on the kitchen counter. But instead, she was here running her fingers through stubborn hair and mentally cursing out her roommate as she searched for a hair tie. 

The only thing that would save her appearance now was a ponytail, high on her head. Anything to give the illusion of confidence. At least her slight curls would give her hair some dimension. 

Sighing, Wanda let herself look away from the mirror, catching a glimpse of dark circles under her normally vibrant green eyes. Were her cheeks more hollow than usual? She couldn’t tell, but judging by the way her stomach rumbled, she knew she had forgotten about eating in favor of studying for the past few weeks. 

Swiping some concealer under her eyes, Wanda dabbed the product into her skin as she walked towards the living room. Kate was a good roommate, always cleaning up after herself and offering Wanda ice cream after every failed date she went on. But truly, she’d chosen the worst time to get sick. Wanda had volunteered, of course, but interviewing some rich multi-millionaire was not high on her fun list. 

“You’re a lifesaver, truly,” Kate mumbled, her flushed cheeks appearing over the arm of the couch. She’d been running herself ragged, trying to write papers and organize some questions for this interview. It was at Romanoff’s Global Enterprise, a special section for the school newspaper. Goddamn Kate and all her extracurriculars. Now, instead of losing herself in textbooks and notetaking, Wanda was driving 165 miles into Seattle in her shitty old Honda. 

Evidently, the CEO she was meeting today was an enigmatic and charming woman, one of the youngest millionaires in the country. Natasha Romanoff. God, even her name sounded rich. 

“I’m so sorry Wanda,” Kate’s voice was raspy, and Wanda filled a glass of water for her. “This interview took me months to get, and by the time I would be able to reschedule, we’d both be graduated. You know I’m the editor for the newspaper, I can’t give up this opportunity. I’m not even kidding, it's the chance of a lifetime.” Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed. Even though she looks like she’s on death's door, Kate still manages to have flawless skin and long, flowing hair. Wanda feels a pang of sympathy, bringing the glass of water over and swiping a bottle of NyQuil from the counter. 

“It’s okay, Kate. I promise. Take this and go the fuck to bed, you look like you’re seconds away from passing out.”

“Fine, but here are the supplies you’ll need,” Kate reaches for her bag, pulling out a recording device and a printed stack of questions. “Just hit record and ask all these questions, I’ll transcribe everything later when this fever goes away and I can finally think straight.” 

Wanda suppresses the wave of panic that rises in her, taking the questions and recording device with slightly trembling fingers and tucking them safely in her messenger bag. She wouldn’t do this for anyone else, only Kate. 

“Go to bed, I’ll be fine,” Wanda says, her voice not sounding as confident as she’d like. 

Giving her a knowing look, Kate shuffles off towards the bedroom, a blanket wrapped around her. “You’ll be fine, just ask the questions and that’ll be enough information to get you through the interview. And Wanda,” Kate pauses at the door, her tired gray eyes finding green. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’d better get going,” Wanda smiles, her hands shooing her roommate through the door. “It’s a long drive, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Good luck, you’re my favorite roommate.”

“Kate, I’m your only roommate.”

—

The drive is easy, not many people are up this early. The trees whizz past, Wanda’s foot never leaving the gas pedal as she makes her way towards the city. She doesn’t have to be at the interview until two this afternoon, but there’s something intoxicating about driving 15 miles over the speed limit on a bare highway. 

Pictures of a tall, curved glass building float through Wanda’s mind. She was certain that the pictures of Romanoff’s Global Enterprise on Google didn’t compare to the actual building itself, and she brushed off the waves of anxiety building inside her chest. 

It’s a quarter to two when Wanda pulls her car in front of the building. The reflective glass stares down at her, the top of the building too high to see without craning her neck. Large lettering spells out Romanoff above the entryway, and Wanda feels her fingers trembling as she hands her keys to the valet driver. Honestly, a valet driver? How much more over the top could this day get?

Walking into the lobby, Wanda hears the muted click of her low heels as she tugs her dress shirt down. A tall blonde woman walks towards her, a smile plastered on her face as her eyes rake up and down Wanda’s body, no doubt judging her outfit. The woman looks pristine, with a slicked-back ponytail and a subtle hint of mascara. Her blazer is sharp and tailored, and Wanda fights the urge to tug her dress shirt again. 

“I’m here to see Ms. Romanoff, my name is Wanda Maximoff,” The statement comes out as more of a question, and Wanda blushes under the scrutinizing look the blonde gives her. 

“One moment, Ms. Maximoff,” the woman says, her perfect brow arching slightly as she appraises Wanda one last time before turning her attention to the large iPad in her hands. She swipes a few times, a small smile gracing her features as she finds what she’s looking for. 

“Ah, Ms. Bishop was expected, but I see that was changed last minute. Right this way, Ms. Maximoff,” the woman turns, walking confidently towards the elevators. “If you could sign this, please.”

The blonde hands Wanda the iPad, and she quickly signs her name. It looks illegible, and Wanda hopes her signature isn’t going anywhere except to the security office for verification. She fights the urge to fix her ponytail, her eyes landing on the blonde woman’s slicked-back hair tied high on her head. Maybe a quick tightening of her hair tie wouldn’t hurt.

“Press the button for floor twenty.” The woman turns, catching Wanda’s hands as they shoot down from adjusting her ponytail. A graceful smile spreads across her face, “Have a good interview.”

Wanda thanks her, accepting the badge the blonde hands her. It has the words VISITOR stamped across the surface. Awkwardly adjusting the badge until it’s pinned to her jacket, Wanda scoffs internally. As if anyone in this building didn’t already know she was only a visitor. She might as well write the word on her forehead to go along with her outdated shoes and slightly too-large jacket. 

The elevator ride is quick, shooting up towards the twentieth floor smoothly. Wanda is greeted by the sight of yet another pristine, clean lobby. Another blonde woman sits behind a desk, quickly rising as Wanda steps out. 

Running a hand over her hair, Wanda reaches into her bag. She’s never felt self-conscious about her hair before, but after seeing no less than five impeccably dressed blonde women, she can’t help but think she sticks out like a sore thumb. 

Pulling out the recording device and the slightly crumpled stack of questions, Wanda curses herself for not researching Ms. Romanoff. The woman could be ninety years old for all she knew. She hadn’t searched up her name at all, and fights the urge to smooth down her shirt as she glances towards the receptionist. 

The upcoming one-on-one interview looms in the front of her mind, nerves causing her fingers to systematically rub the pages in front of her. Wanda hated attention being focused on her, much preferring the anonymity of a group discussion or a crowded room. Sitting on hard white leather chairs and staring at the city skyline from a large floor-to-ceiling window was not something Wanda would consider as a happy place. 

Wanda wonders if Ms. Romanoff insists on all her employees being blonde as yet another smartly dressed woman appears from around the corner. The blonde’s eyes glance towards her, doing a subtle double-take before smoothly stepping towards her. 

“Ms. Maximoff?”

“Yes,” Wanda hopes her voice isn’t trembling too badly. 

“Ms. Romanoff will see you shortly, can I offer you a refreshment? Coffee, tea, water?”

“Water is fine, thanks.” Her throat is suddenly parched, and she takes the cup from the blonde woman gratefully. 

“She will see you shortly.” The woman says, a small smile plastered on her face as she turns and walks towards the desk. She sits next to the other blonde woman, her attention focused on the computer before her. Wanda wonders if she should call them Thing One and Thing Two as the clacking of a keyboard fills the empty, sterile feeling space. 

A door opens, a tall man stepping through as he chuckles at something. He bids a brief farewell, barely glancing at the blonde woman, who Wanda notices has jumped to their feet in his presence. They seem nervous, one woman ushering the man towards the elevator while the other hurriedly gestures for Wanda to stand. 

“Ms. Romanoff will see you now,” she says and pushes Wanda towards the open door.

Wanda walks through the door, one hand gripping the recording device and the other holding the stack of papers close to her chest. She steps through the door, catching a glimpse of a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows, before she promptly trips. 

Her palms catch her, the papers flying from her hands as the recording device clatters to the floor. Fuck. This was a terrible first introduction. 

The sound of heels steadily approaching reaches Wanda’s ears, and she feels her face burning as she scrambles to pick up the items now strewn across a polished marble floor. Bracing herself, she manages to glance up. 

“Ms. Bishop,” A long-fingered hand is extended. “I’m Natasha Romanoff, are you alright?”

Holy shit. Wanda finds herself speechless, her lips parted as her mouth hangs open slightly. She quickly gathers the rest of the papers, gratefully taking the cool hand with her own as she stands. 

Ms. Romanoff is absolutely stunning. There are no words to describe her, and Wanda feels herself taking in the woman’s appearance. Long legs and a tight, black pencil skirt, an hourglass figure that means this woman spends countless hours in the gym, and a dark green button-up shirt with just enough buttons undone to show the barest curve of her chest. Blinking, Wanda feels herself flushing further, the sight of Ms. Romanoff’s rolled-up sleeves and bare forearms sending her head spiraling. 

“I’m okay,” Wanda manages, feeling her breath catching. She finally manages to drag her eyes toward Ms. Romanoff’s face, finding the barest hint of a smirk and kind, vibrant green eyes. She’s mildly surprised to see dark red hair, and she suddenly doesn’t feel as out of place as she did before. 

Looking down, Wanda startles at the sight of a hand still outstretched. She takes it, shaking firmly as a spark of something runs through her fingertips. It travels down her spine, filling her with warmth. 

