#I put myself in the time out corner for that

[creamcut]

gojo ensures he's always protecting his daughter

the night satoru put the stickers up, the room smelled like strawberries and clean laundry.

your daughter was three, giggling like her tiny body couldn’t hold all that joy, a wriggling blur of ruffled pajamas and hair still damp from her bath. your husband was grinning, precariously balanced on the little step stool, one eye squinted shut and tongue poking out in concentration as he smoothed another sticker into place.

“moon? check.”

“daddy, higher!” she chirped, pointing toward the ceiling’s corner.

“higher? baby, if i go any higher, i’ll stick myself to the ceiling.”

“then dooo it!”

you were lying on her bed, watching them with your cheek on your palm, basking in the glow of their laughter. he did it anyway, of course. he reached just a bit more, because she asked him to. when he was finally done, he turned off the lights dramatically and the ceiling came alive — soft and glowing, tiny constellations in messy patterns only a child and her father could find meaning in.

she gasped. “the stars came!”

“they always do,” he murmured, settling down beside her on the tiny bed, long limbs curled and folded like he was made to fit there. “but remember what i told you?” 

she nodded, whispering it, “i’m your moon and sun and stars.”

you smiled, tugging the blanket over her little shoulders. he reached over her to touch your hand. “and you,” he said to you, eyes gleaming in the dark, “you gave me the whole universe.”

the ceiling never changed, even when the rest of the house did.

bookshelves replaced toys. posters replaced finger paintings. she grew taller, her giggles deeper, her footsteps heavier.

but the stars stayed.

you caught her once, at seventeen, lying in bed after a long day, face turned up. her eyes were rimmed red from a silent cry she thought you hadn’t noticed.

“can’t sleep?” you asked gently. she shrugged, then whispered, “i miss him.”

“me too.”

she looked up again. “sometimes i feel stupid. it’s been so long.”

“grief doesn’t know clocks,” you said. “and neither does love.”

she nodded, blinking up at the ceiling. “they’re starting to peel off.”

you looked too. some corners were curled now, soft from time and heat. one star had completely fallen, tucked somewhere behind the headboard maybe. 

“we could take them down,” you offered. “or put new ones up.”

she was quiet for a while.

“no,” she finally said. “i like the old ones. he touched these.”

on the night she graduates college, you find her in her old room, just for a moment, dress still on and heels in her hand. she’s looking up. the stickers are faded now, barely holding on, only glowing if you really let your eyes adjust.

“you okay?” you ask from the doorway.

“yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “just… he would’ve clapped the loudest today.”

you walk over, place your hand over hers. “he would’ve lost his damn mind,” you say, laughing through the ache. “probably yelled your name way too loud, embarrassed both of us.”

“he would’ve stood on the chair.”

“and made everyone look at you.”

you both laugh, then fall quiet, eyes tracing old constellations on a familiar ceiling.

“he never took them down,” she murmurs. 

“no,” you say. “because love like his… it stays.”

and so do the stars. even if they fade. even if they fall.

he made sure of it.

[ghstyles]

Rejection Therapy | H.S

First part of Operation Pizza Renissance

Main Masterlist

Summary: A bubbly college girl volunteers at a struggling NYC pizzeria thinking she’s found the perfect place to volunteer her social media skills and gain culinary experience. What she doesn’t know? The pizzeria is a front for the mafia. While she’s busy staging pizza photos and planning giveaways, the crew is laundering money and dodging feds. She's just trying to go viral—meanwhile, the mob is trying to keep her from accidentally blowing their cover.

And the more time Harry spends with the chaotic sunshine in his kitchen, the more he realizes: she might be the most dangerous thing to ever walk through that door.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The bell above the door chimes as Y/N pushes into Sal's Pizza, her sneakers squeaking against the checkered linoleum floor. The place looks like it hasn't been updated since 1987—faded red booths, fluorescent lighting that flickers ominously, and a dusty jukebox in the corner that probably hasn't played a song in decades.

Three men in expensive suits look up from their table near the back, their conversation dying abruptly. The one behind the counter, a heavyset man with graying temples, freezes mid-motion, a coffee cup halfway to his lips.

Y/N takes in the scene with the oblivious enthusiasm of someone who's never learned to read a room properly.

"Hi there!" she says brightly, approaching the counter with a smile that could power half of Manhattan. "I'm Y/N. I'm doing this thing for my marketing class where I have to practice putting myself out there, and I noticed you guys don't really have much of a social media presence."

The man behind the counter, Sal, according to his name tag, exchanges a look with the suited men that could generously be described as 'what the fuck.'

"Social media," Sal repeats slowly, like she's speaking a foreign language.

"Exactly!" Y/N pulls out her phone, already scrolling through apps. "I mean, no offense, but I've walked past this place probably a hundred times, and I've never seen any customers. Which is crazy because you're in such a great location! All you need is some Instagram posts, maybe a TikTok showing how you make the pizza, and boom—viral sensation."

One of the men in suits, a tall, lean guy with a scar running from his left ear to his jaw, slowly stands up.

"Listen, sweetheart," he says, his voice carrying the kind of tone that usually makes people reconsider their life choices, "maybe you should—"

"Oh my God, are you Italian?" Y/N interrupts, completely missing the implicit threat. "That's perfect! Authentic Italian pizza maker! We could totally play up that angle. Do you have any family recipes? Stories about your nonna? People eat that stuff up."

The scarred man's mouth opens and closes like a fish. Behind him, his companion, a stockier man with knuckles that look like they've seen some serious action, starts to laugh despite himself.

"Kid's got balls," the stocky one mutters.

That's when the door to the back office opens, and Harry Styles steps out.

He's not particularly tall, but there's something about the way he carries himself that makes the already small space feel smaller. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, his black shirt is expensive enough to fund a small country's education system, and his green eyes sweep the room with the kind of casual authority that comes from knowing everyone in it would follow his orders without question.

His gaze lands on Y/N, who's now bent over the counter examining a laminated menu that looks like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta against graphic design.

"What's this about?" Harry asks, his voice low and smooth with just a hint of his Manchester accent.

Sal straightens immediately. "Boss, this girl just walked in talking about Instagram and—"

"I'm offering to be your social media manager!" Y/N announces, straightening up and turning to face Harry with the same bright enthusiasm she's shown everyone else. "For free! Well, technically for class credit, but still free. You guys are sitting on a goldmine here, and you don't even know it."

Harry's eyebrows rise slightly. In his world, people don't just walk into his establishments offering free services. They usually want something. Whether that be protection, favors, or their debts forgiven. But this girl, with her golden-brown hair catching the harsh fluorescent light and her hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement, seems to want nothing more than to help a struggling pizza shop succeed.

It should be alarming. It should set off every warning bell he's developed over years of navigating New York's criminal underworld. Instead, he finds himself... curious.

"And why," he says, moving closer to the counter, "would you want to do that?"

Y/N's smile somehow gets even brighter. "Because everyone deserves a chance to succeed! And honestly? This place has so much character. Look at this vintage aesthetic. If we market it right, you could be the next trendy throwback spot. Brooklyn hipsters would line up around the block for this kind of authentic atmosphere."

Behind Harry, the scarred man makes a noise that might be a snort or might be him choking on his own spit.

"Plus," Y/N continues, completely oblivious to the undercurrents in the room, "rejection therapy. I'm supposed to put myself out there and ask for things that might get me a 'no.' But you haven't said no yet, so technically I'm winning."

Harry studies her for a long moment. She's tall, maybe 5'9", with the kind of natural beauty that doesn't need enhancement, though she's clearly made an effort today. Her outfit is casual but put-together: jeans that fit perfectly, a cream-colored sweater, and sneakers that have seen some miles but aren't falling apart. She looks like sunshine personified, which is particularly jarring in a place that hasn't seen actual sunshine in decades.

"Rejection therapy," he repeats.

"It's this thing where you deliberately seek out situations where you might get rejected, to build resilience and confidence," Y/N explains helpfully. "I figure if I can handle getting turned down for volunteer work, I can handle anything."

Harry's lips twitch in what might be the beginning of a smile. "And what makes you think you're qualified to be our social media manager?"

Y/N pulls out her phone again, scrolling quickly. "I run the Instagram for my friend's boutique. She's gotten three thousand new followers in the last six months. I also did a campaign for the campus coffee shop that increased their sales by forty percent. I'm a marketing major, but honestly, most of it is just understanding what people want to see. I also really love food and cooking, and all that"

She looks around the restaurant again, her expression turning thoughtful.

"People want authenticity. They want stories. They want to feel like they're part of something special. This place has all of that. It just needs someone to tell the story properly."

Harry finds himself genuinely impressed despite himself. The girl has walked into what is essentially the lion's den and is pitching business strategies like she's in a boardroom instead of a glorified money-laundering operation.

"Alright," he says finally, ignoring the looks of disbelief from his men. "Let's say we're interested. What would you need from us?"

Y/N's eyes light up like she's just been offered front-row tickets to her favorite band.

"Really? Oh my God, that's amazing! Okay, first I'd need to try the food. Can't promote something I haven't tasted. Then maybe some photos of the kitchen, the staff, the pizza-making process. Oh, and stories! Like how long have you been open? What makes your pizza special? Any interesting customers or—"

She stops mid-sentence, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"Actually, let me try a slice first. What do you recommend?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Sal looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. The suited men exchange glances that seem to communicate entire conversations. Harry watches this unfold with the detached interest of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

"The...the margherita is popular," Sal says finally, his voice strained.

"Perfect!"

Ten minutes later, Y/N sits in one of the red vinyl booths with a slice of what can only generously be called pizza in front of her. The crust looks like cardboard, the sauce has the consistency of ketchup mixed with sadness, and the cheese appears to have given up on life sometime around the Clinton administration.

Harry slides into the booth across from her, genuinely curious to see how this plays out. His men have positioned themselves strategically around the restaurant, probably still trying to figure out if this girl is the world's most elaborate undercover cop or just genuinely this naive.

Y/N takes a bite. Her expression goes through several rapid changes: surprise, confusion, barely concealed horror, and finally, diplomatic consideration.

She chews slowly, thoughtfully, like she's trying to find something positive to say about what is clearly a crime against Italian cuisine.

Finally, she swallows and sets the slice down with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.

"Okay," she says brightly, "so there's definitely room for improvement."

The stocky man by the jukebox actually laughs out loud at this.

"Room for improvement," Harry repeats, his own amusement barely contained. "That's one way to put it."

Y/N turns to face him fully, and he's struck by how earnest she looks.

"Have you ever actually had good pizza?" she asks, like this is a perfectly reasonable question to ask the head of a criminal organization.

Harry blinks. "Have I...what?"

"Good pizza," Y/N repeats patiently. "Like, proper pizza. With fresh ingredients and dough that doesn't taste like it was made from sawdust and broken dreams."

Despite himself, Harry finds himself leaning forward. "Broken dreams?"

"That sauce," Y/N says, pointing at the offensive slice, "tastes like someone read a description of tomatoes in a book once and tried to recreate them from memory. And I'm pretty sure this cheese was never actually milk at any point in its existence."

She pauses, studying his face carefully.

"You know what? Forget social media for a minute. Before we can market this place, we need to fix the actual product. You can't polish a turd, as my grandmother used to say."

The scarred man makes a choking noise. "Did she just call our pizza a turd?"

"A fixable turd," Y/N clarifies helpfully. "Look, you guys seem nice, and this place has such great bones. But if you want customers to come back, you need to give them something worth coming back for."

She stands up suddenly, her eyes bright with inspiration.

"Do you have fresh ingredients in the kitchen? Like, actual fresh ingredients, not whatever preserved-in-formaldehyde situation is happening with this cheese?"

Harry stares at her. In the span of twenty minutes, this girl has walked into his front operation, criticized his terrible cover story, and is now offering to teach them how to actually make pizza. The smart thing would be to have her escorted out immediately. The safer thing would be to make sure she never talks about what she's seen here.

Instead, he finds himself saying, "Show me."

Because there's something about Y/N. Maybe it’s her complete lack of fear, her genuine enthusiasm, or the way she manages to critique their operation while somehow making it sound like she's doing them a favor. But she’s unlike anything he's encountered in his carefully controlled world.

And Harry Styles has always been curious about things that don't fit into his carefully controlled world.

"Really?" Y/N's whole face lights up. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun!"

As she heads toward the kitchen, chattering excitedly about fresh basil and proper cheese ratios, Harry realizes he might be in serious trouble.

But for the first time in years, it's the kind of trouble he thinks he might actually enjoy.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen of Sal's Pizza looks like a war zone. Flour dusts every surface, there are three different types of cheese scattered across the metal prep counter, and Y/N stands in the middle of it all like a general surveying her battlefield.

She's tied her hair back with a rubber band she found in her purse and somehow acquired an apron that reads "Kiss the Cook" in faded red letters; though where it came from in this establishment is anyone's guess.

"Okay, first lesson," she announces to her assembled audience of one crime boss and three very confused enforcers. "Dough is alive. It's a living thing that needs to be treated with respect."

Tony, the stocky enforcer, snorts. "It's flour and water, sweetheart."

Y/N's smile tightens just slightly, but she maintains her patient teacher voice. "It's flour, water, yeast, and time. The yeast is literally alive. It's a living organism that's going to make your crust light and airy instead of..." she gestures vaguely toward the dining area "...whatever that was."

She demonstrates kneading the dough with practiced movements, her hands working the mixture with surprising skill.

"See how I'm not just mashing it? You want to fold and turn, fold and turn. You're developing the gluten structure, which is what gives you that perfect chewy texture."

Marco, the scarred enforcer, watches for about thirty seconds before rolling his eyes. "Boss, you really want us to stand here and watch Martha Stewart teach bread class?"

Y/N's hands still for just a moment, so briefly that if Harry wasn't watching her carefully, he might have missed it. But he sees the way her shoulders tense, the slight flush that creeps up her neck.

"It's not bread, it's—" she starts, but Tony cuts her off.

"Yeah, yeah, it's 'alive,'" Tony says with exaggerated air quotes. "What's next, we gonna light some candles and sing to it?"

The other men laugh, and Y/N's hands fumble slightly with the dough. She recovers quickly, but Harry catches the way she bites her lower lip, the careful way she's not quite making eye contact anymore.

"Maybe we should just...use the old method," Sal suggests awkwardly from where he's hovering by the door. "Keep things simple, you know?"

"Simple," Marco agrees. "Like how we've been doing it for years."

Y/N stops kneading entirely now, her hands going still on the flour-dusted counter. When she looks up, Harry can see the hurt she's trying to hide behind her determined smile.

"Right," she says quietly. "Simple is probably better. I mean, what do I know? I'm just a college student playing with rejection therapy, right?"

The change in her voice, from bright enthusiasm to carefully controlled disappointment, hits Harry like a physical blow. The way she's trying to make herself smaller, less bright, less...her.

Something hot and protective flares in his chest.

"Marco," Harry says, his voice cutting through the kitchen like a blade. "Tony. Sal."

The laughter dies immediately. All three men turn to look at him, and they're smart enough to recognize the tone that means someone is about to have a very bad day.

"Did I ask for your fucking opinions?" Harry continues, his voice deadly quiet.

Marco straightens. "No, boss, but—"

"But nothing." Harry steps closer to the prep counter, never taking his eyes off his men. "This woman walked in here offering to help us for free. She's trying to teach us something useful, and you're acting like a bunch of fucking children at recess."

He turns to look at each of them in turn, and they all suddenly find the floor very interesting.

"She's been nothing but patient and professional, and you're treating her like entertainment. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to shut your mouths, pay attention, and learn something. Or you can get the fuck out of my kitchen." 

The silence that follows is deafening. Tony and Marco look like they're trying to disappear into the walls. Sal has gone pale.

Harry turns back to Y/N, who's staring at him with wide eyes.

"Please," he says, his voice gentling completely, "continue. I'd like to learn how to do this properly."

Y/N blinks, clearly trying to process the sudden shift in dynamics.

"You...you want to learn?"

"I want to learn," Harry confirms, moving to stand beside her at the counter. "Show me how to knead the dough."

There's something almost reverent in the way he says it, like he's asking her to teach him something sacred rather than basic cooking skills.

Y/N's smile returns slowly, tentatively, but genuine.

"Okay," she says softly. "Put your hands like this..."

She guides his hands to the dough, her fingers gentle as she positions them correctly. Her touch is warm against his skin, and Harry finds himself far more focused on the sensation than on the actual instruction.

"Feel how it gives under pressure but springs back? That's the gluten development I was talking about."

Harry nods seriously, following her movements exactly. Fold and turn, just like she showed them. His hands are bigger than hers, scarred from years of violence, but he handles the dough with surprising delicacy.

