#and it’s the same with reading his stuff

[apatheticsunday]

Cartoons and Cereal

AKA "Dick Grayson adopts recently de-aged Danny Nightingale. He doesn't anticipate Danny being a little... not entirely human." Prompt idea! Might be a multi-part series. :)

Dick never thought he'd be a parent at the age of 22 but the moment he saw Danny's feral little snarling face at the Bludhaven precinct, it's like he turned into Bruce Wayne. In more ways than one. Dick vividly remembers giving Bruce a heart attack by jumping from the manor's upper balcony onto the chandelier, how he cackled in glee at Bruce wide-eyed expression of terror. Watching Danny float off the couch and then drop in mid-air probably has Dick making the same expression as Bruce in that moment.

The frying pan clatters to the stovetop, pancakes flopping out, as Dick swings over the kitchen island and flings himself over the sofa - just in time to catch Danny before he brains himself on the coffee table. Dick doesn't catch himself before he releases a loud, terrified and relieved, "Fuck!" Danny immediately gasps and loudly proclaims sw'ar jar, sw'ar jar!

"I know, bud. I-," Dick squeezes Danny to his chest. His heart is still beating unbelievably fast and his palms are sweating. "Just give me a minute, okay, buddy?" This has to be some kind of revenge for all the stuff he put Bruce through as a kid. Danny squirms as Dick thinks about the next steps: obviously, he has to test for the meta gene, register with the state, and maybe get in touch with Clark about teaching Danny how to control his flying ability. But Clark will tell Bruce and Dick hasn't even told Bruce-

Danny bites him. Dick yelps, dropping the kid onto his sofa again, and thinks this is definitely payback as Danny cackles. Danny reaches his arms up and grins with a menacing little twinkle in his eye that definitely means pick me up so I can bite you again. Dick resists despite how cute (and terrifying) his kid looks. Then, he smells something burning. Specifically, their pancakes, which are now scattered on the floor and on the burning stove coils.

"Ah, shoot. I'm sorry, bud." They both stare at the burnt pancake before Danny starts poking the floor pancakes. Well. There goes the last of the instant pancake batter. After stopping Danny from eating the floor pancake (multiple times, eventually stacking a couple of his gym weights on top of the trash to Danny won't go digging in it), Dick proposes breakfast at the little brunch place downtown. Danny only grunts in answer because he's too busy struggling to lift the lid of the trashcan.

Haven Coffee it is.

He probably should've expected somebody to take their picture, but seeing the image of Dick and Danny plastered on the Gotham Herald's website makes his blood run cold. It's almost like a horror movie. Reading the news article (Golden Boy Richie Grayson following in his father's footsteps with adopted son Daniel Grayson... recently orphaned son of renowned scientists... suggesting a custody battle between absentee godfather and Gotham's Golden Boy...), Dick feels sick. He's never been violated like this in Bludhaven. In Gotham, as Bruce Wayne's son? Sure. In Bludhaven, as Dick Grayson? Never.

The picture is just as damning (and beautiful. Dick would frame it, keep it in his wallet and tucked into the mirror of his car, if it weren't such a violation of his and Danny's privacy). Dick and Danny look like they've lived together for years. Danny, chocolate smear on his cheek and looking up at Dick with sparkling sugar-crazed eyes. And Dick, propping the kid on his hip while they walk to the car, looking down and thumbing at the smear with such adoration that it's clear to anybody looking Dick loves his son dearly.

(Maybe Dick will frame it. He's still going to sue the shit out of Gotham Herald, but Danny's tiny face looks the happiest he's ever been. Double chocolate chip pancakes tend to do that.)

He's almost, almost surprised when his phone starts ringing as soon as he finishes the news article. Afterall, Dick is hardly the only one who reads the news and he knows half his siblings have alerts set for anytime their names pop up in civilian or vigilante identities. Tim's caller ID pops up, quickly followed by several texts from Barbara, Steph, and Duke. He knows Jason and Damian will probably take some time before reaching out. Dick feels a small twinge of guilt for not telling them, but they have a... complicated relationship. Dick has always been more of a parentified figure, solidified more so when Dick stepped in as Batman for a time, than a sibling.

Danny huffs out a heavy sigh on the couch next to him. He's still asleep from his sugar crash earlier, cuddling with his elephant Zitka and dog Haley, as Scooby Doo plays softly on the TV. Dick gently combs Danny's hair back from his face - grimacing slightly at sticky chocolate stuck to a couple strands, how did he manage that?? - when his phone dings for the last time.

This was the text Dick was waiting for.

Dinner tonight at 7pm. Bring Daniel.

Dick glances back to the grumbling lump beside him, smiling slightly as he tickles one small socked foot sticking out from the blanket. He gets a little bunny kick and a louder grumble for the trouble. Another ping and Dick's lips twitch at the hastily added Please. It looks like Alfred beat some common sense into Bruce after all.

He types back K and tosses his phone onto the coffee table. Pats the lump. "Danny, are you up for meeting grandpa?"

It's time to face the music.

(Danny sleeps for another thirty minutes before Dick can't resist bugging him, enduring bunny kicks and tired grumbles. It takes bribing Danny with Alfred's cookies and pizza for dinner to get him out of the blanket nest. Dick hastily calls Alfred to please, please, please make cheese pizza for dinner. Yes, Alfred, really, just cheese. Oh, god, thank you. See you later tonight. They have just enough time to wrestle an owl-eyed Danny into the bath and some non-chocolate-smeared clothing before dinner.)

[cbeargyu]

daddy's babygirl

summary: your childhood teacher jake is now your stepdad, and when you’re alone, you share a secret, forbidden, intense affair filled with domination and desire.

pairing: stepdad!jake x stepdaughter!fem reader

genre: smut, explicit adult content, forbidden stepfamily relationship, teacher/student past dynamic, dom/sub with daddy kink, slow burn, secret affair, angst, drama, heavy sexual themes, multiple positions, oral, creampie, emotional manipulation.

warnings: explicit sexual content, incestuous stepfamily relationship, non-consensual power dynamics implied, age gap, dirty talk, degradation, strong language, exhibitionism, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, emotional manipulation, secrecy, potential triggering themes.

STRONG WARNING!! this content contains sensitive themes such as forbidden family relationships, power dynamics, and explicit sexual material. if these topics make you uncomfortable or aren’t your preference, please do not read or leave hateful comments. respect and understanding appreciated. thank you.

wc: 5k

notes: don’t ask me where i got the inspiration for this lol 🤣 ok no for real i hope you like it, i’ve had this idea for a while but hesitated bc of how sensitive the topic is??? even tho i’ve read a lot of similar stuff here, i know it’s kinda taboo or frowned upon. but it’s all fiction and i write it for those who enjoy my content :) thank you all!! please leave your thoughts!

taglist: @hrtsformark @matchacake2 @sea-moon-star @itaehynz @mymayaship @reep04 @lexieisyourbestie @princesspeachicedtea @partyinthebackroom

it had been years since you’d last seen jake sim, and yet the memory of him had never really faded. back in primary school, he had been the teacher everyone liked—young, effortlessly charming, patient in a way that made you look forward to every day you had him. he never raised his voice, he always smelled like cedar and something faintly sweet, and his soft smiles lingered in your mind much longer than they should’ve for a little girl with a secret crush on her homeroom teacher. he was your first real fantasy, tucked away in the back of your mind like a guilty treasure you never planned to admit to anyone. but time passed, as it always does, and he was filed into that distant, unreachable place where childhood dreams went to quietly die.

until now.

your mother had been glowing the day she called you home, her voice light and airy as she said she had someone special she wanted you to meet. you hadn’t expected much—just another name to eventually forget, just another dinner to get through with a polite smile. you certainly hadn’t expected her to walk into the living room with jake fucking sim at her side, his arm loosely wrapped around her waist, that same smile on his lips that had once haunted your preteen daydreams. he looked even better now, age only sharpening the edges of his jaw, filling out his frame with something more solid, more commanding. his hair was darker, styled a little differently, but his eyes were still the same—warm, brown, and gently unreadable.

“you remember jake, don’t you?” your mother had asked, her voice chipper, oblivious. “he used to be your teacher. small world, right?”

you tried to play it off, tried to force a surprised smile that didn’t look as stunned as you felt, but the blood had drained from your face too quickly and your lips parted before you could control them. of course you remembered. he had been the blueprint of every silly romantic fantasy you’d ever had, the reason you started liking older men in the first place, the quiet storm that awakened something hot and confusing in you when you were barely old enough to understand it. and now—now he was your stepfather. your fucking stepfather.

the wedding had been small and quick, not even a year after they’d started dating. you smiled in photos, clinked glasses during toasts, hugged jake when it was appropriate. you kept your distance when it wasn’t. you’d convinced yourself you were being dramatic, that your feelings were just nostalgia and hormones, that he was just a man, and your mom was happy now, so you should be too. and for the most part, you managed. you were in university now, busy with exams and essays, and you didn’t even live in the same house. you only came back on weekends or for holidays—short bursts of time where you could avoid being alone with him, where you could keep yourself sane.

but then came the weekend your mom had to visit your grandmother, three cities away. she left on a thursday afternoon, bags packed and cheerful goodbyes tossed over her shoulder, her voice echoing from the hallway that she’d be back sunday evening, and to take care of each other. jake had offered to drive her, but she insisted he stay—he had grading to finish, classes to prepare. you had exams to study for, so you hadn’t planned on going either. it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. a few quiet days at home. easy.

except it wasn’t.

the house felt too quiet with just the two of you. every sound was louder, every interaction thicker with something unspoken. he was kind, attentive in that same subtle way that had always undone you—asking how your studying was going, offering to help if you needed a break, his voice low and calm whenever it caught you off guard in the kitchen or the hallway. he smiled at you like he always had, except now it lingered just a little too long. he didn’t look away as quickly anymore. and maybe you were imagining it, maybe you were projecting every filthy thought you’d buried deep down onto every glance and gesture—but something in the air was shifting, slowly, maddeningly, and you could feel it.

you didn’t plan to have dinner together, but jake insisted that night. it was saturday. he leaned against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in his hand and said it made no sense to eat separately when it was just the two of you. “besides,” he said, tilting his head slightly, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read it. “i haven’t had a real conversation with you in weeks. feels like you’re avoiding me.”

you laughed too quickly, denying it without really denying it, trying not to focus on the way his voice sounded thicker when he spoke softly like that. you ended up sitting across from him, legs brushing under the table, wine warming your veins more than it should’ve. the food was good—he’d cooked, of course he had, because jake sim was perfect like that—and the conversation was easy, almost too easy. you talked about classes, books, music, and when your hand reached for your glass at the same time his did, your fingers touched and stayed there, barely, just long enough for the world to tilt a little.

you didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he. your eyes lifted slowly, caught in his gaze before you could pretend to be unaffected. something in the way he looked at you made your stomach twist—not fatherly, not polite, not innocent. it was too still, too focused, like he’d been waiting. the silence stretched between you, heavy and intimate, until he finally leaned in just a little closer and said your name—low, drawn-out, like a question and an answer all at once.

“do you think i haven’t noticed?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like it wasn’t meant for anyone but you. “the way you look at me? like you used to when you were too young to understand it.”

your breath caught in your throat. the wine had made you reckless, or maybe it was just the years of keeping everything bottled up, the months of pretending this house wasn’t suffocating you every time he was near. you didn’t deny it. you couldn’t. and maybe that was all he needed, because the next thing you knew, his hand was under your chin, tilting your face up, thumb grazing your bottom lip.

“you’ve grown up so much,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “beautiful. all this time i thought i was imagining it, but you want this, don’t you?”

you didn’t answer with words. you didn’t need to. your lips parted under his thumb, your thighs pressing together under the table, and when he leaned in the rest of the way and kissed you, it was nothing like your first kiss was supposed to be. it was desperate, hungry, years of suppressed want spilling over in the heat of his mouth. he kissed you like he was claiming you, and you let him. you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life to be kissed like that—by him.

his hands were on your waist, pulling you out of the chair and up against him before you could think. your back bumped against the counter as he pushed between your thighs, his fingers trailing under the hem of your shirt, dragging up your spine and leaving your skin tingling in his wake. the kiss broke only when he had to pull your top off, lips returning to your collarbone, your throat, your jaw, biting and sucking like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted most.

“fuck, you taste the same as i imagined,” he muttered, voice ragged as his mouth found your chest, tongue swirling over one nipple before he sucked it into his mouth, making you gasp and arch into him. “i used to jerk off thinking about what you’d sound like. now i get to hear it.”

his words went straight to your core, shameless and raw, and it made your knees weak. you tried to speak, tried to say his name, but all that came out was a breathy whimper as his hand slid between your thighs, palming you over your shorts, feeling how wet you already were for him. you should’ve felt embarrassed—he was your mother’s husband now, a man you were supposed to call family—but all you felt was heat, like every nerve in your body was pulsing in time with his fingers.

“you’re soaked,” he growled, pushing your shorts down roughly, dropping to his knees like he was worshipping you, like this was something he’d been craving for years. he spread your legs open, hooking them over his shoulders, and dragged his tongue over your slit with a low groan. “this pussy’s been waiting for me, hasn’t it? fuck, i knew you wanted it. you were always such a good little girl in class… never thought you’d be such a needy thing underneath.”

you cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other tangled in his hair as he devoured you like it was his last meal. he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, just kept licking, circling, fucking you with his tongue until your legs were shaking and your stomach was tightening with an orgasm that was already starting to hit.

“j-jake—” you gasped, broken and breathless, but he didn’t stop.

“that’s it,” he whispered against you, wet mouth hot and sinful. “cum on my tongue, baby. show me how much you missed me.”

and you did—your body tensed and trembled as the orgasm ripped through you, your moans filling the kitchen, your thighs squeezing around his head. he groaned into you, drinking every drop, only pulling back when you were twitching and weak, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. he stood, licking his lips like a man starved, and turned you around with firm hands, bending you over the counter before you could speak. his cock was hard against your ass, straining through his pants, and when he finally freed it, the weight of it rested hot and heavy between your cheeks.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this,” he hissed, lining himself up without warning. “how many nights i thought about bending you over like this, fucking you until you couldn’t think straight.”

you whined at the stretch when he pushed inside—no teasing, no patience, just the thick slide of his cock sinking into your already dripping cunt. the pain was brief, eclipsed by the overwhelming fullness, the way he groaned like he was losing his mind inside you.

“tight fucking pussy,” he muttered, gripping your hips and thrusting in deeper, sharper. “so good. fuck—i’m not pulling out.”

you whimpered, back arching, pushing into every stroke. “d-don’t. i don’t want you to.”

that broke something in him. his hands grabbed your waist harder, slamming into you now with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls. he was grunting behind you, dirty praise falling from his lips with every snap of his hips.

“you want me to fill you up, huh? want your stepdaddy’s cum inside you?” he groaned. “fuck, i’m gonna give it to you. you deserve it. all of it.”

you were crying now, overwhelmed with the pace, the filth of his words, the way he was fucking you like he owned you. you didn’t care that it was wrong. you didn’t care about anything except how deep he was, how hot his body felt against yours, how much you wanted to be ruined by him.

“say it,” he growled, pulling your hair to lift your face. “tell me whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you choked out, lips trembling, eyes rolling back as your second orgasm built fast, relentless. “it’s yours, jake—fuck—it’s always been yours.”

and with a loud groan, he slammed in to the hilt and spilled inside you, thick, hot, and endless, painting your insides with everything he’d been holding back. the feeling of it sent you spiraling again, another wave crashing over you, leaving you both breathless, sweaty, and trembling against the counter.

he didn’t pull out right away. he stayed buried inside you, his hand smoothing down your back, mouth pressed to your shoulder as you both caught your breath. the silence returned, but now it was different—sated, sticky, full of everything you couldn’t say out loud.

“we’re fucked, aren’t we?” you whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.

he chuckled against your skin, still inside you. “yeah,” he said. “but you were worth every second of it.”

you didn’t sleep that night—not really. after the first time on the kitchen counter, jake had pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t get enough of you, kissing you slow and filthy before carrying you to the living room couch and fucking you there too, bent over the backrest while his fingers dug into your hips. then the stairs—he stopped halfway to kiss you again, to press you against the railing and take you standing up, slow and deep, like he wanted to feel every inch of you clenching around him.

he didn’t stop until you were crying—raw and overstimulated, his cum dripping from between your thighs, lips bruised from how hard he kissed you when you called him “daddy.” you said it the first time barely above a whisper, unsure if it would cross a line, but the way his breath hitched, the way he looked at you like you were his undoing, told you everything you needed to know.

“say it again,” he had groaned, thrusting harder, his hand gripping your throat as he fucked you on his bed—your mother’s bed. “say it while i’m deep inside this sweet little pussy.”

and you had, over and over, until your voice was hoarse and your body collapsed under the weight of everything you’d held in for so long. you lost count of how many times he came inside you, how many times he kissed your tears away, how many times he praised you for being his good girl, his sweet baby, his filthy little secret.

by morning, you were sore, bruised, and still trembling from the ghost of his touch. you showered in silence, pretending like your body didn’t still ache for him, like you hadn’t screamed his name against a wall just hours ago. when your mom finally returned, cheerful and none the wiser, you met jake’s gaze across the kitchen with heat still burning in your cheeks.

from that day on, everything changed—but nothing did.

he never touched you in front of her. never said a word that might give you away. but the looks were enough. the glances that lingered, the faint smirk he wore when you bit your lip across the room. the way he’d let his fingers brush your waist when he walked behind you, or how his hand would rest a second too long on your shoulder when he passed by. it became a routine—a dangerous, delicious secret that only the two of you shared.

on the nights your mom worked late or left town again, he’d knock softly on your door like he was asking permission, and you’d always let him in. sometimes he’d take his time, laying you down gently, whispering how much he missed being inside you. other nights he’d flip you over and fuck you face-down into the mattress, hand tangled in your hair as you begged for more, crying into the sheets as he told you what a perfect little slut you were for him.

you were submissive in ways you hadn’t even known you could be—so eager to please, so needy when he praised you. you melted every time he called you baby, whimpered every time he held your face and said you were his. and calling him daddy—it wasn’t just part of the game. it was instinct. it felt right. natural. like it had always belonged to him.

but of course, that didn’t go unnoticed.

one evening, your mom smiled casually as she stirred a pot on the stove, glancing over her shoulder when she heard you call out for jake from across the hall.

“you’ve really taken a liking to him,” she laughed. “never thought i’d hear you call anyone daddy again. thought you were too old for that kind of thing.”

you froze, your heart thudding so hard you thought it might explode. jake was behind her, and you felt his eyes on you instantly, hot and sharp like a warning—but his face didn’t change. he was good at this. calm. unreadable. he just sipped from his glass of wine and smiled like the comment didn’t mean anything.

“she’s just affectionate,” he said smoothly, like it was the most innocent thing in the world. “i don’t mind.”

your mom hummed, turning back to the stove with a shrug. “still,” she muttered, half to herself, “doesn’t really suit her anymore. that’s a little girl’s nickname, don’t you think?”

you almost laughed. if only she knew how many times you’d sobbed it into his neck, how many times he’d made you say it while you came all over his cock, how many times he whispered back, “good girl. daddy’s so proud of you.”

but she didn’t know. she’d never know.

the rain had started sometime past midnight, loud against the windows, steady and relentless. the thunder rolled deep, shaking the walls of the house with each distant rumble, and it was that sound—more than anything else—that stirred you from your light sleep. you blinked up at the ceiling, your room dimly lit by the occasional flash of lightning, heart fluttering with something that wasn’t quite fear… more like anticipation.

you bit your lip, glancing toward the hallway.

you shouldn’t.

but you wanted to.

moments before bed, jake had visited you in your room like he sometimes did—just to check in, to say goodnight. he’d kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then, like always, your lips. it was soft at first, but you’d reached up and pulled him closer, whispering “more,” against his mouth. he pulled back, breath shaky, eyes flicking toward the door as if he expected someone to walk in.

“baby,” he had murmured, brushing your hair back. “your mom’s waiting for me in bed.”

you’d pouted, lips still tingling from his kiss, and tilted your head as you asked, “do you love me more than her?”

he’d hesitated—just for a second—but then he smiled, small and fond, like he was embarrassed by how quickly the truth came out.

“yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “i love you more.”

then he left, walking down the hall to the master bedroom where your mother waited—dressed in a short satin nightgown, her skin dewy from moisturizer and sleepiness. you knew the routine. she was always tired. she always took her pills, the kind that knocked her out cold. jake had told you once, in passing, that nothing ever woke her up when she took them.

so when you heard the storm rolling outside, something bold stirred in your chest. the house was silent except for the rain, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs, and your own heartbeat in your ears. you slipped out of bed, your cotton shorts riding up your thighs, the hem of your camisole brushing your navel. no bra, no panties. you tiptoed barefoot through the hallway, every creak in the floorboard echoing like a gunshot, but you didn’t stop. your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the doorknob to their room, slowly turning it and pushing the door open just wide enough to slip inside.

the room was dark, heavy with the scent of lavender and cologne. lightning lit the walls for a split second, revealing the silhouette of your mother fast asleep, turned away from the center of the bed, blanket drawn up loosely around her hips. jake was on the other side, shirtless, lying flat on his back with one arm resting above his head, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. the space beside him was wide—just enough for you, if you were careful.

you held your breath as you padded closer and crawled in beside him, inching your body down into the mattress as slowly as possible. you curled on your side, your back pressed lightly to his hip, trying not to smile as you settled in. the heat of his body seeped into yours. you could feel him—barely—against the curve of your ass, and the moment you shifted just slightly, you felt the swell of his cock, half-hard, thick and heavy against you even in sleep.

you arched your back a little more, grinding slowly, gently, testing.

a soft inhale escaped him.

then a hand touched your waist.

“baby,” he whispered groggily, voice husky from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

you turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder, eyes wide, pouty. “the storm woke me up,” you murmured, still rolling your hips back against him, “and i got scared.”

his breath hitched when your ass pressed more firmly to his length, now fully hard and twitching against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. “fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, one hand sliding down to grip your hip tightly. “you’re gonna drive me insane.”

you reached down without answering and pulled at the waistband of his pants, lifting the fabric just enough to free his cock, already thick and leaking at the tip. you heard the sharp breath he took when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly. he pushed his hips forward into your hand, biting down a groan.

then, still without a word, he hooked a finger into the waistband of your pink shorts and dragged them down over your ass. the air was cool against your bare skin, and you felt his hand pause when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“naughty little thing,” he whispered, dragging two fingers along your slit, feeling how wet you were. “you planned this.”

you didn’t deny it. you just moaned quietly when he rubbed circles against your clit, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his other hand reaching to squeeze your breast through your thin top.

he didn’t waste time. he positioned himself behind you, pulling your leg back over his thigh, and eased his cock into you slowly, the tip splitting you open as you tried to keep your moans muffled. he hissed through his teeth as he bottomed out, his fingers digging into your hips.