“Um, it’s actually Wanda,” she begins, flushing under the sharp eyes that remain locked with hers. “Um, Maximoff. Wanda Maximoff. Kate, I mean Ms. Bishop is sick so… here I am.” She concludes lamely, the barest hint of amusement in Ms. Romanoff's eyes. 

The silence stretches, and Wanda finds herself speaking again. “I study English literature. With Kate, I mean um… Ms. Bishop. At school. Our school, Washington State. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here.”

“I don’t mind.” is all Natasha says, and she gestures towards a leather L-shaped couch. “Would you like to sit?”

This office is far too big for one person, a large desk near the center of the room. Wanda assumes it’s Ms. Romanoff’s. She walks towards the corner of the office, large glass windows extending around the couch and a few comfortable-looking chairs. There’s a dark mahogany desk, with enough chairs to seat a dozen people all around it. She wonders if Ms. Romanoff ever leaves this office, and takes in the minimalistic artwork hanging on the walls. 

“The table was handmade by a local artist,” Ms. Romanoff says, her head tilting when Wanda looks back at her. She flushes, knowing that the woman had been watching her look around the room. 

“It’s beautiful,” Wanda murmurs. “Seemingly ordinary resources crafted into something exquisite.” 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Natasha agrees, her voice low and sounding like melted butter. Wanda finds herself blushing at the sound. 

Distractedly, Wanda sinks onto the couch as Ms. Romanoff gracefully sits on one of the black leather chairs across from her. Her fingers fumble, dropping the recording device onto the wood roughly. The blush must be semi-permanent at this point, spreading across her cheeks and over the tips of her ears as she turns the recording device on. Finding the first page of questions, Wanda realizes that she never read the questions in advance. 

Off to a great start, then.

“I apologize,” Wanda lets a hand run along the side of her head, a ghost action of tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m not really used to this.”

“Used to what?”

“One-on-one interviews, they feel oddly intimate. I’m much more acquainted with blending into the wall in a crowd.” 

“Take all the time you need,” Ms. Romanoff says, a small smile on her face. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Do you mind?” Wanda gestures towards the table, “I would like to record your answers for my roommate, I mean… Ms. Bishop.”

Ms. Romanoff smirks widely at that, amusement dancing on her flawless features. “You already started recording, now you’re asking for permission?”

Is she teasing? It sounds like she’s teasing, but Wanda is too flushed with embarrassment to really place the emotion behind Ms. Romanoff’s words. The woman takes pity on her. 

“I don’t mind.”

“Did Kate, uh… Ms. Bishop explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes,” Natasha settles into her seat, a faint look of boredom overtaking her face. “This interview will be placed in the school newspaper as a feature article since I will be the featured speaker at this year's graduation ceremony.”

Oh. Kate had forgotten to mention that little detail. Wanda hoped the surprise at the news wasn’t showing on her face. 

“Oh, good,” Wanda cleared her throat. “In that case, let’s begin.”

“Yes, let's.”

Is she… teasing? Again? Wanda feels as though she’s been thrust into an alternate dimension. She sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to look more confident than she is. Professional, that’s what Wanda is hoping to achieve. 

“You’re very young to have amassed such an impressive empire.” The words feel almost monotone. Scripted. “To what do you owe your success?” Wanda glances up, and Natasha’s smile falls into a vague look of disappointment.

“In short, business is all about people. I excel at knowing what makes a person tick, and I am an excellent judge of character, Ms. Maximoff. I know how to inspire, and most importantly, how to incentivize.” Natasha’s dark green eyes lock with Wanda’s, pinning her to her seat. “I believe that I must know every detail in order to achieve success, knowledge is power after all. I make my decisions based on logic, not feelings. In short, I know people. I know how they tick, and I know how to inspire them.”

“Well,” Wanda flounders, the answer sounding rehearsed to her ears. God, this woman is arrogant. “Maybe you’re just lucky.”

A startled look flashes across Ms. Romanoff’s face, surprise appearing in her eyes momentarily before it’s brushed away. “I don’t believe in luck, Ms. Maximoff. I believe in my own abilities, and I believe in the team that surrounds me. I select only the best to work for this company, and that is the reason for my success.”

“You sound like someone who is obsessed with control,” the words escape Wanda’s mouth before she can restrain them. 

“I exercise control in all things, Ms. Maximoff,” Natasha says, not a glimmer of humor in her words. Her steel gaze locks with Wanda’s, impassive as she watches Wanda flush again.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Natasha continues as if she never heard Wanda speak. “Immense power is only acquired by those who are convinced that they have the ability to control the things around them." 

Immense power? Yeah, total control freak.

“So you believe that you have immense power?”

“I employ over fifty thousand people, Ms. Maximoff. I am responsible for all of them. This responsibility gives me a certain sense of power. If I decided that a department wasn’t needed one day, such as a social media section of my team, hundreds of people would struggle to find a replacement job. So yes, I have power.”

The complete lack of humility and apparent empathy causes Wanda’s mouth to open, her lips parted slightly in disbelief. 

“Is there a board you answer to?”

“I own this company. I don’t answer to anyone.” Ms. Romanoff raises a single eyebrow. 

Wanda feels herself flush yet again. If she had done any research, she's certain she would have known the answer to that question beforehand. She changes the topic. 

“What are your interests outside of work?”

The sharp curve of Ms. Romanoff’s eyebrow suggests that she knows what Wanda is doing, but the woman answers the question gracefully. 

“I have many varied interests outside of work,” Natasha’s tone is bordering on playful, the slight curve of her lips almost teasing. 

“Well, what do you do to relax?” Wanda asks, rephrasing her question. For some reason, the previous answer sent a flush down her spine. 

“Relax?” Ms. Romanoff sits back in her seat, the heat of her gaze never leaving Wanda’s. “I engage in multiple physical pursuits. I’m a wealthy woman, Ms. Maximoff, I never tire of looking for hobbies.”

Not knowing how to respond, Wanda glances at the next question. 

“You invest in engineering, why?”

Ms. Romanoff’s response is quick and practiced. “I enjoy the creation of things. I like knowing how they work, what makes them tick. How to build and create. I enjoy the process of creating something, adjusting to flaws, and perfecting things.”

“That sounds awfully sentimental.”

“Does it?” That damned subtle smirk is back, and Wanda looks down at the page in front of her. “There are many who say I don’t have the heart for sentiments.”

That makes Wanda look up. There’s a curious expression on Ms. Romanoff’s face. It disappears before Wanda can decipher it. 

“Would your friends say you don’t have a heart?” Fuck. That wasn’t on the list of questions. Kate is going to kill her. 

“Why would you presume they say that?” 

“I assume they know you well, and you’re easy to get to know…” Wanda responds, her heart thudding. 

“Well,” Natasha leans forward slightly. “I’m a very private person, Ms. Maximoff. I go to great lengths to ensure my privacy is well maintained. There is a reason I don’t often give interviews.”

“Then why did you agree to this one?” The question escapes Wanda’s lips before she can stop it, her curiosity taking over.

Natasha leans back, crossing a leg delicately over the other. “I’m a generous benefactor to your University, and in all honesty, Ms. Bishop was extremely insistent. She was relentless in her communications with my PR and assistants, and I admire her motivation.”

Fully aware of how tenacious Kate could be, Wanda curses her out mentally. Instead of studying for her finals, she was sitting in this cold, expensive office and interviewing a successful, rich woman not much older than her. 

Wanda glances at the next question. 

“Do you have a philosophy you live by? If so, what is it?” 

“It's not so much a philosophy as a guiding principle. As Carnegie said, ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I like control of myself and those around me.”

“You sound like the ultimate control freak.”

Ms. Romanoff smiles sharply, a dangerous look appearing in her eye. “I suppose I am.”

Swallowing, Wanda feels as though the woman seated across from her is talking about something else entirely. She can’t quite pinpoint what it is. It frustrates her to no end, but Wanda just shakes her head and continues with the questions written before her. 

“You were adopted,” Wanda pauses, this information is a surprise to her. She risks a glance up. Ms. Romanoff’s face is impassive. “How do you think this shaped the person you are today?”

Biting her lip, Wanda hoped she didn’t cross any lines. Ms. Romanoff doesn’t seem to be offended, but her brows furrow slightly. 

“I have no way of knowing, Ms. Maximoff. My adoptive family is all I’ve ever known.”

“How old were you when you were adopted?”

Natasha’s lips curl into a wry smile. “That is information available by public record.” Her tone is stern, her words sharp. Wanda immediately flushes, feeling like hitting her own forehead against a solid surface. Repeatedly. 

If only she’d done some research ahead of time. Well, no time to dwell on the past. Wanda speaks quickly, suddenly wanting this interview to be over. 

“Does your family life encroach on your work?” 

“It does not.” Ms. Romanoff’s tone is flat and hard, her response quick. 

Wanda feels red-hot embarrassment slink down her spine. She should have looked over these questions ahead of time. Curse her inability to think ahead. She barely glances at the next question before the words are spewing from her lips. 

“Are you gay?”

Ms. Romanoff blinks. Wanda feels her eyes go wide, darting down to the paper in front of her. Why the fuck is that question in here? Why didn’t Kate warn her, or… matter of fact, why did Kate think that was an appropriate question to ask?

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” Wanda trails off, her flush returning. “I didn’t know that was a question. You don’t have to answer that, I’m sorry. Let's move on.”

“I am.”