"That's perfect," Y/N says, and the pleasure in her voice makes something warm unfurl in Harry's chest. "You're a natural."

Behind them, Tony mutters something under his breath that sounds like "never seen the boss knead anything that wasn't someone's face."

Harry's hands still for a moment, but Y/N either doesn't hear the comment or chooses to ignore it.

"Now," she continues, "while that's resting, let's talk sauce. The secret is San Marzano tomatoes. They're from volcanic soil in Italy, so they have this perfect balance of sweet and acidic."

She moves to the stove, pulling out ingredients with practiced efficiency. Harry follows her like a particularly attentive student.

"You don't cook them too long. Just enough to break down the tomatoes and marry the flavors. Fresh basil at the end, never during cooking, because heat destroys the oils that give you that bright, fresh taste."

Harry watches her work with growing fascination. Her hands move with confidence and grace, tasting and adjusting seasoning with the kind of intuitive knowledge that can't be taught from a book.

"Where did you learn all this?" he asks.

Y/N glances up at him, and there's something soft in her expression.

"My grandmother," she says. "My dad's mom. She came over from Italy when she was sixteen, and she said cooking was how she kept her homeland close. Every Sunday, the whole family would gather in her kitchen, and she'd teach us traditional recipes."

She stirs the sauce gently, her voice taking on a wistful quality.

"She used to say that food was love made visible. That when you cook for someone, you're putting a piece of your heart on their plate."

Harry finds himself hanging on every word. In his world, food is fuel, cooking is a chore, meals are business meetings or solitary affairs. The idea of cooking as an act of love is so foreign it might as well be from another planet.

"She sounds like a wise woman," he says quietly.

"She was," Y/N agrees. "She died when I was fifteen, but I still use her recipes. It's like having a conversation with her, you know?"

There's something achingly vulnerable about the admission, and Harry realizes she's sharing something precious with him. Something real.

"Taste this," Y/N says suddenly, holding up a spoon of sauce.

Harry steps closer, close enough that he can smell her perfume. Something light and floral that seems completely at odds with the industrial kitchen around them. She holds the spoon out, and for a moment they're standing so close he can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.

He tastes the sauce, and his expression immediately changes. It's nothing like the watery red substance they've been serving. This is bright and complex, with layers of flavor that develop on his tongue.

"Fuck me," he breathes, then immediately looks embarrassed by his language. "Sorry, I just—"

Y/N laughs, a sound like silver bells. "That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

Behind them, Marco clears his throat. "Boss, maybe I could try some of that sauce?"

Harry turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Please," Marco adds hastily.

Y/N beams and immediately prepares another spoon. Marco tastes it, and his expression mirrors Harry's—surprise, then something close to reverence.

"Holy shit," he mutters. "This is..."

"Language," Y/N chides gently, but she's smiling.

"This is really good," Marco corrects himself, looking slightly dazed.

Tony and Sal edge closer, drawn by Marco's reaction. Soon all three of Harry's men are clustered around the stove, watching Y/N with newfound respect as she explains the importance of fresh herbs and proper seasoning.

But Harry barely notices them. He's too busy watching Y/N herself. The way her face lights up when someone appreciates her cooking, the graceful efficiency of her movements, the generous way she shares her knowledge without making anyone feel stupid for not knowing it already.

She's transforming his kitchen, his men, his entire operation, and she doesn't even realize it.

"Now for the cheese," Y/N announces, moving to the refrigerator. "Fresh mozzarella, obviously. See how it's stored in water? That keeps it soft and prevents it from drying out."

She demonstrates how to tear the cheese instead of slicing it, explaining how the irregular pieces melt better and create more interesting texture.

"Harry, you want to try assembling the pizza?"

The way she says his name–casual, friendly, like they've known each other for years instead of an hour–sends an unexpected jolt through him.

"Show me," he says.

Y/N guides him through stretching the dough, her hands occasionally covering his to correct his technique. Each touch is electric, and Harry finds himself deliberately making small mistakes just to feel her fingers on his skin.

"Perfect," she says as he spreads the sauce with careful, even strokes. "You've got really good hands for this."

Tony makes a choking noise that he tries to cover with a cough.

"The key with the cheese," Y/N continues, either oblivious to the innuendo or professionally ignoring it, "is less is more. You want pockets where the sauce shows through. That's how you get that traditional Neapolitan look."

Harry follows her instructions exactly, placing each piece of torn mozzarella with the concentration of a surgeon. Behind them, his men watch in fascination as their normally impatient boss takes painstaking care with something as simple as cheese placement.

"Fresh basil goes on after it comes out of the oven," Y/N explains. "The residual heat will wilt it just enough to release the oils without burning the leaves."

The pizza goes into the oven, and they all stand around waiting like expectant parents. The kitchen fills with aromas that are completely foreign to this space: bright tomato, fresh herbs, real cheese actually melting instead of congealing.

Fifteen minutes later, Y/N pulls out a pizza that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread rather than a mob front. The crust is golden and slightly charred, the cheese has melted into perfect creamy pools, and the fresh basil on top provides vibrant green contrast.

The silence that follows is reverent.

"Boss," Sal says quietly, "that looks like actual food."

Y/N cuts the pizza into neat slices and serves everyone a piece. Harry takes his first bite, and the difference is so stark it's almost shocking. This tastes like what pizza is supposed to taste like. Each ingredient distinct but harmonious, the crust chewy and flavorful, the sauce bright and fresh.

He looks up to find Y/N watching him expectantly, and he realizes she's genuinely nervous about his reaction.

"It's perfect," he says simply.

The smile that spreads across her face could power half the city.

"Really?"

"Really," Harry confirms. "This is the best pizza I've ever had."

Y/N's cheeks flush pink with pleasure, and she ducks her head almost shyly.

"It's just basic technique," she says. "Anyone can do it with the right ingredients and a little patience."

But Harry is looking around at his men, all of whom are devouring their slices with expressions of religious ecstasy, and he's thinking that maybe what they've needed all along isn't a better cover story. Maybe they've needed someone who could actually make this place legitimate.

Maybe they've needed her.

"Y/N," he says, and she looks up at him with those warm hazel eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Would you be interested in more than just social media consulting?"

She tilts her head, curious. "What did you have in mind?"

Harry glances around at his men, at the transformed kitchen, at the evidence of what this place could become with the right guidance.

"How would you feel about being our head chef?"

The offer surprises him as much as it does her. He hadn't planned to say it, but now that the words are out, he realizes he means them completely.

Y/N's eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious about business," Harry says, which is mostly true. "You've just proven that you can turn this place from a..." he pauses, remembering her earlier critique "...turd into something people might actually want to eat."

Y/N laughs, that bright silver sound that's quickly becoming his favorite noise.

"I don't know," she says teasingly. "What kind of benefits package are we talking about? Health insurance? Dental? Employee pizza privileges?"

Harry finds himself grinning despite himself. "I think we can work something out."

Behind them, Tony mutters to Marco, "Did the boss just offer some college girl a job because she made good pizza?"

Marco responds, "Did the boss just smile? Like, actually smile? When's the last time you saw that happen?"

Harry hears them but doesn't care. He's too busy watching Y/N consider his offer, hope and possibility dancing across her features like sunlight on water.

And for the first time in years, Harry Styles finds himself genuinely excited about the future of his business.

Even if she has no idea what kind of business it actually is.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

a/n: what do we think of this? I’d appreciate the feedback 😁

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavfanficsever @spinnic @fruity-harry @mads3502 @namoreno

[retireddaddyric]

Drunken Thruths

Synopsis: Daniel and (y/n) are exes. (Y/n) gets drunk and texts him for a hookup.

Warnings: alcholic state, on and off relationship, mention of stress, insecurity (fem), mention of smut, swearing, sub-mention of struggle.

Notes: non english native speaker, this is all fiction, none of it is real, post f1 daniel imagine.

The alchol was doing his part in my head. I had promised myself not to do it again the last time it happened. But here I was, inside a club toilet, wearing fairy wings, a costume that was more lingerie than actual clothes, purple and blue glitters all over my eyes and cheekbones, fake lashes and all. “What the fuck am I doing.” I tell to my reflection in the mirror. The phone is in my hand, Daniel’s chat opened to the last messages we exchanged two months ago. A simple ‘take care’ from him, after fucking me for what had to be the last time ever.

He is my ex. We had been on and off during his two years of f1 career, tortured between his mental stress caused by what was happening and my insecurities masked as jealousy. We would argue over the phone for weeks until we met again and loved each other over the limits of what I think it’s possible. I loved him so fucking much it still hurts all the time I get drunk. Like tonight. “He’s in town..” Joana had said in the middle of our drunk dancing. “Who?” I had asked laughing, as if I didn’t want to let it sink myself. “You know who.” She only had added.

And I had kept dancing, grinding against god knows whose crotch. Before the thought could even eat me alive I ran to the toilet to take my phone off my purse.

“You in town fr?” I text him fast, my nails hitting the screen.

His text back comes too fast. “Hey, yeah, you alright?”

“No, I need you.” I text back instantly. No regrets, just raw feeling.

“What happened?”

“I need you.”

“What do you mean, where are ya?”

“You know what I mean.”

A pause. He doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry if you already have company.” I type with shaking fingers.

“Where are you?”

“76 Gulherm St. club at the corner.”

“Coming.”

I walk out the bathroom as if he just said he’s already out and after sending my friends an excuse text I get out the club.

A space grey car parks next the sidewalk and a bearded man sitting in the driver’s seat looks at me while the window rolls down.

“No I don’t need a ri-“ I start saying but when I meet his confused brown eyes I recognize him. “Daniel? What the-“

“I could say the same.” He says pointing at my revealing clothes. I open the car and struggle to get in because of the wings. So I get out again and try take them off but the buttons at the back aren’t helping. Daniel sighs loudly and cursing under his breath comes out the car.

His white t-shirt and cargo grey pants do the impossible to me. It’s nothing yet it’s everything. He helps me take out the winks and throws them in the backseats.

“What was it, is this your new job?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Just a costume birthday party.”

“You overdressed.” He says sarcastivally looking down at my almost naked body.

I feel ashamed and my cheeks get red. He holds the passenger door open, looking.. angry?

“I want you to fuck me.” I blurt out.

“Shhh.” He says looking around making sure nobody heard me and gently pushing me in the seat.

When we’re inside I look at him as he starts the car.

“You’re fucking handsome with that beard, where are you taking me?”

“Your house.”

“Yaasss!” I say smiling breathy. “You’re gonna bend me over the couch like las-“

“None of that. You’re gonna shower all those soarkling dots away and drink a whole bottle of water before going to sleep.”

I narrow my eyes. “But you knew I needed you.”

“You clearly do, but not in that sense.”

“I do need you in that sense!” I say pulling closer and grabbing his dick from him jeans. He hisses. “Woah, (y/n)!” And grabs my hand to put it on my own thigh.

“What, you’re hard, I felt it.” I say like a spoiled girl who doesn’t get what she asked but expected to.

He rolls his eyes and puts his hand back on the steering wheel. “You’re begging me to fuck you while looking like a fucking sex fantasy after I’ve been missing you for months, hell yeah I am hard.” He almost shouts at himself more than at me.

“I thought you wouldn’t come pick me up.” I admit laying back againsta the seat.”

“You always think I won’t chose you.”

“Then why you don’t want-“

He pulls violently to the side and stops the car. His hands grab my cheeks and he kisses me like he’s slapping my face: hard, fast, hungry. “I fucking want to!” He breathes on my mouth. “Just not like this, not after last time.”

“Why what happened last time?”

“We promised not to do it again.”

“And..”

“And we keep our promises so our next time, we’re doing it real. We’re doing it as if we’re brand new. As if we want to give us a real chance.”

I look into his eyes and I see something I have never seen there: intention, strenght, willing.

And then it hits me: he healed.

“Are you in?” He asks, his hands firmly holdin my head.

I swallow and he repeats “I said, are you in?” He looks me straight in the eyes with his big brown ones.

I nod. And he kisses me harder, almost getting on top of me.

I moan when he kisses my neck and he shuts me up with his hand on my mouth.

Then he forces himself to get back to his seat and starts the car.

I try to catch my breath but watching his curls move in the wind as he starts the car almost knocks me out: he’s here again. With me.

I watch the little ‘3’ on his pinkie and I close my eyes, the three tequilas hitting for real this time and making me fall asleep.

[daddysl1ttl3toy3]

Daddy trained me so well! When we’re alone as soon as I hear the word kitten I know I need to strip naked and present myself to him. If I’m a good girl and can do it in less that 15 seconds I know I will get treated like daddy’s little princess with special play time and games and daddy will treat me to his special cream buried inside my tight little hole. If not then I know daddy will punish me because good little toys don’t keep Daddy waiting!! Normally daddy punishes me by spanking me and pulling my hair and using me like the toy I am. But today when we got in I had a really tight swimming costume on with clothes on top. We had been at the pool for hours and daddy said kitten before even closing the front door it’s took over 30 seconds and I was still stuck in my swimsuit so daddy told me a new rule to our secret game… if it ever takes me more than 30 seconds he will rip me out my clothes and use them to blindfold me then he will tie me up I loose the privilege of being his toy and become a stupid set of holes for daddy to use. As he told me this he ripped off my swim suit tearing the fabric before saying “it’s about time I put you in a skimpy little bikini anyway” then he ties it round my head covering my eyes before picking me up and carrying me to his bedroom. He throws me on the bed and ties my wrist and ankles to each of the 4 corners of the bed. Then daddy whispers in my ear “don’t ever make me wait that long again slut you’re mine and I don’t like waiting” before slapping me round the face and pinching my nipples hard. Then daddy says “you’re such a little cock tease I’m going to show you everything I want to do to you. Everything I have wanted to do to you. Everything you deserve for being a cock teasing slut to daddy and all the other men.” Then daddy rams his finger into my pussy hard and fast I cry out in shock so he slaps me and laughs. Then he puts another finger in me spreading my tight pussy open as much as he can before saying “oh baby girl you’re such a good little slut, look how wet and needy you are for daddy already!” He laughs before saying “oh wait you can’t see. Then taste it” as he rams his fingers into my mouth and orders me to suck. As I suck he uses his other hand to play with my clit making me moan into his fingers as I suck harder and more passionately. “Do you like to suck slut?” Daddy asks. I nod my head sucking harder. Then daddy removes both hands from my body and tells me there’s something new for me to suck before ramming his cock down my throat making me gag and choke. “I said suck it slut! I don’t care if you can’t breathe suck it till you learn to breath and suck it” as he slaps my face and nipples multiple times forcing his cock in more laughing as I try to suck in between gagging and choking on him. Just as I learn how to do it right daddy rips it out of my mouth and covers me in his thick warm juices before leaving the room and saying “good slut stay there I’ll be back when I’m bored. When he gets back he shoves two fingers deep into my once again very tight and dripping wet pussy using the other hand to play with my nipples. It makes me moan load and he thrust violently in and out of my now stretching hole “you really are a good little slut are you. You’re enjoying this just as much as daddy” his rips his fingers out and wipes then on my legs as I whine and squirm crave his touch. “Don’t worry kitten we have the house to ourselves for the next 18 hours I’ll teach you how to be a good little slut and depending on how good you do maybe I’ll let you choose if this is how you will get treated every time I say kitten” just as he says kitten he thrusts his cock balls deep into my tight little hole making me scream and him grown before slapping me in the face and saying “as much as I love your moans I don’t like your screaming so I think it’s time you shut up and let daddy enjoy himself because I am going to use you a lot in every way I have always dreamed of because you are my little dirty slut. My little fuck toy. And my sexy little princess.” As he gags me and uses me for hours.

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Superglue: Breakfast Agenda

Superman!Lottie Matthews x Reporter!Reader

Masterlist | Previous Part

The blow came hard and fast, fist wrapped in some kind of energy field—slamming into Superwoman’s ribs and launching her through the wall of a parking structure. Concrete cracked like eggshells around her, dust and metal shrieking as she hit the ground on her back.

She coughed once. Felt the sharp pinch of something tear across her shoulder. Blood? That was new.

The enemy dropped down from above, silent, masked, brutal. No powers, just tech and precision. Military-grade. Maybe off-world. Charlotte couldn’t tell. Her head was ringing.

“You’re not invincible,” the figure in black said through a modulated voice.

Charlotte wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. “That’s the thing about rumors,” she rasped. “They never get the details right.”

Another punch, this time to the gut, and Charlotte doubled over before forcing herself back upright. Pain screamed down her side. She stumbled back, vision swimming. You need to be more careful out there, you had whispered, lips brushing hers. And I mean it, Matthews.

She grit her teeth. “I know,” she whispered.

Because the worst part wasn’t the pain. Or the possibility of defeat. The worst part was that she’d promised.