“so fucking tight,” he whispered, moving in slow, deep strokes. “you feel too good, baby.”

you rocked back into him, eyes fluttering shut, the sheets rustling beneath you as your bodies moved together. his hand came up to your mouth, covering your lips as he fucked you from behind, spooned up against you, every thrust making your ass slap against his hips.

“quiet,” he breathed, “she’s right there.”

your eyes opened in the dark, and you saw her—still asleep, facing away, barely moving. the thrill of it made your pussy clamp down tighter, made jake curse softly and fuck you harder.

he turned you over slowly, gently, until you were on your back and he was above you, lifting your shirt to expose your chest. he leaned down to suck your nipple into his mouth, his cock never leaving you, just grinding deeper as he kissed down your stomach, whispering filthy things about how good you felt, how beautiful you looked stretched out for him in their bed.

“i love you,” he muttered into your skin, voice cracked and breathless. “you’re mine.”

you wrapped your legs around him, pulled him in closer, and whispered, “fuck me, daddy. please. make me yours.”

that broke him. his hips snapped harder, deeper, hands grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head as he pounded into you in the missionary position, the bed creaking ever so slightly. he fucked you like he owned you, kissing you hard, letting you moan into his mouth when you came all over him again.

afterward, he didn’t stop—he flipped you onto your knees and took you from behind, gripping your hair, his balls slapping your soaked pussy with each brutal thrust. you were delirious, dripping, sobbing into the pillows while your mom snored on just feet away. it wasn’t enough for him—he pulled out and turned you over again, sitting back on his knees and tapping his cock against your lips.

“suck it, baby,” he whispered, “you can do it.”

you obeyed, eyes glassy, tongue out, taking him into your mouth until your jaw ached and your throat was raw. he watched you the whole time, stroking your cheek, whispering that you were his good girl, his sweet baby, his favorite thing in the world.

you climbed on top of him after that, straddling his hips, riding him slowly, hands on his chest, tits bouncing with each movement. his hands slid up your thighs, gripping your ass, his cock deep inside you as you rocked back and forth, whispering his name over and over like a prayer.

you lost track of the thunder outside, of the minutes slipping past, of everything except the way jake’s cock kept hitting that perfect spot inside you—like he knew your body better than anyone ever could.

his hands gripped your thighs tight, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder now, his body pressing yours deeper into the bed. the headboard tapped lightly against the wall, not loud enough to wake her, but enough to make your heart race with the risk.

you opened your mouth to moan, but his palm flew to your lips, muffling the cry that broke out when he bottomed out again, his cock so deep you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“shhh, baby,” he whispered, sweat dripping down his neck, chest heaving, “you wanna wake her up?”

you shook your head, pupils blown wide, legs trembling.

“then be good,” he murmured, lowering himself until his forehead pressed to yours, his cock still slamming into you slow and thick and hard. “be a good girl and take it.”

you nodded, tears in your eyes from how much you needed it. needed him.

“you feel how this pussy sucks me in?” he breathed, lifting one of your legs higher, fucking you deeper. “so fucking tight. so warm. it’s perfect, baby. this is mine.”

your voice cracked under his palm as you whimpered, grinding up into him. and then you whispered it—low, dangerous, full of wicked curiosity.

“does it feel better than hers?”

he paused.

then he looked you dead in the eyes, smirked, and answered without hesitation.

“yours is better,” he growled, grabbing your jaw, pulling your face close, “your pussy’s the only one i think about. the only one i wanna cum in. you hear me?”

you moaned again, too loud, and his hand came back over your mouth, his thrusts speeding up as you clenched around him from the filthy confession.

then he pulled out suddenly, panting, and sat back against the headboard, his cock glistening, twitching. “ride me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “come sit on daddy’s cock.”

you didn’t need to be told twice. you climbed over him, straddling his lap slowly, lowering yourself onto his length with a desperate gasp. the stretch made your back arch, his hands coming up to hold your waist as you started to move—slow at first, rolling your hips in circles, grinding your clit against him with every pass.

he leaned in and sucked your nipple into his mouth, then kissed down to your chest, whispering, “that’s it, baby. let daddy see how much you love this dick.”

you bounced harder, faster, the mattress shifting beneath you, and jake grabbed your ass, slapping it once as you rode him.

“look at you,” he moaned, “bouncing like a desperate little slut while your mommy sleeps next to us. if only she knew how many times i’ve filled this pussy.”

you clenched again at that, and your body shook as another orgasm crashed through you, your cunt milking his cock with messy wet sounds as he held you down and let you grind through the aftershocks.

but you still weren’t done.

he pulled out, spun you around, pushed your chest into the mattress and lifted your hips high—doggy. his favorite. he slammed back into you without warning, and you screamed into the pillow, his fingers digging into your hips, his cock slamming into you over and over until you were crying.

“say it,” he groaned behind you, “say you’re daddy’s girl.”

“i’m your girl,” you sobbed into the sheets, barely able to breathe. “i’m your good girl, daddy.”

“that’s fucking right.”

his balls slapped your clit, your pussy gushed around him, and he was grunting, fucking you with long, brutal strokes as his pace grew erratic.

“gonna cum again,” he warned, grabbing your hair, arching your back. “gonna fill you up. again.”

“please,” you begged, “please, daddy, cum in me. fill me up.”

he slammed into you one last time, as deep as he could go, and his whole body tensed as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his cock twitching as he emptied himself into your already ruined pussy. you could feel it dripping out around his cock before he even pulled out, and when he finally did, it made a wet sound—your cum and his, mixed and leaking down your thighs.

he collapsed beside you, panting, pulling you into his arms, your bodies completely naked, sticky, tangled in sweat and sin and everything you weren’t supposed to be.

you curled into his chest, heart still pounding, and whispered, barely audible—

“i love you, daddy.”

he kissed your temple, still inside the bed where his wife slept a foot away, and whispered it back without hesitation.

“i love you too, baby. more than anything.”

[astarions-world]

I will admit, when my husband got me to play Baldur’s Gate, I knew about the romance aspect and decided on Astarion for kicks and giggles cuz I would see memes galore about it on Tik Tok/Instagram reels and then that’s when I fell madly in love with this man. I haven’t even gotten super far in the game myself, but I was intrigued to learn more about his romance in the game and looked up some scenes on YouTube (I was also frustrated that he kept disapproving of me). That’s when I learned his backstory and fell so incredibly hard.

I haven’t even gotten to the part in my playthrough yet where he confesses but I’ve known this whole time that it’s all an act.

My husband has done many playthroughs but has never actually even really delved into Astarion or his story all that much. He told me that during Act 3, he usually just leaves him in camp. I was telling my husband about romancing Astarion and how at first it’s just an act but then he gets more genuine the longer you’re with him. I showed him the two scenes as reference (Act 1 vs Act 3 Spawn) and he said he could definitely tell that Astarion was exaggerating a lot during the Act 1 scene. I mean, there’s a huge, blatantly obvious difference between the two. In both scenes, Tav can ask him what he wants. In Act 1 he says “What do any of us want? Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.” He dodges the question entirely it seems like. In Act 3, he says “You. I want you”. So much more of a difference there. He finally knows what he wants. He’s so much more sincere. Instead of saying what he thinks Tav wants to hear, he is honest and vulnerable. I personally like this Astarion much more.

Some people enjoy the whole “sexy vampire” trope, which I can get. Some people enjoy Ascended Astarion for the same reason (they are into the idea of the dommy daddy dynamic going on there). I’ve personally fallen for Astarion for who he is, the traumatized elf rogue who also happens to be a vampire. But a lot of people love the kinkiness of his seduction act and ascension path. What can I say; people will be into what they’re into. I just love soft Astarion being vulnerable and sweet because I’m much more into the romance stuff than I am the sex stuff anyways. But some people love the sexy stuff more. To each their own. I probably won’t read fics that depict him as such but I know plenty of people will.

I need someone to do a video essay-length deep dive into how 75% of the BG3 fandom fell so hard for Astarion's manipulative seductor act that they believe that's his actual personality. This man has to practice his lines and still fumbles them constantly. He flat-out says it's all a front because he believes his sex appeal is the only reason anyone would keep him around, which is tragic. When he drops the act, he becomes this kind of silly man rediscovering what it means to be himself, and what it means to both love and be loved. He says "I'm all pointy ears, love." while turning his head to show off those pointy ears. Let him be silly, let him be awkward! It's so much more authentic then him being a walking innuendo.

He has a mid charisma stat with a bonus for deception and rolled a nat 20 on all y'all.

[inseobts]

Ink & Memories

law x fem!reader

you’re his ex tattoo artist and girlfriend, so what happens when you meet him again years later?

a/n: this was suggested by someone, I don't remember if it was anon or not but if you're reading this THANK YOU omg

words count: 5.2k

tags: MDNI, smut, ex-lovers, reunion, tattoo artist reader, angst with fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea breeze brushes against your cheek as you lean against the doorframe of your tattoo shop, a cup of tea in hand. It’s been a slow day. Not many people walk into a tattoo shop in a port like this. Not unless they’ve just won a bet or lost a bet.

You sip your drink and glance toward the docks, bored. Then your eyes freeze... No way.

You squint.

Tall man, black hat with white spots, fluffy. That long coat, that walk... You drop the cup. It hits the ground with a soft clink.

“Law??” you call out, loud and without thinking.

The man stops. The whole crew turns around.

Your heart skips.

It is him.

He turns, slowly, eyes locking with yours.

“Y/N…” he says. Low. Surprised.

You can’t help but grin.

You step closer “Oh my god... how are you?? I’ve seen you on the news so many times. You’re a warlord now?! I never thought I’d see you again.”

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften. You recognize that look. He remembers.

His crew is staring now.

One with goggles leans over to the bear in a hoodie.

“Who’s that?” he whispers.

The polar bear shrugs “Dunno. But she knows the captain.”

You glance at them and chuckle.

Law still says nothing. He looks like he’s thinking too hard, jaw tight. Typical.

You roll your eyes “Right. You’re not gonna say it, huh?”

You take a step forward, hand on your hip.

“I’m Y/N,” you say, loud enough for the whole crew to hear “I used to be Law’s girlfriend. And I’m his first tattoo artist.”

Gasps. Real ones.

“WHAAAT??”

“EX-girlfriend?!”

“Tattoo artist?! So she did those?!”

“Wait, he has tattoos??”

“He let someone touch him?!”

Even the bear goes shocked.

Law sighs and rubs the back of his neck “You still talk too much, Y/N.”

You laugh “And you still say nothing at all.”

You grin “You’re really here, huh? After all these years.”

You walk with the crew through the market near the docks. Law’s beside you quiet, as always, but his steps match yours. The others keep throwing you glances like you’re some kind of rare animal.

The tall one with goggles Shachi, you think his name is, can’t hold it in anymore.

“So, wait. You’re the one who did the tattoos on the Captain?”

“Yup” you nod.

“ALL of them?”

“I guess. I don't know if he had another tattoo artist later.”

"I didn't." he says and only you seems to hear it.

“Even the ones on his fingers? And the arms??”

You smirk “I’ve touched more of your captain than all of you combined.”

“WHA—” They all choke.

Law sighs again, rubbing his temples “Y/N…”

“I’m just saying facts, Law.”

You keep walking, passing a fruit stand. Penguin, the one with the hat, nudges you “So… you really dated him?”

You shrug “Yeah. For a while. Before he was famous. Before the crew.”

Bepo tilts his head “Why’d you break up?”

You pause “Life stuff. Timing. Goals. Pirates and tattoo shops don’t mix well.”

Shachi whistles “Man, that’s wild. I still can’t picture him dating someone.”

“I didn’t believe it either at first,” you say, smiling to yourself “He’s... complicated.”

Then Penguin says, “I bet the one on the chest hurt the most though, right Captain?”

Your body goes still.

Law stops walking too. You both freeze at the same time.

Your mind doesn’t ask permission... it just goes.

Flashback. Your tattoo studio, late at night. Warm orange light. Law’s shirt is off. He sits on the tattoo chair, toned chest exposed, calm as ever. “I want the next one here.” he says, touching the center of his chest. You arch a brow “You sure?” He nods once “Yeah.” You bite your lip. You two are already a thing now, nights together, kisses stolen in your shop, your toothbrush next to his blades. But this feels more...intimate. “Alright,” you whisper, clicking your tattoo pen on “Then let’s make it count.” You don’t sit on the stool. You don’t ask for permission. You straddle him. Right on his lap. His eyes widen, just slightly. His hands go to your waist, not pushing you away, just resting there, tight. “This okay?” you ask, fake-innocent. He grits his teeth “Tch. You know it is.” You smile and lower the needle to his chest. You work slowly, carefully, your hips close to his, your breath brushing his face. His jaw clenches. You can feel how tense he is... but he doesn’t flinch. Not from pain. No... It’s because of you. By the time the ink is done, you’ve forgotten what hurts more, his grip on your thighs or your own heartbeat. And after that... Well, let’s just say he didn’t get up from the chair right away.

Back to now.

You blink. Snap out of it.

Your face is hot. Lips tight. Brows furrowed.

You glance at Law. He’s not looking at you.

But his face?

Same.

Jaw clenched. Eyes distant. Tension written all over his shoulders.

You both remembered. You know it.

Shachi whistles “...Why do you both look like you smelled something cursed?”

Bepo tilts his head “Are you okay?”

You wave it off “Fine. Just, uh, a memory.”

Law doesn’t say a word. He just keeps walking, hands in pockets, eyes forward.

But you see the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

And it’s driving you insane.

You’re still walking with the crew, but the energy is weird now. Like a storm’s rolling in, just under your skin.

The others keep chatting and asking questions, but your brain keeps stuttering... stuck between now and then.

“Captain doesn’t talk much about his past,” Penguin says, chewing on some weird fruit he picked up “It’s kinda cool hearing this stuff. Makes him seem more human.”

“He is human...” you say without thinking.

Shachi chuckles “You sure about that? I saw him take out ten guys with one swing of his sword.”

Bepo grins “By the way, did you start with the ones on his arms first?”

You hum “Arms first. Then the fingers. Then chest. Then—”

You stop. Too late.

“Then?” Shachi raises his brows.

You bite your lip “Forget it.”

“Nooo, don’t do that,” Penguin whines “We wanna hear!”

You sigh “Fine. The weirdest one was... the one on his back.”

That shuts them up.

“His back?!”

“Where on his back??”

“Wait, why "weirdest"??”

“Dude, that must’ve hurt so bad!”

You shrug “He didn’t complain.”

But your voice is quieter now.

Flashback. Another night. Another quiet request. “I want something here.” Law says, pulling off his shirt and turning away. His back is smooth, pale, all muscle and scars. But bare. “You want... a tattoo on your back?” He nods once “Yeah. I already have something in mind.” You stare at him for a moment “You sure?” He doesn’t answer. He just sits. Waiting. You prepare the tools. The ink. The stencil. But as you move behind him, he grabs your wrist. Pulls you around. Suddenly, you’re in his lap. Again. You blink at him “This how we’re doing tattoos now?” His lips twitch into a rare smile “Only when it’s you.” His voice is low. Dangerous. The kind of sound that always melts your brain. You start the needle, shaking a little “Well, too bad I can't tattoo your back from here.” “Try your best.” You laugh but then you stand and go to his back. The tattoo is slow. Intimate. You’re touching his back delicately even for a tattoo, and every move you make makes him breathe harder, even more when you randomly leave kisses on his bare skin where the ink hasn't reavhed yet. By the time the tattoo is halfway done, his hands are on your waist again, but this time... tighter. “You gonna finish it?” he asks, voice husky. You kiss him instead. You never finish the tattoo that night.

Back to now.

Your face is boiling. You know it. You can feel it. And when you dare to glance at Law, you regret everything.

He looks just like he did after the flashback from earlier.

Tense. Focused. Eyes darker than usual.

And you know he remembered that too.

You inhale sharply and shake it off “Well... sorry to cut this short, but I gotta head back. I have a client in fifteen minutes.”

“FIFTEEN??” Bepo looks horrified “That’s not enough time to say goodbye!”

“We just met! I want to talk more!!” Penguin adds, actually pouting.

“We should do dinner!” Shachi suggests “Or drinks! Or matching tattoos for my birthday...”

“I don’t even know your birthday,” you laugh, trying to hide the heaviness in your chest “You guys are too much. But I had a lot of fun. Thank you for taking care of Law.”

"He's the one who takes care of us."

"Yeah, I don't think so..."

You turn to Law, slower than you mean to.

He’s just standing there. Watching you. Hands in his pockets. Saying nothing.

So, of course, you have to fill the silence.

“Hey.” You meet his eyes.

“If you ever want a new tattoo... my shop’s always open for you.” You smile, but it’s faint “Even after closing time.”

Something flickers in his eyes. But still, he doesn’t say a word.

You wave at the crew, who’s already acting like they’ve known you for twenty years and are sending you off to war.

“Bye, guys. Keep taking care of him, alright?”

They all yell goodbyes and promises and dramatic sobs.

You walk away before your voice cracks.

Back in your shop, the silence is loud.

You lean against your work table, staring at your equipment. The ink. The gloves. The chair.

All the places he’s been.

You try to shake the feeling. But it’s hard. Because you didn’t stop loving him. You just... couldn’t keep up with his world.

Now he’s bigger than life. Famous. Feared. A pirate captain.

And you’re just a tattoo artist in a tiny port town.

So no... you don’t think he’ll come tonight.

He’s got his crew. His ship. His missions.

He probably doesn’t love you anymore.

You sit down and try not to cry.

Your client leaves right on time.

A small anchor tattoo. Nothing fancy. Nothing meaningful. But you smile and treat them with care, because that’s what you do.

Still, when they leave, the shop feels colder.

You sweep the floor. Clean your tools. Wipe the chair down like muscle memory. Then you sit behind the counter.

And wait.

It’s not like you said he had to come. You just offered.

“My shop’s always open for you. Even after closing time.”

You curse under your breath, hand to your face.

Why did you say it like that? Like you were waiting? Like you were... still his?

You glance at the clock.

One hour after closing.

Two.

Then three.

You haven’t moved.

The lights are still on. The “closed” sign hangs crooked on the door. You’ve been telling yourself it’s just so you can finish cleaning.

But everything is already clean.

The tea you made went cold. The silence is suffocating.

Your heart keeps lying to you, saying he might come, even when your brain knows better.

You sit on your stool behind the counter and bury your face in your hands.

You shouldn’t have said anything.

Of course he doesn’t love you anymore. You’re just someone from his past. A memory with a needle. He’s a warlord now. A captain. A living legend.

And you?

You’re no one special. You gave him your love, your ink, your body... But that was years ago.

You sniff, blinking back tears.

“I’m so stupid.” you whisper.

Finally, with a broken breath, you stand.

You walk toward the light switch, hand reaching up, about to turn it off—

Knock. Knock.

You freeze.

Two slow knocks.

You turn, heart racing, and rush to the door.

Your hand trembles as you grab the handle, barely able to breathe.

You open it... Law.

He’s standing there. Alone.

Hat in place, coat unbuttoned just slightly. His eyes are shadowed, unreadable, but he’s here.

He looks at you and you stare back, lips parted, words stuck in your throat.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then you whisper, almost scared to believe it “You came.”

He nods once “...Yeah.”

You step aside and let him in. The door swings shut behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet shop.

He stands there, looking around like it hasn’t changed at all. Like it’s frozen in time.

Maybe it is.

You tuck your hair behind your ear, trying to calm your racing heart “So… what brings you here? Need something fixed?”

He shakes his head once “I want a new one.”

You blink “A new tattoo?”

“Yeah.”

You tilt your head, cautious “Where?”

He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and pulls the fabric aside. Just a little.

There’s a small space on the upper right of his chest. A rare untouched spot surrounded by old ink.

He taps it once “Here.”

Your stomach flips. That chest. You remember how you inked the one beside it. How that ended.

Your cheeks warm, but you clear your throat and nod “Okay. Small tattoo. Got it.”

You turn away to gather your tools, gloves, ink, paper towels, anything to keep your hands from shaking.

It’s stupid, how nervous you are. You’ve tattooed him dozens of times before.

But it wasn’t like this. Not after years apart. Not after you thought you’d never see him again.

Not when your heart feels this fragile.

You pause mid-step and glance at him “Where’s your crew, by the way?”

He raises an eyebrow “You really asking that?”

You blink. Then scoff softly, rolling your eyes “Right. Dumb question.”

You gesture to the chair “You can sit.”

He does.

You sit across from him on your work stool, setting the needle up with focus, breathing slow.

It’s fine. You can do this. No reason to be—

“Room.”

Your body jolts at the word. You barely have time to process it before your whole world shifts, literally.

Suddenly, you’re on his lap. Sitting. Facing him. Just like before.

Your breath catches “Law!”

He doesn’t say anything. His arms are relaxed around your waist. Like this is normal.

But what’s not normal is the firm pressure you feel beneath you. Hard. Hot.

Pressed right against the center of your lower body.

Your breath hitches.

You shift instinctively, but that only makes it worse.

You feel him now. All of him.

...And he’s definitely not unaffected.

He looks up at you, still unreadable. But his eyes… they burn.

You’re quiet for a beat. Your heart pounding so hard it hurts.

You whisper, “...You planned this, didn’t you?”

His voice is low. Calm. Dangerous.

“Maybe.”

Your breath trembles as you sit frozen on his lap, the familiar weight of him under you making it harder to think. To breathe.

Your hands are still gloved. The needle sits ready on the tray.

But the moment is not about the tattoo anymore.

It’s the way he’s looking at you.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. Like he never stopped seeing you.

You can feel his heart beating through his chest, right beneath yours. Steady. But faster than usual.

"...You’re hard..." you whisper, like it’s a secret.

His gaze doesn’t waver “You’re sitting on me.”

Your face heats instantly “You put me here!”

“You didn’t get off.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but nothing comes out, because he’s right. You haven’t moved.

Your thighs tighten slightly, and he notices.

His hands slide up your hips, slow and patient, like he’s remembering every curve from memory. Like no time has passed.

But it has... So much time.

And still, here you are.

You try to hold onto your pride “This is just for the tattoo, right?”

His voice is quieter now “You really asking that?”

You breathe in sharply.

Your eyes drop to his chest, to the small space he said he wanted inked. Your fingers hover near it.

And just like that...

Flashback. Another time. Another tattoo. You straddled his lap, shirt slightly unbuttoned, hands shaking as you prepped the needle. “I shouldn’t do this, it's not professional.” you said then, voice soft, unsure “We’ll mess everything up.” He looked up at you, calm as ever “We’re already messed up.” You remember how his hands gripped your thighs, how you pressed the needle to his chest anyway. You never finished the tattoo. You didn’t even get halfway before he pulled you down, kissing you like it was the last time. And then...