Wanda’s head shoots up so fast she strains a muscle. It shoots painfully down her neck, but the only thing she’s focused on is the dark green of Ms. Romanoff’s unwavering gaze. 

“You didn’t write these questions.” It’s a statement, and Wanda finds herself nodding. 

“Like I said before, my roommate was supposed to interview you today. These are her questions, for our school newspaper.” Wanda feels her fingers clenching the paper. She hopes she isn’t thrown out of the office. She couldn't bear the shame and judgemental looks the blonde assistants would surely send her way. 

“Are you also a part of the school newspaper?”

“No, I-” Wanda falters, wincing at the dull tone in Ms. Romanoff’s words. “Kate asked me to come since I’m her roommate. She had no other options.”

“That explains a multitude of things,” Ms. Romanoff’s voice is quiet, her eyes boring into Wanda’s.

A soft knock sounds out, the door swinging open as blonde thing number one steps into the office. Wanda immediately resents her presence, a strange atmosphere encroaching on the space she was occupying. 

“Your next meeting is in five minutes, Ms. Romanoff,” The assistant says, not sparing a glance towards Wanda. 

“Cancel it, we’re not done here.”

Wanda looks up, her hands already preparing to sweep the recording device into her bag as she makes her escape. The assistant is gaping, her eyes flicking between Wanda and her boss. Natasha raises a single eyebrow, and the assistant bows her head slightly before leaving and gently shutting the door behind her. 

“I hope I’m not taking up valuable time,” Wanda says, her hands still hovering over the recording device. 

“You aren’t. Besides, I want to know about you.” Ms. Romanoff tilts her head slightly, her lips turning up slightly. “It’s only fair, after all.”

That damned flush makes itself known once again, traveling over Wanda’s cheeks and down her neck. She folds the corner of her paper, the crease sharp beneath her fingers and she bites her lip briefly. 

“There’s not much to know, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Ms. Romanoff’s eyes are sharp, assessing. “What are your plans after graduation?”

Wanda recognizes the escape for what it is and seizes it wholeheartedly. “I don’t have any plans, I’m too focused on exams at the moment.”

“I see,” her voice is low, her posture relaxed, and her eyes piercing. Ms. Romanoff uncrosses her legs slowly, leaning forward slightly. “We offer an excellent internship program here.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, Wanda smiles slightly. “I’m sure you do. Although, I’m not sure I'd fit in here.”

“No?” Her head tilts again, green eyes unwavering. Wanda feels trapped suddenly, the weight of the woman’s gaze pinning her to the couch. She lets out an uncomfortable cough. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” The statement is evasive, but Ms. Romanoff answers without hesitation. 

“Not to me, it isn’t.” Her gaze is heavy, eyes all-knowing and locked on Wanda. There’s a new sort of tension in the air, all traces of awkwardness gone and replaced with something heady. It’s making Wanda’s head spin, and she breaks eye contact with some effort. Reaching towards the table, she turns the recording device off, placing it gently into her bag. 

The tension breaks, Ms. Romanoff standing slowly as Wanda shoves the papers into her bag. 

“Would you like a tour?”

Wanda pauses, her hands stilling. Why is she asking that? Isn’t she the CEO of the company?

“I’m sure you have many other important things to attend to, Ms. Romanoff. Besides, I should get on the road before it starts raining too heavily.” Wanda glances out the window, taking in the dark clouds on the distant horizon. 

“You’re driving back to campus today?” Ms. Romanoff sounds almost concerned. Wanda tries not to stare at her in shock, blinking quickly. The woman clears her throat, an authoritative tone taking over as she speaks. “Be careful.”

“I will. Thank you for the interview.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” she says, polite and dismissive. 

Wanda stands, closing her messenger bag. She takes in the woman in front of her, letting her eyes glance over the impeccable outfit the woman has put on. Truly, she should be taking notes on how to dress in a business formal manner, and she’s got the perfect model in front of her. Blinking that thought away, Wanda takes in the small smile creeping onto Ms. Romanoff’s face. 

“Until we meet again, Ms. Maximoff,” she holds out her hand, gripping Wanda’s fingers in a gentle yet firm hold. 

Will they meet again? Wanda can almost guarantee that they won’t, but something in Ms. Romanoff’s eyes tell her differently. She shakes it off, labeling it as nerves running rampant through her mind. Of course, they wouldn’t meet again. A classic case of a rich, hot CEO meeting a poor college student, their paths crossing once and never entangling again, akin to a set of perpendicular lines. 

“Ms. Romanoff,” Wanda nods slightly, letting the woman walk her to the door. 

Opening it wide, the woman holds out a hand. A small smirk graces her features. “I am averse to my guests tripping more than once in my presence, and I’d like to ensure your safe journey from my building, Ms. Maximoff.”

“Well,” Wanda flounders for a moment. “That’s very considerate of you.”

At least someone is amused, Wanda thinks as she steps through the door. She considers shooting a victorious glance back at the woman, but decides that the action would be too childish. 

Evidently, Ms. Romanoff doesn’t often escort her guests from her office, judging by the surprised looks the blonde assistants shoot their way. It all seems quite suffocating for a moment, and Wanda takes a deep breath. 

A hand on her shoulder halts the escape she is about to make. The warmth from Ms. Romanoff’s firm fingertips sends something intoxicating through Wanda. She hopes the ensuing shiver isn’t too obvious. 

“I have to swipe my card for the elevator to work on this floor,” Ms. Romanoff explains, pressing the down button. 

Of course. That makes sense. Then why is her hand still resting on Wanda’s shoulder? 

Almost as if she’s reading Wanda’s mind - or maybe her body language - Ms. Romanoff releases her hold. Her fingers linger briefly, tracing briefly over her arm as she fixes Wanda with a look. 

The elevator doors open, and Wanda gratefully steps through. Turning, she sees Ms. Romanoff leaning casually against the wall. The sight is attractive, and Wanda finds her eyes lingering on the exposed forearms crossed in front of her body. 

“Wanda,” the woman says, a goodbye, but without a note of finality.

“Natasha,” she replies. 

The doors close.

Next Chapter

---

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[callmrmorrow]

let’s talk about… POOOOOWERPLEX

(spoilers for invincible s3ep6 below, discussion of guilt/grief and death, all invincible-standard topics)

this motherfucker is a point of contention for the whole invincible fandom. do we love him, do we hate him? is he righteous or is he a hypocrite? at what point does the victim become the perpetrator, and is said point when he charbroils his loving wife and child while trying to kill his mortal enemy? is it even all his fault, or is his wife an instigating jane clone from breaking bad who egged him on? and most importantly… how the fuck did the GDA not clock that their new lab worker had loved ones lost in the chicago disaster? give him a psych eval or two, cecil!

also, if he’s so powerplex, how come i can understand him?

okay, all jokes aside, i think powerplex, or scott duvall, if you’re a friend, is a fascinating character. at the beginning of the episode, his formal debut for the show, he’s hanging out with his sister and her niece, gretchen and jessica respectively (another breaking bad nod). we see that his powers are based on transforming impact into electricity, but only in really small bursts. this brings up a fun idea in the invincible world, of natural-born supers who aren’t strong enough to make it big. does the GDA have a file on these guys, or do they spawn in at unpredictable rates within the human gene pool?

it’s super clear that jesse — sorry, scott — loves his family, and it becomes even more clear when they fucking die right in front of him. his entire revenge arc is based on pure misinterpretation and a salt shake of idiocy, because he assumed that invincible holding the severed arm of his (adopted?) sister meant he had torn it from her shoulder socket. easy to misconstrue in the haze of destruction, but really, you can’t tell me that working at the GDA for 1-2 years wouldn’t make you privy to how the fight really went down. short of invincible’s secret identity, of course. fallacy in the writing, and it really would’ve been better if his wife, becky, worked at the GDA instead and got the supplies for him.

also, his wife was 100% egging him on. couldn’t tell you why, maybe she has a power (com)plex herself. she seemed to have her fair share of hate for invincible and the hero system in general. one of the themes of the episode is indeed power, and how it translates into whether or not you deserve to live. the viltrumites are founded on this ideology, mark’s ability to survive is based on his power, but… what if you’re just a normal guy like scott duvall?

“why do you get to live when so many others died? what makes YOU so special?”

this puts me in the mind of deadpool and wolverine’s honda odyssey scene — not the sex allegory — but the part where wolverine is chewing out deadpool and about halfway through his spittle-flush monologue, you can tell he’s talking more about himself than the man he’s castigating. part of scott’s issue is MAJOR survival’s guilt: he only survived because he went to get a coffee. the people he loved, who took care of him all his life, the kid who adored him and whom he really seemed to treat like his own daughter, died and he lived.

half of the issue isn’t even invincible. it’s powerplex himself. this guy probably wishes he died with them. chances are his rage was redirected towards invincible when its initial source was genuine grief and potentially self-hatred. he threw the entire rest of his life into killing invincible, to the point where he arguably faced a mental sunk cost fallacy. i’m sure he did learn that invincible was a victim, but at that point, he’d already poured so much into this that he couldn’t just give up there and then. also if omni-man, the real perpetrator, was gone, then this was the next best thing. his power emulates his own mentality — a very popular thing in this show. his power translates physical impacts — pain — into power, and his story is about how violently and wholly that pain explodes out. even after he burns his wife and child to a crisp, which is arguably the point where he should’ve been like “fuck, stop fighting, it’s so over and this time it’s my fault,” he drives that shock (pun here) outward towards mark again.

aside: why is mark getting packed the fuck up by powerplex? you could ascribe it to his own guilt and perhaps a desire to pay a physical reparation for what he did to scott’s family, and all the other’s families. or you could chalk it up to plot relevancy, where it literally has to happen in order for becky and little baby boy whose name i forgot to die.

and when mark is speaking to scott in prison, he totally fumbles the “let me comfort you, bro” ball. but it is not [title card]’s fault! powerplex’s complex stops him from taking blame for his own actions regarding his wife and son, so he’s only going to be more furious with mark. he pins blame on an external source, and i’m sure this was a learned habit, probably from his wife (i do hate blaming the woman but she did really show some markers of an instigator here. wish that wasn’t the case but it is). i like that the invincible show/comics address the sheer destruction that follows these powerful, high-octane fights, because the s1 finale really was just omni-man showing mark how insignificant we humans are.