She’d stood in that office, smelling like lo mein and jasmine tea, kissed you until her knees went weak, and promised to be careful. And now here she was bleeding, heart pounding in her ears, thinking about her instead of calculating her next move.

The enemy came at her again, blade drawn this time. Charlotte ducked, barely, and the edge of it grazed her cheek, slicing skin open like paper.

“You’re distracted,” the voice said.

Charlotte’s breath caught. Yeah, she thought. I am.

She caught the next hit. Just barely. Spun, elbowed the figure hard in the ribs, and sent them stumbling backward. Her strength was still there, but her focus was unraveling.

Not because she wasn’t strong enough.

Because she cared too much. She pushed forward, anger, panic, and something deeply human roaring in her chest.

“I made a promise,” Charlotte hissed, shoving the figure into a car so hard the windshield shattered. “And if I have to drag myself home in pieces to keep it—I will.”

The enemy disappeared in a flash of smoke and light, slipping into the shadows of the city. Charlotte stood in the broken lot, gasping, bloodied, shaking. And for the first time in a long time, she was scared.

Not for herself.

But for the moment she’d have to walk back into that office…see you and lie. Lie about how she didn’t get hurt. Lie about how she didn’t almost die. Lie about how she was careful.

The city shimmered beneath her as she flew, a blur of orange haze and steel shadows. Her left shoulder throbbed with every beat of her heart, and her ribs ached like they’d been put through a compactor. The sky was quiet tonight, too quiet, and even from this high up, the hum of sirens and streetlights felt far away.

She landed on her balcony with less grace than usual, boots skidding slightly against the railing before she shoved the glass door open with her good hand.

The apartment was dark—except for the soft glow of her kitchen light and the faint smell of jasmine and leftover takeout. Charlotte blinked once, a soft breathy chuckle escaping her lips.

She didn’t even need x-ray vision to know who it was.

“You really need to stop doing this,” she said, voice hoarse, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she stumbled into the living room.

You looked up from where you sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty cup of tea in her hand. Your eyes were sharp. Assessing. And far too calm.

“Doing what?” you said, setting the tea down. “Checking in on the most powerful being on earth?”

Charlotte chuckled weakly, then winced. “Breaking in.”

“You left the window latch undone,” you said, standing slowly.

“I was raised better than to lock people out,” Charlotte murmured, gaze dropping.

A beat passed. You stepped forward. Charlotte tried to stay upright, but her knees gave out the moment she stopped pretending they could hold her.

Strong arms caught her mid-fall. The familiar scent—clean soap, ink, and a hint of sandalwood—wrapped around her like a balm. She leaned her forehead against your shoulder and exhaled.

“You’re bleeding,” came the whispered observation, a hand brushing gently along her jaw.

Charlotte didn’t answer. “Remind me to make you a key,” she murmured instead, eyes fluttering shut. “So you’ll stop breaking in.”

Your grip around her tightened slightly, holding her up like she mattered. “I’ll take the key,” you said quietly. “But you don’t get to make jokes until I know you didn’t puncture a lung.”

Charlotte managed a shaky laugh, breathless against the hollow of her throat. This—this right here, was worse than the hit to the ribs.

Because Charlotte Matthews had been in battles. She’d taken hits, survived wars, stared down missiles. But none of it had ever made her feel this soft. None of it had ever made her want to come home this bad.

Charlotte winced as she pulled off the torn remnants of her suit, one arm moving slower than the other. The apartment lights were low, casting soft shadows across the walls, and the faint buzz of city life below drifted through the open window.

She dropped onto the couch with a groan, leaning her head back against the cushions. “I’ll be fine by morning,” she mumbled, voice half-muffled. “I just need a few hours under the moon. The sun’ll finish the job.”

You stood across from her, arms crossed, not convinced. “That’s not how bruised ribs work, Matthews.”

Charlotte peeked one eye open. “It is when you can fly,” she said with a lopsided grin. “Promise.”

But then she froze. Her gaze landed on the small, angry cut just above your left eyebrow, the purpling bruise spreading across her jaw. The playfulness in her face drained instantly.

“Wait—what is that?”

You flinched, a sigh escaping your lips. “It’s nothing. Just—”

Charlotte was already on her feet, eyes narrowed as she stepped in close, studying the injury like it had personally offended her.

“Who did this?” Her voice was low. Dangerous. Protective.

You smiled, soft but amused. Your heart soaring at her protectiveness. “I can take care of myself, Lottie. I’m a big girl.”

Charlotte didn’t smile back. Instead, her hands came up to gently cup your face, thumbs brushing carefully along your cheekbones, fingers featherlight.

“Yeah, you are,” she said, voice softer now, almost reverent. “But that doesn’t stop me from caring.” Her eyes searched hers. “Just answer the question.”

Your breath hitched slightly at the closeness. Your usual composure faltered. “It was nothing,” you said again, but quieter this time. “One of the protestors outside the consulate. Thought I was press from the other side.”

Charlotte’s jaw ticked. “You shouldn’t have been there alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

“But I wasn’t with you.”

That hung in the air for a second, heavy. You didn’t pull away from Charlotte’s hands. If anything, you leaned into them.

“Well, you’re here now,” you said softly. “And I brought dumplings, so that counts for something.”

Charlotte exhaled slowly, her thumb still brushing just beneath your bruise. “Next time, call me.”

“And next time,” you said, smirking gently, “you don’t get to lecture me unless you call me when you’re getting punched in the face by mystery villains in the dark.”

Charlotte laughed, reluctant and tired and with a soft look in her eyes. “Deal.”

They stayed like that a little longer, caught in the stillness. Outside, the first hints of dawn teased the horizon, but inside, Charlotte didn’t care about the sun just yet. She had everything she needed right here in her hands.

You didn’t know what time it was. But it was late enough where charlotte had finally knocked out. You slipped your arms through your jacket slowly, quietly. Your bag was already on your shoulder, shoes in hand, careful not to wake the sleeping figure on the couch.

Charlotte had insisted she’d be fine. That by morning, the sun would do its thing and knit her back together like it always did. And you believed her—mostly. But still, there was a pang as you looked back, lingering longer than you meant to.

You were halfway to the door when Charlotte’s voice stopped you. “Stay.”

It was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and sleepy but unmistakably hers. You turned, met with Charlotte’s soft gaze, half-lidded, hair messy, a vulnerability there she rarely let anyone see.

“You sure?” you asked, voice gentle, still standing at the threshold.

Charlotte nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Please.”

So you stayed.

You toed off your shoes again, slid your jacket off, and padded back to the couch. But Charlotte was already moving, reaching for your hand.

“My bed’s more comfortable,” she murmured, tugging you toward the hallway.

They didn’t say much more that night. Just the rustle of sheets, a quiet exhale as they found space beside each other. The city murmured outside, but inside, everything was still.

Charlotte curled behind you, an arm slipping around your waist, her forehead resting lightly against the back of your shoulder.

For once, she let herself relax. Not as Superwoman, not as someone with the weight of the world on her back—but as Charlotte. A girl holding the woman she loved, just trying to keep her close for a little longer.

The sun filtered in soft and golden by morning. Charlotte blinked awake slowly, stretching under the warmth now blooming across her skin. Her aches were already fading. The split in her lip gone. The bruises receding. But none of that was what made her beam.

What made her heart stutter and soar was the woman beside her, still fast asleep, pressed into her chest with one hand loosely curled in the fabric of Charlotte’s shirt.

Carefully, Charlotte leaned down and kissed you—barely brushing her lips against yours, soft and reverent. And when you stirred, eyes fluttering open with a sleep-roughened, confused blink, Charlotte just smiled wider.

“Morning,” she whispered.

You yawned. “Mmm. Are you glowing or is that just obnoxious joy on your face?”

“A little of both,” Charlotte said, grinning.

You chuckled and buried your face against Charlotte’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

Charlotte only held you tighter. “I know. But I woke up with you in my bed. So, ridiculous or not, I think I’m winning.”

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the city just beginning to wake. Traffic buzzed faintly several stories below, and sunlight filtered in through the tall windows in soft gold streaks. You stood barefoot in Charlotte’s kitchen, hair still tousled from sleep, wearing one of Charlotte’s old oversized tees that hung off your shoulder like it was made for you.

You moved through the kitchen with ease, clearly comfortable here now, grabbing the coffee tin from the top shelf, filling the pot, humming softly under your breath as you did it.

Behind you, Charlotte padded in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her dark tank top clung to her frame, and her hair was a gorgeous, wild mess. She yawned and leaned against the doorway.

“You’re making coffee?” she mumbled, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

You smirked over your shoulder. “Someone has to. You nearly died last night and refused to go to a hospital, so I figured I’d step in and play nurse-slash-barista.”

Charlotte grunted and came up behind you to nuzzle into your shoulder. “Coffee first. But I’m making breakfast.”

“You’re still healing.”

“I heal better with pancakes,” Charlotte mumbled.

You laughed. “That is not a thing.”

“It is in this household,” Charlotte declared, already grabbing a mixing bowl. “Breakfast is the superior meal. It works any time of day.”

You raised a brow, leaning against the counter with her mug. “Breakfast is great for breakfast, Lottie.”

Charlotte glanced at you with mock offense. “You say that like it’s a controversial opinion.”

“It is,” you said, sipping your coffee. “You’re a grown woman with a literal super metabolism and still insist breakfast is sacred.”

Charlotte stuck her tongue out, poured some flour, and began stirring with wild determination. “You’re just lucky I don’t break into heroic monologue about the healing properties of pancakes.”

You chuckled and hopped up onto the kitchen counter, letting your legs swing lazily as you watched Charlotte move around the space, hair still messy, sleeves rolled up, stirring batter like it was the most important thing in the world.

She was beautiful like this. Unarmored.

Charlotte looked up and paused. For a second, she just stood there with the whisk in her hand, batter halfway stirred, eyes locked onto you like something in her shifted.

Then she put the bowl down and crossed the kitchen in three purposeful strides.

You barely had time to blink before your coffee mug was gently taken from your hands and set aside. And then Charlotte’s hands were on your hips, slipping up to your waist, drawing you forward as she stood between your knees.

The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, like she was checking to see if it was really okay to go there. But then your hands found their way around her neck, fingers curling in the back of her shirt, and that was all Charlotte needed.

She deepened the kiss, slow and hungry, like she’d been thinking about it since the second she woke up. Her fingers tightened around your waist, her mouth moving with intent, savoring every press, every soft sigh she coaxed out of you.

Pancakes forgotten.

Coffee abandoned.

Only her and you in front of her, you, who was finally hers, not just in emergency moments or stolen kisses, but in the morning light, in her kitchen, in her arms. And for Charlotte Matthews, that felt more powerful than anything she could ever do in a cape.

Charlotte didn’t pull away right away.

She stayed there for a beat, forehead resting gently against yours, her hands still wrapped around her waist, thumbs brushing the hem of the shirt. The air between them was warm and quiet, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the wall and the faint traffic below.

You let out a slow, content breath, your fingers still tangled at the back of Charlotte’s neck.

“Pancakes have been abandoned,” you whispered.

Charlotte grinned but didn’t move. “Totally worth it.”

Another pause. Then Charlotte spoke, voice quieter now. “I think about this, you know.”

You tilted your head slightly. “This?”

“You. Here. In my kitchen. In my shirt. Laughing at my breakfast agenda,” Charlotte murmured. “And I—I don’t know. It’s just… better than anything else I could be doing.”

You blinked. You weren’t used to Charlotte being so openly soft. Protective? Yes. Flirty? Occasionally. But this? This was something you could get used to.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against Charlotte’s. “Better than flying?”

Charlotte nodded. “Way better.”

“Better than catching bad guys?”

Charlotte smirked. “Unless the bad guy is keeping you from waking up in my bed—yeah. Way better.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, and Charlotte’s smile softened again. Her eyes dropped for a second, almost nervous now. “I know it’s risky. Letting someone in. Especially with… with who I am.”

Your gaze held steady. “I already knew who you were before you kissed me. Still here.”

Charlotte looked at you like that meant everything. “I know. That’s what scares me.”

And then you reached up and gently cupped Charlotte’s face, just like Charlotte had done the night before, and kissed her softly, slowly.

“Don’t be scared, Lottie,” you whispered. “You’ve saved the world. You can handle being with me.”

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment like she needed to commit those words to memory. Then she nodded, kissed you again, gentler now.

“I should probably finish breakfast,” she mumbled into your lips.

You smirked. “You really should. Otherwise, you’re just going to owe me Chinese food twice in a row.”

Charlotte groaned but pulled back with a reluctant smile, retrieving the bowl and stirring like her life depended on it—though her eyes kept drifting back to you sitting on her counter, sipping coffee, barefoot in her apartment, grinning like you knew exactly what you were doing to her.

And maybe you did.

Because Charlotte Matthews could stop wars, fly through storms, and bench press a car. But none of it compared to the way her heart raced when you smiled at her like that.

[dr-litcrit]

Nick in Margaret Atwood’s Canon: Every Appearance, Word for Word

THE HANDMAID’S TALE

CHAPTER THREE

A Guardian detailed to the Commander does the heavy digging; the Commander's Wife directs, pointing with her stick.

CHAPTER FOUR

I open the white picket gate and continue, past the front lawn and towards the front gate. In the driveway, one of the Guardians assigned to our household is washing the car. That must mean the Commander is in the house, in his own quarters, past the dining room and beyond, where he seems to stay most of the time.

The car is a very expensive one, a Whirlwind; better than the Chariot, much better than the chunky, practical Behemoth. It's black, of course, the color of prestige or a hearse, and long and sleek. The driver is going over it with a chamois, lovingly.

This at least hasn't changed, the way men caress good cars.

He's wearing the uniform of the Guardians, but his cap is tilted at a jaunty angle and his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing his forearms, tanned but with a stipple of dark hairs, He has a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, which shows that he too has something he can trade on the black market.

I know this man's name: Nick. I know this because I've heard Rita and Cora talking about him, and once I heard the Commander speaking to him: Nick, I won't be needing the car.

He lives here, in the household, over the garage. Low status: he hasn't been issued a woman, not even one. He doesn't rate: some defect, lack of connections.

But he acts as if he doesn't know this, or care, He's too casual, he's not servile enough. It may be stupidity, but I don't think so. Smells fishy, they used to say; or, I smell a rat. Misfit as odor. Despite myself, I think of how he might smell. Not fish or decaying rat; tanned skin, moist in the sun, filmed with smoke. I sigh, inhaling.

He looks at me, and sees me looking. He has a French face, lean, whimsical, all planes and angles, with creases around the mouth where he smiles. He takes a final puff of the cigarette, lets it drop to the driveway, and steps on it. He begins to whistle.

Then he winks.

I drop my head and turn so that the white wings hide my face, and keep walking.

He's just taken a risk, but for what? What if I were to report him?

Perhaps he was merely being friendly. Perhaps he saw the look on my face and mistook it for something else. Really what I wanted was the cigarette.

Perhaps it was a test, to see what I would do. Perhaps he is an Eye.

(...)

The Guardians aren’t real soldiers. Theyre used for routine policing and other menial functions, digging up the Commander’s Wife’s garden for instance, and they’re either stupid or older or disabled or very young, apart from the ones that are Eyes incognito.

(...)

(...) because none of this is the faul of these men, they´re too young.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the driveway, Nick is polishing the Whirlwind again. He’s reached the chrome at the back. I put my gloved hand on the latch of the gate, open it, push inward. The gate clicks behind me. The tulips along the border are redder than ever, opening, no longer winecups but chalices; thrusting themselves up, to what end? They are, after all, empty. When they are old they turn themselves inside out, then explode slowly, the petals thrown out like shards.

Nick looks up and begins to whistle. Then he says, “Nice walk?”

I nod, but do not answer with my voice. He isn’t supposed to speak to me.

CHAPTER TEN

The Commander stoops, gets into the car, disappears, and Nick shuts the door. A moment later the car moves backwards, down the driveway and onto the street, and vanishes behind the hedge.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nick walks in, nods to all three of us, looks around the room. He too takes his place behind me, standing. He’s so close that the tip of his boot is touching my foot. Is this on purpose? Whether it is or not we are touching, two shapes of leather. I feel my shoe soften, blood flows into it, it grows warm, it becomes a skin. I move my foot slightly, away.

“Wish he’d hurry up,” says Cora.

“Hurry up and wait,” says Nick. He laughs, moves his foot so it’s touching mine again. No one can see, beneath the folds of my outspread skirt. I shift, it’s too warm in here, the smell of stale perfume makes me feel a little sick. I move my foot away.

We hear Serena coming, down the stairs, along the hall, the muffled tap of her cane on the rug, thud of the good foot. She hobbles through the doorway, glances at us, counting but not seeing. She nods, at Nick, but says nothing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

But there’s someone in the room, behind me.