Back to now.

You blink hard, ripping yourself away from the memory.

Your hand clenches the tattoo machine, but you can’t lift it. Not like this.

“Law…”

Your voice is smaller now. Scared, almost.

He tilts his head slightly, watching you “You think I forgot?”

Your chest tightens “...I hoped you didn’t.”

He exhales slowly “I didn’t come here for a tattoo, Y/N.”

Your heart jumps in your throat “Then why?”

He doesn’t say anything at first. His fingers ghost over your back “What do you think? Because you said the shop was open. Even after closing.”

You’re quiet. Shaking. Overwhelmed.

You look at him, searching for anything in his face that’ll tell you this is real.

“You still love me?” you ask, barely a whisper.

He answers without hesitation “Yes.”

And then, like gravity finally wins, you lean in. Your lips meet his in a slow, aching kiss.

Soft at first. Scared. But it deepens fast.

His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer. You shift again on his lap, and he groans against your mouth.

Everything is heat now. Want. Memory. Regret. And something new, something breaking free after years of silence.

You break the kiss just to breathe, lips brushing his as you whisper “Forget the tattoo.”

His voice is rough “Already did.”

You don’t know who kisses harder first.

You or him.

But once your mouths meet again, there’s no stopping it.

Years of silence, of pretending to forget, all burn away in the space between your lips. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize it, his hat falling to the floor like nothing else matters.

Law’s hands are steady, skilled, familiar while they slide down your back and grip your thighs, pulling you tighter against him. His lips are rough, needy. He kisses like he’s punishing you for the time lost, or maybe for letting him go.

You grind down instinctively, and he groans into your mouth deep, guttural, raw.

“Fuck...” he mutters against your lips, his voice wrecked.

“You remember everything, don’t you?” you whisper, breathless, tugging at his shirt “All of it.”

He nods once “Every goddamn second.”

You roll your hips again and feel it even better now, how hard he is. Pressed exactly where you need him, only the thin barrier of your clothes separating you.

“You didn’t even come for the tattoo, did you?” you tease, lips brushing his jaw now.

“No,” he breathes, tilting his head to give you his neck “I came for you.”

Your fingers fumble with his buttons, heart racing, hands shaking.

He notices. He always does.

“You sure?” he asks lowly, grabbing your wrists and holding them still.

You nod “Yes.”

But he doesn’t move yet, he just looks at you “Say it.”

You meet his gaze “I want you.”

That’s all he needs.

In one swift move, he lifts you up and lays you back on the padded tattoo chair like you weigh nothing. He climbs over you, hands everywhere now... pulling, unzipping, stripping.

Your shirt goes first. Then your bra. Then his coat and shirt.

Skin to skin.

It’s overwhelming how good he looks. Tattoos, scars, the memory of every moment you ever loved him mapped across his chest.

You run your hands over his chest, over the ink you gave him “Still mine...” you whisper.

His eyes darken “Always.”

He pulls your pants down, slow at first, until your soaked panties are the only thing left. He groans when he sees the wet patch. His thumb brushes it, just barely.

“You’re already this wet?” he murmurs, kissing your stomach “From just sitting on my lap?”

“From you,” you breathe, squirming under him "And you got hard as soon as you set on the chair."

He hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down agonizingly slow.

And then his mouth replaces his hands.

He kisses between your thighs like he’s missed every part of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, hot and slow, making your back arch and your fingers clutch the chair.

“Fuck, Law!”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak. Just moans into you, like the taste of you is better than revenge, better than glory, better than everything.

When you finally come, it’s with your hand tangled in his hair and his name gasped like a prayer.

And even then, he doesn’t stop.

He only pulls back once he’s sure your legs are shaking.

You’re breathless, eyes hazy “You always did that too well.”

He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand “You always tast the same.”

He undoes his belt, his pants, and pulls himself out, hard, thick, aching. You swallow hard just looking at him.

“Still want me?” he asks, eyes locked on yours.

“More than anything.”

He doesn’t give you time to second-guess.

He lines himself up, grabs your waist, and slides inside slowly but fully. Stretching you. Filling you.

You gasp. Your nails dig into his back.

“Fuck, you feel the same,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours “Perfect.”

You moan, wrapping your legs around him, rolling your hips “Move, Law. Please.”

And when he does... it’s everything.

He moves deep, slow, like he’s savoring it. His pace is controlled, his breathing heavy, his grip tight. He fucks you like he’s reclaiming something lost. Like you’re not just a body. Like you’re home.

Your moans echo through the shop. The chair creaks beneath you. His mouth finds your neck, your chest, your lips again, every part of you worshiped, touched like it’s sacred.

And then you both fall apart again, louder, harder, more desperate, but in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts racing.

You stay wrapped around him, chests heaving, breath tangled.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Still inside you, forehead resting against yours, he murmurs “Didn’t think I’d actually come after closing time, did you?”

You lie there on the tattoo chair, skin still hot, your breath finally starting to slow. His chest rises and falls against yours, calm, steady, like the chaos just passed through and left everything too quiet in its wake.

Neither of you moves yet.

"I was actually about to turn off the lights when you knocked at the door..."

His hand rests gently on your hip, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. Your cheek presses against his shoulder, and for a moment… it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that messy little house, tangled in each other’s limbs, whispering about a future you thought you’d have.

And then he says it, low and smooth, voice still wrecked from everything you just did “You really never finished any of my tattoos in one setting...”

You laugh, soft and breathless “As if it's not always your fault.”

He doesn’t reply. But the smirk you feel against your skin is answer enough.

You close your eyes, letting yourself feel it for just a second longer, the warmth, the weight of him, the comfort that never really left.

But then…

Reality creeps back in.

And with it, the ache in your chest you were trying to ignore.

Your voice is smaller when you speak again. Barely more than a whisper.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done it.”

You feel him tense slightly. Not pull away, but freeze.

“…Why?”

You swallow hard, suddenly hating the silence in the shop “Because you're gonna leave again. Probably tomorrow. Or tonight. And I’ll be here. Just like last time.”

He lifts his head, looking down at you now. You don’t meet his eyes.

“I told myself I moved on,” you continue, voice shaking “That it didn’t hurt anymore. But seeing you again... being with you like this…”

You pause, forcing down the tears that want to surface.

“It hurts worse now.”

Law says nothing for a moment. But you feel his hand slide up to your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

Then his voice comes, quieter than you’ve ever heard it “It wasn’t just sex for me.”

Your heart twists.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he continues “You think this didn’t wreck me too?”

You finally look at him. And his eyes… They’re full of that same pain you’ve been carrying. That same longing. The same love.

But his voice still carries that signature Law calm, controlled, composed, even as something inside him breaks.

“I’m a pirate, Y/N.” He swallows “I don’t get to stay anywhere.”

You nod slowly, even though it hurts “I know.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“And still...” he whispers “Here I am.”

You don’t say anything as he starts getting dressed. You just… watch.

You sit silently on the edge of the tattoo chair, still naked, still warm from his touch, but already feeling the cold creeping in. His back is to you as he buttons his shirt, and you drink in every detail. The way his shoulders move. The curve of his spine. The black of his tattoos against skin you once knew like a map.

You try to memorize him.

Every second.

Every inch.

Because in your heart, something whispers: This might be the last time.

And that’s when it hits you.

How foolish you’ve been. How stupidly hopeful. How desperate you are just to keep a piece of him.

Your eyes sting.

No. Not now. Not in front of him.

You stand abruptly, grabbing your robe, and mumble something you don’t even hear yourself. Before he can turn, before he can ask, you rush past him and slam the bathroom door shut behind you.

You lock it.

Your hands are trembling.

And outside... silence.

He doesn’t knock.

He doesn’t follow.

He doesn’t stop you.

Then you hear the sound of the front door. Open... and close.

He’s gone.

And you break.

You slide down the wall, burying your face in your arms as the sobs finally come out, sharp and raw. It’s not just pain, it’s years of missing him, of pretending you moved on, of wishing things could be different.

And now… it’s too late.

Minutes pass. Or maybe more. Time blurs.

Eventually, when your breathing steadies and your heart stops clawing out of your chest, you pull yourself up. Wipe your face. You don’t look in the mirror, you can’t.

You exit the bathroom slowly.

The shop is too quiet. The lights still hum overhead. The tattoo machine sits untouched, ready for a session that never happened.

You walk over to turn the CLOSED sign on the door. There’s no point pretending today’s a workday. Not like you had any clients booked anyway.

Your eyes flick to the chair.

The same one where hours ago, he made you feel like everything again.

There’s something sitting on it.

You freeze.

It’s a folded piece of paper. Your name written across the front in that neat, sharp handwriting you’d recognize anywhere.

Your fingers shake as you open it.

You read:

"Y/N,

You never talked about being a pirate. Never thought about leaving. I get it. You’re not like me. But then, I heard you telling the crew that you had no clients. No fun. That this place bored you. Then you said you didn’t want me to go.

And I don’t want to leave you behind… again.

So what if I make room for you on my ship?

Will you come?

Will you choose to be a pirate now?

My ship’s always open for you. Even after closing time.

But if this is a goodbye, then let me tell you that I love you and than I'll cheer on you even from the other side of the world.

I just want you to be happy, forever.

—Law"

Your breath catches.

The paper trembles in your hands.

You don’t know if you want to cry again or scream or run out the door barefoot. But one thing is clear, your heart is racing with something new.

Hope.

You don’t hesitate. Grabbing your coat and a small bag, you race out the door, the note still folded in your hand. The night air is cool, but your heart is burning. You know exactly where to go... the docks, where Law’s ship is waiting, dark and quiet under the moonlight.

The night air is crisp as you hurry toward the docks, the note from Law folded tightly in your hand. Your heart pounds, not just from the run, but from the rush of hope and fear tangled in your chest.

The ship sits dark and quiet under the stars, its silhouette a familiar yet strange reminder of a life you never thought you’d be part of.

A single figure leans against the railing, head tilted slightly as if listening to the sea’s whispered secrets.

“Law...” you call softly.

He turns, eyes sharp and unreadable for a split second before softening.

“You came.”

You nod, voice catching on the breeze “You asked if I’d come. So... here I am.”

The distance between you closes, and for a long moment, it’s just you two, breathing the salty air, wrapped in something fragile and strong all at once.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling gently. The electricity between you hums quietly, charged but patient.

He leans in, voice low and teasing, “Still keeping me after closing time, huh?”

You smirk, heart fluttering “Seems like it's your turn now.”

No rush for anything more. No need. This moment is a promise whispered in the dark, full of all the things you left unsaid.

Morning breaks with the chaotic roar of the crew... shouts, laughter, boots pounding on deck, and the unmistakable scent of cooking fires.

You stand just inside the galley doorway, nerves fluttering like a storm in your stomach. The crew buzzes around, eyes flicking toward you, then back at Law, then doing double-takes.

“Wait, is that—?” one mutters.

“No way...” another says, rubbing his eyes.

The captain clears his throat, voice sharp “Well?”

You swallow and step forward, heart pounding.

“I’m with the crew now.” you say quietly, glancing at Law. He gives you a small nod.

Silence.

Then the flood.

“You’re part of the crew?!”

“You didn’t tell us!”

“When did this happen?”

You grin nervouslyand then, half-jokingly “Wait… I don’t have to wear the uniform, right?”

The entire crew bursts out laughing but before anyone can answer, Law’s voice cuts through “No.”

The room freezes.

“What?!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Everyone but Captain has to wear it!”

Everyone glares playfully at Law, who crosses his arms with that signature smirk.

“Rules apply to everyone,” he says smoothly “... everyone but her.”

You chuckle, watching the crew bicker back and forth while Law’s eyes lock on yours with a mix of amusement and something softer, deeper.

Despite the noise, the laughter, and the mess of new beginnings, you feel it clearly...

This chaotic, wild crew, this life, this man...

It’s home now.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 18. For justice knows many faces

PREV PART trigger warnings: character death, (past violence), (past) emotional + medical + physical neglect, drugging, delusional batfamily, anger, medical emergencies, anger, tell me if I forgot any main m.list     series m.list     bad ending m.list

Willow is gone.

Willow died.

Her injuries too great, your ‘brothers’ hadn’t held back at all. They had broken the founding rule of Batman, don’t kill. Sure Jason already had broken it quite a few times (as well as Damian, but that’s a different story), but for Dick to ignore this rule? You don’t know how to think, you don’t know how to feel.

Everything was a blur, everything was silent and most importantly the investigation of the police was lacklustre. They didn’t even question Francis. It was as if they looked at Willow’s family and decided it was of no use to get justice.

It pisses you off. It pisses you off to the point you do something stupid.

You publish the file.

You don’t give it to the police, no, because when you tried they dismissed you. They said; “it’s Gotham, shitty things happen all day. It wasn’t someone important, there is no reason to investigate.”

How dare they act as if Willow is unimportant? How dare they act like the judge and executioner at the same time? How dare they tell Francis and his parents that their loved one is nothing to them?

Everything feels like a blur, you go through the motions, you ignore the dizziness that has been shouting for you to shit down. You ignore how your hands shake as you start to fall and you ignore how Francis calls out to you when your head hits the hospital floor. You need to call your boss, you need him to read the file. You need to tell him who your family is, they deserve to pay. Your morals mean nothing, not when your family ignores theirs.

All that matters is justice, justice for Willow. Not for you.

Your vision slipping as you try to push yourself up, your body shaking as if it’s preparing for a seizure and your mouth fills with the taste of blood. Your eyes roll back and there goes your vision, there goes your control as your body does all you don’t want it to.

It feels as if your own death is near, and right now you wouldn’t mind it.

Too bad your friends would, they already lost Willow, won’t you stay? Won’t you live so that you can destroy your family? Won’t you live so that you can become the person your mama wanted you to be?

For Francis can’t believe it, not only has his sister died now you are on death’s door. Not because of your illness, or any usual reasons. No, your medication was messed with.

And Duke immediately knew who did it, Bruce.

His anger was to not be messed with, Gotham’s anger is not to be messed with. For not only is the manor now being stormed by anger citizens the Penguin is making a move. A move that will cause everyone to turn against the Wayne family. A move that will call for Batman to destroy the family that influences him. For Justice knows many faces, and Penguin isn’t afraid to take over (even if it harms his criminal reputation).

He knows that it’ll take time, he knows that it will be hard to convince everyone to turn against the Wayne’s. For they have done so much for Gotham.

But when you wake up. He’s certain you can do it.

For justice knows many faces.

And you can make it happen, you just have to stay alive to do so.

NEXT PART I know the chapter is tiny and a bit messy, but I'm trying to figure out the good ending. It has to get worse before it becomes better. I promise

taglist CLOSED: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[bernardsbendystraws]

Comfort Zone II

[ series masterlist ]

Matt Sturniolo — he’s been there for you. Now that you’re both getting settled in early adulthood, things are starting to change. Will it fall apart or together?

Warnings: copyright notice. this short-series will contain smut, fluff, and angst. mentions of family loss, marriage, and correlations from the original comfort zone series. SMUT IN THIS PART. MATT DA MUNCH.

A/N: pussy is sweating writing this ! barely proofread lmao 😭

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Part 2 - Gotta Go-Oh!

The flight back home was tense. Nostalgic energy seemed to dim the second we left Marylou and Jimmy’s home. It was like I could feel myself getting heavier, like I could recognize each breath seeming like more of a chore. 

“Matt’s worried, ya know?” Nick voices, his eyebrow cocked upward as his eyes narrow. 

My lack of response makes him let out a sigh. He grabs his bag tighter on his shoulder, starting to shuffle down the stairs. “Me and Chris are off for some errands. Be back late.” 

I shift in my spot on the living room couch. This sofa wasn’t as comfortable as the one in their childhood home, but it was still a place I’ve loved relaxing in. I’m not sure if that was because of the actual cushions though. The comfort in the sofa seemed more likely to be a direct cause of Matt. 

The first couple weeks we moved in, Matt was determined to make this house feel like a home. And god, he did—he really fucking did. 

One night in particular made me sink into a wave of utter peace. It was maybe the second week we had permanently moved into this place, all our stuff had been unpacked but we still had yet to truly settle. 

Matt got rid of any discomfort within that night. He made me feel secure, he made me feel like this could be our home. 

My legs were in his lap. He had been massaging my calves for a while, trying to pry for the reason I felt stiff and cautious in the new place. 

I felt stupid. I didn’t wanna say it—and he didn’t make me. 

Instead, he proposed something that felt like looking into the past with a clean mirror. 

He offered to read my journal. 

My mind immediately flashed back to the memories of his invasive concerns when we were still teenagers. At the time, I was furious—but after everything, I was forever grateful. The words I wrote and his wandering eyes made our lives what they are today. It was an event that was necessary for me to have a sense of security and love. 

And the same thing is happening again.

I know I’ve been acting off. Matt’s made me aware he’s picked up on that with all the questions of concern and looks full of worry. We’d been cuddling on the couch all day. He tried asking, but I said I didn’t wanna say it—I couldn’t. 

So he asked about reading my journal. 

The proposal made me freeze for a minute, but after Matt explained he wasn’t there to judge or pry, I felt something shift in my brain. I didn’t have to say it. I didn’t have to say anything—I just had to let him in enough so he could see what I was trying to tell him. 

Honestly, it made all the difference. I didn’t wanna say it, but I wanted him to understand. And he did. Matt let me sit on the couch while he read the notebook in our room. He came out with a new understanding and the biggest hug ever. 

And that led to this—me cradled on his lap, a dumb smile etched on his face, and the brightest joy reflecting in his eyes as he stares up at me with pure love. 

“So…” I trail off awkwardly, my toes curling and cracking from my anxious shifting. Matt laughs from the echoing noise. He pulls his face into the crook of my neck, planting a soft kiss before leaning back against the couch to keep his eyes trained in mine. 

God, I love him. 

The way he’s looking at me makes me feel loved, but fuck…it’s hard to keep my eyes on his when he’s staring into my soul with a certain glint in his gaze that makes my feel see-through. 

“So, um,” I try to retrace my thoughts, staring into my lap as I tangle my hands together, “-what did you think…” I question, cringing as my voice shakes from my heart pounding against my chest in a way that makes my throat feel tighter. 

The silence is deafening. Static energy makes my eyes hesitant start to drift up, only for my gaze to fall back down as I hear him let out a subtle laugh. 

“Sweetheart,” he rubs up and down my thigh with one hand, the other hand clutching around my waist and giving a slight squeeze of assurance. “-you’re real nervous, aren’t you?” 

His words are breathy. I feel the warm waft of his air linger towards the hairs on my neck, sending a shiver down my spine as I sit up straighter in his lap. 

Matt huffs at my reaction. He leans forward, the tip of his nose brushing along the bottom of my jaw and to the edge of my ear before he whispers something that makes my heart drop. 

“Can’t believe you want to be my wife already.” 

God. This can’t be real. 

He knows what I wrote—he knows I journaled about how badly I wanted to just be officially his in every way possible. 

I couldn’t remember word-for-word what I had written, but I know some of it was probably a lot. We’re still young—not even twenty-five. Nobody our age was typically aiming for marriage right now. 

Rushing isn’t usually romantic—that’s what scares people away. 

But I don’t want to scare him. I mean, I’m scared myself. Marriage is a big deal. I didn’t grow up with the best perspective on it either with my parents, but god…something in my soul craved the idea of him being my husband. 

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about? Even when we went back home?” Matt asks. 

Rolling my lips together, I slowly nod. My eyes remain trained in my lap. I listen closely, hearing Matt shuffle and grab something out of his pocket. 

The crumble of paper grabs my attention. I look over, seeing his eyes pleading as he outreaches the ripped notebook page. 

“What? Is this mine?” 

My question is met with a firm shake of his head. Matt lets out an airy laugh, scratching the back of his neck as I unravel the wrinkled page in my hands. “No, no…it’s, uh…it’s mine. I…just…just look. Please.”

His words are soft—delicate and gentle like he’s nervous. Looking down at the flattened sheet in my hand, my eyes glaze over the written letters, my jaw dropping as I comprehend the weight of the words in front of me. 

I bought a ring. I don’t know what came over me. When I woke up with her in my arms this morning, I just knew that I wanted to be prepared to drop down on one knee the second she shows she’s ready for marriage. 

I want this more than I’ve wanted anything else before in my life. I think I’ll leave the ring here in mom’s house since this is where I want to propose, but I’m dying from just looking at her and the word ‘wife’ echoing in my head. 

“Matt.” I breathe, my lips parted as I intake a shallow gasp. 

Oh my god. 

The words were one thing, but they weren’t what my eyes were focusing on. My vision has tunneled at the date of the entry, the numbers at the top of the paper making me realize that this was written months ago. 

He’s been waiting. 

Matt’s known he wants this, he’s just been treading around for me to come to the realization for myself. 

These dates trace back to the time where I started having the same thoughts. It’s like our souls are connected in some sort of way that makes our love otherworldly—and it feels like I’m floating in a cloud. 

My skin feels softer, my body light as a feather as I drift my arms around him quickly, hugging him with all my strength as I feel the relief roll over my tense muscles. 

All the worrying, all the grief—it was for this moment. 

It was for the better. 

I feel more sure than I ever have before. We’re in sync without even trying—we know each other beyond words, beyond glances, and beyond touch. 

“Umph.” Matt groans as I squeeze a bit too tightly, a strained laugh falling from his lips and he swarms his arms around my waist, gently pulling me closer with a warm embrace. I feel his breath tickle the side of my neck as he lets out a brief huff of air. 

Pulling back, my eyes meet his. I can’t help but feel the wave of heat crawling up my spine, his fingertips intensifying the sensation as my lips just barely brush against his own. 

“Can…” His lips open and shut, his eyes hazy with emotion as he stares at me. “-can we go back to visit my family soon? Like…tomorrow?” he asks. 

My lip stings from how hard my teeth clutch onto the muscle. I nod my head excitedly, the joy lifting on his face making the giddy excitement in my stomach twist with unbearable butterflies. 

“Oh my—” 

I cut my own words off, placing my lips onto his eagerly. He’s smiling against me. I can feel his lips soften as they slot between my own, his hands tightening on my waist and around my back to arch me against him to get closer. 

“Mmmphf—” his eyes squint shut, his brows furrowed as I scoot right over the growing bulge in his pants. 

A grin spreads across my features. I can’t help but roll my hips, laughing as he slumps with his head against my chest, his breath fanning across the tops of my breasts. 

Knotting my hands in his hair, I tug—not enough to truly hurt, but enough to drag his face back up to mine so I can capture his lips once more. 

“God,” he breathes, gasping for air before one of his hand slides up my back, cupping the back of my neck and tilting my head downward. I feel his tongue dart between my lips hesitantly. Parting my mouth, I let out a sigh at the sensation of his tongue exploring my mouth—greedy, desperate, and viciously soft. 