“he can’t keep getting away with this!!”

tldr: no, you’re gonna go back and read that.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

nearly, nearly, nearly: dovquez [t]

@dovquezdecember + near

“Dovi!” Marc says clumsily, flashes him a grin—sun-bright, shameless.

Andrea is thinking. He was nearly a champion this season. Nearly, nearly, nearly. But it wasn’t so close at the end, -37 points, and the entire ocean between Marc making a miraculous save and him screaming on the gravel trap.

His fingers spasm around his empty glass, just once. Andrea is acutely aware of the camera glares, of way, way, way too many people around. Too soon to get another one, and the one after that. The frizz of alcohol is heavy in his stomach, leaden.

Marc makes a noise—impossible to make sense of. Andrea blinks, remembers he should answer him any time now. His tongue is stuck on the roof of his mouth, but it isn’t Marc’s fault that everything had to go right today and nothing did.

He drops whatever he was planning on saying. Marc brandishes his own champagne flute, takes Andrea’s empty one for himself. It’s full—lukewarm prosecco, sure, but it’s full.

Andrea—against his own will, let it be said—laughs.

Marc’s eyes go round, shiny. His hand comes down to cling to the sleeve of his suit, where it falls half an inch too long. And he sways towards him, chest brushing against the side of his arm. Andrea cups the small of his back, raises his eyebrows.

“The drinks aren’t good enough for you to be drunk already.” He prods—harmlessly, his voice pitched low.

He could be drunk on everything else, though. His podium, his sixth championship in—God—eight years, Honda delirious over their golden boy.

Marc bats his lashes coyly, pretends to think. “It was a good dinner, don’t be mean.”

It was, is the thing. He stopped counting after the fourth course, the tenth FIM/Dorna exec with a polished smile that congratulated him on a clean, sportsmanlike dispute—probably having the time of their times that it didn’t end in death threats and a sports court.

Andrea snorts. “Drinks are still shit.”

For all that Marc says don’t be mean, the corners of his lips are trying to quirk up again. Just as cruel.

And when he catches Andrea looking, Marc ducks his head away. Tries to hide it.

He’s so—he’s a sharp, shameless little thing. Hurts to cradle him close, cuts his palms to gory ribbons. Andrea clings, anyway. The party has dulled to a trickle of I wish it was me that barely registers. He fancies he can spot the place where Marc kissed the tower on his mouth, his teeth—like Raphael’s blessing.

His stomach rolls with champagne, too little food he wasn’t feeling up for. Sizzles.

“It was a good season, too.” Marc speaks abruptly but quietly. The cut of his jaw turned bullish, stubborn.

He can feel the tension pressed on his side. It’s not even like gearing up for a risky overtake—Marc throws himself into those with wild joy, again and again and again. This is measured, strained. Marc’s spine grows rigid where he’s touching.

Andrea hums. “Are you going to say you’re sorry?”

Marc’s expression slackens, softens with confusion. “What?”

“You look like you might.”

“For winning?” Andrea nods, stares at him expectantly—wills his face to stay flat and unamused and is only mostly sure he succeeds. Marc purses his mouth, lets him catch a hint of teeth and the downturned curve of his lips. “No way.”

And listen—

Andrea shakes his head. He feels that gold-tinted lightness filling the insides of his chest. Maybe he’s drunk, four glasses catching up like outbreaking himself into a highside, but it’s easier now than it was a couple minutes ago, when the champagne tasted stolen, tasted like trackside dust and a mocking round of applause in his garage.

“You are horrible.”

He watches it happen in real time, how Marc pulls a face, how his eyes flutter to look at him and then away.

People call him brutish, impulsive—it’s not true. Just because he was born without a sense of self-preservation doesn’t mean he doesn’t think. Marc is a shrewd thing. Calculating. He wonders what he was trying to find with that look.

But he’s probably a little drunk himself too, or Andrea wouldn’t have caught that minute flinch in his expression. Marc is too opaque for acting mistakes these days.

It is the thing about Marc. Andrea doesn’t know if he’s bracing for a slap or it never coming despite how much he wants it to.

“I don’t think you mean that,” he says—petulantly, imperiously.

Very, very deliberately.

Andrea smiles, squeezes his back. “I do, I do!”

“No, you don’t.”

He does. But Marc is horrible like a tricky corner, or a bull charging in a bullfight. Predictable only in how it scares you shitless no matter how many times you try it. Horrible in that clammy fear you’re going to be swept along. Fucking fantastic when you conquer it—if you do.

It’s there anyway, of course, red-hot, that frustration—the shame in the gravel, in the garage. But Andrea tries to get angry only about things he can control.

Marc winning isn’t personal, is it.

He takes a breath, lets that awkward silence wash over him, over them, releasing that aimless frustration knot by knot. Marc fidgets against him, rehearsing taking a small step to the side, away from him. Andrea considers for a moment, half of one—doesn’t let go of his grip on him, on the fabric of the back of Marc’s suit.

There are cameras, still. Too many people. It’s none of their business—

This is, Andrea reasons, nothing worth hiding.

“It was a good season,” he says, gently—either an agreement or a concession.

Marc relaxes a fraction, does his best to tuck himself against him no matter that he’s a couple of centimeters taller. Finally, finally, he looks at Andrea straight on, with his usual hungry shamelessness, eyes huge and liquid on his face.

“You looked like you were having fun.”

“Here and there,” Andrea shrugs, isn’t even a bit surprised when he feels Marc’s fingers slip under his shirt to hold the jut of his wrist. “I had this pest bothering me.”

He is surprised at how hot those tiny points of pressure feel. His pulse drums against the thin skin of his wrist.

Marc bristles, indignant. “You ambushed me this whole year!”

Here and there, when he could, when he managed to make it work. In Austria, Japan. Andrea made himself steady as a metronome, harmless until he wasn’t—he wasn’t going to outcrazy Marc anyway, might as well try something unorthodox.

“You weren’t very angry about that from what I remember,” Andrea replies mildly. Mock-dry.

Marc nudges him with his shoulder, tries to scowl but melts into a loud, honking chuckle. It’s evidently, incredibly disarming. “Fuck off, I was! You always knew what I was going to try next. I thought you were going to drive me crazy.”

“Not even you can win them all.”

Marc grins—shiv-quick, self-satisfied. He looks like he’s winning this one, whatever this one is. “I can try.”

Andrea is thinking—it isn’t self-pity this time. Feels about just as dangerous. Marc’s touch is insistent, makes him fidgety all the way to the bone. He isn’t even the slightest bit innocent himself either—hand splayed on Marc’s back, the tip of his little finger reaching suspiciously lower than it was a moment ago.

He swallows. Marc tracks the jerky move of his throat, stares at him through his lashes. It is as shameless as it is—unfortunately—effective.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I enjoyed myself?” There’re nails biting into his forearm lightly. A smirk—broad, pink-lipped.

Cocky little bastard, isn’t he?

“You still are.”

Marc preens, forgets—for a slip of a second—to keep his cards close to his chest. Everything about him becomes bright enough to blind, to cast spots in his vision like he’s staring into the sun. He is horribly easy to like, to forgive.

Even through the stab of the annoyance, the tangle of thorns wrapped around his throat that Andrea has to name envy. Even when he wants to shake Marc by the shoulders—don’t you know? Don’t you see what you are? It never sticks. Marc is that dangerous in close proximity.

Looks eager to prove that he is, too. He shifts his head from one side to the other, gauges the crowd. There’s this focused frown on his forehead. Andrea knows him well enough to brace himself. Realizes—too late—that there’s no bracing for an inspired Marc.

“Do you want me to suck you off?” He pauses, bludgeons on when Andrea doesn’t immediately reply. “I want to.”

Christ.

Christ on the bloody cross.

He doesn’t know why he expected Marc to be subtle or careful, but still.

Andrea sputters out a cough, laughs. He can hear the strain in his voice—the complete fucking disbelief. “What? Here?”

It is a yes by any other name. Marc shrugs, chuckles—he’s an insolent thing, fingers straying playfully over his arm, looking so very sure of himself. Of getting what he wants, always.

Smug.

“Why not?” He asks, eyebrows wagging. It is ridiculous. So is the rush of fondness in his chest. The fishhook tug of Marc’s tongue flashing over his teeth.

Andrea isn’t—usually, he amends—so reckless.

“You’re insane.”

Marc stares at him, shark-eyed, unblinking. It slices through him cleanly like a hot knife, like Marc on a left-hander circuit. “You keep saying that.”

And yet goes unsaid.

He breathes in, a little funny, constricted. His fingers spasm on Marc’s back, cling to the smooth downiness of his pressed shirt. Want jolts through him like touching a live wire—he isn’t thinking. It’s the easiest thing in the world to move his hand, eyes on the party that feels like his burial.