I hear the step, quiet as mine, the creaking of the same floorboard.

The door closes behind me, with a little click, cutting the light. I freeze: white was a mistake. I’m snow in moonlight, even in the dark.

Then a whisper: “Don’t scream. It’s all right.”

As if I’d scream, as if it’s all right. I turn: a shape, that’s all, dull glint of cheekbone, devoid of colour.

He steps towards me. Nick.

“What are you doing in here?”

I don’t answer. He too is illegal, here, with me, he can’t give me away.

Nor I him; for the moment we’re mirrors. He puts his hand on my arm, pulls me against him, his mouth on mine, what else comes from such denial? Without a word. Both of us shaking, how I’d like to. In Serena’s parlour, with the dried flowers, on the Chinese carpet, his thin body. A man entirely unknown. It would be like shouting, it would be like shooting someone. My hand goes down, how about that, I could unbutton, and then. But it’s too dangerous, he knows it, we push each other away, not far. Too much trust, too much risk, too much already.

“I was coming to find you,” he says, breathes, almost into my ear. I want to reach up, taste his skin, he makes me hungry. His fingers move, feeling my arm under the nightgown sleeve, as if his hand won’t listen to reason. It’s so good, to be touched by someone, to be felt so greedily, to feel so greedy. Luke, you’d know, you’d understand. It’s you here, in another body.

Bullshit.

“Why?” I say. Is it so bad, for him, that he’d take the risk of coming to my room at night? I think of the hanged men, hooked on the Wall. I can hardly stand up. I have to get away, back to the stairs, before I dissolve entirely. His hand’s on my shoulder now, held still, heavy, pressing down on me like warm lead. Is this what I would die for? I’m a coward, I hate the thought of pain.

“He told me to,” Nick says. “He wants to see you. In his office.”

“What do you mean?” I say. The Commander, it must be. See me?

What does he mean by see? Hasn’t he had enough of me?

“Tomorrow,” he says, just audible. In the dark parlour we move away from each other, slowly, as if pulled towards each other by a force, current, pulled apart also by hands equally strong.

I find the door, turn the knob, fingers on cool porcelain, open. It’s all I can do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I visit the Commander two or three nights a week, always after dinner, but only when I get the signal. The signal is Nick. If he’s polishing the car when I set out for the shopping, or when I come back, and if his hat is on askew or not on at all, then I go. If he isn’t there or if he has his hat on straight, then I stay in my room in the ordinary way. On Ceremony nights, of course, none of this applies.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Someone has come out of the house. I hear the distant closing of a door, around at the side, footsteps on the walk. It’s Nick, I can see him now; he’s stepped off the path, onto the lawn, to breathe in the humid air which stinks of flowers, of pulpy growth, of pollen thrown into the wind in handfuls, like oyster spawn into the sea. All this prodigal breeding. He stretches in the sun, I feel the ripple of muscles go along him, like a cat’s back arching. He’s in his shirt sleeves, bare arms sticking shamelessly out from the rolled cloth. Where does the tan end? I haven’t spoken to him since that one night, dreamscape in the moon-filled sitting room. He’s only my flag, my semaphore. Body language.

Right now his cap’s on sideways. Therefore I am sent for.

What does he get for it, his role as page boy? How does he feel, pimping in this ambiguous way for the Commander? Does it fill him with disgust, or make him want more of me, want me more? Because he has no idea what really goes on in there, among the books. Acts of perversion, for all he knows. The Commander and me, covering each other with ink, licking it off, or making love on stacks of forbidden newsprint. Well, he wouldn’t be far off at that.

But depend on it, there’s something in it for him. Everyone’s on the take, one way or another. Extra cigarettes? Extra freedoms, not allowed to the general run? Anyway, what can he prove? It’s his word against the Commander’s, unless he wants to head a posse. Kick in the door, and what did I tell you? Caught in the act, sinfully Scrabbling. Quick, eat those words.

Maybe he just likes the satisfaction of knowing something secret. Of having something on me, as they used to say. It’s the kind of power you can use only once.

I would like to think better of him.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Down there on the lawn, someone emerges from the spill of darkness under the willow, steps across the light, his long shadow attached sharply to his heels. Is it Nick, or is it someone else, someone of no importance? He stops, looks up at this window, and I can see the white oblong of his face. Nick. We look at each other. I have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it’s the same kind of hunger.

Which I can’t indulge. I pull the left-hand curtain so that it falls between us, across my face, and after a moment he walks on, into the invisibility around the corner.

What the Commander said is true. One and one and one and one doesn’t equal four. Each one remains unique, there is no way of joining them together. They cannot be exchanged, one for the other. They cannot replace each other. Nick for Luke or Luke for Nick. Should does not apply.

You can’t help what you feel, Moira said once, but you can help how you behave.

Which is all very well.

Context is all; or is it ripeness? One or the other.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

There’s Nick, hat askew; today he doesn’t even look at me. He must have been waiting around for me though, to deliver his silent message, because as soon as he knows I’ve seen him he gives the Whirlwind one last swipe with the chamois and walks briskly off towards the garage door.

(...)

“Your time’s running out,” she says. Not a question, a matter of fact.

“Yes,” I say neutrally.

She’s lighting another cigarette, fumbling with the lighter. Definitely her hands are getting worse. But it would be a mistake to offer to do it for her, she’d be offended. A mistake to notice weakness in her.

“Maybe he can’t,” she says.

I don’t know who she means. Does she mean the Commander, or God?

If it’s God, she should say won’t. Either way it’s heresy. It’s only women who can’t, who remain stubbornly closed, damaged, defective.

“No,” I say. “Maybe he can’t.”

I look up at her. She looks down. It’s the first time we’ve looked into each other’s eyes in a long time. Since we met. The moment stretches out between us, bleak and level. She’s trying to see whether or not I’m up to reality.

“Maybe,” she says, holding the cigarette, which she has failed to light.

“Maybe you should try it another way.”

Does she mean on all fours? “What other way?” I say. I must keep serious.

“Another man,” she says.

“You know I can’t,” I say, careful not to let my irritation show. “It’s against the law. You know the penalty.”

“Yes,” she says. She’s ready for this, she’s thought it through. “I know you can’t officially. But it’s done. Women do it frequently. All the time.”

“With doctors, you mean?” I say, remembering the sympathetic brown eyes, the gloveless hand. The last time I went it was a different doctor.

Maybe someone caught the other one out, or a woman reported him. Not that they’d take her word, without evidence.

“Some do that,” she says, her tone almost affable now, though distanced; it’s as if we’re considering a choice of nail polish. “That’s how Ofwarren did it. The wife knew, of course.” She pauses to let this sink in.

“I would help you. I would make sure nothing went wrong.”

I think about this. “Not with a doctor,” I say.

“No,” she agrees, and for this moment at least we are cronies, this could be a kitchen table, it could be a date we’re discussing, some girlish stratagem of ploys and flirtation. “Sometimes they blackmail. But it doesn’t have to be a doctor. It could be someone we trust.”

“Who?” I say.

“I was thinking of Nick,” she says, and her voice is almost soft. “He’s been with us a long time. He’s loyal. I could fix it with him.”

So that’s who does her little black-market errands for her. Is this what he always gets, in return?

“What about the Commander?” I say.

“Well,” she says, with firmness; no, more than that, a clenched look, like a purse snapping shut. “We just won’t tell him, will we?”

This idea hangs between us, almost visible, almost palpable: heavy, formless, dark; collusion of a sort, betrayal of a sort. She does want that baby.

“It’s a risk,” I say. “More than that.” It’s my life on the line; but that’s where it will be sooner or later, one way or another, whether I do or don’t. We both know this.

“You might as well,” she says. Which is what I think too.

“All right,” I say. “Yes.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Through the tunnel made by the hood I can see the back of Nick’s head. His hat is on straight, he’s sitting up straight, his neck is straight, he is all very straight. His posture disapproves of me, or am I imagining it? Does he know what I’ve got on under this cloak, did he procure it? And if so, does this make him angry or lustful or envious or anything at all? We do have something in common: both of us are supposed to be invisible, both of us are functionaries. I wonder if he knows this. When he opened the door of the car for the Commander, and, by extension, for me, I tried to catch his eye, make him look at me, but he acted as if he didn’t see me.

Why not? It’s a soft job for him, running little errands, doing little favours, and there’s no way he’d want to jeopardize it.

The checkpoints are no problem, everything goes as smoothly as the Commander said it would, despite the heavy pounding, the pressure of blood in my head. Chickenshit, Moira would say.

Past the second checkpoint, Nick says, “Here, Sir?” and the Commander says “Yes.”

The car pulls over and the Commander says, “Now I’ll have to ask you to get down onto the floor of the car.”

“Down?” I say.

“We have to go through the gateway,” he says, as if this means something to me. I tried to ask him where we were going, but he said he wanted to surprise me. “Wives aren’t allowed.”

So I flatten myself and the car starts again, and for the next few minutes I see nothing. Under the cloak it’s stifling hot. It’s a winter cloak, not a cotton summer one, and it smells of mothballs. He must have borrowed it from storage, knowing she wouldn’t notice. He has considerately moved his feet to give me room. Nevertheless my forehead is against his shoes. I have never been this close to his shoes before.

They feel hard, unwinking, like the shells of beetles: black, polished, inscrutable. They seem to have nothing to do with feet.

We pass through another checkpoint. I hear the voices, impersonal, deferential, and the window rolling electrically down and up for the passes to be shown. This time he won’t show mine, the one that’s supposed to be mine, as I’m no longer in official existence, for now.

Then the car starts and then it stops again, and the Commander is helping me up.

“We’ll have to be fast,” he says. “This is a back entrance. You should leave the cloak with Nick. On the hour, as usual,” he says to Nick. So this too is something he’s done before.

He helps me out of the cloak; the car door is opened. I feel air on my almost bare skin, and realize I’ve been sweating. As I turn to shut the car door behind me I can see Nick looking at me through the glass. He sees me now. Is it contempt I read, or indifference, is this merely what he expected of me?

CHAPTER FORTY

I reach the top of the stairs, knock on the door there. He opens it himself, who else was I expecting? There’s a lamp on, only one but enough light to make me blink. I look past him, not wanting to meet his eyes. It’s a single room, with a fold-out bed, made up, and a kitchenette counter at the far end, and another door that must lead to the bathroom.

This room is stripped down, military, minimal. No pictures on the walls, no plants. He’s camping out. The blanket on the bed is grey and says U.S.

He steps back and aside to let me past. He’s in his shirt sleeves, and is holding a cigarette, lit. I smell the smoke on him, in the warm air of the room, all over. I’d like to take off my clothes, bathe in it, rub it over my skin.

No preliminaries; he knows why I’m here. He doesn’t even say anything, why fool around, it’s an assignment. He moves away from me, turns off the lamp. Outside, like punctuation, there’s a flash of lightning; almost no pause and then the thunder. He’s undoing my dress, a man made of darkness, I can’t see his face, and I can hardly breathe, hardly stand, and I’m not standing. His mouth is on me, his hands, I can’t wait and he’s moving, already, love, it’s been so long, I’m alive in my skin, again, arms around him, falling and water softly everywhere, neverending.

I knew it might only be once.

I made that up. It didn’t happen that way. Here is what happened.

I reach the top of the stairs, knock on the door. He opens it himself.

There’s a lamp on; I blink. I look past his eyes, it’s a single room, the bed’s made up, stripped down, military. No pictures but the blanket says U.S. He’s in his shirt sleeves, he’s holding a cigarette.

“Here,” he says to me, “have a drag.” No preliminaries, he knows why I’m here. To get knocked up, to get in trouble, up the pole, those were all names for it once. I take the cigarette from him, draw deeply in, hand it back. Our fingers hardly touch. Even that much smoke makes me dizzy.

He says nothing, just looks at me, unsmiling. It would be better, more friendly, if he would touch me. I feel stupid and ugly, although I know I am not either. Still, what does he think, why doesn’t he say something?

Maybe he thinks I’ve been slutting around, at Jezebel’s, with the Commander or more. It annoys me that I’m even worrying about what he thinks. Let’s be practical.

“I don’t have much time,” I say. This is awkward and clumsy, it isn’t what I mean.

“I could just squirt it into a bottle and you could pour it in,” he says.

He doesn’t smile.

“There’s no need to be brutal,” I say. Possibly he feels used. Possibly he wants something from me, some emotion, some ackowledgement that he too is human, is more than just a seedpod. “I know it’s hard for you,”

I try.

He shrugs. “I get paid,” he says, punk surliness. But still makes no move.

I get paid, you get laid, I rhyme in my head. So that’s how we’re going to do it. He didn’t like the makeup, the spangles. We’re going to be tough.

“You come here often?”

“And what’s a nice girl like me doing in a spot like this,” I reply. We both smile: this is better. This is an acknowledgement that we are acting, for what else can we do in such a setup?

“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.” We’re quoting from late movies, from the time before. And the movies then were from a time before that: this sort of talk dates back to an era well before our own.

Not even my mother talked like that, not when I knew her. Possibly nobody ever talked like that in real life, it was all a fabrication from the beginning. Still, it’s amazing how easily it comes back to mind, this corny and falsely gay sexual banter. I can see now what it’s for, what it was always for: to keep the core of yourself out of reach, enclosed, protected.

I’m sad now, the way we’re talking is infinitely sad: faded music, faded paper flowers, worn satin, an echo of an echo. All gone away, no longer possible. Without warning I begin to cry.

At last he moves forward, puts his arms around me, strokes my back, holds me that way, for comfort.

“Come on,” he says. “We haven’t got much time.” With his arm around my shoulders he leads me over to the fold-out bed, lies me down.

He even turns down the blanket first. He begins to unbutton, then to stroke, kisses beside my ear. “No romance,” he says. “Okay?”

That would have meant something else, once. Once it would have meant: no strings. Now it means: no heroics. It means: don’t risk yourself for me, if it should come to that.

And so it goes. And so.

I knew it might only be once. Goodbye, I thought, even at the time, goodbye.

There wasn’t any thunder though, I added that in. To cover up the sounds, which I am ashamed of making.

It didn’t happen that way either. I’m not sure how it happened; not exactly. All I can hope for is a reconstruction: the way love feels is always only approximate.

Partway through, I thought about Serena Joy, sitting down there in the kitchen. Thinking: cheap. They’ll spread their legs for anyone. All you need to give them is a cigarette.

And I thought afterwards: this is a betrayal. Not the thing itself but my own response. If I knew for certain he was dead, would that make a difference?

I would like to be without shame. I would like to be shameless. I would like to be ignorant. Then I would not know how ignorant I was.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

This is the story, then.

I went back to Nick. Time after time, on my own, without Serena knowing. It wasn’t called for, there was no excuse. I did not do it for him, but for myself entirely. I didn’t even think of it as giving myself to him, because what did I have to give? I did not feel munificent, but thankful, each time he would let me in. He didn’t have to.

In order to do this I became reckless, I took stupid chances. After being with the Commander I would go upstairs in the usual way, but then I would go along the hall and down the Marthas’ stairs at the back and through the kitchen. Each time I would hear the kitchen door click shut behind me and I would almost turn back, it sounded so metallic, like a mousetrap or a weapon, but I would not turn back. I would hurry across the few feet of illuminated lawn, the searchlights were back on again, expecting at any moment to feel the bullets rip through me even in advance of their sound. I would make my way by touch up the dark staircase and come to rest against the door, the thud of blood in my ears.

Fear is a powerful stimulant. Then I would knock softly, a beggar’s knock. Each time I would expect him to be gone; or worse, I would expect him to say I could not come in. He might say he wasn’t going to break any more rules, put his neck in the noose, for my sake. Or even worse, tell me he was no longer interested. His failure to do any of these things I experienced as the most incredible benevolence and luck.

I told you it was bad.

Here is how it goes.

He opens the door. He’s in his shirt sleeves, his shirt untucked, hanging loose; he’s holding a toothbrush, or a cigarette or a glass with something in it. He has his own little stash up here, black-market stuff I suppose. He’s always got something in his hand, as if he’s been going about his life as usual, not expecting me, not waiting. Maybe he doesn’t expect me, or wait. Maybe he has no notion of the future, or does not bother or dare to imagine it.

“Is it too late?” I say.

He shakes his head for no. It is understood between us by now that it is never too late, but I go through the ritual politeness of asking. It makes me feel more in control, as if there is a choice, a decision that could be made one way or the other. He steps aside and I move past him and he closes the door. Then he crosses the room and closes the window.

After that he turns out the light. There is not much talking between us any more, not at this stage. Already I am half out of my clothes. We save the talking for later.