I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose or if he’s running off pure instinct. One hand is around the back of my neck, the other wrapped around my hips tightly before he grinds himself up into me. My mouth fully drops open, but Matt doesn’t stop kissing me—it’s like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. 

“Mmmm, Matt,” I hum, meeting his movements as the heat starts to pool between my legs with a reeling ache. I need him. Not want. Need. 

Matt licks the side of my neck before suctioning his mouth against me. My face scrunches with pleasure as he continues to flex his hips off the couch to relieve some of the pulsing from between my legs, a lewd moan echoing through the room as he lets his teeth accompany with a slight tinge of pain that makes it impossible to focus on anything else except for him. 

“Sweetheart,” he pants against my neck, his voice rough and horse as he tries to maintain some sort of rhythm, “-please…please let me be in you, let me—let me make you feel good, fuck,” he groans as I plant my hands on his shoulders, gliding my clothes cunt against him harder. 

His words travel through me with an electric sort of desire. I feel myself become palpable to his touch, my body getting looser. “I…mhm, yes. I—I just need you, Matt. I need more.” I announce. 

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. The glint in his iris is intimidating, but it makes every fiber of my being vibrate with shock—the type that fades into a heat that only makes me crave more. 

“Fuck, okay, just…” he slowly slides me off his lap, guiding me to lay on the couch, “-just let me take care of you, alright? I…I’ll take such good care of you, promise…” he licks over his lips, looking up at me. 

I lift my hips as he reaches for the hem of my shorts. He starts to tug them down, but before he even drags the fabric an inch, I guide his hand back up, latching his fingers around the hem of my underwear. “Please.” I croak, my mouth feeling a bit dry as he stares up at me with hungry eyes. “-don’t tease. I…I need you now.” 

“Mhmmm….” Matt nods firmly, his lips littering soft kisses down my leg as he drags the clothes off the bottom half of my body. “I’ll make you feel good, just how you like—won’t sit here and tease my girl, not right now. You…fuck, I just…hands in my hair, okay? And tug. Hard. It’s…just….can you do that for me, baby?” 

My hands are already tangling up into his hair. Matt discards the clothes on the ground, tugging at my shirt before peeling it off as I slightly lift myself off the sofa cushions. “You’re this wet for me? Fuck…” he puffs, kissing up my inner thigh as his hand spreads my other leg further. 

“Matt.” I whine. 

I can feel him smirking against my thigh. My mouth opens to criticize him for taking too long, but it drops even further open as he kisses right above my clit. 

My hands twist in his hair without a second thought. He dances around with his lips, kissing and littering small licks and pecks. My hips shift with desperation. Matt lets out a subtle laugh, the huff of air making my stomach drop with anticipation. 

He’s so close. 

“I’m trying not to tease, sorry. It’s just…” I look down to find his eyes trained on my pussy. His tongue slides over his bottom lip, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “-you just look so fuckin’ perfect like this. You’re so pretty when you’re open for me—dripping for me,” he tuts, sliding his finger through my wet folds as a shriek escapes my lips. 

I feel like I’m on fire. His words, his hands, and his lips are utter torture and pure bliss at the same time. My stomach is knotting with building desperation. I let out another whine, my lips dropping open with a gasp as I feel him open-mouthed kiss onto my bundle of nerves. 

Oh god. 

His tongue is warm. The way he moves his lips is reverent, like he’s worshiping the same way he does when he kisses me on the lips. 

My hips buck as he starts to suction his mouth around my clit. The strands of his hair are tugged harsh into my grip as my back arches off the couch. 

I can hear how hungry he is—and I feel it even more. 

The harder I tug his hair, the more he tries to practically devour me. But I can’t help it. Every motion of his tongue gliding and flicking makes me desperate for some sort of grounding.

“M-ma—oh my—” 

I can’t get the words out. Matt huffs against me, his voice boosting with pride, “Feels good? Fuck…tastes like heaven.” 

My eyes bulge as I feel one of his fingers gently start to pry inside my opening. Matt hums against me, his mouth attached to my clit as he flicks his tongue vigorously against the nerve, applying an ungodly amount of pressure with the muscle. 

“I’m close, I–I’m so close.” I shriek. 

Matt doesn’t pull up for air. I don’t have the ability to make him either. I’m left writhing underneath him, pleas and cries pushing through my lips as my eyes roll to the back of my head. 

His finger fucking into me curls at just the right spot. The sound that erupts from my throat is raw and unruly, but I don’t care—not when he’s treating me like this. It’s like he needs this more than I do. 

“Cum for me. Can-can feel you tightening—shit. Just cum for me, c’mon…you got it,” he rasps. 

The second his mouth returns to the pulse between my legs, I’m gone. It’s too much yet just enough. The knot in the pit of my stomach binds so tightly that it completely breaks. My vision goes white, every muscle and limb rigid and stiff as a brutal cry escapes my lips. 

Whines leave my mouth as I start to relax. His mouth is still on me, his fingers slowly retracting as he gives subtle, small kisses. 

“Matt.” 

He groans at my voice. Pressing one more firm kiss against my swollen bud, he sighs while resting his cheek against my thigh. 

“I love doing that so much, fuck,” he husks, his eyes squinted shut almost as if he’s in pain. 

My hands loosen from his hair. I graze my nails through his scalp tenderly, my eyes softening as he kisses the top of my thigh with lazy pecks. 

“Let me take care of you, Matt—”

The look on his face as his eyes reach mine tells me enough. His cheeks are flushed, more pink than they should be. I squint my eyes to focus, realizing his hips are slightly twitching, the sofa cushion beneath his pelvis a bit more deflated than it would be with him just laying on it with no movement. 

“I’ll go…let me get a cloth.” he blushes. 

I laugh watching him uncomfortably walk down the hallway to his room and bathroom. The events of the last bit wash over me like a picture perfect memory. 

He wants me to be his wife. 

The daze of thoughts is intruded by Matt walking back into the room. I giggle at the sight of him wearing a different pair of pants, the laughter dying down as I wince from the warm cloth pressing against my sensitivity. 

“Sorry.” he offers, kissing my knee before leaning down and grabbing my discarded clothes. I pout staring up at him. Matt smiles widely at me, his face beaming with delight as he trots off to his room with the clothes in his hand. 

“Which one?!” he shouts. 

I laugh at the sense of urgency in his voice, replying with an echoing shout,  “Green!” 

My eyes squint as I hear it get quiet. However, the brief pause of chaos is quickly resolved by his stomping feet as he rushes down the hallway, his T-shirt in hand with one of my comfortable pairs of socks, underwear, and my favorite sleep shorts. 

“I got ‘em, look!” he mentions, trotting over to me with the cutest grin before helping me get dressed. 

As soon as the clothes are on, I feel a blanket being swaddled around me. Before I have any time to object, I feel Matt wrap me tightly, pulling me into his lap before pulling out his phone in front of us. 

“What’re we doing?” I ask, staring at the screen.

Matt squeezes me a bit tighter. He opens an app on his phone and starts to speak. I can hear the smile in his voice as he starts to talk;

“I’m booking us a flight and then we can play Pokemon-Go and cuddle.”

[cait-sith]

Hey what if Starscream repainted himself post-canon

Unnecessarily long thoughts and ramblings (mostly about Starscream) under the cut.

This was originally in the tags but then it became an actual wall of text so. Keep Reading be upon ye.

So in IDW Till All Are One 12 Windblade shows Starscream his “true” form quote unquote and it's like this blue-white-and-red colour scheme. And while I don't really know how to feel about that; got some implications vis-a-vis transgender stuff, Starscream clearly took it as something that was taken from him, something that defined him, something that would have made him different (more likeable, more successful, unclear). On the other hand, I also think that Starscream sort of clings to that idea, because it's more painful to believe that he couldn't have changed anything, that it might just be a flaw in him. Something external to blame, y'know.

Windblade kinda points that out, it wasn't really the point of showing him that, but maybe that's just my personal interpretation. “I could have been so much more had I just been allowed to be born as I was meant”. Missing Windblade's point that he is still the same person in his spark, regardless of frame, it is ultimately up to him who he is. His actions define him, not his appearance. BUT. I feel like that kinda misinterpretation would be in-character for him, and so maybe in post-canon he'd... well really I think he'd reframe but maybe as like an attempt to reclaim what he thinks he should have been (even if he doesn't need to, even if he was perfectly capable of changing who he was without that). He frequently sabotages himself, because he doesn't believe in trust and he's so used to being in adverse relationships where he cannot rely on anyone being on his side. So then he gets everything he ever wanted, and it's.. not really what he wanted. Metalhawk, Wheeljack, Windblade and Bumblebee all sorta get under his plating, in different ways, and he admits to liking them, but can't bring himself to trust them. He's constantly at loggerheads with Metalhawk and Bee at the start, but Metalhawk tries and gets murdered for his troubles.

Wheeljack, well, he's just kinda mostly nice and willing to forgive and help, even while he's wary. In a way, I think Starscream gets attached to him because he's safe to get attached to, because Wheeljack doesn't take the shot when he's vulnerable, offers to help, to be on his side. From a distance. He doesn't really... actually initiate much of a friendship, but he talks about the idea.

Windblade, I think that relationship is a bit more fraught. They end up working together a lot by necessity, given their positions, and Windblade frequently has to fix or contend with Starscream's messes, and she has none of the prejudices of the others, but again, she's a threat to his power, to what he wants, can't really look past that. She tries, though, and I think he does sort of like her as time goes on. It just doesn't stop him from doing what he always does. No trust and all that. As for Bee. Bee. While he's alive, he's much like Metalhawk and Windblade: A threat to Starscream's power, with the added issues of being a major enemy and an autobot, with all the prejudices that brings. They don't make friends. Only Bee "dying" changes that, and only because Starscream is utterly convinced he is a ghost. In his own mind, he's *almost* okay with admitting to his flaws, his worries. Bee's ghost becomes his conscience, his confidante and companion, and because he's fictional, a fragment of Starscream's mind (or so he thinks), he's safe. Safe in ways none of the others are. And Bee tries, he has nothing really left to gain, no power to hold onto. For all intents and purposes, he *is* a ghost.

That was probably terrifying when Bee turned out to not be dead. Someone who saw all of Starscream's vulnerabilities, with so much power to hurt him. He can't help himself. He does have moments, though. Rare choices where he does trust, sometimes for lack of better options but still. And by the Unicron-finale, he's, well, still not friends, but he admits to everything, he comes clean, kind of.

So. We're going to ignore that he dies for the sake of this. <3 Just temporarily. In a hypothetical post-canon, I think he'd try to get a bit of agency back, try and follow that dream of his better self. And I think Windblade, Wheeljack and Bumblebee are the closest thing to friends he's had since his trine. And Metalhawk, technically, but he's kinda dead and also with the dead universe revival wasn't too happy with Starscream lmao. Perhaps Bee's the most comfortable, after that, if he ever gets over himself, because he's already spilled his guts to him, if accidentally. I don't think Starscream would ever be *easy* to get along with, and Bumblebee doesn't really take shit, but I'd like them to be friends. Squabbly-bantery friends, but still. Wheeljack seems a bit gentler, while Windblade's a bit more professional, she's kind but responsible.

Point being: this is Bee helping him repaint himself to leave the past behind.

Thanks for listening lmao

[urnewroomie]

i’ve seen a lot of posts lately that have been, not bashing Erik, but being a bit frustrated (idk if that’s the right word but it’s what we’re going with) with him, for the amount of fluff stuff we’ve been getting lately, so i’ve come to offer my two cents:

it’s been incredibly stressful to just exist lately, given basically everything going on in the world. anxiety for a lot of people is at an all time high, things are so uncertain and mental health for a lot of people, is not great right now. Hell, Erik has gone as far as to make a comfort audio for this exact reason (the one Camelopardalis audio)

as a writer and character creator myself, i find it can be emotionally taxing to create lore heavy, angst heavy stuff when i myself am already not in a good headspace, and to them have to put myself in the characters headspace who also i’m not having a good time or in a good space, it gets to be a lot.

so, instead i just create fluff scenes in my head. I create a world where everything is great for my characters, where they can be happy and live with their partners without any threat to their rights, their safety, and all the other stupid shit a lot of people are currently having to worry about due to the things going on in everyday life.

it wouldn’t surprise me if Erik is doing this same thing. He’s a queer man, one in the US, having the deal with all this awful, negative crap going on, and i don’t blame him if he’s making fluffy, feel good content right now as a pick me up for himself because, let’s be honest, we all need a pick me up and a distraction from all the crap going on.

this isn’t me coming to say that those people that are frustrated aren’t valid in their feelings, i totally get it!!! i love lore and angst and plot driven things. i just think we should consider how the wonderful Mr Redacted might be doing, and at the end of the day, his audios are a passion project of his, and i would guess, an escape for him, my characters are for me, and i appreciate greatly that he shares that with all of us. his characters and audios have been such a comfort to me and countless others.

i can’t express how thankful i am that i found redacted, i think he is crazy talented and above everything else, his audios give me something to look forward to every saturday. waiting for that new audio genuinely gets me through the week. it’s a little mind boggling to me that he gets an audio out basically every week, the amount of work and dedication that would take.

i’m rambling at this point but hopefully this gets my point across haha.

sorry if none of this made sense XD

thanks for reading if you somehow managed to get to the bottom

[mononijikayu]

love is a losing game — ryomen sukuna.

GENRE: alternate universe - squid game au

WARNING/S: afab! reader, romance, angst, break up, post-break up, hurt/comfort, on and off relationship, profanity, violence, gun violence, death, implied suicidal ideation, emotional manipulation, emotional distress, trauma, resentment, confessions, toxic relationship, gambling addiction (implied), longing, pining, bittersweet, reunion, depiction of violence, depiction of gun violence, depiction od emotional manipulation, distress, depiction of trauma, depiction of death, wife! reader, husband! sukuna;

WORD COUNT: 4k words

NOTE: in honor of me losing my mind this week due to squid games and alien stage, i did something of a mix of it. i genuinely needed to get this idea off my head. its a lot. for the resources to the japanese games and other stuff i mentioned, i'll put them below so you can read about them!!! anyway, enjoy!!! <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

THIS WAS YOUR BREAKING POINT, IF THERE WAS ONE. You had just finished your second shift, perhaps worse than the first one. You could barely have the strength to tie your apron right, let alone smile at your boss as he muttered something about cutting hours next week. 

The city air was damp, but this place was even damper. You could feel your knees ache from standing for too long, and you could still feel the bruises on your pride from that morning’s encounter. 

Another debt collector coming once again. You hated when they did that, ruining your peaceful day, your existence. Different faces. Same tone. Same threats. All because of him. Ryomen Sukuna. Your husband. Or… ex-husband now, you supposed.

You’d loved him. God, you still did. You probably still do. That stupid kind of love that lingered in the marrow even after the body rots. But it wasn’t enough for you. Not when he kept making reckless decisions, chasing fast money and leaving you to clean up the blood trail behind.

So, you left everything and him. You found yourself finding the courage to take what you could and moved out. You built that house with everything you had but took nothing but your clothes and a dented rice cooker. 

You told yourself it was for the best. You needed that peace. You need to love yourself, take care of yourself. That’s what your mother would have wanted for you. After all, that was more important than loving someone.

But the debts didn’t stop with him. They came for you too. You changed your address, you even reverted back to your birth name. But they still managed to find you, those stupid brutes. The lot of them are crude, and horribly terrifying to even look at. 

Yet you didn’t have the heart to tell Sukuna. You didn’t call him. Not once. Too proud. Too tired. Too angry. But mostly because you knew what he’d say just from thinking about it. With that certain reassuring look, one you knew you would fall for, he would say to you: “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

He’d say it with that smirk, with the same careless ease he used to take your last savings to pay for a poker hand he swore was a sure win. You sighed heavily, pulling your coat tighter around you as the wind bit through your sleeves. The bus stop was still a block away. Your feet dragged.

That’s when he appeared.

A man in a finely cut suit. 

Smile too polite to be genuine.

“Sumimasen, ojō-san.”

The voice came to you all too lightly, as if dropped into the air like a coin in water. You turned, startled at his presence. He was already too close. Smiling like an old friend. Like someone who’d been waiting just for you.

“Do you have a moment to play a game?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He held up two square pieces of thick, colored cardboard. You looked at them carefully. You could see that it was old and well used. It was too worn at the edges. But that bright colors blending together with those figures was recognizable. Menko.

It was a game you hadn’t seen since elementary school. Even then, it had evolved into a different thing. This sort of menko was the old kind. You slap the tile on the ground. Then you try to flip your opponent’s piece. Whoever flips it wins. 

It was the familiar old schoolyard rules, the ones which your grandmother used to teach you when you were still a little girl. You couldn’t win against her, though. She was too much of a pro at it. 

“Traditional games.” he said, still smiling like he wasn’t wearing a suit worth more than your last three paychecks combined. “Very simple. If you win, you earn cash.”

You eyed the tiles, then him. “And if I lose?”

“You get slapped. I know it’s not the old rules, but I don’t wanna take it from you.” he said cheerfully, like it was the weather forecast. “Just a little change. Nothing serious.”

You almost laughed at his words. You were tired. You had just finished scrubbing tables at a ramen stall that paid you half what it owed. And now this man was talking about childhood games and slaps? You didn’t have time for this.

But then he crouched, unhurried, and set a thick envelope on top of his briefcase. Peeled it open for you and almost instantaneously, it showed the cash inside. Your mouth opened agape. It was ¥10,000 per win.

The gears shift in your head. It would be enough to buy groceries. Even maybe enough to get the collectors to back off for a few days. Just maybe, it would even be enough to shut your mind off and breathe. Your pride hesitated. Your exhaustion didn’t.

“…Fine.” you muttered, stepping forward. “But….Just one game.”

And that’s how it began.

Not with a fight. Not with a scream.

Just a slapped Menko card on the pavement and a stranger’s smile.

The first slap across your face stung more than you expected. The sound cracked across the empty alley. Your cheek flared with heat, but the man only laughed, handing you the next card like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Another round?”

You hesitated. Your hand hovered in the air. But the pain was familiar. For a moment, it reminded you of everything you were running from. The voicemail from the loan office. The unpaid gas bill. Ryomen Sukuna’s debt collectors are camping outside your apartment like vultures on a power line.

You nodded. “Again.”

Three more slaps. Your cheek was flushed and burning. But then you got it. Your tile hit him with a perfect strike, flipping it finally. He clapped at your success. You hated it. It was too calculated. Too eager to be the salesman.

“Excellent.” He handed you the envelope. Neat. Crisp. ¥10,000. “See? You’re not unlucky after all.”

You kept playing soon after that. That adrenaline got you going. That’s what winning does to you, even in the smallest ways. Humankind can be addicted to the feeling. It was gratifying to just have one moment of good, even with the bare minimum. And you hated that. Win. Slap. Win. Slap. 

You didn’t even notice when the bus you were supposed to catch hissed past in the distance. Didn’t notice the sun beginning to set.  By then, you had five wins. Fifty thousand yen. Your wallet was heavier. Your cheek, sore. But you could almost taste relief.

The man adjusting his tie, still all politeness. “You’ve got grit, I see.” he said. “That’s rare. I’d like to offer you something more… lasting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of more?”

“More reward.”

He opened his briefcase again and took out a cream-colored card. It had vibrant gold lettering. No name. No address. Just a phone number. And a symbol you didn’t recognize. You looked up at him. He was still smiling that same way, one which made you uneasy.

“If you want to clear your debts—truly clear them—and maybe walk away with more than you ever imagined… call this number.” he said. “But be warned. The games beyond this point… aren’t quite so harmless.”

You stared down at the card. You thought of the phone calls. The pounding on your door. The sleepless nights spent wondering if you’d made a mistake leaving Sukuna. And you thought: what’s left to lose?

You took the card.

He smiled at you.

And then he left.

That night, in your cramped 1K apartment, where the lights flickered when the kettle boiled and the neighbor’s dog barked like a curse against your walls, it was hard to not think about it. You stared at that card like it was cursed.

You told yourself you wouldn’t call. That game in the subway was enough. Everything about this would be beyond insane. But at 2:34 a.m., when the latest message lit up your phone.

「 最後の警告です。返済期限は明日です。」

Final warning. Your deadline is tomorrow.

You dialed the number, both curious and too sudden.  The voice on the other end was cold. “You’ve been accepted. We’ll send a car.”

You nearly hung up. Nearly. But instead, you whispered back. “Okay.”

In a shadowed parking lot at dawn, a black van waited. You stepped inside.

You didn’t know what was going to happen. You didn’t even know that you would see him there again. You didn’t know what awaited you. All you could do was think about the fact that this was the only way to escape your reality.

Yet you didn’t know that the worst was yet to come. But you didn’t know that. Not yet. Not until the games began. Not until you saw blood spilled on concrete and heard his voice again in the middle of it all, rough and familiar. Still yours in some stubborn, ruined way.

You were the last to enter. The van doors shut behind you with a final-sounding click, and silence followed, thick and uncomfortable. The only sound was the gentle hum of the engine and the shallow breathing of the others. 

There were six of you, all wearing the same dull colored tracksuits with numbers on the chest. Yours was 046. No names. No questions. No warmth. You didn’t look at them. You couldn’t do that even if you wanted to.

So, you just stayed silent. You just leaned back against the seat and stared at the floor, hands clenched in your lap. You told yourself this was just a game. That you could survive it. That you had no other choice.

But your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. The van drove for what felt like hours, until your eyelids grew heavy and your body gave in. A sharp prick on your neck came just before everything turned black.

WHEN YOU WOKE UP, THE WORLD LOOKED TOO BRIGHT AND COLORFUL. All you could see were the vibrantly decorated walls. The bright paintings of childhood games from the ceiling. The dull yet shiny tiled floors. It was almost nauseating how childishly pastel everything was. It was like some cruel dream of a kindergarten.

You sat up on a hard bunk in a massive dormitory lined with triple-decker beds. There were dozens of others now. You could see men and women, all ages, all races. Some looked confused. Some are too calm.

And then your gaze locked on him. He was leaning against the metal post of a bunk bed, arms crossed. Same gray uniform. Same unmistakable face. You would know that face from anywhere. Number 49, Ryomen Sukuna.

Your mouth went dry. It felt like the air thickened between you instantly as you continued to stare at him the way you did. You tried to look away but you can tell he saw you before you could look away. His scarlet eyes narrowed. Soon enough, he made his way to you. 

“Well, well….” he drawled, voice low and edged. “Look who finally decided to come and see me.”

You flinched. “I didn’t. This isn’t about you.”

He laughed once. Bitter. “Are you sure about that? Because last I checked, you didn’t care if I lived or died.”