Marc chokes on a noise when Andrea untucks his clothes to reach the skin of his back, when his thumb digs into one of his Venus dimples.

“Alright,” he mutters, soft.

The room melts to nothing around him, a kaleidoscopic blur of color and people he doesn’t care about. Marc’s head is bent, tucked close to his own—an inch closer, and they’ll be inside each other’s skin, breathing the same air. Andrea can only think about the pinkness of his mouth—how near it is.

[whimsimille]

THICKER THAN BLOOD

Chapter 2: "Come home to me, darling."

(Jeong Jin-Man x fem! reader)

"Why are you leaving so suddenly?" You questioned, your voice bouncing off the tapestry that adorned the living room wall of your quaint shared apartment and the oak bookshelves filled with classics.

The comforting aroma of a simmering homemade tomato sauce filled the air, mingling with the sound of sizzling pans and the rhythmic chopping of crisp, fresh vegetables on the polished granite kitchen countertop. 

Dressed in a worn-out apricot apron adorned with faded sunflower prints, your hands were occupied with diligently kneading the carefully prepared pasta dough for your dinner, a recipe passed down from your Italian grandmother.

All of a sudden, the living room's normal sounds—the soft purr of Gunpowder, his gray cat curled up on the plush Persian rug, the low drone of the television playing the evening news—were replaced by an eerie silence that made your skin crawl. 

On turning, you noticed Honda in the midst of rushing preparations for departure. He was hunched over the suede couch, lacing up his sturdy boots, his face etched with stern concentration. Against the dimly lit backdrop of the room, his figure blended seamlessly, rendering him no more than a transient silhouette.

"Where exactly are you off to? And what's the urgency?" You signed, your hands dancing in the air while you leaned against the wooden door frame. A knot of unease formed in the pit of your stomach at the sight of his hasty departure.

His gaze met yours, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he signed back, "I have to go. Jin-Man needs me. I can't disclose more for your safety. You know how it works."   

He continued to pack his bag—a small duffel made of worn leather with patches on the corners and straps slung over one shoulder. As he did so, you caught sight of an old photograph falling out of the side pocket; it was of you both from what looked like a summer festival years ago, grinning widely under colorful umbrellas while balloons swelled around you both.

"But can't it wait until tomorrow? Is it really necessary to depart on the day that we get back together after several months?

The worn-out leather of the couch groaned under his weight as he rose, his tall figure casting a long shadow against the faded brown wallpaper. 

Moving towards you, he avoided the cluttered coffee table littered with dog-eared magazines and discarded newspapers. His leather jacket, draped over the back of a nearby armchair, was quickly pulled on, the rusted zipper scraping against the silence of the room.

"No, it can't wait. But I'll be back in time for dinner. I promise." Even as he used a gentle swipe of his thumb to remove a stray splotch of tomato sauce from your cheek, his smile never left his face. “When I return, we can lounge on the couch, munching on popcorn and be engrossed in those old Hollywood classics you're so fond of. You can also show me your progress with that hacking project you've been working on. Maybe try not to fry the motherboard this time?"

"First of all, you better keep that promise. Second,  I’ll hold you to it. Third, for your information, that was a one-time thing!"

"First, I will. It's a promise. And second, I remember it being a three-time thing." He chuckled, his laughter warm like a summer's day.

"Shut up. But tell me, why the secrecy? Why can't you share what's happening? Jin-Man usually keeps me in the loop when a mission comes up.”

Despite your persistent questioning, Honda remained resolute, his face as unreadable as a closed book. He gently loosened your grip on his arm. "Stop nagging me like Mama would. I can't divulge any details. It's not safe. But I need to go. Jin-Man needs me. Don’t you have any government sites to hack? Or do you plan on crashing our systems again?"

"Stop it, douchebag. You're being reckless. We need to tread with caution, especially now more than ever. You know that. And that was not my fault; their security was just… upgraded."

However, he simply shook his head as he smiled at your pout, pulling you into a warm embrace. The cold, hard metal of his brass knuckles, concealed in his pocket, pressed against your side. A chilling reminder of the danger that lay ahead. Yet you refrained from voicing your fears, choosing instead to hold him tight, the rhythm of your heartbeats synchronizing.

"Alright," you conceded, swallowing your protests, "at least take some food with you." Gesturing towards a Tupperware container on the table, filled with steaming eggs and a side of kimchi jeon—both staple dishes in your shared meals.

His eyes softened at your concern, and he took the offered container, pressing a quick kiss on your forehead before making his way towards the entrance.

As he neared the door, a rush of childhood memories invaded your mind. Sometimes you stayed up late whispering secrets under the covers; sometimes you felt his pain even when he was miles away, and sometimes you both fell off your bikes and ended up in the emergency room with scraped knees. They dubbed it the twin instinct, but to you, it was a lifeline, a warning system that alerted you when Honda was in danger.

"Honda, wait!" You called out, your voice echoing off the creaking wooden floorboards. 

The desperation in your plea stirred Gunpowder from her sleep, her tail twitching softly against the worn-out rug as though caught in a dream of chasing unseen mice. Honda turned, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes questioning in the pale afternoon light filtering through the gaps in the old blinds.

A knot of guilt twisted in the pit of your stomach, threatening to crawl out through your lips and fill the room with its bitter taste.

The two of you were caught in a moment where petty bickering had canceled all the plans you had carefully added to your shared agenda. Your hands, once intertwined in unity, had become unglued from one another, your fingers now tangled in the strands of hair sprouting from your head. The hateful words you once spat at each other—words that had plunged through the gaps of your milk teeth—had turned into a somber reality. It suddenly seemed oddly appealing to consider dying in order to keep him around.

"I...I love you, brother," you admitted, the words feeling foreign yet so right. It was something you should have said a long time ago, after your parents' deaths, when it was just the two of you against the world. But you had always been afraid—afraid that admitting your fears would make them real.

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, an unspoken understanding passing between you two. "I love you too, sis," he signed before stepping out into the afternoon, leaving you in the silence of the empty apartment.

While life in the apartment carried on around you—the stove still burning, the TV blaring the evening news, Gunpowder curling around your ankles, licking your calves—you felt tears springing up in your eyes as your thoughts raced.

Come home, Honda. Come home and tell me everything about your day, from the way the sun glinted off the skyscrapers to the way the coffee tasted at your favorite café. Come home and argue with me again, about trivial things like who left the lights on or whose turn it was to do the dishes. Slam your bedroom door like you used to when we were teenagers and stomp around the house in Dad's old boots.

Come home and laugh with me, share those terrible inside jokes that only we understand. Handle your knife in the wrong way, the way you used to when you're not on a mission, when you're just my brother and not a covert operative. 

Come home and hold me again while I cry in your lap about the girls and boys that shattered my heart. Come home to fix the TV you always mess up with those greasy fingers of yours, leaving stains on the remote.

Scream at me if you need to; let out all that pent-up frustration that I know you keep bottled up inside. 

Come home and tell me how you always manage to burn the pasta, making it stick to the pots. Come home and let me nag about your messiness, about the dirty socks you always leave on the floor and about the dishes in the sink. 

But most importantly:

“Come home safe. Come home to me, Honda. Please."

2 months later

Late afternoon light filtered through the window, casting elongated, capering shadows across the glossy surface of your living room's hardwood floor.

Finally, after a whole day cleaning the place and trying to make it more child friendly, you were curled up in the embrace of the vintage couch and a soft, threadbare blanket, a relic from your childhood, was wrapped snugly around you, providing a comforting barrier against the creeping chill.

You idly stroked Gunpowder, who was as much a part of the family as any human member. Her fur was coarse, yet soothing under your fingertips.

Gunpowder was the only other living being that missed Honda as much as you did; her amber eyes held a profound sadness that echoed your own. You were grateful that Jin-Man let you take her from the animal shelter.

She didn't deserve to be alone, not when she had already lost so much.

With the monochrome scenes flickering against the brick wall, the contemporary television set in the room's corner was showing Casablanca.

Nonetheless, your mind was elsewhere, lost in a world of thought, meandering through a labyrinth of candid memories as your eyes were glued to the window, drinking in the expanse of the verdant family farm outside.

In your hands was your favorite cat mug, the one with the chipped ear and faded paint, a sentimental relic from your college days.

It was unusually quiet, the usual cacophony of farm life replaced by the relentless drumming of rain.

Not only was Ji-An nowhere to be seen, but Jin-Man's rusty truck had vanished from its customary location beside the red barn.

A glance at the old, ticking clock hanging on the wall—16:00, way past the time Ji-An usually got home from school—made your anxiety spike.

Just as you were about to pull on your trusty yellow raincoat to go look for her, you saw Jin-Man's truck pulling up the gravel driveway. He got out of the truck, his jacket hanging haphazardly off his broad shoulders, and his jaw clenched in a way that set off alarm bells in your head.

You quickly signed , "Hey! Old man! Good afternoon to you too! Where's Ji-An?" as he stomped past you, heading straight to his office. But he didn't answer; he didn't even spare you a glance.

Following him, you tried to make sense of what was happening, but he closed the office door right in your face. You were left standing there, frustration bubbling up inside you, a sense of foreboding making your heart pound in your chest.

As you paced around the living room, worry gnawing at you, the front door creaked open. Your heart leapt at the sound, and you turned around, expecting to see Ji-An, safe and sound.

But what you saw made your heart drop.