With the Commander I close my eyes, even when I am only kissing him goodnight. I do not want to see him up close. But now, here, each time, I keep my eyes open. I would like a light on somewhere, a candle perhaps, stuck into a bottle, some echo of college, but anything like that would be too great a risk; so I have to make do with the searchlight, the glow of it from the grounds below, filtered through his white curtains which are the same as mine. I want to see what can be seen, of him, take him in, memorize him, save him up so I can live on the image, later: the lines of his body, the texture of his flesh, the glisten of sweat on his pelt, his long sardonic unrevealing face. I ought to have done that with Luke, paid more attention, to the details, the moles and scars, the singular creases; I didn’t and he’s fading. Day by day, night by night he recedes, and I become more faithless.

For this one I’d wear pink feathers, purple stars, if that were what he wanted; or anything else, even the tail of a rabbit. But he does not require such trimmings. We make love each time as if we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there will never be any more, for either of us, with anyone, ever. And then when there is, that too is always a surprise, extra, a gift.

Being here with him is safety; it’s a cave, where we huddle together while the storm goes on outside. This is a delusion, of course. This room is one of the most dangerous places I could be. If I were caught there would be no quarter, but I’m beyond caring. And how have I come to trust him like this, which is foolhardy in itself? How can I assume I know him, or the least thing about him and what he really does?

I dismiss these uneasy whispers. I talk too much. I tell him things I shouldn’t. I tell him about Moira, about Ofglen; not about Luke though. I want to tell him about the woman in my room, the one who was there before me, but I don’t. I’m jealous of her. If she’s been here before me too, in this bed, I don’t want to hear about it.

I tell him my real name, and feel that therefore I am known. I act like a dunce. I should know better. I make of him an idol, a cardboard cutout.

He on the other hand talks little: no more hedging or jokes. He barely asks questions. He seems indifferent to most of what I have to say, alive only to the possibilities of my body, though he watches me while I’m speaking. He watches my face.

Impossible to think that anyone for whom I feel such gratitude could betray me.

Neither of us says the word love, not once. It would be tempting fate; it would be romance, bad luck.

(...)

But the Commander is no longer of immediate interest to me. I have to make an effort to keep my indifference towards him from showing.

Keep on doing everything exactly the way you were before, Nick says.

Don’t change anything. Otherwise they’ll know. He kisses me, watching me all the time. Promise? Don’t slip up.

I put his hand on my belly. It’s happened, I say. I feel it has. A couple of weeks and I’ll be certain.

This I know is wishful thinking.

He’ll love you to death, he says. So will she.

But it’s yours, I say. It will be yours, really. I want it to be.

We don’t pursue this, however.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Nobody moves forward. The women are looking at him with horror; as if he’s a half-dead rat dragging itself across a kitchen floor. He’s squinting around at us, the circle of red women. One corner of his mouth moves up, incredible – a smile?

I try to look inside him, inside the trashed face, see what he must really look like. I think he’s about thirty. It isn’t Luke.

But it could have been, I know that. It could be Nick. I know that whatever he’s done I can’t touch him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I go out the back door, along the path. Nick is washing the car, his hat on sideways. He doesn’t look at me. We avoid looking at each other, these days. Surely we’d give something away by it, even out here in the open, with no one to see.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Dear God, I think, I will do anything you like. Now that you’ve let me off, I’ll obliterate myself, if that’s what you really want; I’ll empty myself, truly, become a chalice. I’ll give up Nick, I’ll forget about the others, I’ll stop complaining. I’ll accept my lot. I’ll sacrifice. I’ll repent.

I’ll abdicate. I’ll renounce.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“Pick up that disgusting thing and get to your room. Just like the other one. A slut.

You’ll end up the same.”

I stoop, gather. Behind my back Nick has stopped whistling.

I want to turn, run to him, throw my arms around him. This would be foolish. There is nothing he can do to help. He too would drown.

I walk to the back door, into the kitchen, set down my basket, go upstairs. I am orderly and calm.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I could walk at a steady pace down the stairs and out the front door and along the street, trying to look as if I knew where I was going, and see how far I could get. Red is so visible.

I could go to Nick’s room, over the garage, as we have done before. I could wonder whether or not he would let me in, give me shelter. Now that the need is real.

(...)

I expect a stranger, but it’s Nick who pushes open the door, flicks on the light. I can’t place that, unless he’s one of them. There was always that possibility. Nick, the private Eye. Dirty work is done by dirty people.

You shit, I think. I open my mouth to say it, but he comes over, close to me, whispers.

“It’s all right. It’s Mayday. Go with them.” He calls me by my real name. Why should this mean anything?

“Them?” I say. I see the two men standing behind him, the overhead light in the hallway making skulls of their heads. “You must be crazy.”

My suspicion hovers in the air above him, a dark angel warning me away. I can almost see it. Why shouldn’t he know about Mayday? All the Eyes must know about it; they’ll have squeezed it, crushed it, twisted it out of enough bodies, enough mouths by now.

“Trust me,” he says; which in itself has never been a talisman, carries no guarantee.

But I snatch at it, this offer. It’s all I’m left with.

One in front, one behind, they escort me down the stairs. The pace is leisurely, the lights are on. Despite the fear, how ordinary it is. From here I can see the clock. It’s no time in particular.

Nick is no longer with us. He may have gone down the back stairs, not wishing to be seen.

HISTORICAL NOTES

As for the subversive Waterford was accused of harbouring, this could have been “Offred” herself, as her flight would have placed her in this category. More likely it was “Nick,” who, by the evidence of the very existence of the tapes, must have helped “Offred” to escape. The way in which he was able to do this marks him as a member of the shadowy Mayday underground, which was not identical with the Underground Femaleroad but had connections with it. The latter was purely a rescue operation, the former quasi-military. A number of Mayday operatives are known to have infiltrated the Gileadean power structure at the highest levels, and the placement of one of their members as chauffeur to Waterford would certainly have been a coup; a double coup, as “Nick” must have been at the same time a member of the Eyes, as such chauffeurs and personal servants often were. Waterford would, of course, have been aware of this, but as all high-level Commanders were automatically directors of the Eyes, he would not have paid a great deal of attention to it and would not have let it interfere with his infraction of what he considered to be minor rules. Like most early Gilead Commanders who were later purged, he considered his position to be above attack. The style of Middle Gilead was more cautious.

(...)

We can only deduce, also, the motivations for “Nick’s” engineering of her escape. We can assume that once her companion Ofglen’s association with Mayday had been discovered, he himself was in some jeopardy, for as he well knew, as a member of the Eyes, Offred herself was certain to be interrogated. The penalties for unauthorized sexual activity with a Handmaid were severe, nor would his status as an Eye necessarily protect him. Gilead society was Byzantine in the extreme, and any transgression might be used against one by one’s undeclared enemies within the regime. He could, of course, have assassinated her himself, which might have been the wiser course, but the human heart remains a factor, and, as we know, both of them thought she might be pregnant by him. What male of the Gilead period could resist the possibility of fatherhood, so redolent of status, so highly prized? Instead, he called in a rescue team of Eyes, who may or may not have been authentic but in any case were under his orders. In doing so he may well have brought about his own downfall. This too we shall never know.

THE TESTAMENTS

CHAPTER 22

“My other parents. My real ones. Who were they? Are they dead too?”

“I’ll make more coffee,” said Ada. She got up and went into the kitchen.

“They’re still alive,” said Elijah. “Or they were yesterday.”

I stared at him. I wondered if he was lying, but why would he have done that? If he’d wanted to make things up, he could have made up better things.

“I don’t believe any of this,” I said. “I don’t know why you’re even saying it.”

Ada came back into the room with a mug of coffee and said did anyone else want one, help yourself, and maybe I should have some time to myself to think things over.

Think what over? What was there to think? My parents had been murdered, but they weren’t my real parents, and a different set of parents had appeared in their place.

“What things?” I said. “I don’t know enough to think anything.”

“What would you like to know?” said Elijah in a kind but tired voice.

“How did it happen?” I said. “Where are my real…my other mother and father?”

“Do you know much about Gilead?” Elijah asked.

“Of course. I watch the news. We took it in school,” I said sullenly. “I went to that protest march.” Right then I wanted Gilead to evaporate and leave us all alone.

“That’s where you were born,” he said. “In Gilead.”

“You’re joking,” I said.

“You were smuggled out by your mother and Mayday. They’d risked their lives. Gilead made a big fuss about it; they wanted you back. They said your so-called legal parents had the right to claim you. Mayday hid you; there were a lot of people looking for you, plus a media blitz.”

“Like Baby Nicole,” I said. “I wrote an essay about her at school.”

Elijah looked down at the floor again. Then he looked straight at me. “You are Baby Nicole.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I thought about that, sitting in the dark among the plumbing supplies. “So where is she now? My mother?”

“Sealed document,” said Ada. “The less people who know that, the better.”

“She just walked off and left me?”

“She was up to her neck in it,” said Ada. “You’re lucky you’re alive. She’s lucky too, they’ve tried to kill her twice that we know of. They’ve never forgotten how she outsmarted them about Baby Nicole.”

“What about my father?”

“Same story. He’s so deep underground he needs a breathing tube.”

“I guess she doesn’t remember me,” I said dolefully. “She doesn’t give a fuck.”

“Nobody is any authority on the fucks other people give,” said Ada. “She stayed away from you for your own good. She didn’t want to put you at risk.

But she’s kept up with you as much as she could, under the circumstances.”

THE THIRTEENTH SYMPOSIUM

 I will conclude with one more fascinating piece of the puzzle.

The group of slides I am about to show you portrays a statue located at present on the Boston Common. Its provenance suggests it is not from the Gilead period: the name of the sculptor corresponds to that of an artist who was active in Montreal some decades after the collapse of Gilead, and the statue must have been transferred to its present position some years after the post-Gilead chaos and subsequent Restoration of the United States of America.

The inscription would appear to name the principal actors cited in our materials. If this is so, our two young messengers must indeed have lived not only to tell their tale but also to be reunited with their mother and their respective fathers, and to have children and grandchildren of their own.

I myself take this inscription to be a convincing testament to the authenticity of our two witness transcripts.

(...)

Here is the inscription. The lettering is weathered and difficult to read on the slide, so I took the liberty of transcribing it on the following slide, here.

And on this last note I will close.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF BECKA, AUNT IMMORTELLE

THIS MEMORIAL WAS ERECTED BY HER SISTERS AGNES AND NICOLE AND THEIR MOTHER, THEIR TWO FATHERS, THEIR CHILDREN AND THEIR GRANDCHILDREN.

AND IN RECOGNITION OF THE INVALUABLE SERVICES PROVIDED BY A.L.

A BIRD OF THE AIR SHALL CARRY THE VOICE, AND THAT WHICH HATH WINGS SHALL TELL THE MATTER.

LOVE IS AS STRONG AS DEATH.

All excerpts are taken from The Handmaid’s Tale and The Testaments by Margaret Atwood. These texts are the copyrighted property of the author and publisher. This compilation is shared for educational, archival, and commentary purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

[redtsundere-writes]

Date 7. Skydiving

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Soldier!Reader

Beginning. 🡨 Previous | Next 🡪

Summary: You just want to help Ghost to stop harming himself… These aren't dates, okay?

TW: MDNI. +18.

Warnings & Tags.

Three days later…

“Rise and shine, wankers! Wake up now, I'm not going to repeat myself! I'm not your mommy to wake you up with kisses, get up now!” Price kicked open the dormitory door.

The bang of the door against the concrete wall was enough to wake everyone, but Price liked to put on a show. The soldiers woke up with a collective groan. You blinked a few times, getting used to the light coming from the hallway. You checked the watch on your wrist. It was barely 4 a.m.

You threw off the covers and jumped out of your bunk to line up next to Ghost, your now supervisor and official bunkmate. Soap and Gaz also lined up, reluctantly having been woken up two hours before their normal wake-up time. When Price turned on the light, almost everyone reacted by being nearly blinded by the spontaneous white light. The captain paced around the room, making sure everyone was awake and paying attention.

“We have urgent work to do! Get ready and head to the briefing room to receive orders! Do you understand me?!”

“Yes, sir!” Everyone answered in unison.

"You have 10 minutes!"

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦

After eight minutes, you followed Ghost, Soap, and Gaz into the briefing room. Ghost glanced at you wearing the Task Force uniform for the first time, making sure you didn’t notice. From the black jacket to the multi-pocketed cargo pants, everything looked good on you, even the ridiculous beanie you wore to cover the pixie cut you end up with to fix your hair from the inauguration ritual that made you stand out from everyone else.

"You look good, cutie!" Soap greeted you with a smile.

"Good morning, MacTavish," you greeted him, ignoring the compliment.

"Why so formal? I told you you can call me Soap." He wrapped his arm around your shoulders in a friendly hug. "You must have a callsign too. What is it?"

"I'd rather not..."

"It's Boomerang," Ghost answered for you.

"Boomerang? Are you Australian or what?" Gaz joked.

"Boomerang doesn’t fit you, we should get you another one," Soap suggested.

"What do you have in mind?" You asked out of pure curiosity to see what he would come up with.

"What do you think of 'Boom'?" 

"Why 'Boom'?" Gaz raised an eyebrow.

"Because you're... BOOM! DYNAMITE, BABY! BOOM!" Soap exclaimed.

"Hey, Boomerang is a really good nickname," Gaz commented, completely ignoring his partner’s suggestion.

"It's original." Ghost nodded.

"Yeah, call me Boomerang," you asked, playing along.

"Boom is not that bad!" Soap complained.

Everyone quickly gathered around Price in the briefing room. To your surprise, Laswell was on the screen behind the captain. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and a few other took seats around the table, while you stood behind your supervisor with the rest to listen to the briefing for this new mission, your first with Task Force 141.

"A week ago, an SAS team discovered that a clothing factory in Romania was hiding a large human trafficking operation, and they invade it this morning at 0500 hours before the workers could arrive at work," Price explained, showing a satellite image and an interior map of the entire factory. "But they discovered it wasn't just a human trafficking operation; it had become the headquarters for illegal military weapons transactions. Security at the factory was drastically increased, and the SAS team was kidnapped almost immediately."

"Shit..." Gaz sighed.

"This is an extremely urgent rescue mission, and it could be linked to Makarov," Laswell commented.

"Since this is an emergency mission, and these men could die at any moment, we'll arrive by plane and land around the factory to corner the guards from the outside in." Price explained the rest of the plan using the information Laswell had gathered so far. "Any questions?"

You didn't hesitate to raise your hand. Price let you speak.

"Who's Makarov?"

"A son of a bitch," Soap muttered.

"He's the leader of an international terrorist cell and our biggest target in the last five years." Laswell explained. 

"Anyone else?" Price asked, a little annoyed that they were wasting time explaining something so basic. Faced with the silence, he spoke again. "Get your weapons ready. See you at the airport in 20." 

Everyone left the room. Ghost went straight to the door, but looked back when he noticed you go to the screen to talk to Laswell for a second.

"Lieutenant Russ, how are you?" Laswell smiled, her expression lines expanding.

"Good, I'm getting used to it."

"I think this place will suit you well. I don't know a better team than this one," she assured you.

"Thank you for the opportunity. I must leave before I get scolded."

You said goodbye to Laswell with a formal salute before following Ghost toward the armory.

"How do you know Laswell?" Ghost inquired as they followed the rest of the team.

"She was the aunt of a member of my old SEAL team. She offered me the position at his funeral." You answered.

"Did he die in battle?"

"We couldn't even make it to the battle," you sighed.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦

Task Force 141 was already prepared to begin a new rescue mission and find out if this had anything to do with their biggest nemesis, Makarov. Shaking with excitement and a thirst for revenge, everyone got ready. As one of the shortest soldiers, you were assigned to sniper duty. You took an unarmed sniper rifle, two sidearms, and a pair of knives along with the rest of your tactical gear.

Ghost strode towards the plane, with you following close behind like a duckling. He really hoped you wouldn't cause him any trouble on this mission. He didn't want to, nor did he have the time to, take care of anyone. You both boarded the plane with the rest of the team and donned the parachute that was over their seats with similar precision and speed.

They sat together while they waited for the rest of the team to board. Ghost was already used to this dynamic; it was familiar to him. But he quickly noticed something off. Ever since you sat down, you hadn't stopped bouncing your leg. A clear sign of anxiety, that wasn't good. Ghost placed his hand on your thigh, stopping you immediately.

"What's wrong?"

You weren't sure if you should confess what was going through your mind. Your little secret could cost you your spot on the team, since you were still on probation. But you had to tell him. You leaned close to his ear to whisper, "I'm afraid of airplanes."

Ghost raised an eyebrow. "How the hell were you a SEAL if you're afraid of flying?"

"When you almost die because a missile hits your plane, you start to see them differently."

"When was this?" Ghost inquired.