You stood slowly. “Don’t twist it. I cared. I just couldn’t keep bleeding from your mistakes.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t reply to your words. He knew you were right. You hated how much your chest hurt, seeing him here. That scar on his lip was still there. His scarlet eyes were still that infuriating shade of crimson. 

And somehow despite everything, you still remembered what it felt like to sleep beside him so peacefully. The weight of his arm around your waist. The heat of his breath on your neck. But that was before the collectors. Before the screaming. Before he chose chaos over you.

A loudspeaker crackled overhead. “All participants, please proceed to the arena for Game One.”

A door opened on the far wall, from the right side. As you all walked there in a line, you saw the armed guards standing there, waiting. You didn’t move for a moment, until Sukuna stepped past you. His voice is low, just for you.

“I don’t know what game this is. But I know one thing—” he paused, glancing at you. Then at the armed guards. “I’m not letting you suffer here……die here.”

You scoffed, eyes narrowing. “Why would you care?”

He didn’t answer. And maybe it was just a trick of your heart, but when the guards herded everyone forward and you stepped into the blinding light of the first game. You could’ve sworn he stayed just a little closer to your side.

Like old muscle memory.

Like it was an instinct.

Like love that refused to die quietly.

The light was too bright. Artificial and blinding, like stage lights at a show you didn’t want to be in. As your eyes adjusted, you found yourself standing on sand, actual real sand. You found yourself almost confused. 

This feels like those summer days by the beach, enclosed in this room. It was what it felt like, but beneath it was a painted sky so blue it was almost offensive in its cheer. But you were certain now. You weren’t in the city anymore.

Rows of players shuffled in beside you, uniformed and stiff with fear. Concrete walls loomed around the field like the inside of a stadium, and in the distance stood a massive Daruma doll. It was hard to look at, with its oversized, grotesque figure, its painted face staring blankly ahead.

You recognized the game the moment you looked at it. It was Daruma-san ga Koronda. You’d played it as a kid with the other neighborhood kids. You had chanted those words with your friends in schoolyards and summer parks, trying not to laugh as you froze mid-step.

But no one was laughing now. Everyone around you was taking this as seriously as they possibly could. That was certain. The Daruma’s head turned slowly, mechanical joints whirring. Then the voice rang out across the field.

「だるまさんが…ころんだ！」

Everyone ran. The Daruma’s head snapped around. A sharp bang cut the air like a hammer cracking glass. The man beside you dropped. Hard. Blood was already soaking through his shirt. 

You flinched at that. You could hear a few people, someone beside you screaming so loudly, it could puncher your ears. The guards raised their rifles. The gates behind you slammed shut like the jaws of a trap. Sukuna grabbed your wrist, yanking you down before your legs gave out.

“Keep your head, babe.” he muttered. “Don’t move unless I do.”

You stared at him, dazed. “They’re shooting us—”

“Yeah, genius.” His grip tightened. “Welcome to hell.”

Another chant echoed across the field.

「だるまさんが…ころんだ！」

You bolted forward. The Daruma turned. You froze. Someone behind you tripped. Bang. The game was merciless. Precise. The moment the Daruma faced you, if you even twitched. It was the sound of the bang that came after.

It felt endless. The repeated rhythm of the chant, the thudding of your heart, the bodies falling one by one. You followed Sukuna’s movements like a shadow. When he crouched, you crouched. 

When he stopped, you stopped. When he darted forward, you did too. Until you could smell blood on the wind and taste bile in your mouth. But somehow, you kept going. You just had to. Or else, you would be one of them.

You noticed the way Sukuna’s body moved. It was not reckless like before, but sharp, measured. How his head turned just slightly toward you before every sprint. How he never let go of your hand, even once.

And then, the final line. Just five feet away.

「だるまさんが…ころ—」

You ran. Both of you.

「—んだ！」

The Daruma turned. Sukuna yanked you backward, both of you crashing into the sand. Your elbow hit the ground hard. The air fled your lungs. But you hadn’t crossed the line too soon.

You were still alive.

Follwing that was silence.

Then a single chime.

Game over. The Daruma’s eyes went dark. The gunshots stopped. There was only silence. And then only the sound of weary breaths remained. You didn’t hear the last few bodies fall. Just the pounding of your heartbeat and the rough rasp of Sukuna’s breathing beside you.

His hand was still on your back. Still steady and still holding you strong. The surviving players, maybe numbering less than half, were herded into a line by the masked guards. The sand soaked with blood behind you.

And for the first time since stepping into the game, you realized: This wasn’t just about survival. This was war. And the only person you could trust here was the man who once broke your heart far too many times.

"Can I trust you?" You whispered to him.

He looked at you. "After that? With your life."

YOU HAD SEEN FAR TOO MUCH, AND YOU HAD ENDURED FAR TOO MUCH.  Yet the only thing you could be thankful for was that you were alive, somehow. And that against every odd and all that grievous feelings you have, you were still with your husband, Sukuna.

It was strange, knowing how this all began. That you were still breathing. That you were still next to him. And even now, despite everything, you couldn’t help but stay near. When you ate, when you slept, you always had to be near him. Or else, you knew you would grow mad. 

Throughout the games, you’d leaned on him for everything. Just as you used to do when you were happily married. You leaned on him for safety, for strategy. For something that still, quietly, resembled love. As horrible as this situation is, this was the most married you had ever been.

This was the penultimate game, at least that’s what you think. Now there were only thirty of you left. And they needed to lower the number now. That’s what they’ve been doing with all the other games. Just to narrow the winner.

They led you into a new room. No pastel walls. No fake skies. Just gray cement and harsh white lights that buzzed like flies. At the center: a square tatami mat. Two cushions. A small lacquered box sat between them. 

Inside, you saw the glint of round, flat glass disks in green, red, and clear. Your eyes widened. It was Ohajiki. You turned around to Sukuna and then once again to the pieces of marble on the ground.  Two guards stood at the back. No other players. Just you.

Your breath caught. “What is this?”

One of the guards stepped forward, flanked by guards. His voice was cold and smooth. “Congratulations. You’ve reached one of the final games.”

He gestured to the mat and the box. “This is Ohajiki. This event will be done in pairs. Each player begins with ten pieces. Take turns flicking. Whoever collects all twenty wins.”

You stared at the disks. “And if neither of us…?”

“If no winner is declared within thirty minutes, then we must follow protocol.” the guard said flatly. “Both players will be eliminated.”

Your chest tightened. “Wait, there has to be another way—”

“No, stop.” Sukuna said softly. “They won’t change their minds.

You turned to him, eyes full of panic.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bargaining.

He just looked… resigned to fate.

“They knew what they were doing with this.” he murmured. “It was always going to come down to this. Us. You know that.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m not doing this. I won’t—”

“You have to.” He stepped closer, slow, careful. “One of us has to make it out. That’s how this works.”

You shook your head, tears already blurring your vision. “You know I can’t. Not like this. Not you.”

He gave a tired smile. It reached his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. You can.”

He picked up one of the colored pieces and slipped it into your hand. “Here. Start with this. Let’s say I misjudged my shot.”

Your heart twisted. You had survived hell. Bullets. Betrayals. People turned into corpses. Friends lost. Names forgotten. But now they wanted this? When your relationship was starting to be your everything, they wanna take it away too?

“You idiot, you fucking idiot.” you whispered, voice shaking. “Why do you always do this?”

Sukuna chuckled under his breath, the sound broken, full of something sharp.  “Because I’m still in love with you. And if one of us gets out…” He looked at you. “I want it to be you.”

“No, no. Fuck no. I’m not going out of this place without you. You know that!” you said, stepping back. “We’ll cheat it. We always do. We’ll figure it out—”

But the guards raised their rifles at you. Sukuna sighed and took you away from them for a distance. The timer started. Thirty minutes, finally going and coming, ticking away on the massive screen. Sukuna knelt down on one cushion. Then he gestured to the other.

“Come on.” he said softly, smiling at you. “Just a stupid game. Like when we were kids. On the tatami. Trying not to flick too hard.”

You sat down. Your hands trembled as you flicked the first piece. You were never good at Ohajiki. Sukuna was always the better one. He was even praised for it. You continued to play, feeling your heart thumping the entire time.

The flat marbles continued to clack gently against another and knocked it aside. You collected another one. Sukuna took his turn. A bad aim. He let you take it. You knew that. And that was frustrating you, angering you. But he didn’t stop.

You won another. And another. Each round, his pile shrank. Yours grew. At fifteen, your hands dropped to your lap. Your chest heaved. He continued to do as he wanted, as he wished, with eager failing.

“You’re letting me win.”

Sukuna didn’t deny it. “You always had better aim, between the two of us.” he said, a soft smile in his voice. 

“You’re a fucking liar.”

“Being a liar is good.” He whispered to you. “But that’s enough for me. You’ll survive. That’s enough for me.”

You stood, shaking. “No. I’m not finishing this.”

“Then we both die.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. “I’d rather die with you—”

He came to you. Touched your face with his calloused thumb against your cheek. “Don’t say that.”

You looked at him desperately. “Sukuna, please…..”

“Live for me, okay?” he whispered. “You think I want to go? I don’t. But I can’t let you die here. Let me do this. Let your good ol’ husband finally do something right for his wife, okay?”

He just continued to hold you as you started to cry in his arms. You took in his warmth, you took into the embrace that you knew you would never get again. You felt his lips press against your head, his fingers tracing the edges of your tresses. 

The timer ticked louder.

Twenty-eight minutes.

Twenty-nine.

“Let’s finish this game.” He said as he let you go. He smiled at you. “Let me see you do well.”

You looked at him, tears endlessly falling.  And with shaking hands, you flicked your final piece. He watched the piece arc in a clean, trembling line with your final flick. The flat marble tapped his final piece and sent it skittering across the mat.

The soft clack was deafening. Your vision blurred with tears as you reached out and gathered the final disk. Twenty. Silence. No cheer. No applause. Just the low mechanical ding of the timer stopping.

Game over.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even look at him. Not yet. But he moved first. Ryomen Sukuna stood up slowly, knees cracking, shoulders slumping like he’d just dropped a weight you couldn’t see.

He stepped over the mat, his steps quieter than ever. Your husband crouched in front of you one last time. His long, beautiful callused fingers cupped your cheek, wiping away a tear that had no end. He smiled at you.

“That’s my girl.” he murmured.

You finally looked up at him, shaking, broken, mouth open like you wanted to scream but couldn't. He didn’t do anything else, he just laughed. He moved towards you, pressing a kiss on your cheek once again. You shake your head at him, feeling the tears fall even more than before.

“Now go win the whole damn thing.”

The guards moved. Your body tensed, but he didn’t resist. He just turned, hands raised, walking toward them like it meant nothing. But at the last second, right before the door, he looked over his shoulder.

There it was. The face you fell in love with. Not the devil-may-care gambler. Not the stubborn man who couldn’t stay out of debt. Just your beloved Sukuna. The one you had loved with your whole heart. Your husband, your ruin, your misery…..and your home.

“I’ll be waiting.” he said softly. “Somewhere.”

And then he was gone. You just stared as they dragged him through steel doors that slammed shut like the end of a book you never wanted to close. You sat there, the Ohajiki pieces warm in your hand. As if they carried the last of his heat.

You didn’t remember standing. Or walking out. 

Or how the guards said your number out loud.

But somehow, you moved from your position.

Somehow, you lived. And then became a widow.

epilogue 

Spring came late that year. The cherry blossoms bloomed like they always did. Always soft, fleeting, unaware of all the blood that had been spilled beneath skies just like this one. You stood beneath a tree in Ueno Park, hands tucked deep in your coat pockets, watching petals fall without grace.

The world kept turning. The money was still untouched, sitting silently in the account like a ghost you couldn’t exorcise. You paid off Sukuna’s debts from what little you’d earned before the games, just enough to get the collectors off your back. The rest… stayed. Cold. Untouched.

You worked again. Small things. Quiet places. 

You mostly kept to yourself these days. 

You never told anyone where you'd been.

Not like they needed to know anything about you.

Sometimes, you dreamed of him tenderly into the night. Not of his death. Not of the guards dragging him away. But silly things about him. The things that made you fall in love with him in the first place. 

His terrible singing in the shower. The way he used to hold chopsticks like a child. His laugh. That brutishly loud laugh that sounded identical to the cracking of an old bell. The way his fuschia hair glistened against the sunrise. The way his scarlet eyes looked at you.

You cried yourself for hours after those dreams. Those were the parts of him the games couldn’t erase or take away from you. Just as much, these were the parts you wished you still had. The parts of him that you would always mourn, until the day you die.

You visited a shrine one morning, early, when the city hadn’t quite woken yet. You lit incense. You carefully laid twenty Ohajiki pieces in a neat line on the stone. You said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

But as you turned to leave, a breeze lifted around you. That soft, warm, carrying the scent of blooming sakura. And for just a moment, you like to think that you could almost hear his voice saying those words again.

“I’ll be waiting.”

You smiled through the ache in your chest. “I won’t keep you waiting too long.” you whispered back. “I promise.”

since squid game is going global in-universe, i thought about how it would be in japan. at first i tried other sort of games, but like kendama, which you can read about in one of the sourced links. but it didnt fit.

so i tried to find something similar to the original games, while maintaining its japanese roots. of course, i do have to tweak some of it to fit in the context, while also being able to bring out the story and some respect.

i thought about making it longer, but it wouldn't work. as it would just be repetitive and i would have to do a bit more searching and fitting for what game suits it all. so i ended up shortening it. still i hope it is enjoyable to you all!!!

here are the sources:

menko

how is menko played?

daruma-san ga koronda

how is daruma-san ga koronda played?

ohajiki

how is ohajiki played?

reader and sukuna's numbers are 46 and 49. together 46 and 49 read something like "yoroshiku" (よろしく) in wordplay which means best regards/please treat me well/nice to meet you and thanks in advance. but in this context, i used please treat me well and best regards.

4 = よ (yo)

The number 4 is pronounced shi or yon, but in wordplay, it's often shortened to yo.

6 = ろ (ro)

The number 6 is pronounced roku, and the ro sound is taken from the beginning.

4 = し (shi)

Again, 4 = shi here.

9 = く (ku)

The number 9 is pronounced kyuu or ku, and ku is used here.

[coolio69420]

Shang Qinghua and Shen Yuan younger au rant thing (from someone who has not read any of the book but perseveres through fandom)

Young Shang Qinghua reminds me of the gacha kids that put warnings like: 18+!!! Smut, read at your own risk!!! And be like 15 irl

Shen Yuan would be like a year younger than him and still read his trash porn. Then when they find each other at the peak he’d be all like “Bro you’re literally only a year older than me why were you writing Binghe getting head?” Then Shang Qinghua would clap back with, “Why were you reading it 🤨”

Idk if they’d still be transmigrated into peak lords or disciples in this au. Peak lords would be funny cuz imagine your sect budget is being decided by a literal 15 year old. Also Shen Yuan and Binghe’s dynamic would be even funnier, they’re almost the same age yet Shen Yuan has to pretend to act wise and stuff because he’s a teacher.

14 year old Shen Yuan looking at the lesson plans Shen Jiu had for class (he does not understand shit): Alright class, uh…read chapter 6-9 and…write about it I guess.

Luo Binghe with the protagonist halo working overtime: Wow, shizun is so wise! He told me to just hit harder at training practice and I improved so much!

That’s it ramblings over.

[rhynestonez]

BY THE BOOK ( PART 1)

Congressman! Bucky X Assistant! Reader

Summary: Freshly fired and desperate, you apply to a poorly written government job—only to end up assistant to Congressman James Barnes, a quiet war hero with no clue how to run an office.

You knew something was off the moment you stepped into the office.

Not the usual “It’s-Monday-and-everyone-hates-their-lives” kind of off. No, this was quieter. Tighter. Like the whole floor was holding its breath and pretending not to look directly at you. Hallie from HR waved at you with a little too much teeth. Greg didn’t make his usual awkward dad-joke at the coffee machine. And your boss—well, he hadn’t shown his face at all.

The silence followed you all the way to your desk, cubicle 3B. You sat down, booted up your sluggish desktop, and tried to shake the feeling crawling over your skin. Maybe you were just paranoid. Maybe Hallie had finally figured out that you stole her granola bars from the break room and this was her revenge.

Or maybe you were about to get fired. “Hey..” came a voice from above you, making your stomach drop. You looked up. It was Jason—your supervisor. Clipboard in hand. Nervous energy oozing off him like sweat.

“Could you… come with me for a sec?” And there it was. The death knell. The walk to the conference room felt like a funeral procession. One that only you had RSVP’d to.

You passed by desks you used to joke around with. Smiled tightly at coworkers who suddenly became very busy with their spreadsheets. The same people you shared frozen yogurt with two days ago now wouldn’t meet your eyes. It was like being a ghost at your own job. Still here, but already halfway gone.

Jason opened the door for you. There were two people inside.

HR Hallie and one of the senior managers. The manager smiled sympathetically, like he’d just euthanized your childhood pet and wanted you to know he felt really bad about it.

You sat down. And they began.

Something about restructuring. Budget cuts. A shift in departmental focus. You were “valued.” and “appreciated.” and “not being let go because of performance.” but the bottom line was the same.

You were being released back into the wild.

You nodded a lot. Smiled even more. Signed the papers they gave you without reading them. You felt numb, like your brain was trying to protect you from registering the slow-motion collapse of your paycheck, your routine, your health insurance.

“Do you want a moment to gather your things?” Hallie asked gently, as though you might burst into tears.

“No, I’m good.” you said too quickly, already rising to your feet. “I don’t even have that much stuff.”

Another lie. You had so much stuff.

Back at your cubicle, the walk of shame began. You grabbed the cardboard box someone had thoughtfully left on your chair. You avoided looking up, knowing what you’d see- coworkers pretending to be busy while stealing glances, faces frozen in sympathetic guilt. The worst kind.

You packed in a fog. Mousepad. Desk cactus. Your favorite pens. The ceramic mug you stole from the supply closet. The birthday card everyone signed last month with forced little messages like “You’re crushing it!” and “Don’t forget us when you’re famous!”

Well. You wouldn’t have to worry about that.

Jason hovered awkwardly nearby like a shadow. “You sure you don’t need help carrying anything?”

“Nope. Just my dignity.”It slipped out before you could stop it. He gave a stiff chuckle. You wanted to melt into the floor.

You made your way to the elevator like it was the final scene of a dramatic indie film. Box in arms. Head held high. Pretending this wasn’t the most humiliating day of your professional life. The elevator doors opened. No applause. Just an old man coughing inside.

Perfect.

You got home two hours later. Kicked off your shoes, dumped the box on the floor of your living room, and collapsed on the couch like a deflated balloon. You stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you.

And that’s where you stayed. For the rest of the day. And most of the next.

You ate chips straight out of the bag. Watched reality TV you’d never admit to enjoying. Didn’t shower. Only left the couch to grab more snacks or charge your phone. You were spiraling—but it was a soft spiral. One wrapped in blankets and denial.

Eventually, shame crept in like an uninvited guest. You opened your laptop. The screen glowed like an accusation. You pulled up a job board. Your search history from last time was still there: “office jobs near me.” “remote jobs for introverts.” “do I really need health insurance if I’m careful.”

You scrolled.

Most listings made you want to evaporate. Corporate jargon. Unrealistic qualifications. $40K salaries requiring six degrees and willingness to be emotionally abused. You were about to close the tab when something caught your eye.

“ASSISTANT NEEDED – GOVT JOB”

No punctuation. No detail. The kind of post that practically begged you to ignore it.

So naturally, you clicked.

“Man needs help. With papers. Office stuff. Maybe coffee sometimes. Not illegal. Good pay. Please have experience with Microsoft… the word one. And fast typing. Not too fast. Just normal. Must be trustworthy. And not annoying.”

You stared. You re-read it. You laughed. Out loud. For the first time all day.

“This has to be a joke..” you muttered, mouth curled into a tired grin. The name at the bottom just said: Congressman J. Barnes.

You weren’t sure if it was real. You weren’t sure you cared. You clicked “Apply.” Attached your outdated résumé. Wrote “Available immediately” in the cover letter box. And hit send. “God help whoever’s desk that lands on.” you muttered, already tossing your laptop to the side.

You figured you’d never hear from them again. But the next morning, your phone rang. Unknown number. You squinted at it.

Half of you wanted to let it go to voicemail. The other half wanted to believe in a miracle. You answered.

“Hi, is this..?” a chipper voice asked, trailing off a little like she was reading your name off a list. “This is Gemma, from the Office of Congressman Barnes. He’d like to bring you in for an interview.” You blinked.

“…oh.”

-

You stood in front of your closet like it had personally offended you. Somewhere between the third blazer and sixth wave of panic, you realized you had no idea what to wear to a government job interview.

Especially one that might’ve been posted by a man who thinks Microsoft Word is called “Microsoft the word one.”

“I don’t even know what I’m applying for..” you muttered to yourself, yanking out a wrinkled blouse that hadn’t seen daylight since your cousin’s wedding. “Is this for a desk job? A CIA field mission? Coffee courier to a congressman with a mysterious past?”

Because let’s be honest—you Googled him.

Congressman James B. Barnes. And let’s just say the results… were not what you expected.

There were official headshots: clean-cut, classic suit, stoic stare. But then there were older photos. Grayscale. Battle-worn. Like something out of a history book. You clicked deeper into the rabbit hole and discovered enough chaos to make your resume feel wildly underqualified.

War hero. Former assassin. Reformed government weapon.

Now… congressman?

“This man needs more than an assistant-“ you muttered, buttoning your shirt with trembling fingers. “He needs a therapist. Maybe a nap.”

And then there was that job description. The weirdly direct, charmingly awkward message that had made you laugh harder than you had in days.

“Man needs help. With papers. Office stuff. Maybe coffee sometimes.”You could not imagine this man typing that. But you kind of wanted to meet whoever did.

The morning of the interview arrived far too quickly. You barely slept. Your nerves were frayed. Your eyeliner was uneven.

You triple-checked your bag: résumé (printed on fancy paper you borrowed from your neighbor), breath mints, water bottle, emergency chocolate, and a sticky note with the name Gemma – Front Office Contact written in panicked caps.

The Capitol Hill building was less intimidating than you expected. Smaller. Like it didn’t quite get the memo that it was hosting a literal congressman. Security was tight but polite. The guard at the front desk glanced at your visitor badge, then up at you.

“You here for Barnes?” You nodded. He snorted. “Good luck.” You opened your mouth to ask what that meant—but he waved you through before you could.

Great. Definitely not ominous at all.

The elevator dinged open on the third floor, revealing a hallway lined with framed press clippings, black-and-white photos, and one strange oil painting that made your eyes sore.

You approached the office door and hesitated for exactly one soul-crushing moment.

You could still turn around. Blame traffic. Say you got the wrong building. But instead, you knocked. “Come in!” a bright voice called.