Ji-An walked in, soaked to the bone and covered in mud, carrying her pink backpack—the one her mother had bought for her last Christmas. Her uniform was clinging to her small frame, her hair plastered to her forehead, but she didn't make a sound. Not a sob, not a whimper.

Seeing her, you rushed over, dropping onto your knees to be at her level. "Ji-An, sweetheart, what happened? Why didn't you come home with Uncle Jin-Man?" you asked. A flutter of panic seized you as she remained silent, her eyes downcast. "Did something happen at school? You can tell me. I'm here for you."

“I need a bath, Noona. I don't want to talk about it right now. Is that okay?”

You looked at her for a long moment, the sight of her shivering form causing a lump to form in your throat. Her hair, previously neatly braided, was now a mess; the ties you had made for her earlier that morning were nowhere to be found.

"Yeah… Of course, baby," you reassured her, offering a weak smile.

With a sigh, you slowly rose to your feet and gently took her hand, leading her to the bedroom. You could feel her fingers tremble slightly in your grasp, her small hand cold and damp from the rain.

You then went to the bathroom to prepare a warm bath for her. You quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes for her—a soft purple cotton t-shirt and a pair of comfortable cartoon pants that had cute little teddy bears printed on them. You placed them neatly on the bathroom counter, within her reach.

Once the bathtub was filled with warm water and a generous amount of bubble bath, you helped her undress the wet clothes sticking to her skin. 

While Ji-An enjoyed her warm bath, Gunpowder sat in front of the bathtub. Her amber eyes were focused on the bubbles, her tail twitching with curiosity. Every now and then, she would bat at a stray bubble, her paw slicing through the air with a fluid motion as if it were a game.

With Ji-An safely in the bath and the clothes inside the washing machine, you then went to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner. Using cookie cutters, you shaped the food into fun shapes—a star-shaped sandwich, fruit cut into the shape of animals, a bowl of soup with alphabet pasta. You even managed to make a small salad; the vegetables were bright and colorful. It was a small gesture, but you hoped it would bring a smile to Ji-An's face.

Throughout the days you've been living in this place, you've tried countless times to make Jin-Man and Ji-An eat at the same place, to share a meal like a family. But Jin-Man always avoided you and Ji-An like you were viruses, always eating small things before burying himself on the couch while watching movies all alone or in his office working with Pasin. It was frustrating to see the distance between them, but then again, it wasn't your job to force conversations and lovey dovey moments.

Once the food was ready, you set the table and then sat down in front of Ji-An, waiting for her to finish her bath. She emerged a while later, her hair damp and her cheeks flushed from the warm water.

Gunpowder, having finished her bubble play, twined around Ji-An’s legs as the child sat at the table. You both sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the gentle hum of the washing machine and the occasional clink of cutlery against plates.

Then, to your surprise, Ji-An was the one to break the silence.

"Today, I waited for Uncle Jin-Man to come and pick me up from school. But he was late, and it started to rain. I decided to walk home instead."

You watched as she continued to sign, her hands moving with a quiet determination. " I was walking in the rain when I saw Uncle Jin-Man's truck. He slowed down, but I didn't want to get in. I was upset with him. So, I continued to walk, even though it was raining hard. Uncle Jin-Man stopped and waited for me to get in, but I didn't."

“I wanted him to come out and apologize, to tell me he was sorry for being late. But he just accelerated and went away. I was so angry, Noona. I wanted him to understand how I felt and how it felt to be forgotten."  

"It's okay, baby. It's okay to feel upset. But remember, your uncle loves you very much. Sometimes, adults make mistakes too."

Shortly after dinner, you decided it was time for Ji-An to learn a new task: cleaning the dishes.

Filling the sink with warm, sudsy water, you showed her how to hold the scrub brush and guided her hand to clean the surface of the plates with gentle but firm strokes. You made sure she understood the importance of removing all leftover bits of food and how to rinse each dish thoroughly under the running water.

"Remember, Ji-An, cleaning is also a part of cooking. Once you're done eating, always make sure to clean up after yourself. It's not just about keeping your area clean, but also about respecting the people who will use the kitchen after you. See, we're not just cleaning up our mess; we're also preparing a clean space for the next person, " you signed, watching as she absorbed your words and continued washing the plates carefully under your watchful eye.

When you were done and completed with the task, you noticed that the sky had completely darkened, the bright hues of the day replaced by the deep blues and blacks of night. You gently dried Ji-An's small, pruney hands with a plush, soft towel and led her towards her bedroom. The room was bathed in the warm, cozy hue from the night lamp sitting on her bedside table, casting playful shadows that danced on the walls.

You tucked her into her bed. The fluffy comforter was pulled up to her chin, and you couldn't help but laugh at the way Gunpowder jumped onto her lap, purring contently.

"Noona," she signed, her eyes wide and luminous in the dim light, reflecting the soft glow of the night lamp. "Can you tell me a bedtime story? "

"Of course, sweetheart. Do you have any particular story in mind?" You asked, settling yourself comfortably at the edge of her bed, your hand gently rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"No, you choose, " she shrugged, her small body snuggling deeper into the warm covers.

You mulled over her request for a moment, your mind flipping through the pages of the countless stories you knew. Finally, one came to your mind. "There's a sad yet beautiful story from my hometown about two squirrels. They were mates—lovers for life and the town's favorite pair of animals. They were seen everywhere together, always chattering away in their own language, their tails intertwined. "

With each word, you painted a vivid picture of their life together. You told her about the female squirrel's illness and the male's devotion and his refusal to leave her side even in search of food.

As you narrated, you noticed Ji-An's eyes welling up with a faraway look. She interrupted you multiple times. "Why didn't the male squirrel eat?" "Why didn't he find another mate? " "Do all squirrels do this? "

You answered each question patiently, explaining the depth of the squirrel's love and the depth of his grief. You told her about how the male squirrel mourned for his mate, returning to their empty nest alone each year.

As you reached the end of the story, you noticed Ji-An's eyes growing heavy. Her questions became fewer and farther between, her chest moving slower until she slept. Still, she was twitching ever so slightly, hands closed and then jerking open in a rhythmic pattern that spoke volumes.

In an attempt to provide some comfort, you laid down next to her, being careful not to jostle her too much. You wrapped your arm around her small form, pulling her closer to your warmth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of yellow and red. The hyena. It was lurking in the corner of the room, its eyes gleaming malevolently in the dim light, eager to haunt you too. You didn't even turn to look at it. It was there, but it wasn't real. You knew it.

"Goodnight, Ji-An," you murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead, placing her bunny toy in the place where you'd been seconds before. "Sleep tight, sweetheart," you added, stroking her hair soothingly. "Noona's here. You're safe."

You switched off the night lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the window.

As you left her room, you closed the door gently behind you, leaving the hyena and the remnants of your past locked away.

Easing back into the worn porch chair, the fabric of Jin-Man's purloined shirt fluttered against your skin in the cool night breeze. A stolen moment of solitude, with nothing but a half-burnt cigarette for company. 

The embers at the tip flickered, casting an eerie glow in the darkness. Drawing the cigarette to your lips, you inhaled, letting the sharp tang of nicotine coil around your senses and momentarily dull your worries. 

Eyes shut, you allowed your thoughts to drift to the intricate web of coding and changes you had to make in Murthehelp.

The only sounds were the distant hum of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves under the night sky's vast expanse. Yet, this tranquility was abruptly shattered by the encroaching sound of hushed footsteps gradually growing louder. Your eyes fluttered open to see Jin-Man standing before you, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the cigarette nestled between your fingers with a look of distaste as if you had the devil's hands between your lips.

A chuckle escaped you; the sight of Jin-Man, usually so composed, visibly irked by the cigarette, was enough to momentarily diffuse the tension. "Insomnia again?" you asked, flicking the ash off the cigarette with your thumb.

His hardened gaze didn't waver as he retorted, "I was waiting for you to come to bed."

You shrugged nonchalantly. Since your suicide attempt, Jin-Man has taken it upon himself to keep a watchful eye on you. The concept of solitary sleep had become foreign to both of you.

“What's eating at you?" he asked, his gaze softening slightly.

"Why did you abandon Ji-An at school?" 

"I got tied up and lost track of time," he replied, but his excuse fell on deaf ears. You scoffed at his words, well aware of the truth. He hadn't forgotten; he probably thought leaving Ji-An to trek home on her own would toughen her up.

"That's a load of crap, and you know it," you retorted, stomping out the cigarette under your feet. "Do you think making her walk home alone in the rain is going to make her stronger? Is that your grand plan?"

His silence was a response in itself, resonating in the quiet night air louder than any words.

"You are unbelievable, Jin-Man," you muttered. The scent of fresh paint and pine filled the air. It was a far cry from the gunpowder and blood that once filled your memory. But you couldn't help but crave it sometimes, even if it meant pain. Pain meant life; it meant survival. "You keep pushing her away relentlessly, like a stubborn child refusing his vegetables. You're so preoccupied with making her tough and resilient that you forget she's just a child. She needs your love and your understanding. You forget that she can't even communicate normally and that her aphasia is only getting worse! You don't even let me talk with her teacher, and don't pretend I don't know about the bullying she's enduring at school! We're not in Babylon , Jin-Man! We're in a small town where everyone knows everyone else. For heaven's sake, grow up!”