"Eight months ago. Laswell's nephew died, I relapsed into alcohol, and I tried to commit suicide while I was in the hospital. That's why they kicked me out of the SEALs." You confessed.

Ghost really had no words for the casual trauma dumping. He never knew what to say in these kinds of situations. He could slit someone's throat with a single slash, but it felt like his throat was being slit just when he needed to say something kind to someone vulnerable.

Price was the last to board, and as soon as he boarded, the hatch closed behind him. The infrared light turned on, and the plane proceed to move. Even though Ghost's hand was still on your thigh, you still bounced your leg. You closed your eyes as the plane took off, clinging to your imagination of being in a peaceful place to survive the three-hour ride.

Ghost watched you out of the corner of his eye. You looked really uncomfortable, but did your best not to show it. You had the guts to go back to work when you knew full well your weaknesses, having more balls than most veterans. Ghost couldn't stand seeing you like this. He took off his glove and removed two silver rings he had to make his punches more lethal. 

"Want to see a trick?"

That was enough to get your attention, and you'd stop moving your leg. Ghost placed the ring vertically over his index and middle fingers. He lifted the ring by pushing it with his index finger and made it rotate over the middle finger so that it fell into the hollow of his middle and middle fingers. And so on, making the ring rotate between his fingers. The ring traveled between his knuckles fluidly like magic.

"How did you do that?" you asked, surprised.

"Want to try?" Ghost offered you the ring.

He showed you the steps as you were on your way to Romania. Soap looked at Ghost, filled with envy, wanting to sit next to you, while Gaz just mocked him. Price had lit a cigar, not caring if it went against aviation laws. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of Ghost patiently showing you the trick, avoiding screaming every time the ring fell from between your knuckles. He'd made a good decision by assigning him as your supervisor.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦

Finally, the Task Force 141 were flying over Romania, specifically a factory town. One of those places where a single factory is the economic power of an entire population. All the soldiers claimed they were fully equipped with parachute gear. The start of a new mission gave them goosebumps. They all lined up to the sides, so Price could lead the mighty pack. The hatch opened. The moment of truth finally arrived.

"Remember, get the workers and our allies out! This is a rescue mission!" Price commanded over the wild winds of the sky. "Ladies first!"

As soon as the captain laid eyes on you, a chill of anticipation ran down your spine. Ghost positioned himself in front of you to protect you the only way he knew how, surprising everyone, considering this was out of character for him. But you ended up passing him by on your way to the jump base.

"I'll be fine, I can’t wait to get out of the plane anyway." You patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"But your fear..." Ghost told you.

"I'm afraid of airplanes, not heights." You smiled at him before pulling down your beanie, which was actually a balaclava, and throwing yourself onto your back.

"Man, she didn't even think about it," Gaz said, impressed.

"Whatta a woman." Soap whistled.

You fell backwards, the plane leaving you behind. The clear sky welcomed you in its arms for a couple of seconds before turning around to focus on the area where you were supposed to land. This was a short-action mission. They had arrived early, and so would they leave. You were supposed to land near the factory, but you had a better idea. Would you go against Price's orders? Yes, but nothing mattered to you anymore. You had nothing to lose.

The entire team fell from the sky behind you. The vast majority were already used to it, but Price and Ghost were like fish in water. They soared through the air with skill and ease that Gaz envied. Ghost looked for you, but couldn't find you in the sea of men; he'd have to find you once they hit the ground.

If this was going to start quickly, you decided to land on the roof where two guards were standing, surprised to see a crowd of men flying overhead. They started shooting at you, but only managed to rip your parachute and uniform as you descended upon them. One of them spoke frantically into his walkie-talkie in Romanian, probably calling for backup. You pulled your gun from its holster behind your pants as soon as you were close enough and shot them both in the head after a couple of shots before landing safely on the roof.

"Okay, let's get started," you whispered to yourself, waiting for the rest of the traffickers.

Ghost landed behind a building next to the factory, close to Soap. Price and Gaz spread out across the area to cover all possible entrances to the supposed garment factory. Everyone readied their weapons to enter the factory at the same time, but Ghost was still looking for you.

"Report yourself, Boomerang. Over." Ghost spoke into the walkie-talkie as they made sure the door was open. There was no response. "Report yourself, Russ. Over." He waited for a response, then…

A gunshot cut through the silence.

"Who the fuck opened fire?!" Gaz barked into the walkie-talkie.

"It doesn't matter, just move! Now, now, now!" Price ordered.

The Task Force team entered the factory, which was packed with women working, clearly frightened by the commotion. These women had been kidnapped to be used as free labor. They all raised their hands in surrender and began to be led out of the factory by some soldiers while others covered their backs.

"Where's the SAS team?!" Ghost interrogated one of the women, and since she didn't know English, she simply pointed to some stairs leading to the second floor.

Ghost and Soap, along with a group of soldiers, went to the second floor, while Price, Gaz, and the others continued evacuating the women. Upon ascending, they encountered some traffickers, immediately opened fire, and continued ascending as if nothing had happened, walking among the bodies draping down the stairs. On the second floor, a group of traffickers were guarding the SAS team they had kidnapped that morning.

The traffickers didn't hesitate to open fire, but luckily, the Task Force team evaded them by hiding behind metal workbenches. Ghost killed two and Soap one. After a long firefight, confident they had eliminated the enemy, the entire team quickly went to free the hostages.

Everyone was so busy that they didn't notice that one of the dealers had hidden and was now standing behind Ghost. As he reloaded his gun, he turned to look the Romanian in the eye, aiming for his head.

"Fucking Brits," he muttered in an annoyed tone.

Ghost's hand quickly went to his gun, but he knew perfectly well he wouldn't have time to grab it, aim, and fire before the Romanian pulled the trigger. Ghost already felt the life slipping away from him...

Until someone shot the Romanian in the head.

When the body fell to the ground, it exposed that you were the one who had saved his ass.

"BOOM!" You smiled contentedly at having neutralized another casualty for your repertoire.

"YOU'RE DYNAMITE, BABE!" Soap exclaimed, thrilled that Ghost didn't end up with his brains mashed.

"Where the fuck were you?" Your supervisor scolded you.

"On the roof."

"Why the hell were you on the roof?! We were supposed to drop around the factory to cover all the entrances!"

"And who was going to cover the roof entrance?" You asked with a grin. "Besides, there were two guards on the roof. If I notified the rest, we were screwed."

"She has a good point," Soap tried to defend you.

"Shut up, MacTavish!" Ghost yelled at him.

"Look, yell at me all you want, but after you see what's on the third floor."

While the others were busy making sure the SAS team, and women were safe, you led Ghost and Soap to the third floor. The floor was covered with traffickers you had neutralized after the guard notified the others. Soap counted 10 bodies in total. This floor, like the others, was littered with workbenches and many stacked crates. They were all marked as bales of clothing, but behind the initial layer of clothing were military weapons like missiles and bombs, all from the American government.

"Does this mean anything to you?" you asked as Ghost reported the find to Laswell.

"These traffickers are probably connected to Makarov," Soap replied, eyeing the missile hidden among the clothing.

"Ah shit," you muttered.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦

The mission had been completed successfully. The Task Force and the SAS worked hand in hand to deactivate the missiles and load them onto trucks for confiscation. The women gave their testimonies to the various agents involved in the case to investigate the source of the military weapons. Ghost, Soap, and you met up with Gaz and Price as they left the factory.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Price questioned you angrily.

"What was me?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Price didn't hesitate and punched you right in the cheek, forcing you to turn your head, causing everyone to flinch from the phantom pain. He didn't give you time to compose yourself when the captain grabbed your shoulders tightly to prevent you from escaping.

"You went against my orders and you know it! I can kick you off the team just for this!" Price shook you, waking you up. 

"I know, I just did what I felt was necessary." You stammered, still trying to recover from the deafening blow.

"You're lucky everything worked out! If you disobey orders again, I swear I'll kick you back to the States! Understood?" Price scolded you.

"Yes, sir," you stammered.

You thought he'd push you away and leave you on your own like every captain you've had, but you didn't know Price. He pulled you closer and gave you a bear hug. Your body short-circuited, not expecting such a sudden gesture of affection.

"You're very brave, but we want you alive on this team," Price whispered in your ear.

You closed your eyes tightly and bit your lip to keep from crying. Something about that sentence made you crumble. I was used to cold, calculating captains who didn't get to know their soldiers in case they died. It was the first time a captain had said something as sweet and simple as, "We need you with us." That earned him your respect. You hugged Price back, and he smiled.

"Good work. Pack it up! Let's go home!"

Masterlist.

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Thanks for reading! <3

Taglist: @laduenadelswing @mangost33nlover @ninniesontheglass3 @hao-ming-8 @british-ppl-scare-me @ilovesoapandnotthebar @succulambb @eversxamp

(Let me know if you wanna be tagged for the next chapter!)

[frost-eyed-autumn]

His head tilts the faintest degree, and he has to think about her question a moment. Of course, given their very first meeting, he can only logically guess that she's still worried about that in particular.

But the simple matter of it is that he's not. The only times the seal keeping Arahabaki in check had been compromised was when Rimbaud first broke him out of that lab, and when Verlaine had tampered with it, using rather classified knowledge few people held (fewer, since Verlaine had killed N).

If she's realized in any capacity though how truly dangerous Arahabaki really was, even if she didn't have a proper framework of context to explain it in specifics, he's sure it must worry her to some degree.

Which is actually better that she is worried. Arahabaki is one flame she doesn't need to be playing around with.

It's just a matter of providing her assurance that she is perfectly safe around him, without making her think its safe to copy him again or reveal more than he wanted to.

"Like I said, I know everything about my own Ability. It's perfectly safe in my hands. You really think the Boss'd keep me around and put me in charge of so much if I was that kind of liability?"

He thinks that's a safe enough answer, and he thinks she's sharp enough to realize just what sort of power the Port Mafia held, if its five sprawling towers that could be seen from every corner of town no matter where you went wasn't statement enough. On the flip side of that, it meant that Mori had a lot to lose if things just... blew up.

"Don't worry about it. Everything about my Ability is perfectly in-check. The only clearing out you'd need to do is if I tell you to myself."

Which again, he thinks is both telling enough and vague enough to be a safe answer, because sure, he could be talking about Corruption, but he could just as well mean stay out of my way with his regular Ability, which most of the people he works with know that if he says stay out of the way, things are going to start flying and breaking, and he only needs Gravity in its normal state to accomplish most of that.

What she says does tip him off just a tiny bit more to her background. Another puzzle piece slotted neatly into place. Notably, not some kind of orphan or slum kid like he had been. A family that hires help, so probably not poor. Arguably, from all he's learned so far, probably on the well-to-do side.

But he's still weighing the scales of information that's been traded back and forth, and how much to push for more and just let her give in her own time. Considering pushing had gone a little less than 'well' last time, he was making a point to back off on it for the time being.

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒, 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄, 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍 realizes a few things about Nakahara Chuuya all at once. The first is that he really does have more restraint than she gives him credit for, because if she were him, she'd be petty about the bastard for hours to come. The second is that he has very little grasp on actual psychological warfare against others. The third, and most amusing, is that he's decidedly more pure-hearted (in comparison to what one might expect) than she'd imagined. It makes her mouth twitch with a slightly disbelieving smile, but she doesn't say anything about it, simply tucks the information into the back of her mind for a later time.

She knows she's going to get some good mileage out of it.

Honestly, even if Chuuya's clueless though, it's probably for the best to sit like this- that way, in case anything no one else needs to hear is said, it doesn't need to be said too loudly.

Neo sips her drink again, and listens, watching Chuuya with a flicker of too-intense curiosity. At his refusal of a drink of his own, she only shrugs- and wonders if Chuuya doesn't handle his alcohol well. He'd refused her before too- though understandably so then, given they'd been... 'negotiating'.

'Technically, for as far back as I remember' is an interesting way to answer. Which means that before then... he's not sure. Semblances can activate at strange times, so abilities being spontaneous wouldn't be surprising. However, they're not, according to him, so the fact that he'd only started using his own so late- again, just what in the world is that thing Chuuya's hiding?

Neo isn't stupid- or she doesn't think she is- she knows he's careful about the answers she gets because whatever it is, it's serious. From what little she'd felt of the pull on her copy, even 'serious' might be a complete understatement. From what else he's told her- all that stuff about Singularities and the like- it's along those veins, but she thinks if it were just that, then he would have said as much when he told her about those.

However, she's making an educated guess as she takes her scroll back to type something else, crossed ankles swinging slightly.

No, that's not what I mean. In the event something goes wrong, I'm assuming there's something in place? I don't expect you to tell me, I just want to know how far out of dodge to get if it happens.

Then, because she feels it's only fair, she adds:

I've had my Semblance since I was a kid. Though I only used to use it to piss off my parents.

And to get away with sneaking out, but that more or less fell under the same umbrella, really.

Hard to keep your kid locked in the house when she can turn into any of the help and escape.

[hyuugasmary]

Risk

☕︎ summary: Izzy’s kiss was all it took to awaken the deepest parts of my feelings—and my doubts.

☕︎ warnings: angst, just a lit bit, fluffy!!

notes: I appreciated your response to my last story so much, I wanted to bring you something warm this time! English isn’t my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.

☕︎ ......

I don't even understand the feeling that grips me, it's so intense, my chest pounds, butterflies in my stomach, breathless...

Izzy has never been so close; we haven't had many opportunities to be together, but even so, we remain distant in our few encounters.

I was staring into his eyes until now, brown, observing the childlike sparkle he had, but my eyeball calmly descended as he continued to approach.

His beautiful cheeks are rosy, his jaw slightly clenched, he's nervous, I noticed, he clenches his jaw like that when he's nervous, I noted in my mind (and in a diary too) on our five dates. His cute nose is very red from the cold, his whole face trembles slightly with the winds that shake the region, he's so adorable, damn it!

My fingertips tremble, longing to caress the soft skin of his delicate face. Izzy is so beautiful, he looks a lot like a porcelain doll, so I would have to touch his skin simply and carefully, afraid of breaking him.

Very dramatic.

His lips let out a long sigh that blew warm air onto mine, drawing my eyes to that seductive, full mouth, slightly parted and seemingly soft.

My mind is a mess. I wanted to walk away and run far away from there, but I also wanted to get closer and...

And......

And what?

Damn, Duff was right when he told me I was screwed for agreeing to go out with Izzy, that I would end up in a mental mess.

His scent... reminds me of something from the Sunset store, but there's something special about it, something unique to him... His extremely inviting minty breath, perhaps.

I feel an extreme urge to smoke a cigarette right now. I'm nervous, very nervous.

I've been facing Izzy for so long. What is this?

I feel an extreme urge to walk away right now. I'm nervous, very nervous.

Suddenly, his big, beautiful hand reaches around my neck and grabs my hair.

I feel an extreme urge to kiss him now!

Damn it, Izzy!

Tilting my neck slightly and turning my gaze to his eyes, still fixed on mine, I feel that he wants the same thing, my body trembles even more, air rushes in and out of my lungs, I feel like crying, but I put my hand on the seat, gripping it tightly, holding back my feelings, supporting myself and finally lifting my body a little to touch my lips to his.

My eyes close slowly, just as slowly as the electric touch between us begins. His lips, although a little dry from the cold, are exactly as soft and comforting as I imagined they would be.

Just as I imagined they would be...

We get ready, and let them touch each other completely, and with extreme ease, our mouths fit together.

My shoulders shrug with the tingle that the sensation causes me, a shiver down my spine, my heart racing, and I begin to forget the park around us, my attention is all on Izzy's hand and her fingers caressing my hair while her fingernail strokes my scalp. I want to permanently record this moment in my head, fix it, remember it even when I'm old.

His other hand moved up from his legs to mine, wandering over my knee and starting to move up the side of my thigh, and wow, my stomach churns, I feel like curling up.

I feel so many things.

His hands are extremely experienced; they seem to have touched me before and know where to go; they cause a pleasant shiver in every corner they pass. His left hand leaves my hair and descends beautifully to my neck, jaw, and soon caresses below my chin.

His lips part, slowly, as if waiting for me to process the action, and I follow him, parting my lips too, letting him slip his tongue into our kiss.

Damn, I'm kissing Izzy Stradlin!

Our mouths move slowly, getting to know each other, getting in sync, his tongue as soft as his lips and as experienced as his hands.

Are you sure we've never kissed before?

I was right, his breath is minty, and I can taste the cotton candy we ate earlier. It's strangely good, a unique sensation.

His hand slipped from my chin and was now on my cheek, while the other insisted on moving up and down my thigh, making my leg tremble completely. He guides the kiss, which starts so slowly, with our lips touching lightly and our tongues simply exploring each other. This changes suddenly when he puts more pressure on my mouth, making me grunt and stretch my hand to hold his shoulder tightly.