You opened the door and were immediately greeted by a perky woman in a lavender button up—Gemma, you assumed—who smiled like she just saw a long lost friend.

“You made it!” she said, motioning you in. “Right on time. I love that. He’ll love that. Timeliness is kind of… a thing.”

You smiled nervously. “I’m a big fan of clocks.”

God. You were already spiraling.

Gemma didn’t seem to notice. She gestured for you to sit in a sleek waiting chair beside a bookshelf stacked with…well. Mostly military history. And something called ‘how to overcome being antisocial’ which honestly felt like a cry for help.

“He’s just finishing a call-“ she chirped. “Shouldn’t be more than a minute.” You nodded. Hands folded tightly in your lap. The silence stretched.

Then you heard it. A low voice. Just beyond the closed office door. Rough. Steady. Calm like a storm cloud.

You couldn’t make out the words—but something about the tone made your skin prickle. So this is him.

James Barnes.

Your potential boss. War hero turned congressman. Possibly the worst job poster in the history of the internet.

You felt a laugh catch in your throat and swallowed it back. This was fine. Normal. You were in control. “Can I ask..” you whispered to Gemma, leaning slightly closer. “Did… he actually write that job post?”

She blinked, then smiled guiltily. “I… typed it. But he dictated it.. I suggested we workshop it but he said—and I quote—‘If they’re the right person, they’ll understand what I meant.’” Your stomach did a weird little flip. “Right.” You mumbled, eyebrow twitching slightly. The door opened. You straightened instinctively. And there he was.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair slicked back neatly. Navy-blue shirt rolled at the sleeves. One hand in his pocket. The other—metal, unmistakable—still adjusting the watch on his wrist.

He looked up. Eyes like winter. And when they landed on you… he actually smiled. Just a little. Not the polished politician kind. The real kind. A bit tired. A bit curious. A bit… surprised.

“You’re early.” he said. Voice just like you imagined—low, quiet, steady. “That’s good.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Your brain offered nothing useful except: Holy shit he’s hot.

Gemma, bless her soul, stepped in. “This is the applicant we spoke about.” He nodded. Extended a hand. You shook it, startled by how warm the metal felt. Strong but careful. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use.

“Nice to meet you.” he said. “I’m Bucky.” You blinked, then instinctively gave your name. “-but I’m sure you already knew that from my application..” He huffed a soft laugh. Not unkind. Just amused.

“Well-“ he said, stepping aside and gesturing to the door behind him. “Let’s talk.”

His office was quiet. Not the peaceful kind—more like the kind of silence that follows a bomb going off. Thick, slightly tense, and filled with the unspoken energy of “I didn’t plan for this.”

You sat down as Bucky gestured vaguely at the chair across from him and lowered himself into his own, the leather creaking under his weight. He didn’t speak at first—just opened a drawer, pulled out a pen, then closed the drawer again. Looked at the pen like he forgot what to do with it.

You smoothed your blouse, the long skirt you wore and cleared your throat lightly, trying to keep your posture professional. His office was cluttered but lived-in, stacks of folders on the floor and two mugs on his desk—one clearly from yesterday. Or possibly last week. You couldn’t tell.

He opened a folder, blinked at the blank sheet inside, then closed it. Then looked up at you. Then back down. Then exhaled through his nose like this was already too much.

You offered a polite smile. “Should I… begin?”

He cleared his throat. “No—I mean. I’ll start.”

You folded your hands in your lap, waiting. Silence. He tapped the pen against the desk. Slowly. Then, after a beat too long.

“…Why do you want this job?”

It came out flat. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure it was the right question but figured it sounded interview-y enough to work.

You sat up straighter, shifting into the persona you’d practiced in the mirror. “Well, first and foremost, I believe I can bring organizational cohesion and administrative fluidity to your daily operations. I have extensive experience in interdepartmental coordination, and I thrive in high-pressure environments with adaptive logistics.”

Bucky blinked. His brow furrowed. “…Right.”

You smiled, trying not to panic. “Also I’m really good at, you know, keeping things… tidy.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You saw him glance at your résumé—upside down—and then make a noise deep in his throat. His eyes scanned the desk like he was searching for help. Or divine intervention.

Another long pause. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again: “Do you… type fast?”

You hesitated. “Yes. Around 85 words per minute, depending on format.”

He nodded like that meant something. “Cool.”

You both sat in the silence of that word for a second too long.

“…Are you… looking for someone with any particular certifications?” you offered, trying to help. He blinked again. “Hm?”

“Like government clearance, or scheduling software—”

“Oh. Uh. No. I just need someone who… knows how to do things. Like calendars. Paper stuff.”

“Calendars and paper,” you repeated with a kind smile. “Yeah.” Another pause. He fiddled with the pen cap, then tossed it onto the desk like it had personally betrayed him.

“Have you ever worked for someone…as an assistant?”

You straightened a little. “I’ve worked in team dynamics with various communication styles, so technically no, but I’m adaptable. I understand how to read nonverbal cues and maintain effective workflow even without constant direction.”

Bucky stared. He tilted his head a little, like he was trying to decipher a foreign language.

“…So you’ve never done it before?”

You smiled again. “Correct.” Oh god..

“Okay.” More silence.

You could see the panic just barely behind his neutral expression. It sat in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tapped against the desk like Morse code. He clearly hadn’t expected to do this himself. Or at all.

You tried to fill the space.

“I uhm- also have experience managing travel itineraries, liaising with constituents, and handling confidential information with discretion. I’m extremely punctual, digitally literate, and can operate independently.”

He gave you a slow blink. “…You sound like a brochure.” You froze. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No—it’s fine. I just. Didn’t catch… half those words.” You flushed immediately. “Sorry—I’m nervous. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s—it’s not bad.” He shifted, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re just… a lot more professional than I thought.”

You tried to laugh. “Well, your job posting did say ‘not annoying,’ so I figured I should overachieve.” That actually made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. But close.

“I actually didn’t write that part.” You lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“I said ‘don’t hire anyone weird.’ Gemma translated.” You laughed quietly, the tension cracking a little. Then he rubbed his chin and asked, out of nowhere.

“…Do you like cats?”

You blinked. “Um—yes.” He nodded slowly, like this was very serious. “Good.” And then nothing else. You waited.

He leaned back in his chair, clearly out of questions. After a moment, you gently asked “Would you like to know about my references-Or work history?”

“No.” he said. Then added “I read the résumé.” You could see it sticking halfway out from under his coffee mug.

“I don’t really know what to ask.” he admitted finally, voice lower, quieter. “I’ve never had an assistant before. I usually just… figure things out alone.” There was a flicker of something vulnerable in that. Something human. And tired.

You softened. “I can help with that.” He looked at you for a long moment. Then nodded once. “Okay.”

You blinked. “So… am I hired?”He stood up abruptly. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Eight a.m.” You scrambled to your feet. “Right—great! Should I bring—?”

“Coffee. If you want.”

You tilted your head. “How do you take it?”He paused. Shrugged. “I don’t know. Gemma makes it.” You laughed despite yourself. “Guess I’ll improvise.” You reached for the door, and with a nervous sigh you stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind you. Bucky exhaled slowly. Then sat back down in his chair like he’d just returned from war.

He stared at the coffee mug on his desk.

“Calendars and… liaisoning.” he mumbled under his breath, brow furrowed. “What the hell is a liaison.”

Right then, the door cracked open again—without knocking—and Gemma poked her head in like a cartoon squirrel.

“So?” she asked, too brightly.

Behind her, Jace from accounting and Maya from policy hovered in the hallway, definitely pretending they weren’t listening.

Bucky glanced at them all. “What?”

Gemma stepped inside fully. “How’d the interview go?” He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” she asked, moving closer. “You’ve had that same piece of pen cap in your hand for twenty minutes.” He looked down. He had, in fact, snapped it clean in half.

“She was really impressive.” he said, almost defensively. “Said a lotta smart stuff. Big words. I think she knows what she’s doing.”

Jace leaned into the doorway. “Did you ask her that weird cat question again?”

Bucky squinted. “It’s a valid question.”

“Sure-“ Maya said, sipping from a mug. “Because nothing says ‘professional screening process’ like ‘Would you feed my cat if I forgot.’”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and grabbed the crumpled receipt off his desk, folding it in half.

“She’s not annoying.”

“Oh well then.” Gemma grinned, hands on her hips. “Hire her immediately, let’s throw a party.”

“I did.” Bucky said flatly. They all stared. “You what?” He shrugged. “She starts tomorrow.”

Jace whistled. “Hope she brings her own chair. The spare one in your office still has three screws missing.”

“I can fix it.”

Maya blinked. “Really now?”

“I’ll try, she’ll be a good addition here..”

Gemma raised her eyebrows. “Wow. High praise already.” Bucky ignored them, turning back to his papers—but not before glancing once toward the door you’d just walked out of.

“Aw-“ Gemma teased. “Are you flustered, Congressman?” He didn’t respond. But his ears did go a little pink.

“Get out.”

[rgwriteshockey]

back together w/ macklin celebrini ->

summary: macklin comes home from a roadtrip

word count: 0.9k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

macklin celebrini was tired.

not just the regular, “played four games in six nights and got cross-checked into next week” kind of tired. it was the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes, quiet and heavy. like a weight you forget is there until you try to smile and realize it doesn’t quite reach.

they’d gone 2–2 on the road. not awful, not great. he’d played fine—had a couple points, made some good reads, but nothing special. and that was maybe the part that bugged him. he didn’t feel bad, but he didn’t feel electric either. and macklin was used to feeling electric. used to buzzing around the ice, feeling sharp, dialed in. this trip, he just felt… okay. which is fine. but also kind of not.

the plane landed just after noon. cloudy sky, a little drizzle on the tarmac. he pulled his hoodie over his head, earbuds in, duffel slung across his shoulder, same rhythm as always. say bye to the boys, head for the lot, text his girl. same pattern. but today felt different. not in a big dramatic way. just in a quiet, homesick kind of way.

he scrolled to her name.

mack: “just landed. almost home.”

y/n/n: “can’t wait to see you. I missed you a lot , made cookies”

that got a little smile out of him. not a big grin, just a small lift in the corner of his mouth. warm apartment. her. suddenly, the tired felt a little lighter.

the drive home was chill. light traffic, music low. he let his thoughts wander. kept thinking about how she’d probably be waiting by the window, hair tied up, sweatshirt too big, maybe even his. maybe that blue one she always stole. she always looked better in his stuff anyway.

he parked, grabbed his bag, took the stairs two at a time even though his legs were barking. habit. adrenaline. the kind of buzz that only came from knowing someone was on the other side of the door.

he didn’t even knock.

as soon as he opened it, she was there, barefoot, smiling, arms wide.

“hi,” she said, voice soft and happy and home.

he dropped his bag and walked straight into her, wrapping her up like he hadn’t hugged anyone in a hundred years. her hands slid up his back, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, like she could feel how tense he’d been without him saying a word.

“missed you,” he mumbled into her hair.

“missed you more,” she whispered back.

they stayed like that for a minute. maybe more. no rush. no words. just two people in the middle of the kind of quiet that feels safe.

eventually she pulled back, looked up at him.

“you look tired.”

“i am,” he said, laughing a little.

“go sit down. I'll grab some cookies.”

he kicked off his shoes, flopped onto the couch, and watched her move around the kitchen like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen all week. she had music playing quietly—some soft indie playlist she always had going—and she hummed along like this was just another wednesday. for her, maybe it was. for him, it felt like breathing again.

she brought over two cookies on a little plate, warm and soft, melty in the middle. he took a bite and let out a noise that made her laugh.

“good?” she asked, nudging his knee with hers.

“ridiculous,” he said, mouth full. “marry me.”

she raised an eyebrow, grinning. “for cookies?”

“among other things.”

she laughed again, tucked her legs under her on the couch, and leaned her head against his shoulder. he rested his cheek on top of her head and let himself sink into the moment. no pressure. no games to prep for. just her.

they talked for a bit—about the trip, the stupid hotel pillows, the team group chat getting out of control. she told him about her week, some drama with her coworker, the plant she accidentally killed and tried to revive with coffee. he listened, actually listened, because he liked the way she told stories. even the small ones.

at one point she reached up, brushing her fingers through his hair, slow and careful, and he thought: yeah, this. this is it.

“you’re quiet today,” she said gently.

“just tired,” he replied. “but i feel better now.”

“because of me?”

“duh,” he said, nudging her. “you’re the only person who can fix me with banana bread and head scratches.”

she smirked, kissed his jaw. “i’ll take that title proudly.”

they stayed there most of the afternoon. didn’t really move. just background noise, soft blankets, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. he dozed off at one point, and she let him, covering him with a throw blanket and tucking his hand in hers like it was second nature.

when he woke up later, sun low and golden through the window, she was still there. scrolling her phone, sipping tea. and she looked at him like he hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

“feel human again?” she asked.

he nodded. “getting there.”

“good,” she said. “you don’t have to be anything here. just you.”

he reached for her hand, squeezed it.

“that’s more than enough,” he said, and meant it.

home wasn’t just a place. it was her. always had been.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

a/n: iiii ammmm backkkkk!! i stopped writing for a minute due to school and i had a europe trip but i am back now! send requests

riley grace

[foxlorests]

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER FOUR: NEW YEAR'S EVE JINGLE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 4.6k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Love Confessions, Makeout session, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Smut (in later chapters), Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Nervous harry castillo, Emotional vulnerability, materialists movie reference, Warning: Harry's surgery mentioned!

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry can't stay away and find reasons to meet her.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist

Harry was being stupid, really. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the spiral.

It had been four days. Four days since she had closed the door with a kiss half on his mouth and a joke that echoed louder than it should have. Four days since he'd walked away with her still lingering on his skin, her name tucked into his phone, her voice lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat. He hadn't called. She hadn't either. And it was driving him slowly, clinically mad.

He kept inventing reasons to look at his phone—checking the time, checking work emails he’d already read, opening the weather app to see if it might snow again. Sometimes he scrolled through her contact just to stare at the photo she’d insisted on taking of herself—mid-laugh, blurry, too close. He’d saved it anyway. Anything that made it feel like he wasn’t just waiting. Like he wasn’t just thirty-something hours deep into pretending he wasn’t thinking about her constantly.

He had dreamt about her once. Or maybe not dreamt. He wasn’t sure he’d even slept.

By day five, the yearning turned to worry. Maybe he’d misread it. Maybe she was young enough that the kiss had been a flicker, not a fire. Maybe she was busy. Or maybe she was smart enough to see the difference between flirtation and something real—and smart enough to walk away before it became the latter.

Only Emma noticed. She always noticed.

“Your calendar’s been open to the same week for three days,” she said flatly, not looking up from her screen. “You keep refreshing it like it’s going to change itself.”

Harry looked over his coffee. “I’m just thinking.”

“You’re brooding,” she corrected. “Brooding is thinking with worse posture.”

He sighed.

Emma stopped typing. That alone was concerning.

“You didn’t call her?”

He shook his head.

“May I ask why?”

He hesitated. Then, softly, honestly: “She’s young, Emma.”

She nodded once. Professional, composed. “And you’re not?”

“I’m almost fifty.”

“She’s not twelve, Harry.”

He blinked.

“She’s twenty-seven, an adult,” Emma added, not at all sheepish. ”A Juilliard graduate. Runs a studio. Composed for orchestras. I think she can handle her own choices.”

“It’s not just about her. I don’t want to seem too…” He trailed off.

“Desperate?” she offered.

“Eager,” he corrected.

Emma turned back to her screen. “Well, if it helps, you’re already both.”

⊹

The call came on the thirty-first of December.

Harry was at a New Year’s gathering with people he barely tolerated—partners, old colleagues, men with ties too loud and drinks too expensive. It was a chance for rich people to show off their family and put on a face— saying stuff like “my wife, the stock broker”, or “my son, the architect.” It helped him sometimes, to know which businesses are worth investing in. Other times, however, it served as a distraction from his life. Distraction from the fact his family never gathered for the holidays except for Christmas dinner, distraction from his empty social life, or distraction from a certain blonde. Emma was there too, perched beside him, paid generously to endure the evening under the title of executive assistant. It wasn’t her scene, but she blended in effortlessly. That’s what made her good at her job.

The sun hadn’t set yet. The sky outside the restaurant windows was gold and soft, too gentle for the city’s usual brand of endings.

Harry felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket. Unknown number, but his personal line. He didn’t think—just picked it up, half-hoping for a voice he knew wouldn’t be there.

“Mr Castillo?” a man said.

“Yes?”

“Uh—this is weird. I’m one of Catherine’s friends. You gave me your card? After the concert?”

He straightened slightly. “Right. Yes. Is something wrong?”

“We, um… we haven’t heard from her since Christmas. It’s almost New Year's. Someone is looking for her. She didn’t show up to anything, didn’t answer calls, or texts. She’s not with you, is she? Or with her family or anything?”

A pause.

“No. Have you checked her apartment?”

“Yeah. No answer. I’m sure it’s nothing—just figured I’d try the card.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Harry said quietly, already standing.

The man hung up.

Emma looked up at him immediately. “What is it?”

He explained—simply, directly. She watched him carefully, her expression shifting from concern to focus.

“Call her,” she said.

“She hasn’t—”

“Harry. Just call her.”

He did.

Once. Then again. By the third ring of the third try, she picked up.

“Hello?” Her voice.

“Catherine?” he said, too quickly. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t answered anyone in days.”

She was silent.

“Where are you right now?”

A beat.

“…Central Park. It’s nothing serious, Harry, really—”

He closed his eyes. “Send me your location.”

“Why?”

“Just send it.”

She did.

He turned to Emma. “Can you get something delivered to the penthouse? Soup. Something hot. And go home after that. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”

She gave a curt nod. “I’ll make sure it’s waiting for her.”

“I’ll triple your bonus.”

“I already assumed.”

⊹

The city was loud with early celebrations, cabs honking like they were late to something important. His driver was quick, thankfully. But then there’s the actual crowd of central park on new years. He ignored it all, weaving through the crowds, eyes flicking to his phone every few steps. The little blue dot pulsed somewhere near the east.

He didn’t know what he expected, exactly. Maybe she’d be curled on a bench, crying softly, hands trembling from a breakdown no one saw coming. Maybe he could finally be someone’s knight—just once. He could have held her, calmed her, wrapped his coat around her shoulders like in some film. A quiet rescue.

But Catherine looked fine.

He found her near the Conservatory Water, sitting perfectly still while laughing through her teeth. An older woman with bright orange hair and oversized earrings was painting her. A folding easel was propped on the pavement, pastels strewn across the ground like candy.

Catherine spotted him. She smiled and waved him over, as if they’d planned to meet all along.

“Harry!”

He approached slowly, unsure whether to feel relieved or ridiculous.

The painter glanced up from her canvas, squinting. “Who’s this? Your dad?”

Harry blinked. Catherine didn’t.

“My antique,” she said sweetly. “Do you mind painting us together? I’ll pay you double.”

The painter shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

Harry stood behind the easel, still winded. Catherine shifted slightly to make room beside her, patting the bench without looking at him.

He sat.

And hated how much he liked the way her shoulder brushed his.

“You’re gonna tell me why you’re ignoring your calls?” Harry asked, voice low, not unkind.

“Oo, grumpy boyfriend,” the painter chirped, not looking up as she dabbed something bright onto the canvas. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Harry shot her a look that didn’t need translation.

Catherine nudged him gently with her shoulder, smiling. “I didn’t ignore your call, did I?”

“No,” he said, measured. “But your friend sounded really worried. They went to your apartment. Said you weren’t there. Should I be worried? They had to be pretty desperate to call me.”

“They’re just being dramatic,” she said, as if that explained everything. Harry didn’t buy it. But before he could press, she offered more, unprompted.

“My ex-boyfriend is looking for me,” she said lightly. “I think they’re trying to set me up with him again for New Year’s.”

“Oh.” His voice was flat. Too flat.

“Yeah. We share mutual friends, you see. And no one really knows what happened when we broke up. So I guess they’re hoping we’d eventually get back together—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said, cutting her off with more grace than he felt. “I get it.”

She glanced at him, but didn’t argue. The painter muttered something approving about “the tension” and moved on to blending shadows.

After a while, Catherine tilted her head. “Why are you dressed so nice? Dinner date?”

“No. New Year’s dinner. Colleagues. Networking.” He paused. “Not important.”

The finished painting was beautiful.

Catherine, with her honey-blonde hair tucked behind one ear, sat like she'd been plucked out of some movie—head tilted slightly, half-smile curling like she was seconds from laughing. Harry looked... older. That was inevitable. Lines around his eyes, the slight exhaustion carved into the corners of his mouth. But he does look happy. It helped when Catherine said without thought how handsome he was in the painting. Together, they looked…sweet. Familiar. Almost like a couple who’d done this a dozen times. Almost like they belonged in the same portrait.

Catherine loved it. Harry wouldn’t admit, but he loved it too. She tried to hand the canvas over to him, insisting it was a gift. He said no— in truth, he wanted it. She said yes—in truth she wanted it too. She said he could keep it and hang it somewhere absurd, like above the toilet. He threatened to frame it in gold.

The painter watched them with a grin, already pulling another sheet from her pad. Harry tipped her, quietly and too much, while Catherine looped her arm through his without asking.

They walked through the park, the cold gentling under layers of scarves and breath. The light was beginning to dim—early winter dusk settling over the trees.

Catherine made a passing comment about how the snow always looked like unfinished sheet music on the branches. Harry said he never understood winter until he was old enough to drink through it.

She said, at one point, “I didn’t want to be around people who wanted things from me tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, watching her breath curl in the cold.

Then, a pause.

“What about your disease?”

“My what?”

“Your fear of missing out,” he said, completely serious.

Catherine chuckled, stopping in front of a vendor selling warm bread out of a cart. “Ah, that.I already spent a few days with my friends for Christmas. I think that’s enough. Plus, when it comes to my ex-boyfriend, I’m thrilled to be missing everything.”

Harry watched her pay with crumpled bills. “Sounds like you really hate him.”

“Maybe.” She said it like a shrug, not a wound.

She handed him half of her bread without asking. They kept walking.

“You know what would be really great with this?” she said, tearing off a piece.

“What?”

“Soup.”

Harry smiled. Fate had a funny sense of humor. “Funny you said that, because I have soup back at my place.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Yeah.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? You’re dressed very well. You can’t spend New Year’s Eve with a lonely musician.”

“Sweetheart,” Harry said. “I’m an old unmarried man with no kids. The only party I was invited to is one where people drink too much champagne and talk about yield curves. And I left that gathering already.”

That seemed to work.

She didn’t argue, just nodded once, lips tugging into something small and fond. They stepped into the car. His driver barely had to ask—already peeling away from the curb as if he’d been hoping for this detour.