He retorted, his voice sharp as a blade, slicing through the heavy silence. “You should be more concerned with managing your own aphasia and PTSD. Ji-An’s not your responsibility. She's not related to you by blood. Drop this saintly act of playing mom. We're not her parents. This isn't a dollhouse and we're not Ken and Barbie.”

"Act? I kept Ji-An alive after her parents died! I trained her to communicate again! And even though it's hard, I've made her eat properly and taught her how to brush her teeth and do her homework again! I've been here for her every step of the way! You just... sit in your office or hide in your room!"

His jaw clenched tightly before he spoke again. "You think that's all it takes? Just feeding her and teaching her sign language?" He spat out angrily. The tip of his tongue traced his bottom lip as he continued speaking harshly, "It's not enough! She needs discipline! She needs structure!"

You shook your head violently. "She has enough structure! She needs us, Jin-Man! She needs our support, our guidance. She doesn't need a soldier; she needs a parent!" 

His face tightened, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. 

"Are you that afraid to care for someone, that afraid to love again? Are you hiding behind your uniform, your duties because you're too scared to face your own feelings?"

"Don't play with fire. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do! And do you think Jin-Suk would like to see his daughter being trained as a warrior rather than growing up as a normal girl?" you challenged, your voice echoing with the strength of your belief.

The mention of his brother struck a nerve. A flash of anger crossed his stony features, and before you knew it, he was charging at you like a wild animal. 

Suddenly, Jin-Man's hands shot out, pushing you roughly against the wall. Your back slammed into the gnarled wooden planks, the splintered texture scratching against your skin. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through your spine, causing you to gasp as the wind was knocked out of your lungs.

"Why are you doing this, Jin-Man?" 

In response, his large, calloused hands wrapped around your throat in a vice-like grip, cutting off your airway. His fingers pressed against the delicate skin of your neck, the strength in his hands threatening to crush your windpipe. It felt like you were sinking into an abyss, the darkness of his rage engulfing you, making it impossible to breathe.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to pry them off. But his grip was unyielding; his hands felt like iron bands around your neck, tightening with every second that passed. As you gasped for breath, your vision started to spin, the edges blurring as black spots danced in front of your eyes. Your lungs felt like they were on fire, screaming for air.

Panic surged within you, a tidal wave that threatened to consume you. Time seemed to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity as you struggled to draw breath.

Finally, his grip loosened just slightly, allowing a sliver of oxygen to rush into your lungs. You gasped; the taste of air was like ambrosia—sweet and life-giving. Coughs racked your body as you struggled to regain control over your breathing, your throat raw and your chest heaving. The salty tang of tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision.

But you refused to back down, to give in to the fear. You locked eyes with him, defiance burning in your gaze. "Go ahead, Jin-Man, continue," you spat out, your voice raspy from the assault. "Kill me. But know this: my death won't change the truth.”

“Jesus, you're so weak, girl.”

A chuckle found its way through your bruised vocal chords. “Yeah? Wanna see who's weak then?”

Summoning every iota of your willpower, you retaliated against his suffocating hold. Your fingers clawed at his wrist, nails digging into his skin as you strained against his formidable strength. 

After a fierce and desperate struggle, your adrenaline-fueled power seemed to catch him off guard. With a sudden explosive kick, you managed to wrench yourself free, pushing him violently away from you.

Caught off balance, Jin-Man stumbled backwards. His feet skidded across the wooden floorboards, and his body crashed into the pot of vibrant lilies you had carefully chosen from the local market to adorn the porch. The pot shattered on impact, fragments of terracotta scattering across the floor, intermingling with the uprooted flowers and loose soil.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds were the soft rustling of the brutalized lilies and the quiet patter of dirt falling onto the floor. But inside? Inside of you, the hyenas laughter echoed through your mind, mocking you for getting what you deserved—too used to chaos and violence.

The sight of the destruction seemed to snap Jin-Man out of his rage-induced stupor, his furious gaze softening as he took in the aftermath of your altercation.

"I'm done," you said, breaking the silence. "I'm done with this, Jin-Man. I'm done with your anger, your stubbornness, and your refusal to let anyone in. I'm done with the constant battles, the endless wars. I'm grabbing my stuff and leaving."

“Y/N…” He trailed off as he grabbed your arm roughly, pulling you around to face him. Your bodies were just inches apart now, his breath hot on your cheek as he pleaded silently.

“Don’t. Just shut your mouth and let me go. I'm not your Barbie, right?” Each word was punctuated by the bitter taste of blood as you absentmindedly touched your raw throat.

“You can't sleep alone.”

“I'll manage.”

“You can't remember when you last ate.”

"I'll set a reminder.”

"You can't drive without crying."

"I'll get a taxi."

"Ji-An needs you."

I need you.

"She needs you more."

"And you, Jin-Man," you added, the sting of your words sobering the air. "You need to realize that before it's too late."

----------------

April 3:

"Are you serious? Did I actually have to buy another chip to send you messages? You know, the store owner looked at me like I was crazy."

1 missed call from Ahjusshi

April 5:

"Ji-An keeps asking for you. She asked me to tell her the story about the couple of squirrels. You know, the one about their endless love and devotion."

2 missed calls from Jeong

April 7:

"Pasin showed me the link to the site. It's pretty quick and easy to access. Even an old man like me can make requests for guns, right? Technology these days, eh?"

April 11:

"She asked me to put on Casablanca. It's one of your favorites, right? I remember Honda telling me that you're addicted to Hollywood classics.”

“Gunpowder keeps sleeping on your side of the bed. I hate it.”

3 missed calls from Jeong Jin-Man, son of a bitch

April 22:

"I have a mission for you. It's critical and requires your skills."

"Can you come home so that we can discuss the details? There's something about it I can't trust in a message."

8 missed calls from the son of a bitch

“I guess I will ask So Min-Hye to replace you then. I know you wouldn't want that."

May 7:

“Ji-An's teacher told me that you visited her today. Did you really make two boys eat dirt by grabbing her money?”

“I could've helped.”

May 9:

“Went to the market today and heard Kyung Soo say that you're a good kisser. I had to stop myself from laughing."

“I heard from the locals that he went to the hospital after being knocked out. Strange, right? Or should I say, expected?"

May 16:

"Gunpowder brought a dead bird into the house. I think she's trying to replace you as the hunter of the family."

May 21:

"I saw a girl at the market wearing a dress you would like. It had sunflowers all over it. Made me think of you."

"She was about your age, too. For a moment, I thought it was you ."

-------

As Jin-Man speeds in the direction of Ji-An's school, his heart pounds against his ribs like a war drum. His knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his forehead slick with beads of sweat. He curses himself silently, berating his own negligence.

How could he have not noticed that Ji-An hadn't come home?

The typical view of the small city blurs past him, the houses and trees merging into a hasty collage of colors under the evening gloom. The town's bakery, the park where the children play, and the old library all blur into indistinguishable shadows. But he barely registers any of it. His mind is filled with vivid images of you screaming at him for this oversight.

He imagines your small fists beating at his chest, your eyes—those captivating eyes that he secretly admired—flaring with anger and worry. 

“How could you forget her again , Jin-Man? She's just a child!"

The guilt, like a ravenous beast, gnaws at him, driving him to press the pedal harder. The old engine protests, its roar echoing through the tranquil evening. 

Suddenly, he remembers his phone.

Snatching it from the passenger seat, he dials your number hastily. The line rings once, twice, thrice, but there's no answer. He fumbles to leave a voicemail, his voice shaking slightly as he speaks into the device. "Hey, I… messed up. Ji-An... I… Just call me back.”

The voicemail ends with a beep, leaving Jin-Man alone with his thoughts and the eerie silence of the empty road. He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat, his eyes never leaving the road.

Nearing the school, his eyes flicked to the digital clock on the dashboard—it read 19:00, the hour when the last echoes of childhood laughter usually fade away. But now, the school grounds were eerily silent and deserted, a stark contrast to the daytime symphony of playful shouts and laughter. The playground, usually a vibrant hub of activity, was painted with somber shades, the swings swaying lightly in the breeze, their squeaky chains the only sound piercing the silence.

As he swung into the school's parking lot, a small figure suddenly sprang from the shadows, frantically waving his arms. 

A boy was shouting, his voice hoarse and strained, as he pointed towards the grimy basement door at the rear of the school building. "She's locked there!"

Without a second thought, Jin-Man abandons his car, leaving the engine running as he sprints towards the basement door. The door is locked, but within, he can hear Ji-An's voice, her pleas echoing through the desolate night. 

"Jeong Jin-Man! Jeong Jin-Man! Jeong Jin-Man!" she is calling, her voice scratchy and strained, likely from the first use of her vocal cords in months.

Frantically, he scans his surroundings. His eyes land on a fire safety box nearby. Inside, he spots a hammer. 

With no time to spare, he smashes the box, glass shards raining onto the worn-out asphalt. He grabs the hammer, using it to break the rusted chains and unlock the door. 

In a final heave, he throws the door open, revealing Ji-An inside. Her cheeks were flushed red from crying and her eyes were brimming with a mix of relief and fear.

She doesn't waste any time rushing at him, her small fists pounding against his chest. He doesn't move; he doesn't try to stop her. She's screaming at him, her words punctuated by her furious hits: "Why did you take so long? You promised you were coming back soon! Why did you arrive so late? Why did you let her go? Why did you let Noona go? Why? Why?"

He could only look at her, absorbing her words and feeling each syllable like a physical blow. Her pain, her anger, and her confusion were all directed at him. 

Then he did the only thing he could think of—the only thing he thought you would have done in this situation. 