Izzy doesn't care as he continues to press and put force into the way his tongue moves inside my mouth, it warms my body, I feel hot all of a sudden, and the urge to take off my fur coat (fake, but no one needs to know) hits me suddenly.

A more intense kiss now, our mouths moving quickly, it seems like we are a couple who haven't kissed in years and need to make up for lost time, and the need to feel each other.

My body wants to adjust to the moment, and I pull my knee up, placing half of my leg on the bench, bent, allowing me to get closer to him and bringing my two hands to his neck, holding on tight.

Izzy, Izzy, Izzy. Your name is like a song in my head.

Damn, you're sooo hot.

I mumble internally as our tongues entwine deliciously and he begins to pull away to catch his breath, but pulls my lower lip with his tooth, making me frown at the good feeling.

When our lips lose contact, my body screams for being hot, my leg still trembles, and I mentally ask for them to come back to me.

I open my eyes slowly, gradually returning to the cold reality we are in, and looking again at Izzy's handsome face. He is panting, his cheeks are pinker, and his lips are extremely red, where a mischievous smile resides, but I don't know if it's mischievous, since his eyes are gracefully closed and his eyebrows are furrowed.

He's thinking something ironic.

I know he is.

- Don't you think it's too cliché for the guitarist and the vocalist of a band to be together?- he asked, suppressing a laugh, I noticed. We were still glued together, his hand still on my thigh and cheek, which slightly distracted me when I took a breath to answer.

- Cliché? We're not in the same band!- I tease.

He opens his eyes, those blessed bright, deep eyes that make me lose all sense, and stares at me, still with that smile on his lips.

- Yeah, judging by the fact that the vocalist and guitarist usually end up together, the only ones left are the bassist and drummer...

I think for a moment. - Are you saying that Rosie and Duff...- My voice comes out surprised, heavens, but I never noticed that... Rosie would tell me, right? After all, we share an apartment and have been best friends for a long time. And since when does Duff not go around shouting about his new crush? We've been friends since childhood, for goodness' sake.

Izzy's hearty laugh pulls me out of my initial insane and investigative thoughts about this supposed relationship and makes me look at his well-structured face, slightly tilted back, staring at the mole on his neck, and since my hands remain there, I gather my courage and slide my finger over it, feeling him shiver and turn his head back to its normal position. I smile at his reaction.

- That's not quite what I meant...- he whispers, - But it's a fact that they flirt with each other.-

Duff flirts playfully with everyone, I thought it would be no different with Rosie.

Or maybe I was too distracted to notice, staring at a certain charming guitarist.

Okay, I came to Los Angeles to study music in peace, away from my parents' orders, seeking independence and perhaps finding an opportunity to become a big star.

A little over a month before I came, I saw an ad in the newspaper for an apartment just a few minutes from campus; it was a girl looking for a roommate who would just help her with the bills and monthly shopping. It sounded great, I wouldn't spend much because I would split the bills and could walk to the university, and I would already have a friend in the city!

But not for my father, he thought it was some kind of bait for young girls made by old perverts who would sell pieces of my body or something. So to calm him down—and me, since I was feeling very paranoid—I called an old friend who had lived in LA for a while, Duff, and asked him to check out the situation for me, pretending to be interested in the apartment and seeing if it was a girl who lived there.

He agreed, went, and called me that night, speaking dangerously well of a certain Roseanne, saying that the apartment was beautiful and so was the owner, and that if I didn't stay there, he would go in my place. I laughed, of course, McKagan knows how to exaggerate; he was my neighbor, we went to school together, and he would turn anything small into a scandal; it was fun, and I missed it.

After I moved out, Duff visited the apartment a lot, and I'd say that many times it was more for her than for me. Because Roseanne would call Duff to help fix something, call Duff to keep her company while watching a movie when I wasn't available, call Duff for this and that...

Yeah, maybe I wasn't paying much attention.

After all, when he came up with the incredible idea of forming a band with two girls from Rosie's class, she insisted so much that I accept the idea because it was supposedly her childhood dream. Duff said we would be band brothers, and I saw Izzy for the first time... how could I pay attention to anything else?!

- Izzy?- I call her in a whisper.

- Hm?- he replies, as her finger slowly slides under my cheek, which, wow, again, gives me butterflies.

- I've never done this before, Izzy.

- What?- He raised his eyebrow and narrowed his eyes, looking a little more serious but not losing the playful essence of the smile that still lingered on his lips.

- Having a serious relationship with someone...- I let out a frustrated sigh that I didn't even know I was holding, his smile slowly disappears from his lips, his face taking on a confused expression. - I like you. I'm attracted to you. But it never happened, you know? I've hooked up with guys before, but I refused to have feelings for them the next day! I don't know how it is, like, it's different, because...

I'm silent when Izzy touches our lips together. I was talking frantically, really venting, something that had been keeping me awake for a few days...

Our quick kiss breaks with a smack, and before he can say anything, I start talking again as soon as I can catch my breath.

- I'm just saying, at least I know if you want something with me, Izzy. Rosie said you liked girls with attitude when she realized you were paying attention to me, and then I flirted with you and you flirted back, so I figured you wanted it...

- How many 'you's in one sentence,- he chuckles, - oh love, who wouldn't want you? A girl doubts her sexuality when she sees you.

- Izzy, I'm serious here.- I say with feigned irritation, he presses his lips together in another one of his smiles, which I affectionately call: "I want to screw up your life."

- But I am too! What crazy person wouldn't want you? Have you looked in the mirror?- My cheeks start to burn at his words. - I want this more than anything. I like you most sincerely, we've been playing this little flirting game for over a month, and I imagined what it would be like when I could finally get so close to you and taste your kiss.

- And how was it?- I ask, extremely embarrassed by your sweet words that touch my heart. And reciprocally, honestly, I thought about that moment many times, I imagined it, I created scenarios in my head, if I had known that we were both torturing ourselves like this, I would have done it sooner... - The kiss... how was it?

- Far beyond my expectations, your kiss triggered me, and now I'll need it every day at dawn and dusk. You take me to the stars, and if the world is against us and our relationship, let it be us against the world.

I swallow hard, desperately wanting a glass of water. Is this real? Am I dreaming? Did my garage band crush just make a declaration to me?

I want to cry, God, I think I'm going to faint.

- Izzy... - I swallow hard again, with his gaze fixed on mine, fear still making my body tremble - you just signed a contract with a record label for your band to release an album, this relationship could ruin everything!

- Guns N' Roses wasn't born to be just any band, oh please, Axl writes most of the songs for his girlfriend, it's obvious that no one here is going to hold back. The record label saw the songs and accepted them as they were. - He took his hand off my thigh, and I immediately missed it, but in a perfect gesture, he grabbed my wrist and removed one of my hands clinging to his neck, holding and intertwining our fingers under my leg on the bench. His gaze is so intense that I'm scared. - Fear prevents you from living, darling.

Izzy exudes a divine inspiration. I'm starting to think he's an angel. It's not possible! His gaze on me seems concerned, and inside my mind, I feel like he's reading each of my insecurities and countering them without knowing it. Man, how is that possible? I suddenly feel brave, and he didn't even give a super speech.

But is he wrong?

Rosie never related much to anyone. I found out she liked Duff when he was almost eating a girl out on a bar table, and she looked sick. I demanded an explanation; otherwise, I would think he had serious problems with sex.

She is too passionate, and the few boyfriends she has had in her life seem to have left their mark on her, since the lyrics of her songs touch the soul.

Besides, our band isn't just any band. Four girls playing rock music isn't common, not impossible, but not common. I love the way the four of us together make good music and convey much more than fragile femininity. Without fear. I take risks all the time... Why would it be any different now?

- Izzy, fuck it!- He seemed surprised by my sudden outburst, my heart racing with adrenaline. - Let's just be us, I swear I want this as much or more than you do, I want to wake up next to you to give you a good morning kiss and sleep next to you to give you a good night kiss, I want to give myself to you completely, I want to risk everything, put it to the test, I'm going to take a chance! Izzy! Do you want to sleep and wake up with me?

Once again, I just spit out the words, venting and running out of breath, my heart beating so hard that I think it's going to jump out of my chest. I proposed without thinking, just expressing what I was feeling, what I had wanted to say for a long time.

Your silence scares me, and I start to blame myself for being so impulsive, but your little laugh makes me sigh. Why isn't he always so smiley?

- I'll take the risk, Miss, I accept being yours! I accept that we share the bed.

He replies calmly before pulling my body close and sealing our lips again in a sweet and loving kiss that expresses all our feelings right now.

I don't know what comes next, how it will be, but I don't care much. My anxiety isn't bothering me right now, creating a thousand scenarios where Izzy breaks my heart and I get sad before it's time.

Or a scenario where my parents, or his, don't accept the relationship and are prejudiced against the future we want...

I'm going to take a chance on this relationship. I rarely do anything by letting it happen, but Izzy is a river, not a sea. His waters are calm and his current is gentle. He mesmerizes me.

[raspberrylovc]

FIX-IT KISSES

warnings :: mentions of injury and hate crime (i think)

—

IT’S ALWAYS supposed to be ‘just a quick run’. that’s what travis says every time he pulls his mask over that perpetually annoyed face of his. “just a few blocks. i won’t be long.” and every time, without fail, he drags himself back to your apartment looking like he picked a fight with a dumpster and lost.

tonight’s no different. you hear him before you see him — a muffled, frustrated groan as the window breaks open, followed by a thud as he gracelessly tumbles inside. he’s half out of the suit already, peeling it down to his waist with jerky, annoyed movements. the only thing he hadn’t taken off yet was his mask. and even then, he already looked like hell.

and it wasn’t long before he’d put on his sleep clothes, which was annoying since you’d seen a few cuts that you’d have to clean later.

“you’re late.” you say, not looking away from the tv.

“didn’t know i was on a schedule.” he grumbles, kicking off his boots like they personally offended him. he limps. you knew he’d come back limping.

you sigh, patting the spot next to you. “get over here, loser.”

you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, arms folded, now watching him peel off his mask and fail spectacularly at hiding his grimace. his hair’s a mess, his lip’s split, there’s a bruise forming on his cheekbone, and his knuckles are scoffed to hell. he looks at you out of the corner of his eye like he’s waiting for a lecture.

“you good?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’m fine.” he mutters, but the wince he makes when he moves says otherwise. “it’s not that bad. You should’ve seen the other guys.”

“i’m sure they’re real proud of you.” you roll your eyes and grab the first aid kit from the coffee table. “c’mere.”

he huffs but obeys, turning so you can dab at the cut on his lip. he flinches, hissing through his teeth. you’re trying to be gentle. he’s making it hard with all the squirming.

“i swear to god, martinez.” you mutter, narrowing your eyes as he leans away. “stop moving.”

“they threw hot dogs at me.” he continues, voice pitched somewhere between exasperation and pure dramatics. “who does that? who carries extra hot dogs just to throw them at spider-Man?”

“travis.” you try, but he’s still going.

“and you know what? you didn’t even answer my text. i almost died, and you left me on read. do you even love me? probably not. that’s fine. i’ll just bleed out dramatically on your carpet.”

he flops face-first onto your bed with a groan. you’re half-annoyed, half-grinning as you straddle his back and yank his hoodie up to reveal a shallow graze on his side. he hisses.

“see? dying. told you.”

“drama queen.” you mutter, cleaning the wound with gentle fingers despite his squirming. he’s insufferable when he’s like this — whiny, restless, convinced the universe is conspiring against him. and maybe it is. but you’re not about to let him spiral for another hour.

“i’m being serious.” he groans into your blanket. “i’m- ow, that’s cold! -i’m in critical condition.”

“travis. shut up.” you annoyedly let out. he shuts up, but only for about five seconds.

then the complaining starts up again, mumbled and breathless as you tend to the bruises on his back. “you know, you don’t have to do this every time. i’m totally capable of handling it myself.”

he’s being extra grumpy, squirming under your touch, muttering under his breath about how this is “just part of the job” and “i don’t even care about this scratch, why are you making such a big deal-“

you’ve had enough.

without a word, you lean down, pressing your lips to the nape of his neck — soft, lingering, purposeful.

he stops talking.

you feel his breath hitch beneath you, his whole body freezing, like his brain’s buffering. another kiss. this time to his shoulder. a little slower. his fingers clench in your sheets.

he blinks, like he forgot how words work. then he clears his throat, trying to play it cool.

“…that was rude.” he mutters, voice raspier now, but he’s smiling. just a little. he flips onto his back to get a better look at you.

“so is complaining.” you tease, kissing along his jaw this time, noting how his eyes flutter shut.

he mumbles something that might’ve been “worth it.” but it’s too soft to catch. you press a final kiss to the corner of his lips, and that’s what breaks him.

“i’m still mad.” he says, except it comes out embarrassingly soft. his hands find your waist, clumsy, unsure if he’s allowed to hold you when he’s pretending to be mad. “you can’t fix me with- with this. i’m immune.”

“you’re really not.” you murmur, pulling back just to see how flushed his face is now. his scowl is still there, but it’s weak, like it’s hanging on by a thread.

you don’t give him time to rebuild it. you kiss him. fully this time. and he melts.

it’s always like this. the city kicks his ass, and he drags himself back here, grumbling, venting, acting like the world’s against him — but the second you’re close, the second you give him attention, travis turns into the softest, neediest version of himself. like he’s been waiting all night for you to shut him up.

when you break the kiss, he’s breathless, blinking up at you like he’s forgotten what his original complaint even was.

“still mad?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

he grumbles something that sounds like “maybe”, but the way his hands pull you down for another kiss tells you everything you need to know.

—

A/N

hey…. funny seeing you here…

i have a request to fulfill before disappearing again

creds for the idea — @boopieluvsyou @travsnat (my goats)

[pico-farad]

What decks would GX characters play in each era of the TCG?

niche nerd content don't look at me

⇀ JUDAI / JADEN

Big City (2007)

A niche strategy at the time, I picked it because it's one of the only decks of this era that uses Elemental Heroes not named Stratos. Judai's cards... were not good. The deck uses Skyscraper 2 and Elemental Hero Ocean to swarm the board and recurse resources.

Deck Profile

Quickdraw Dandywarrior (2010)

Quickdraw Dandywarrior is one of THE most iconic decks of the 5Ds era, which is why I wanted Judai to show it off, even though Hero is still playable in the Synchro era.

Dandylion (which Judai created, along with the Neo-spacians) is a broken card once it leaves the GX era, and it's currently banned. Dandylion can easily be discarded or used for Synchro plays, which then generates tokens that can be used for more Synchro plays. Card Trooper, another of Judai's iconic non-Hero cards, is played to activate Dandylion off of milling.

Anyway, the only starshipping fic I'm ever writing is one where they pull off Quickdraw Dandywarrior in a tag duel.

Deck Profile

Electrum OTK (2013)

This strategy is jank as hell, but extremely fun and out-of-the-box. I think Judai would love it. It features Elemental Hero Electrum and Fusion Gate, which he used, and Chain Material, which is the card Yubel used to fuse the 12 dimensions.

Electrum is the fusion of Avian, Burstinatrix, Bubbleman, and Clayman, and is almost impossible to summon normally. But with the combination of Fusion Gate (which allows you to Fusion summon any number of times without Polymerization by banishing the materials), and Chain Material (which allows Fusion summons to be performed with materials from anywhere except the banished pile) suddenly you can summon any Fusion Monster as long as the materials are in your Deck.

What makes it all come together though is that Electrum's effect returns all banished cards back to the deck. That means you can keep on summoning Electrums, infinitely. And since Electrum is lvl. 10, it means you can keep Xyz summoning Gustav Max, which inflicts 2000 points of burn damage. Loop it four times, and you've OTKed your opponent.

Deck Profile | Deck List

Awesome HERO (2016)

This deck puts a different spin on Heroes, being focused on Xyz summoning out Toadally Awesome, a powerful negation piece, using Elemental Hero Bubbleman of all things because it's a Level 4 Water monster that can Special Summon itself. Combined with tools for summoning Masked Hero Dark Law, one of Judai's cards from the manga which banishes all cards that would be sent to the graveyard, it creates a game state where it's extremely hard for your opponent to do anything.

Deck Profile (at the bottom)

Invoked Shaddoll (2020)

Hero is the archetype that will never die and I could just put Omni Hero here, but I don't want this to just be a history of Hero in the meta... So here is a deck that combines two of the other most iconic Fusion decks in the game's history.

Look me in the eye and tell me that Judai wouldn't love to normal summon Aleister.

Invoked and Shaddoll both have dark monsters at their core (Judai having the power of Darkness), but their fusions are based off each of the six attributes (like the Elemental Heroes). It's also an infamous user of Super Polymerization.