She mentioned how he always seemed to make her visit his penthouse. He laughed.

Somewhere between the park and Tribeca, Catherine looked down at her outfit—a white blouse, faintly wrinkled, paired with beat-up boots.

“What a waste,” she said, poking at Harry’s expensive cuff. “This beautiful suit, and I’m showing up to soup night like it’s a band rehearsal.”

Harry looked at her, then smiled. He told her he didn’t mind. That he thought she looked beautiful.

Emma’s soup delivery needs to be reheated. The penthouse, though spacious and immaculate, felt different with Catherine in it again. Less like a showroom, more like a home. Or something brimming toward it.

Catherine slipped off her shoes, letting them clatter softly onto the marble. She padded toward the kitchen in her socks and blouse, hair coming loose from the clip she'd thrown it into earlier. She found his stool without asking, propped her elbows on the counter like she’d been here before. Like it was hers.

Harry, behind the stove, ladled the soup into bowls as if that were something he regularly did. It wasn’t. But she didn’t need to know that.

While he worked, Catherine wandered. She scanned his bookshelf with interest—not the ones by the fireplace, filled with the usual curated titles, but the smaller one by the hallway, half-hidden and poorly organized. She plucked out a novel with frayed pages and raised an eyebrow at the name in the jacket. “You dog-eared this one,” she called softly, amused.

He said nothing. Only turned slightly to watch her from behind the ladle.

Then she drifted to the record shelf. She crouched, flipped through spines with one finger, and pulled out something old—jazz, a little scratchy, heavy on the piano. She placed it on the player, and the first few notes trickled in, soft and low. The room sighed into it.

“Aw. You bought my records,” she said when she found hers. “And you put it right at the front too.”

Harry winced. He was planning on hiding that. He didn’t want to seem too obsessed with her— buying her records in bulk and listening to it while praying to god she calls him eventually.

He tried to look nonchalant, like him owning her records was just the act of a friend supporting another friend. “Put it on the player,” he said.

“No, thank you. I listened to it too much,” she said, letting the jazz fill the room.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, he’d placed the bowls on the counter. She blew on her spoon. Then she took a bite, exhaled, and gave him a pleased hum. Harry didn’t eat right away. He just watched her for a second too long—her knees tucked into the stool, her dimple showing when she smiled, her hair curling slightly at the edges from the cold.

“This tastes better than Jim’s,” she said after the third spoon.

They moved to the couch after the soup was done, bowls half-finished on the counter. Neither of them said it, but there was something sacred in not cleaning up right away. Jazz still played, low and dreamy, brushing the walls like it knew it was meant to stay in the background.

Catherine curled her legs beneath her, Harry leaned into the opposite corner, the stretch of couch between them gradually closing—not by design, but by the way two tired bodies shift toward warmth. They talked, not about anything in particular. Her studio, his worst board meeting. A street musician she liked. The way New York smelled like burnt pretzels and smoke this time of year.

They drank wine, and after the second glass, Catherine started becoming more talkative—looser at the edges, giggly in the way that made him watch her more closely. 

She told him about her family. Her sister Jane, the serious one, the type to organize vacations six months in advance, and sharp features that looked nothing like hers. Her brother Chester, who dropped out of university twice before owning a business. And her parents—retired, finally. Still living in the same house she grew up in, still calling her with the same landline number.

When he asked why she didn’t fly home for the holidays, she shrugged. The concert was too close to Christmas, and sleep deprivation on long-haul flights wasn’t worth the guilt. She said she didn’t mind. They video-called. They sent pictures of food. Her sister sent her an entire roast duck recipe annotated with handwritten notes. It wasn’t distance that made her sad, she said. It was missing the jokes at the table. The smell of the hallway. The way her father cut oranges with too much confidence.

He said her family should’ve come here instead.

She smiled at him for that. Softly. “Maybe next year,” she said.

In return, he told her about Peter. How his brother once got into a fistfight in high school for him. How their mother referred to Harry as “the bossy one” and Peter as “the funny one.” Catherine laughed at that.

He told her about the rest of the Castillos. The obligatory Christmas dinner. The unspoken pressure. The empty rituals. His uncle who measured affection in watch brands and donations. His father’s absence didn’t feel like grief anymore, just a silence that never entirely left the room.

He told her about college. How his friends now worked in hedge funds or VC firms and called themselves “leaders” and “important people”. How most of them were married to women who he could never tell apart, whose name he could never remember. Catherine smiled when he said that. She then told him a trick for remembering names, how he needed to say names out loud and preferably to the person so his brain could associate it with a face.

At one point, she asked if he missed anyone. From back then.

“No,” he said. Then thought about it, and amended, “Not in the way that counts. We kept in touch for reunions and weddings. That’s it.”

Then, somewhere between another sip of wine and the drop in conversation, she asked if he could cut her bangs.

It was a joke at first, half-drunken curiosity. But when he tried to call someone, she insisted no one would come. Not even if he paid well. Not even if he doubled the rate. This was New York. It was too late. Everyone had lives. Everyone but them, apparently. She had already found scissors.

“I’ve done it before,” she said.

But Harry didn’t really like the look of those scissors in her hands, so close to her eyes. So he put the wine down, took the scissors from her hand and said, “Sit.”

And when Harry Castillo did something, he did it seriously—whether in the form of finalizing a merger, courting women he knew he couldn’t love and wouldn’t love him back, or apparently, cutting bangs. He pulled up the high stool from the bar, propped her on it, tilted her chin under the light like a stylist about to make a statement. She said his mother was right for calling him bossy.

“My forehead is huge,” she mumbled.

“It’s not,” he said simply.

“It is. Jane’s smaller, with perfect proportions. My mom always said I had a soft face.”

“You’re perfect.”

She didn’t argue. But she didn’t look up either. He combed her fringe forward with careful fingers, and she talked as he worked. Told him how her sister Jane used to model, how her brother also had a big forehead.

“Chester and I looked more like my dad. Round face,” She smirked to herself. “My mom once told me she had to push for hours just to get me out. Like I was stuck or something. I found out years later I was a C-section baby.”

She laughed quietly. A snort and a shrug.

Harry only smiled at her reaction but he didn't laugh with her. He thought that was a bit cruel of her mother. 

Harry told her about his leg surgery with Peter, how most of it felt like a bonding experience because they were stuck with each other for months. Something they hadn’t done since they were kids. It was funny how he gave that information to her easily. She asked if it hurt, and if it was worth it, he said it was definitely worth it, and it hurt like hell.

He didn’t know why it was so easy to say that. Maybe because her voice was soft. Maybe because she wasn’t looking at him too hard. Or maybe because, somehow, she’d become the kind of person he wanted to give things to. Truth, most of all.

He could blame the wine. Catherine was clearly tipsy—laughing at her own jokes, confusing words, and blinking too slowly. But Harry? Harry could drink three more glasses and still carry out a merger. It wasn’t the wine.

He’d say the same things if he were sober.

He tilted her chin slightly and brushed the last strands into place. Stepped back.

“There,” he said.

She blinked at the small mirror she held. Then beamed. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

She touched the fringe, pushing it aside, then letting it fall again. Harry said nothing, but something in his chest swelled. She hopped down from the chair and kissed his cheek.

Somewhere along the way, their conversation slowed into silence, and their shoulders tilted toward one another. It was expected. He was old. She was sleep deprived from practicing for months. At some point, heads rested side by side, and eventually, without anyone deciding to, they fell asleep on the couch.

⊹

It was around one in the morning when Catherine stirred, blinking slowly, nudging his arm. 

“Harry, we missed New Years,” she whispered. “It’s freezing. Do you have socks?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Socks?”

“My feet are cold,” she said.

He pushed himself up and shuffled down the hall, voice still scratchy from sleep. “Alright, alright. I think I’ve got a warm pair somewhere. Sorry, I fell asleep. You can move to my bed.”

He didn’t hear her get up and follow him.

He was rummaging through a drawer in the walk-in closet, trying to find a sock that would fit her. He had big feet so it might take a while.

Suddenly, she said, quietly—

“Is that my…”

He turned, confused, then saw her reaching toward the back of the closet, fingers brushing over it.

Her coat.

The one from the bookstore all those years ago. Still soft, still warm, folded too neatly to be accidental.

Harry’s sleep vanished in a blink. “Shit,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Catherine didn’t say anything right away. She just held the coat. Looked at it like it was something new, something precious, and then looked at him.

They stood facing each other, quiet and unsure. His hands still half in the sock drawer, her arms around the coat like she wasn’t sure what to say.

Her cheeks flushed—not a dramatic kind of blush, but something soft and pink, rising like warmth from the chest. It caught him off guard.

Harry walked towards her. Their eyes met and they both froze.

He didn’t know what to say either.

Should he play it down? Say he meant to return it, that he didn’t want to throw it out? A lie so thin it wouldn’t last the second it left his mouth. Or should he tell the truth—that five years ago, in the middle of a storm, she handed him her coat without hesitation, and for a man who’d spent most of his life buying affection in the form of favors and dinners and signatures, that single gesture felt like being seen. That he was longing for someone to care for him, for someone to give him a coat when it’s raining, or a smile when he was feeling down. That it felt like hope. Like a borrowed lifeline. Like being chosen. Like the world had offered him proof that someone could care for him without asking for anything in return.

But he didn’t say that either. He stood there, holding a pair of socks he’d long forgotten about, and looked at her holding the coat like it still carried something important.

Catherine looked up at him, straight into his eyes, unwavering. Tired, yes, but clear in a way that startled him. She didn’t blink much. She almost never did when things got serious.

“I didn’t want to assume—” she started, then stopped. Her voice was softer now, gentler. “You called me kid when we met. I thought…”

Her blush deepened.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was too much of a coward to fill the silence.

Catherine shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the hem of the coat like it steadied her. “I don’t want to sound like a pathetic girl,” she said, eyes not leaving his, “But even then, I was… I was hoping…I don’t want to get my hopes up but—”

He leaned in before she could finish the sentence.

Not dramatically. Not like a man crashing through a moment. Just a step closer, just enough. Close enough to smell the faint citrus in her hair, to see the tired blush still blooming on her cheeks. His hand found hers—gentle, not asking, just present. And when he kissed her, it was quiet. Slow.

She kissed him back.

Their tongues danced, their teeth touched. There was no rush to it. Just something soft and real—warmth passed between them like a long-held breath finally exhaled.

He kissed her again, this time deeper, until she leaned into him completely. Her arms around his neck, her legs curling gently around his waist, until the weight of her body settled against his like it belonged there. He carried her to the bedroom, her laughter a quiet exhale against his neck.

He sat at the edge of the bed with her still in his arms, on his lap, both of them catching their breath.

Then her forehead pressed lightly to his.

God.

He could’ve drowned in it—the smell of her skin, the heat of her thigh beneath his palm, the way her lips stayed parted, dazed, like she was still savoring the taste of him. There were things about her that weren’t fair. The way her blouse slid slightly off one shoulder. The shape of her waist in his hands.

He wanted her. That was the plainest truth. He was hard as hell. His body made no effort to hide it. But it wasn’t just lust—not anymore. Not the way it used to be, with women who treated intimacy like a contract: clearly defined, mutually beneficial, and quick. He used to be like that too— fuck like he did business. Like it was a game, like closing a deal. The kind where he felt obligated to perform, to give something and receive something.

This wasn’t that. Not even close.

Catherine’s eyes, red and tired, blinked up at him like she was asking for something simpler. Slower. Her lips were warm against his neck, but her shoulders sagged with sleep. She just needed to be held.

And he—he was willing to wait. However long it took. He didn’t care.

He kissed her again, on the cheek this time. Then the forehead. Then the jaw. He laid her gently down, pulling the blankets over them both. He remembered her words from earlier in the day.

“I want you badly, sweetheart. But you need rest,” he whispered, brushing her hair back. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

She hummed something he didn’t catch, already half-asleep. There was some fear lingering in his mind, afraid she would forget or deny what happened. She was drunk. It was a possibility. But that thought didn’t linger long, because she snuggled up to him, taking his hand and putting it on her curves. He obliged, wrapped his hand around her until they were in bed like spoons nestled together

Harry ignored the ache in his chest. The ache everywhere else, especially on his crotch. He pulled her closer instead, his breath steadying against the back of her neck. The warmth of her body against his. Her coat still folded on the chair, forgotten.

And sometime after she fell asleep, so did he

A/N: Updates every weekend. Next update will have more word count and some smut. Support is appreciated xoxo

[brucebocchi]

Spring 2025 anime, Pt. 1: Ongoing/returning anime and mixed bags

hey, this post is also available on my ko-fi, so please check it out and consider tipping/donating as this is a labor of love. all of my seasonal reviews and end-of-year rankings are on my ko-fi and under my anime reviews tag, mixed in with my occasional musings. thanks!

Holy shit, I actually got one of these out on time!

Spring was an absolute banger of a season for anime, and I wound up watching way more than I expected. Before I get into the absolute gold, though, let's start off with the familiar stuff as well as the stuff that was... not as great.

As always, OP linked in the show title.

Ikuzo!

Continuing & returning anime

​​The Apothecary Diaries, season 2, second cour

One of the decade’s best anime continued into the spring season in much the same way as it did in the second half of its debut season by rewarding keen eyes and revealing mysteries that had been mounting for weeks, if not months. The Apothecary Diaries’ ability to build momentum as it connects its disparate dots is unmatched, and once again the payoff is building at mach speed.

The seeds planted in the second season’s first cour, and even a couple from the first season, are bearing fruit, and some have even cross-pollinated in unexpected ways. The previous emperor’s crimes were laid out pretty starkly in the first half of this season, and he continues to haunt the narrative as it unfolds. This season can easily be summed up by the old card that “hurt people hurt people,” and his crimes are reverberating in the actions of his survivors. It doesn’t help that some of the older ones see him in Jinshi’s beautiful face (who knows what that could mean!), and the attack on him towards the end of the first cour is starting to look like part of a much grander machination.

Maomao, meanwhile, is closer to the gears of that machine than she realizes at first, and an inconvenient but surprisingly friendly kidnapping throws her right in the middle of it. Identity and playing a role are major throughlines of the second season, and more people than just Jinshi were hiding in plain sight in Maomao’s orbit. She’s always preferred keeping to herself, but simply intuiting the truth has never been enough to prevent it from blowing up in her face. Palace intrigue was never her game, but she’s far too close to too many parts of it for it to not be her problem for much longer.

The Apothecary Diaries has been a tough show to write about following its first cour, mostly because I don’t like spoiling stuff, but also because everything I’ve been saying since its debut has held true: The cast is tremendous, the setting is enthralling, and every last little detail matters in ways you can rarely predict. It’s a wonderful soap opera, period piece, and mystery series all in one, and it’s been appointment television for me for over a year and a half now. It’s been enough of a hit that it’s being represented at Universal Studios Japan now, and it deserves every last bit of its success.

It’s also apparent that the anime adaptation has just about caught up to what the manga has adapted up to this point. Guess I’m gonna have to just go ahead and read the novels now.

Go! Go! Loser Ranger, season 2

I was pretty let down by this series’ first season, in part because my patience with its absurdly sporadic pacing never felt like it was properly rewarded. I’d anticipated more episodes than we’d gotten in 2024’s spring season, and as a result I declared a year ago that I’d reserve judgment on Loser Ranger until its second season. I went in with an open mind and reasonable expectations, and I was let down all over again. This show is a goddamn mess.

Having passed the Ranger exams in his Hibiki Sakurama disguise, Fighter D is conscripted alongside Angel into the Green squadron, much to his consternation, under the watchful eye of the temperamental, sukeban-ish Kanon Hisui. Green Keeper’s forte is stealth, which D should be ecstatic about, but it’s gonna be that much harder for him to take out Red from over there. Hisui, along with her new underlings and mercurial informant Chidori, investigate a high school that seems to be the epicenter of a string of disappearances. Instead of the truth, however, they find themselves in a Groundhog’s Day situation, trapped in a loop of an endlessly-repeating day of high school. D has to try to find a way out without divulging his true identity.

Shit completely hits the fan after this arc, in terms of both plot events and how atrociously they are portrayed. It became clear midway through the season that the studio realized there wasn’t going to be a third, so they opted to rush through dozens of chapters’ worth of material in the span of just a few episodes. The problem with this is that what we ended up with was a series of world-shattering events happening in the span of just a few minutes at a time, with zero gravity given to anything going on. The real Hibiki is back. There are kaiju everywhere now. There’s a monster liberation movement and they’re stepping in on D’s territory by threatening to expose the Dragon Keepers. D’s identity is basically out in the open now and half of the cast is just cool with it. Major character deaths, massive twists, double-crosses, a complete upending of the world as we knew it, sure why not, throw it all on the pile. We gotta get to that big epic ending somehow.

Loser Ranger’s first season already had an infuriating pacing problem, and it’s made that much more flabbergasting that this whiplash-inducing string of events comes after we’d spent basically a season’s worth of consecutive episodes between a parking garage and a high school. Major characters are relegated to side plots while others pop up at the very end like “hey remember us? We’re here too.” I stopped bothering with trying to keep up or even follow the plot, because it was clear that the people slapping this shit together did too. Everything was piled on with the purpose of giving the show some semblance of a climactic ending, which was fine, but then it had the gall to keep the door open just a crack, if only to remind us that it’s based on an ongoing manga series. The only thing that hasn’t completely scared me off from someday picking up the source material is the knowledge (or hope, call it what you want) that no manga as incompetently slapped together as Loser Ranger’s second season would have ever been successful enough to warrant an anime adaptation.

I’m not fully letting the source material off the hook, though; I do take issue with the concept of an ostensible liberation movement acting as a Trojan horse threatening to wipe out humanity; that can be read in the worst possible faith as a disgusting analogue for real-world liberation movements trying to end actual atrocities in the present day. It doesn’t help either that our protagonist jumps in and goes “hey, I think BOTH sides are bad and crazy!” Maybe it’s not something the mangaka gave much real thought to, or hey, maybe this adaptation is just so incompetent it accidentally made it look much worse than it actually is. I’m at the point where I don’t really care to find out for myself anymore.

What a letdown. I was intrigued by Loser Ranger’s premise when it debuted last year, but if I’d known going in that it would be such a slog to actually watch, I’d have saved myself the nine hours I wasted on this show. At least the OP and ED are good again.

Wind Breaker, season 2

One of 2024’s more surprising shonen hits came back with a bang this spring season, picking up exactly where the debut season bafflingly left off. The boys are back in town, and it’s time to beat some ass.

Wind Breaker’s second season picks up with Haruka and the Bofurin boys infiltrating a rival gang’s hideout to rescue a classmate’s friend who’s been extorted. He’s kicking butt like normal, but something new is holding him back: He’s starting to get hung up on the idea of his allies getting hurt. Wind Breaker has largely been the story of Haruka learning to accept that he’s wanted and cared for unconditionally, and though he’s a far cry from the angry loner he was at the start of the serie, he’s still grappling with this acceptance just as much as he would any street tough. Helping him along his journey is a senpai who has mastered the art of self-actualization: Tasuku Tsubakino, one of the school’s vaunted Four Kings and an avid fan of makeup and cute, feminine clothing. Haruka, as you can imagine, is frequently flustered.

An early Tsubaki appearance in the first season piqued my interest, but here in the second they immediately became one of my favorite things about Wind Breaker (Tsubaki’s gender identity isn’t addressed head-on; they attend an all-boys school but use the very feminine “atashi” first-person pronoun, so rather than typecast I will refer to them with gender-neutral pronouns). They are an absolute delight of a character, and far from a slouch in a fistfight. Their own journey to self-acceptance, as depicted in this season’s masterful sixth episode, runs wonderfully parallel to Haruka learning to recover from his own ostracization, even if the latter doesn’t involve lipstick and heels. If Tsubaki can become their true self by loving what they see in the mirror, surely Haruka can become what he’s meant to be by simply accepting that the people around him actually want him there.

Another unfortunate parallel to Haruka, however, rears his head towards the end of the season in the form of what looks to be the Big Bad for the foreseeable future, Yamato Endo, an ex-Bofurin ronin of sorts who takes an interest in the first-year after fanning the flames of a massive street brawl in what looks an awful lot like Kabukicho. Endo left Bofurin to pursue his own self-interests, and he recommends Haruka do the same. Though Haruka’s commitment is tested, anyone who knows him by now knows that he’s never been the type to back down. Hell, he had to be dragged kicking and screaming away from like three other fights right before that. Once again, a season ends on a “welp, here’s the new bad guy” reveal, but this season’s ending feels more like an intriguing teaser than the debut just ending at the start of the next arc for some reason.

Pacing was already an issue in Wind Breaker’s first season, and the second takes a surprisingly leisurely pace for a while. And just like the first season, the back half of this season is monopolized by an arc that lasted probably an episode too long. While the fight animation is typically great, there was enough time spent outside of fisticuffs that I started doubting whether the show’s animation was as good as I remembered it. It doesn’t help that some crowd scenes are rendered in low-quality CGI just distracting enough to remind me that this is the same studio that botched the 3D effects in the otherwise eye-popping Elusive Samurai last year. Overall, though? Can’t complain. Everyone still looks adorable, especially when they get all blobby for gag purposes, and I was just happy to spend more time with my punchy boys.

Another uneven but eminently enjoyable season for Wind Breaker is in the bag, and I’ll wait around patiently for another. This season’s lesson? Dudes don’t always have to look like dudes in order to rock.

Mixed Bags

Catch Me at the Ballpark!

I recognize that if you’re reading this far into several thousands of words’ worth of anime reviews, you likely don’t care much for sports. Maybe you only care about sports through the lens of anime; there’s plenty of great series that revolve around basketball, volleyball, boxing, and the like. I happen to love baseball a whole lot, and I love anime a whole lot, but I’m yet to find a baseball anime that really caught my eye. I bounced off of last spring’s Oblivion Battery after just a couple episodes, partly because I’d already had too many other shows to write about, and I’m yet to find one that really grabs me.

I’m not happy to report that Catch Me at the Ballpark hasn’t broken that streak, but I did like that it took a more casual approach to sports anime, and in a way that reaffirms what I love about baseball. Most sports anime tends to focus on the drama and camaraderie innate to competition, but baseball is a slower-paced spectator sport. There’s a lot of downtime, and much of the act of attending a baseball game is secondary to the on-field product. It’s more of a picnic with a few thousand friends, and I love seeing that atmosphere cross cultures. In this regard (and unfortunately just in this regard), Catch Me at the Ballpark gets it. 

It’s an ensemble slice-of-life that largely eschews the on-field action and drama in favor of the goings-on around the stadium, spanning dozens of segments following the fans, vendors, stadium workers, reporters, WAGS, mascot, and yes, the players. The fictional Chiba MotorSuns are an historically futile club with a dedicated fanbase, one of whom being the dead-eyed young salaryman Kotaro Murata, who finds refuge at the ballpark after long days of fucking up and apologizing for it. His relaxation is tempered a bit when he orders a beer from one of the roaming vendors, the rowdy gyaru Ruriko, who takes the opportunity to push his buttons. We’re left assuming this is the start of some bog-standard romcom shit, but it turns out Ruriko is just excited that she managed to talk to a customer without blowing it.