He pulled her into a tight, protective hug.

For minutes, he doesn't say a word until he grabs her, holding her close.

Turning to the boy, he nods, "I'll give you a ride home."

The journey to the kid’s home was silent, save for the muted hum of the car's engine and the occasional rustle of cloth against leather. 

Ji-An was huddled against the passenger seat, her body trembling slightly. Noticing this, he pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her small frame in the same way he did for you.

After dropping the boy off and Ji-An finally falling asleep, he drives aimlessly. The city lights flicker past in a hazy blur, their glow casting fleeting shadows on his face. He thinks of you—your laughter, your anger, and your determination. It's strange, he thinks, how the absence of someone can fill a room, a house, or a life.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sudden ringing of his phone.

Glancing at the screen, he sees your name flashing. He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the decline button. 

But then he remembers how things used to be and how it felt to hear your voice without the weight of regret and guilt. He misses when your name didn't make his chest ache, when it was just a name he heard now and then but held no significance to him.

He yearns for the days when he didn't know you, when his eyes didn't instinctively scan every room he entered in hopes of finding you there. He misses the sight of you standing among strangers, wearing that ridiculous skirt he used to tease you about but now finds himself missing.

He finds himself longing for the mundane details. How you'd take off your shoes at the front door, placing your keys with care in the small glass bowl on the corner of the kitchen counter. How you'd drape your coat over the back of a dining room chair, your socks left at the foot of the bed next to the sleeping cat.

He misses holding back your hair as you succumb to the side effects of your PTSD pills, your body rejecting the chemicals meant to help you cope. He yearns for the times when you would climb under the white blankets with him, forcefully opening his arms to encase you between them.

He misses how you would place your legs on top of his and let your hands wander to his waist and chest. He misses hearing you say, "I missed you," telling him about your day as you would slowly drift off to sleep. And he longs for the times he would secretly kiss your cheek softly before he inevitably had to leave you for work.

He misses when you were simply strangers—not two people who act like strangers in public but once knew each other better than they ever knew themselves. He misses the simplicity of those days and the innocence of not knowing what it felt like to lose you.

Because, in the end, when the lights are off and his eyes flutter shut, the back of his mind always whispers your name, calling out to you like you are the only place he was ever meant to call home .

When he finally decided to answer the call, he placed the phone on the dashboard, the worn leather creaking under the weight. He switched to speaker mode, the familiar chime filling the small space of the car. 

"Hello?"

Tinny and distant over the phone speaker, you responded almost immediately. "You left a voicemail. What happened?" In the background, he could hear the faint, unmistakable sound of a lighter flicking open and the soft hiss of a cigarette being lit.

"Your voice sounds rough," he commented, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere with a touch of humor. "How many days have you been communicating only with sign language?"

"Shut up, motherfucker. What about Ji-An?”

"I…" he started, faltering. The words he needed to say were stuck in his throat, like a bitter pill he couldn't swallow.

“Look, Ji-Man. I have nothing to do with you anymore. I’m calling you back because you sounded like a wounded little bitch and you said her name. Drop the show and spit it out.”

“I failed again, okay?" The confession spilled out of him, the words tasting like defeat. But he couldn't stop there; he had to finish what he started. "But, look, Ji-An spoke.”

He could almost hear your sharp intake of breath and the sound of the cigarette being hastily put out in the background. There was a long, drawn-out silence, the kind of silence that spoke volumes. He could imagine your surprise—the way your eyes would widen slightly, the lit cigarette forgotten in your hand. But when you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, filled with a strange mix of relief and trepidation.

"She spoke?"

"Yes. She called out to me. She used her voice, and she spoke."

"Look, I'm not going to pretend that everything is okay between us," he continued, his voice gruff, "But I'm also not going to pretend that we don't have a shared past. One that involves a little girl who misses you."

"You're such a bastard. You know how to manipulate me using her," you snapped, the sound of a chair creaking in the background signaling your agitation.

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the fact that Ji-An misses you. And you miss her too, don't you?"

A silence followed his words—not an uncomfortable one, but a silence filled with unspoken words and a shared history. And then you sighed, a deep, heavy sigh that echoed with the weight of your unspoken thoughts.

"I do miss her. But you, Jeong Jin-Man, are a pain in my ass.”

He couldn't help but chuckle at your words. "I've been told that before."

"I'm sure you have."

Another silence filled the line, comfortable yet heavy with years of shared experiences.

"By the way," he added, his voice softer now, "the key is still under the cat statue you put by the front door. You can drop by anytime."

"I'll think about it. But don't expect me to come running back, Jin-Man. We're not the same people we used to be."

"I know. But we're still us, aren't we?"

"We're something ," you admitted, a sigh slipping past your lips. "But I don't know what that is anymore."

"Neither do I. But maybe we can figure it out together, old lady."

"Old lady?" you scoffed, a hint of amusement in your voice. "Coming from a man who's 10 years older than me."

"Years are still years," he teased, a smile playing on his lips. "But whatever we are, Y/N, whatever we become, you're still… something to me. And so is Ji-An. Remember that."

"I will. I will, Ahjusshi."

[elysptical]

-

Mingyu shows contempt for your new boyfriend. He usually is at least trying to hide his feelings but lately he’s been off his fucking rocker.

The way he was pulling apart “Nathaniel”s every idea and showing everyone just how much power he has.

“You’re being childish”, is the only thing you say over the phone and he seethes through the receiver. You were right, but the sounds of, what he could only assume is, your lover in your kitchen cooking with cookware he bought for you…he was gonna be sick.

“Look I gotta go is that all?”, he huffs over the phone. If you wanted to play stupid he could be stupid too.

“Wanna see what I bought for my first holiday with Nathaniel?”, the name just tasted sour in his throat.

“-too late I’ve sent them..have a great night.”

You were never solely his, this he understands. She treats you like a dog, following her around salivating for any signs of affection. And she thrived on that, using it to get off, literally and figuratively.

“Fuck.”

He loved this game today though, cause you brought it all to the table with the tightest orange bikini in your way to big bathroom mirror he helped install. (Mingyu has always been a reoccurring figure in your life.)

He hearted the picture and threw his phone against the bed. Maybe he should just take a nap and this will all go away. Even though it’s his fault you’re here to begin with.

He finally gets a real chance and he blows it like a bad romcom and then with busy schedules weeks go by…then a month or two. And now Nathaniel is giving you okay sex in a house five blocks from his penthouse. Why was the universe so cruel?

He could cancel his meeting with Forbes tomorrow and really get you out of work. Maybe see the South of France? Nice? Damn the way your ass would look in a tiny french dress.

He sends a rushed email to his assistant’s assistant and gets on his softest slippers. The power-house engine in his european sports car roars to your place in minutes and hushes when he parks and books it to your front door.

You own a condo in a gentrified building and the doorman has seen his face more than his own. His foot taps on the way to the sixth floor before the ding signifies his arrival.

Your door is covered in the cutest pink wallpaper and trimmed with decorations left over from Valentine’s day. He bangs on the door and the voices behind the door get closer then die down. There is some yelling and the door flies open out trotting an angry little Nathaniel to what he can only assume is his shitty honda across the street.

“Stupid bitch-“ he mumbles away and Mingyu is left to face you in the doorway. Body covered in a plush lilac robe.

“You wanna go handle that?”, his eyebrow cocks down while he leans his arm above you both.

“Shut up”, you turn around and sigh into your home, “You coming in or what?”

[sepublic]

The Collector truly is a great example of “Antagonist being a slightly skewed Protagonist” because they’re essentially Luz if she got a taste of real power* after lacking agency and being restricted her whole life. They’re not malicious and they play the exact same adventures and want to befriend people, but the Collector’s recognition that they’ve been unfairly mistreated has led to them using that as an excuse to refuse any criticism or boundaries.

(*Even before imprisonment, the Collector didn’t have power in a relative sense; They were surrounded by people much stronger who were always imposing limitations of some kind. In the end power is relative, so while their strength is the same now as it was then, the difference is that now, all the people around them are mortals who can’t really challenge the Collector. Hence, they have a taste of real power for the first time in their life in King’s Tide.)

The Collector is a younger Luz who recognized that she was mistreated unfairly and has a metric ton of power, meaning the mistakes every child inevitably makes in their journey to maturity ended up being far more harmful than most adults, because that’s the thing isn’t it? Part of the reason isn’t just that kids don’t know better just yet, it’s also that they’re too ineffectual to commit any real harm due to their social status and physical limitations, so what if neither of these were a factor? How quickly then do we forget forgiveness and patience, and how long does it take to remember them, and re-offer grace?

In that sense, the Collector is like Ishiro Honda’s quote on monsters; “Monsters are tragic beings; they are born too tall, too strong, too heavy, they are not evil by choice. That is their tragedy.” A being too big and powerful for this world, in a world too fragile and soft for them, and thus every slip up is devastating and there’s so much more onus to bear. And it’s impossible not to make mistakes. A regular child acts out and someone’s day is ruined, the Collector acts out and a whole world is traumatized and a bridge burnt.

And with how Luz felt the same, how Luz felt like she makes simple mistakes that spiral into things far beyond what she could’ve imagined? A good deal of which isn’t really her fault, and/or the odds are inherently stacked against her, because of something different about Luz? She never intended to hurt anyone with snakes and fireworks, and maybe it could’ve been so much worse and it would’ve been just bad luck that it was those things she chose to impress people, and not something “normal” that was less who Luz was.

So she gets it. She really does.