Aleister is a protagonist of the Magistus lore who goes mad from power while summoning the Fusions from a different dimension (like Judai in season 3). The Shaddoll lore also reminds me of season 3 and Yubel, as their fusions are corrupted puppet versions of other cards.

Deck Profile

Modern HERO (now)

Some of you may be wondering why I didn't put Yubel here, since it was a very meta-relevant deck that even won Worlds. The answer is that I asked myself would Judai would be doing Fiendsmith combos and ending on 10 negates, or would he be pogging out in the rogue corner with a brick-filled Hero deck.

To be honest, I'm not a fan of what the Hero deck has become, but I can't deny the Rule of Hero Players which is that playing Heroes is automatically cool no matter what bullshit it spits out, and I think that pretty much encapsulates how Judai duels. The current version of the deck is full of cards printed as nods to him, and more than any other character's archetype, Judai's Elemental Heroes have stood the test of time and left their mark on the TCG.

Deck Profile

⇀ MANJOUME / CHAZZ

Perfect Circle Monarch (2007)

This deck was strong enough to get an entire format named after it. It centers around Light and Darkness Dragon, Manjoume's ace in the manga, using a variety of tools to special summon fodder, and the Monarch cards which are powerful tribute summons that benefit from the same toolbox. Zaborg the Thunder Monarch and Raiza the Storm Monarch both evoke Manjoume Thunder! It's also a $$$ deck. His rich ass owned the 2000 dollar Crush Card Virus.

Deck Profile

TeleDAD (2009)

This is one of the most infamous decks in Yugioh's history which completely dominated the field at the time. It uses the only Armed Dragon that was ever relevant -- Dark Armed Dragon. The deck was known not just for being almost unbeatable, but because it was a $$$ deck that made Yugioh pay-to-win, costing upwards of $2000 dollars for a children's card game in 2009. Very Manjoume Season 1 coded.

Deck List

Dragon Rulers (2013)

Like the previous two decks, I'm giving Dragon Rulers to Manjoume as another deck that was unquestionably the strongest of its time. Manjoume to me is the type to play meta decks just because they're the strongest... I'm saying is that I think he's a tier whore (that is until he turns into a rogue Ojama warrior)

Dragon Rulers are dragons obviously, which Manjoume uses a lot of -- his deck in the manga is just a dragon deck. The LV 3 baby dragons evolve into the proper LV 7 Dragon Rulers, much like how Manjoume's Armed Dragons evolve through LV Up (modern Armed Dragons are also always played with Dragon Rulers for their synergy).

I spotlighted Tempest because of storms -> Thunder. Mecha Phantom Beast Dracossack is the payoff of summoning your Dragon Rulers, and I think it's kind of XYZ Dragon Cannon-esque.

Deck Profile

ABC (2016)

Speaking of XYZ Dragon Cannon, ABC is the rehaul of them, three Union Machines which combine into ABC Dragon Buster. They also received crossover support with the Ojamas and Armed Dragons at the same time, but nobody actually played those lol.

Twin Twisters and Typhoon are both generic cards that help proc effects by destroying your own ABC equip monsters, but they're also thunderstorm-themed for Manjoume.

Deck Profile

Thunder Dragon (2020)

Manjoume Thunder!!! also hear me out....... I think this deck kind of plays like modern Ojama. It wants to generate hand advantage and discard its own cards (both often using a Danger! engine) to ultimately end on an annoying floodgate. It often makes use of chaos dragon strategies due to its light and dark monsters, which is similar to manga Manjoume's Light and Dark Dragons deck.

Deck Profile

Mystic Mine Burn (2021)

This is just very funny to me. Mystic Mine is an infamous card in Yugioh, one of the most hated cards of all time, that caused many people to straight up quit the game because it was so toxic and meta-warping. The Floodgate of Floodgates. Its effect reads that if your opponent controls more monsters than you, they can't activate monster effects, shutting down nearly every strategy in the game and then slowly burning you out with effect damage. The Ojama traps are perfect in this strategy, clogging up the board so Mine is always active while also burning for damage. Rage-inducing annoying gremlins as god intended.

What I'm saying is I think Manjoume's a toxic bitch <3

I have to include my honorable mention though, which is that I think Manjoume was 10000% playing Kashtira in 2023. Toxic zone-locking deck like Ojama King but it's meta and expensive and causes everyone to hate you. Also he has sweaty Kash player vibes. The Xyz cards are black and Shangri-Ira has 0 ATK which makes it an Ojama.

Deck Profile

⇀ RYOU / ZANE

Chimeratech OTK (2006)

Nowadays, a game of Yugioh ending in one turn is par for the course, but back then, these decks bore the suffix of OTK -- One Turn Kill. They were often highly specialized to take advantage of combos unforseen by the game's creators.

Ryou wasn't far off from performing the Chimeratech OTK in GX canon, as all of the critical cards belong to him. Future Fusion was meant to be a fair way to summon powerful Fusion monsters -- you can do so by sending the cards from your deck to the grave, but you have to wait three turns for the monster to be summoned. There's a loophole though. A card like Overload Fusion uses the graveyard for fusion materials, and Chimeratech Overdragon gains ATK and attacks based on the number of fusion materials.

That means that rather than having to wait 3 turns, you can use Future Fusion to send 12 machines to your grave, then immediately Overload Fusion into a Chimeratech with 12000 ATK that can attack 12 times. The strategy was nerfed quickly, but it would influence the design of Cyber Dragons permanently as a blistering going-second OTK deck.

Deck Profile | Deck List

Scrap Dragon (2011)

Scraps are an archetype of mechanical monsters, at the core of which are the bosses Scrap Dragon and Scrap Twin Dragon (echoes of Cyber Dragon and Cyber Twin Dragon).

If you read the deck guide below, the first line is: "For the self-destructive duelist, we've got the deck for you!" LMAO. ryou.....

This deck centers around destroying its own monsters, which reflects Ryou's transformation into Hell Kaiser and no longer caring about his cards. Thematically, powerful monsters arise from the resulting "scrap" or trash, which calls to mind Ryou's arc after hitting rock bottom in Season 2.

Deck Profile

Karakuri OTK (2013)

Solar Wind Jammer is a level 5 Light Machine that special summons itself if you control no monsters. Yeah, so that's Cyber Dragon. Cyber Saurus has nothing to do with the Cyber archetype, but coincidentally it's here to fulfill the same role as Solar Wind Jammer being a level 5 machine that's summoned off Instant Fusion in order to quickly make powerful Karakuri Synchros, which are all mechanical Shoguns, reflecting Ryou's title of Kaiser.

Deck Profile

Infernoid (2015)

Infernoid is an archetype of mechanical fiends based on vintage computer parts... In Japanese, the monsters are named after demons and the spell/traps are named Purgatory. Hell Kaiser, anyone? The main boss monster, Devyaty, even looks a lot like Cyber End Dragon imo.

The Infernoid strategy wants to fill up their own graveyard, similar to how Ryou uses the Cyberdarks in GX. Like how Ryou uses Power Wall to send half his deck to the grave, Infernoid players use cards like Monster Gate or Reasoning to try and send as much of their grave to the deck as they can, which reinforces the hell theme

Deck Profile

Orcust Cyber Dragon (2019)

Orcust is an archetype of Dark Machine monsters; like Infernoid and the Cyberdarks, they want to get sent to the graveyard. This is where their synergy with Cyber Dragon comes in, as Cyber Dragon Nachster will discard the Orcust cards from your hand to proc its effect, and after becoming Cyber Dragon on the field, you can use its new boardbreaking trick, Chimeratech Megafleet Dragon, to get rid of an opponent's Extra Deck monster.

Deck Profile

Tenpai (2024)

This deck is going-second OTK like you've never seen it before. If you've ever played against it, you've seen the shades of Chimeratech OTK there. Unga bunga 10 million attack point deck of serpentine dragons which turn into a two headed dragon which turns into a three-headed dragon, a la Cyber Dragon -> Cyber Twin Dragon -> Cyber End.

Deck Profile

⇀ SHOU / SYRUS

Machine Beat (2007)

Machines as a type got some of the most solid support and generally Good Cards during the GX era, and Machine Beatdown is this combination of those strong machine cards occasionally beefed up by Limiter Removal -- Cyber cards, Dekoichi the Battlechanted Locomotive (a train... vehicle...) and well, Drillroid is an okay card to deal with flip monsters. Sorry Shou, that's the best Vehicroid you have.

Deck Profile

Machina (2010)

Machina is an archetype of Machine-type monsters who are guys on wheels who sometimes turn into giant mechas. This is going to be a theme for Shou's decks. Also, you're just gonna have to trust me, but I think the vibe is similar to Vehicroids, with a more control-based playstyle and recursing resources.

Deck Profile

Geargia (2014)

Geargia is an archetype of Machine-type monsters who are guys on wheels who sometimes turn into giant mechas. They were very strong in 2014 and are also funny little guys like the Vehicroids :)

Deck Profile

Metalfoes (2017)

Realistically this deck would have Zoodiacs in it too but shhh.

Metalfoes are a Fusion-Pendulum archetype of guys who ride vehicles... which sometimes turn into mecha suits. Their Japanese name is a play on 'metal' and 'metamorphosis' which kind of calls to Shou's signature card in the manga, Transformation (which incidentally gives him a mecha suit)

Speedroids are an engine piece in this deck solely to make powerful Rank 3 Xyz (sorry Yugo), and I just think it's kind of funny how they technically share an archetype with Vehicroids. With a Qliphort engine on the other hand, you can make Cyber Dragon Infinity as a powerful negation piece.

Deck Profile

Trains (2021)

CHOO CHOO 🚂 let me take you for a ride <- shou

This deck, also known as Earth Machines, combines trains, Infinitrack (an archetype of heavy-duty vehicles), the aforementioned Machina, and rounds itself out with the best Earth Machines on offer. With strong Xyz boss monsters and heavy searching ability, it combines the card advantage strengths of the above decks with an ability to OTK, like his brother's decks.

Deck Profile

Rescue-ACE (2023)

WEE WOO WEE WOO 🚒 🚒 🚒 yeah obviously he plays Rescue-ACE come on. paw patrol-ass deck

Rescue-ACE is an archetype of mainly Machine-type mechas based on firefighter vehicles and equipment. Like the above decks, it's a control-based strategy that fits Shou's playstyle, taking advantage of strong Spells and Traps. Also it's often played with Diabellstar who's like Dark Magician Girl in 2023. Don't ask questions

Deck Profile

⇀ ASUKA / ALEXIS

Demise OTK (2007)

This is the first ritual deck that could be called good, it revolves around using Advanced Ritual Art to summon Demise using Normal Monsters, using Demise's effect to clear the whole field, and then using Swing of Memories (the card representing Fubuki and Asuka's bond) and other cards to revive the ritual fodder and wipe out the opponent in one turn.

Manju is a ritual support card based on Hindu/Buddhist mythology, a theme that runs through the Cyber Angel monsters too as many of them have the multiple arms going on (they're both Light Fairies as well)

Deck Profile | Deck List

Diva HERO (2011)

when synchros make rituals irrelevant :(

(they were always irrelevant)

There's not many pickings for Asuka in this era, but Diva Hero is a top tier deck with a sort of ice theme (which is what she used in the Society of Light and the manga), centering around Deep Sea Diva (which is part of an archetype of female performers like many of Asuka's dancer-themed cards).  And well, it's a Hero deck too. She and Judai worked on the deck together :) The deck uses the consistency of Hero cards plus Water-attributes like Deepsea Diva or Snowman Eater to fusion summon imo the first truly good Elemental Hero fusion -- Absolute Zero.

Deck Profile

Perfect Agents (2013)

Realistically the deck would have been without the rituals in this time period, but I wanted to spotlight Perfection here because it eventually becomes an integral part of Cyber Angels.

Heralds and Agents are both archetypes of Light Fairies like the Cyber Angels, being top tier at the end of 5Ds and start of Zexal. It has it all -- Rituals, Synchros, Xyz, and maindeck powerhouses like Archlord Kristya and Master Hyperion. The Agents are all named after planets, which feels akin to the planet series of cards in the GX manga, and look a little similar to Cyber Angels.

Deck Profile

Nekroz (2015)

Finally, it's time for rituals to shine. Nekroz is likely the GOAT of ritual decks, having the only honor of achieving Tier 0 status. Just like how Asuka in Arc-V builds her ritual deck to counter Fusions, Nekroz is made to dismantle Extra Deck strategies. Thematically, they're warriors that wear famous Extra Deck monsters as armor, such as Nekroz of Trishula and Brionac, which are both ice dragons (again, Asuka's ice theming). The non-Ritual monsters all have bonus effects on being Tributed, like the Cyber Angels. Dance Princess of the Nekroz also fits Asuka's dancer theme.

Deck Profile

Drytron (2020)

After 5 billion years they finally added the Cyber Angels to the game. And they're good :) um, well, benten is...

Drytron is a pretty ruthless archetype of Light Machine rituals that gains a lot of advantage via tributing. The Cyber Angels all get bonus effects from being tributed -- in particular, Cyber Angel Benten (one of Asuka's OG cards) can search any Light Fairy when it's tributed, including itself. Benten and other Light Fairies were eventually hit by the banlist because of the crazy things you could do via the combination of them, the Drytron cards, and the Herald cards I talked about earlier. Cyber Emergency is actually support for the Drytron side of the deck, not Cyber Angels, but the naming is a neat coincidence.

Deck Profile

Mikanko (2023)

Extremely Asuka-coded deck imo. They're rituals. The boss monsters are Light Fairies. Based on Japanese religion/mythology like the Cyber Angels. The Mikankos are dancers, and the equip spells they use are their dances. Their strategy is based on reflect damage (attack me and you get hurt) which is similar to how Asuka uses her signature card, Doble Passe.

Deck Profile

[hplonesomeart]

Puzzlevison screenshot redraw!! On paper!! With water color!! Wahoo!!

I don’t have much credible experience with coloring traditional art—usually just doodling or sketching in my spare time for fun. But I’ve wanted to try expanding the different mediums I use and letting myself learn from them. It’s a nice change of pace and allows me to take a step back from responsibilities. And I’ve needed an excuse to keep working in this sketchbook so here we are!! I think in the end of this I might’ve treated the watercolors too similar to acrylic paints lol. Ah oh well all part of the ✨learning experience ✨

Also here have some goofy work behind-the-scenes progress photos

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Forgive me, forgive me. I ask, I beg, I pray, but it never comes.

You know I find it incredibly bewildering to see just how much kalki reflects myself in him like YEAH Duh of course he does, he’s my little guy it’s like his full time job. But at the same time he is a fully functional facet of my being and he is at the mercy of my whimsies, and whatever he discovers in his arduous journey of self realisation is ultimately a reflection of what I discover in the real world. It’s also incredibly funny because ffxiv lore for dark knights is really baked into the idea of (re)discovering yourself amongst the bloodshed and continuing to live and love and thrive despite the world working against us. who would have thought such a raw message could come from an mmorpg side quest about edgy emo boys of all places

also adamantite armour of fending i would lay down my LIFE for u

variant + phone bg version + ID below the cut

tch as if you guys are actually going to use artwork of my little guy as your phone background. i know. how dumb. let a girl dream. i should make an alternate version but it's of Fray and Myste

[START ID: A picture with a red background focusing on the character's bust that is placed to the left of the image's centre. He is coloured with a dark blue overlay, contrasting with the red background. He has brown skin, long black hair that falls over his shoulders, and is wearing blue and gold armour and earrings. He is looking at the viewer, right eye dark brown and the left an glowing unnatural red, with an expression that looks determined and angry and yet bitter and forlorn. In the foreground and on the right side of the piece, a miniature version of the character stands coloured in a light blue overlay and wearing the same blue and gold armour, looking as if he is glowing. He is facing towards the left of the piece, or perhaps at the character bust, his expression unreadable. Above the miniature character's head is the symbol representing the FFXIV dark knight, coloured in gold. END ID.]

[rustedgate]

Idk I feel guilty for having responsibilities but still like. Prioritizing myself I guess? Like I can't let myself have fun if I'm in trouble

[lady-caden]

Tbh i think I'm aro/ace and maybe that's why relationships are so whatever for me and that's why I have a hard time telling between platonic vs romantic. Or at least I'm somewhere on the aro/ace spectrum

[33550336th]

Me feeling so grggrraaahhh because my regular in-home coworker who I don't vibe with ( but she doesn't like me and especially M... :| ) got me very anxious at work. When M prompted me a few times to get tacos for lunch that said coworker made for our own clients as us staffs are allowed to get, I just couldn't bring myself to do it in the same room as her before M noticed what was up with a small fond chuckle and got himself AND me tacos. :C