Setting us up with a ballpark Nagatoro situation is not a great start to the series, but the focus fortunately hops around to various parts of the stadium from there, showing us the ecosystem of disparate elements that come together to bring us the experience of every baseball game. Catch Me is a lovely cross-section of all the little things going on to make the day-to-day of baseball what it is, and the ways they interact with one another: The security guards help a lost child to ensure her memories of the ballpark are good ones, Ruriko advises the stadium announcer on quirky calls, and the devastatingly attractive 40-something clubhouse cook makes sure a younger player feels included and is fed properly. Sun-Shiro, the adorably plump salamander mascot, not only engages the fans but helps out just about everyone in the park with written words of encouragement, professional pointers, and sick wrestling moves. A ballpark is ultimately a community, and Catch Me’s portrayal exhibited just enough charm to keep me watching.

Although not much of the show is dedicated to the on-field action, plenty of time is spent with the players, and the ones that get more focus are pretty darn likable. The aging veteran slugger Kojiro gets a lot of screen time as a hometown hero, as well as his wife who learns to love baseball through the adoration of the Chiba crowds. My favorite is easily Dennis Young, the beefy gaijin trying not to slum it in his exile overseas after flaming out in the American majors. He’s a Chicago native wearing #34 and an ex-Cub, so I have no choice but to stan. There’s a small running subplot surrounding his commitment to the team, but I don’t care about that nearly as much as I care about him peppering his inner monologue with over-enunciated English (a gag I will always love) and horribly pronouncing basic Japanese in an awful American accent. Hell yeah, get our asses.

The moribund MotorSuns are making a push for their first-ever playoff appearance in the background of all this, and the Chiba faithful are catching that baseball fever. In addition to Kojiro’s wife, we’re watching plenty of people get swept up in the hype of the suddenly ascendant team, including a middle-school musician finding community in the cheer section, a reporter whose assigned hit piece turns into fluff, and of course Ruriko herself, who began the season not knowing shit about the sport. There are life lessons to be learned from baseball, especially in the hopeless optimism and perseverance you learn from rooting for a historically middling team, and the playoff push towards the end of the season does a solid job of portraying this. Though it may sound insane from the outside, there is genuine community to be found in a futile fandom, and it makes the eventual successes feel that much more rapturous. Again, I would know, I’m a Cubs fan.

Here’s the part where I undermine all my poetic waxing about baseball: This show just plain isn’t very good. It looks like an equally-cheap anime from 15 years ago, the voice cast is largely wasted, and the pacing is often brutal. I liked Ruriko just fine, but every segment with her and Murata was like nails on a chalkboard; they have negative chemistry and he is the biggest drip imaginable. It’s a wonder that this is from the same studio that nailed Train to the End of the World a year ago. The most praise I can heap upon any one part of Catch Me at the Ballpark unfortunately damns the rest of it, by which I mean that the ED is easily the best part of the show. “Ballpark de Shake! Don’t Shake!” is a blast of a song, if standard anime fare (I’m a sucker for opening and ending themes performed by the show’s cast, especially when Fairouz Ai is involved), and the presentation is the most eye-catching thing in the whole series. The vendor girls’ dances in front of the foamy, bubbly beer background make economic use of a limited color palette and smear frames, bringing an irresistible amount of personality that the rest of the show was sorely lacking. It looks like it was animated in Flipnote in the best of ways. It’s a shame that nothing from the preceding 22 minutes could match this energy.

So no, this isn’t the best show, but I can’t help but be romantic about baseball. I firmly maintain that beer and baseball are two of mankind’s greatest creations, and I’m pretty high on anime as well, so it’s a shame that a melding of the three didn’t quite reach the potential it could have. I do still have a soft spot for this one, but much like Heineken, the Toronto Blue Jays, and Catch Me at the Ballpark, wonderful things can still be sadly mediocre.

Lazarus

By all accounts, this should’ve broken Adult Swim’s streak of original anime misfires. All of the right pieces were in place: The programming block’s run of Cowboy Bebop during its early days cemented the series’ legendary status among western anime fans, so running it back with a shiny new Shinichiro Watanabe original was a no brainer. MAPPA, the prestige anime studio, was tabbed to produce it, with Gainax and Trigger veterans among the animation directors. Contemporary jazz stalwart Kamasi Washington (best known for playing saxophone on Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly) joined electronic producers Floating Points and Bonobo for the soundtrack. Hell, they got John Wick director and former stuntman Chad Stahelski to supervise the action sequences! This had to be a slam dunk, right?

Welp.

In the not-too-distant future of 2052, three years after introducing a miracle painkiller and dropping off the face of the earth, Dr. Deniz Skinner resurfaces in a recording to confess that the drug has an unforeseen drawback: Everyone who took it will die three years after the first dose, and thanks to its popularity, humanity suddenly faces certain extinction. A mysterious woman assembles a suicide squad of sorts to track down Skinner and try to schmooze him for a cure, front and center being wisecracking prison escape artist Axel Gilberto. He and the rest of the crew of ne’er-do-wells, assigned the name Lazarus, have only 30 days to track down the reclusive doctor before the first dominoes start to fall, and they do so in an extremely roundabout way, hopping to abandoned labs, nightclubs, cult compounds, and oil rigs, en route to way too many dead ends.

Unfortunately, that synopsis makes Lazarus sound way more cohesive than it is in practice. This is Watanabe’s first show since the passing of frequent collaborator and scriptwriter Keiko Nobumoto, and her absence is groan-inducingly palpable. Lazarus exhibits some of the same freewheeling, episodic feel that helped make Bebop a classic, but at the expense of the actual overarching plot. We’re thrown to all corners of the earth for a new wacky adventure every week, but each one is a dead end on the quest to, apparently, save all of humanity in just a month. I cannot believe how much time this show wastes fucking around. If it weren’t for the “X days until extinction” card at the end of every episode, it’d be pretty easy to forget that this show is supposed to be a race against the clock.

Seriously, it doesn’t feel like anything actually happens in Lazarus, even though I saw stuff happen with my own eyes across 13 episodes. It seems to trade entirely in vibes, and while the vibes are lovely, it seems to be the only thing this show has going for it. Everyone is well-designed, the animation is gorgeous, the action scenes are (mostly) exceptionally choreographed, and the soundtrack is lovely, but all of it feels like it’s in service of precisely nothing. Watanabe’s never been for a lack of Something to Say, and he’s been open about the story’s conception being rooted in the opioid crisis in the US, but everything seems to be lip service with little if any actual thought put in. Little things peppered throughout like crypto traders being accurately portrayed as sleazy dirtbags, AI fanatics being in a literal cult, nods to the human cost of climate change, and the matter-of-fact inclusion of a trans character are all things designed to make a lefty sicko like me go “hell yeah” (and I did), and nothing more. I gave Lazarus the benefit of the doubt that maybe this was all headed somewhere, that all these dead ends and red herrings were placed intentionally to lead us to a sensible conclusion, and it turns out I gave it way too much credit. Every attempt at pathos and meaningful character beats falls flat because these characters do not fundamentally exist outside of their names and faces. I was completely stone-faced by the finale. Lazarus is a whole lot of beautiful nothing.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind that only the English dub was available each time a new episode dropped, but I wasn’t crazy about this dub in particular. I wasn’t immediately familiar with any of the names in the dub cast, but they had more anime chops than I’d initially realized. There’s a good amount of Oshi no Ko, My Hero Academia, and even the rebooted Urusei Yatsura in there. I also didn’t realize that Chris’ voice actress, Luci Christian, voices Nami in One Piece and Yukari in Azumanga Daioh. I owe you an apology, queen, I was not familiar with your game. None of this really matters, though, because the voice direction is no bueno. Everyone speaks in a disaffected, languid tone, like they were purposely directed to emulate the old Bebop dub. Combined with the laid-back pacing, the vibey soundtrack, and the weirdly staccato rhythm of the dialogue to match the animated lip flaps, the aural element of the English-dubbed version threatens to turn Lazarus into televised Ambien. The real shame of it is that the Japanese cast is exceptional (Mamoru Miyano, Maaya Uchida, Makoto Furukawa? Say less), but I have no desire to go back and sit through this nonsense again just to hear it.

If there is one area where I have to give Jason DeMarco credit as an anime producer, it’s that he frequently nails the musical aspects of the otherwise mediocre series he manifests (Mori Calliope in last year’s Suicide Squad Isekai notwithstanding). If you can’t get Yoko Kanno back for a spiritual follow-up to Cowboy Bebop, you can do several orders of magnitude worse than Kamasi Washington. But a jazz virtuoso isn’t enough to save Lazarus from the growing heap of disappointing crap bearing DeMarco’s name, and we can’t keep blaming it all on Zaslav. I praised last year’s Metallic Rouge by comparing it positively to Watanabe’s work before promptly ripping it to shreds for being an overwrought nothingburger of a series, and here I am 15 months later calling an actual Watanabe work the same thing. I think I would have enjoyed this show more if it flat-out sucked.

Maybe it’s on me for biting on another lousy Adult Swim original anime for the third year in a row. Bring me my Fell For It Again Award. I look forward to doing this again in 2026.

Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX

I probably shouldn’t have tasked myself with reviewing this one. I’m the dreaded new-gen Gundam fan who’s only seen G-Witch. I promised myself I’d watch the old ‘79 series (or at least the compilation movies), but I followed a baker’s dozen series this season and work full time. So here I am, up shit creek with naught but a dunce cap, trying to write about a series that expects me to be intimately familiar with Universal Century canon.

Set in an alternate UC 0085 where Zeon won the One Year War thanks to Char Aznable finding the OG White Gundam first and then disappearing, GQuuuuuuX largely follows disaffected high schooler Amate, who stumbles upon a prototype Gundam (guess what it’s called!) in the middle of a Zeon hunt for Char’s suddenly-resurfaced Gundam, and commandeers it. You can probably guess that she’s a Newtype and thus able to pilot it perfectly, but this gets her caught up with a group of junkers who decide to use her talents and newfangled machinery in an illegal mech fighting ring. She befriends the guarded war refugee Nyaan and mysterious pilot Shuji, who seems to have a deep metaphysical connection with Char’s Gundam, and takes part in these battles alongside Shuji, while the very-much-alive (and now much handsomer) Challia Bull keeps a close eye on their team in his search for the Red Comet.

Sooooo, this one is kind of all over the place. There was plenty of classic Gundam stuff packed into here with the clear intention of making longtime fans point at the screen like Rick Dalton, so maybe it’s on me for going into this for the original story. I like Amate and Nyaan just fine, and there is a decent dynamic between them that threatens to complicate future proceedings when shit inevitably hits the fan (my condolences to everyone who got yuri-baited), but for a show ostensibly about them, GQuuuuuuX isn’t exactly about them. I was of the understanding that Gundam’s strength was always in its character writing and interpersonal drama, and while it doesn’t exactly go all “Wow! Cool robot!” on us instead, I get the feeling that this show isn’t about much more than Gundam itself.

I knew going in that I probably needed to know more about the UC, and I would’ve probably skipped it ordinarily, but GQuuuuuuX is a pretty special production: Sunrise teamed up with Hideaki Anno’s Studio Khara for this production, tapped Diebuster and FLCL director Kazuya Tsurumaki to run the show, grabbed Evangelion mech designer Ikuto Yamashita to design the new Gundams, and even had Anno himself contribute some scripts and a storyboard. Having Take, the character designer for the last three generations of Pokémon games, design the new characters didn’t hurt either (some of them straight up look like Pokémon characters, and in motion they almost looked like they were ripped right out of Gurren Lagann). This is a wealth of talent with a ton of obvious love for the Gundam franchise, and it shows: It looks and sounds terrific at nearly every turn (save for the overdesigned CGI mechs, which would look right at home in the Eva Rebuilds), and just about every part of this series that deals with legacy Gundam, particularly in flashbacks, looks ripped right out of the ‘79 series, right down to the pink-and-yellow explosions. With the exception of the suddenly silver-fox-y Challia Bull, the classic Zeon characters themselves look on-model from their original designs too, which is a wild departure from Take’s rounded, colorful designs.

This contrast is neat, and it goes a long way towards underscoring the talent and love that went into this production, but it also exemplifies my main issue with it: I think GQuuuuuuX has an identity crisis. I’d say it’s caught between the past and the present, but as it went further along it struck me that it’s so fixated on the past that the present suffered as a result. Why am I supposed to care about these teenagers when the show makes it clearer and clearer that it’s pretty much all about Char, Zeon, and the OYW? In what universe does the love triangle matter when Shuji barely qualifies as a character? The common criticism of G-Witch was that it would have benefited from a longer runtime, and while the 13 episodes GQuuuuuuX got is especially short for a Gundam series, I don’t know how much it would’ve helped for there to be more of it. No matter how much more focus the series could’ve given to Amate, Nyaan, or even Shuji, all roads led back to the UC. Getting a better feel for the new characters would’ve only made the bonkers climax feel even more jarring and further disconnected from them.

I don’t know if going into this as a Gundam casual makes my observations fairer or just worse-informed, but it felt to me what it was probably like to watch the last hour of Avengers Endgame having only seen a few MCU movies up to that point. I was hoping this would be an interesting on-ramp to the larger Gu​ndam canon, as some people insisted it would be, but I just felt left out a lot of the time. I didn’t want nor expect to be spoonfed a half-century’s worth of lore, but to the uninitiated, GQuuuuuuX’s over-the-top degree of fanservice largely feels masturbatory, like walking in on a circlejerk I wasn’t invited to. I’m sure this reads completely differently if you’re a UC stan, just as sure as I am that there’s an alternate dimension out there somewhere where I’m unambiguously gushing over this show. I can see this one being a huge inflection point for longtime fans.

Either way, I’m still probably gonna buy a GQuuuuuuX Gunpla when it comes out. Cool robot.

[the-meme-monarch]

things that make scc look more like siblings that i noticed on my replay of deltarune (which is today i noticed them 30 minutes ago)

Their bullet patterns in their fight. mostly nothing gives me the vibes of 3 brothers goofing off, but the little doodles on to top of the battle box make me think of me and my brother drawing little dumb stuff when we were younger and had extra paper. i can basically invision them drawing it and going "yeah this is gonna look awesome to anyone we get in a fight with!"

after the fight, when flying away, Sweets and Cap'n are used as platforms for KK to stand on, but in the very next room where you slide down, Cap'n is now on KK's head, and Sweets is free from being stepped on. like, within the 5 seconds of them leaving and showing up again, they changed up their standing positions because cap'n started fussing about it

The way KK sabotages his brother's attempts at thwarting the fun gang read as intentionally being a jerk to your younger (or older) siblings, because you think it's funny. There is no way in the teacup room that he didn't hear Cap'n say "heh, you'll never guess the correct ride!" and thought "oh i GOTTA fuck with him"

and this one is just me vamping but when you leave their shop they all go "See ya!" "Smell ya!" "Hear ya!" and the way they do it in quick succession reads to me as an inside joke they have with eachother hochi mama that's alotta text! sory

YAY YAY YAY BIG AGREE BIG AGREE WITH ALL them doodling their attacks is so cutes:] I’m literally drawing stuff with their attacks rn

ALSO some of my own observations i would like to add i think

-their battle check dialogue saying sweet and capn look up to kk and kk looks up to the other two. theyre everything to me. w me thinking kk is the oldest sibling and sweet and cap’n are years younger than him and closer in age together it reads to me like. yknow. they think he’s so cool and they idolize him, and kk is proud of them :] “aren’t my little brothers so cool”.

i have headcanons that make this a little sad, them having parents who wanted them to conform and “be normal” and fit in, and kk being the oldest dealt with it for longer And like, had to play third parent to sweet and cap’n to keep them from getting in trouble. bc he could Actually connect with them unlike their parents. and like. yeah. it kinda changed the way he acts. got so used to masking that the mask is kinda stuck. the mask doesn’t come off the same anymore. this is not me projecting my neurodivergence and my fucking eldest “daughter” syndrome don’t worry about it. anyway he moved out and to cyber world as soon as he was able to, so him seeing his siblings’ spirits haven’t been broken and they’re just as loud and lively as they used to be, and how He used to be, it makes him happy :’] he looks up to them

- kk’s teasing, or purposeful misunderstanding of what the other two say, or just staying Out of their arguments until directly asked and redirecting them, “we’re rebels that play” “we don’t play!!” “(…) kk are we players?!” “I’m a CD player”. or when talking about how queen never gave capn candy and sweet saying “bc you kept calling her a hot mama” and cap’n seems to imply he meant it literally “she looks like a mom and tends to overheat”, when they ask for kk’s input he just goes “huh? i like candy”. and also VERY MUCH the “this right ride is the right ride” bit you brought up. absolutely fucking with him. it is a Shame capn doesn’t have new dialogue if you talk to him again after kk says that BDJDJSNDJJ

- also on kk sabotaging his siblings, capn especially, there’s also the 400 bagels bit. i know damn well you heard capn and knew what he meant he wasn’t even whispering there were No parentheses on that dialogue. and he doesn’t even actually give you the bagels if you ask for them !! In My Heart it is him saying the “you were crushed under the weight of 400 bagels and defeated instantly… just kidding. you just can’t carry that many.”

- the way sweet is just Wholly onboard with whatever kk says. “I wanna be a car” “good thinking kk! gotta have a way to get around” you literally already have the flying turntable. it just reads to me as them thinking their older brother is the coolest smartest guy ever. they also just seem much more inclined to listen to kk, like when capn says “sweet chill, there’ll be other bad guys” which seems to just further upsets sweet and makes them to call on the fight, and then after the fight kk suggest they be friends- which i think is the only time sweet has disagreed with him- but then after getting pissed off at capn again kk tells them “sweet. don’t worry. i think our dancing beat them” and they pretty much just Go with it from there

- inversely, while I don’t think either of them can really tell when kk is joking, where sweet goes along with it capn questions it, like the “can I buy a bagel too?” “you’re the one selling them?”

- “kk’s always got it right!” “what’s why he’s second-in-command!” “…who’s first?” “huh? I’m not the leader?” “can i be third?” i think it is infinitely funnier if sweet Thought kk was leader and was just fucking Fuming at cap’s implication that he’s second. I think capn thinks of himself as the leader, capn typically being a contraction of captain, and just the way he talks sometimes, he’s the one who tells them they should go back to the junk shop, and calls in the turntable to leave. aslo i remember seeing someon say Years ago, that from capns perspective he’d be at the top of the line up, like kris is in their/our perspective. I do think sweet comes off as the leader though, but I don’t think they intend to, they just seem the most proactive about their mission, where i think kk is actively and quietly trying to hold it back (i think he knows the music ban isn’t real but well his siblings are having fun) note that he doesn’t have anything to say about queen, nothing on how he feels about her, except that he doesn’t want to break into Her House ! “we’re just rebels, we don’t want to get in trouble”

-a lot of this ended up being about kk that was Not intentional. so for one that definitely isn’t about him. the way sweet gets on cap’n’s case about flirting like every single time. sick of hearing about/Being Witness his brother’s annoying ass love life. and he’s gotta be stupid about it too? radio antenna.

- sweet and cap’n are literally simultaneously The Two Ways Siblings Are Depicted In Media Like All The Time. 1 gets along so well to where they complete each others sentences but also 2 are fighting all the fucking time over the stupidest shit NDNSJSNKSNJ. i love how they seem to actually be closer together than either of them are wirh kk, but kk is both of their favorite person. bc like. kk doesn’t finish their sentences, and they don’t bicker with him.

sweet and cap’n will often end their lines with a comma(,) or an ellipses(…) Literally Incomplete Sentences, that the other will then Complete. often what kk says is a non-sequitur to what the other two said. and i just think sweet and cap’n being able to bicker the way they do and still get along afterward like it was nothing is indicative of them being more comfortable with each other. they feel comfortable calling each other out and fighting about it, where they don’t argue with kk. granted this could be him just being more passive than the other two so fights just never arise with him, but with how sweet seemingly will just pick fights with capn, when they pretty firmly show And Say they think kk’s always right- and cap’n will question things kk says, but doesn’t double down like he does when arguing with sweet . but so them bickering Combined with how they also complete each other’s sentences, and how they independently look up to kk, but kk seemingly not having this same dynamic with either of them, that’s just how it reads to me !

- also this one has nothing to do with anything but it’s still one of my most favorite bits of info on them and i need to share it any chance i get. it says “battle won!” instead of “you won!”, and they don’t give you money after their fight. i might be wrong but i think they’ve been like the only fight that doesn’t give you money (besides i think susie’s fight with lancer). but it’s bc they think They won. susie says “wrap it up losers, battle’s over” and Then they come to the conclusion they lost, “over?” “in other-type words,” “we lost?” but then after kk suggest they be friends and sweet gets upset he says “i think our dancing beat them.” lying to them to get them to drop it HXBSNSJSSM

[lee-posted]

(same anon who asked the question last time)

So in that case, then I would like to request a cryptid reader who lives in the Appalachian Mountains, a little description about them is they're fast and have a love for playing and jumpscaring folks who enter their territory. (They ain't even harming anyone just being a spoopy criten :3)

But what happens if a yautja gets into the mix preparing for a hunt without even detecting you through his infrared vision? It could be a weird interaction firstly before platonically understanding each other but I would like to see you take on this request

Also, I wanted to say I ✨REALLY✨ love your writings about the yautjas, makes me all giddy when reading all of em'

Damn I did not know what a cryptid was, I'm so sorry haha!

Okay so when you mentioned reader being fast and likes jumpscaring people, my brain thought of a bat, Imma turn you into a Cryptid bat if that's okie

I wanna say that you tried scaring the yautja like you usually do with other people but you both notice pretty quickly, you ain't human and he sure as heck ain't a human either

Yautjas are smart, they do tons of research on stuff about what's on Earth. You are very rare to find and I think it's an honor for the yautjas to find something so rare up close.

You will most likely get a reward by helping this predator out, you don't have to kill but distract his prey

Silly thought of you, I like to think you're a vegetarian, a vegetarian bat! During the hunts, the yautja will bring back berries for you to eat!

Not sure how you guys will communicate, the mask will translate the noises you make right? Either way, yautjas can figure out anything!

He'll come and visit if you need to stay in your home territory, there will be times where he has to leave. If he doesn't die that is.. Ahem but yea! You two are great friends! The best duo in the planet!

(Hope this is good! And omg thank you so much!! I didn't think I even wrote the yautjas good, honestly I just do the best I can and gotta add intelligence when it comes to writing these predators!✨)