#like not serving any function. just to have

[magicalmatcha]

now playing ♪ i want you by mitski

"you're coming back, and it's the end of the world,

we're starting over and i love you darling"

cw: the usual, bad writing

Her proposal shocked him. Blue Salt was a pretentious restaurant for equally pretentious people. A place where everything was plated like art and the waiters judged you with their eyes alone.

And that’s what Yn wasn’t. Pretentious.

She never liked places like this. Thought they were a waste of money and time, said she didn’t trust food that came in “drizzles” instead of servings.

But there she was.

Sitting alone at a window table in her pale blue nurses scrubs, her badge flipped backwards, her hair in that style that pushed it out of her face that she often wore to clinicals. A cup of tea sat in front of her, untouched. She looked exhausted. Not fragile, but stretched thin. The kind of tired that lives in the bones, not the skin.

She didn’t look up when he approached. Just stared out the window like she hadn’t changed locations in the past ten minutes. Like maybe if she kept still enough, he wouldn’t come at all.

Megumi hesitated. Then pulled the chair out across from her.

“You look good,” he said carefully.

She didn’t flinch. Just blinked, slowly. “I don’t.���

“No, you do. You look, grown.”

That earned him a scoff. “Right. Like a real adult. A functioning member of society.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She finally met his eyes. And god, that was worse.

Because they were the same eyes that used to look at him like he hung the moon, only now they looked through him. Like he was a passing thought she wasn’t sure deserved remembering.

“I figured you’d ghost the whole thing,” she said, voice flat. “Didn’t seem like your style to show up for hard conversations.”

“Yn.” His voice was quiet. “You could’ve told me.”

“And you could’ve come back when you said you would.”

The waiter came over, annoyingly chipper, like he hadn’t walked into the middle of a potential emotional crime scene.

“Are we ready to order?”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Just a coffee. Black.” He needed the waiter gone more than he needed caffeine.

Yn, however, leaned back in her chair with the faintest flicker of a smile. Not a happy one, no, it was something far more dangerous.

“I’ll have the saffron scallops with the truffle foam,” she said sweetly, handing the menu back. “And the house rosé. The one that’s imported.”

The waiter beamed. “Excellent choice."

As he walked away, Megumi turned to her slowly, eyebrows raised. “You hate scallops."

“I hate a lot of things,” she replied, still looking out the window. “But I love a free meal.”

Megumi gave a dry laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That why you picked Blue Salt?”

“I picked Blue Salt,” she said, finally meeting his gaze, “because I wanted to feel expensive. Because I knew you’d pay. And because this was never going to be a comfortable conversation, so I figured I might as well be uncomfortable with high thread count napkins.”

He looked at her like she was a stranger. And maybe she was. Five years was enough time for a person to become unrecognizable.

“Do you really hate me that much?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said, just as quiet. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t know what version of you I’m talking to.”

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

“You want answers? Fine. But don’t expect me to make this easy. You left me with nothing. I gave birth to a person. I had to hold her and name her and raise her, and you—” she laughed, but it was sharp, tired, nothing like humor “you were busy posting Spotify links on your story.”

Megumi’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

“No. It’s not. But neither was any of it.”

She picked up her water, taking a slow sip, letting the weight of her words settle. Letting him sit in the silence.

“You know I was embarrassed at one point?” she said, almost idly.

Megumi’s head snapped up. “Embarrassed?”

“You hadn’t blown up yet. You weren’t even buzzing.” Her tone was calm, but each word landed like a slap. “What were you averaging back then? 1,000 streams per song? Maybe less? And it didn't seem like you were getting anymore popular. I sat in that apartment with a newborn on my chest, thinking, Damn. I got left for a career at that could have easily been left on SoundCloud .”

She laughed then, low and bitter. “I was the girl who got abandoned for a dream that couldn’t even buy studio time.”

Megumi swallowed hard. He didn’t try to interrupt.

She tilted her head. “And then 2023 rolled around and you had your good year. Unfortunately. So the shame didn’t get to last long.”

There was no venom in her voice, just exhaustion. Like she’d already lived this moment a thousand times in her head and now that it was here, it felt smaller than it should.

He didn’t know what to say. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t done.

“I struggled, you know?” Her voice was steadier than she expected it to be. “If anyone shouldn’t have been a mother, it was me. The teenage addict whose mom died choking on her own bitterness, and whose dad—” her voice faltered.

She let the silence carry that weight for a beat before continuing, softer now.

“How was that girl ever going to raise a kid? By herself no less. Was she even stable enough to take care of herself? Everyone thought I’d fall apart. Hell, I thought I would too. But then I looked at her, and I figured… if I could get sober, I could do anything. If I could claw my way out of that spiral, I could prove everyone wrong.”

Megumi stared at her, guilt blooming in his chest like something rotting.

“I’m not asking for a medal,” Yn said, her eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down her glass. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll cry into your coffee and call yourself the villain. I’m just saying, I built something from the mess you left behind. And it wasn’t easy.”

She finally looked at him.

“I didn’t need you then. And I sure as hell don’t need you now.”

Megumi swallowed hard. Her words hit with the weight of truth, not laced with venom, not performed for pity. Just honest. Just her.

But he wasn’t ready to let it end like that.

“I know you didn’t need me,” he said, his voice low. “You were always stronger than you gave yourself credit for. I just wish I hadn’t realized that so late.”

Yn gave a dry smile. “Yeah. You and everybody else.”

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he added, almost to himself. “Even when things got good. Especially then.”

She scoffed, pushing her plate slightly away. “You know what’s funny? There was a time I needed to hear that. I would’ve given anything for you to say that to me. I would’ve collapsed into you.” She looked up again, and this time her eyes were clear. Detached. “But that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.”

Megumi gulped. “Does she— what does she think about her fath— about me?”

Yn shrugged, lifting her glass. “She thinks fathers are a false societal construct designed to keep women from filing taxes as single heads of household.”

Megumi’s eyes widened. “Why would she think that?”

“Because that’s what I told her.” Yn quirked an eyebrow, tone dry.

His jaw dropped slightly, and she could almost see him trying to process whether she was joking.

“She’s four, Fushiguro,” Yn added. “She also thinks her penguin plush has a credit score and that Maki invented pop tarts. Love her but she's gullible as hell."

He let out a disbelieving huff. “So she doesn’t… ask about me?”

“Not really,” Yn said, voice cooler now. “Kids don’t miss what they’ve never been given. I never sat her down and said, ‘Here’s what’s missing from your life.’ Why would I? She’s surrounded by people who love her. That’s enough.”

Yn traced the rim of her glass slowly, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down its side. “Sometimes she comes back from nursery school and asks why her friends have dads and she doesn’t,” she said calmly. “But it’s not grief. It’s just curiosity.”

She looked up, voice steady. “She’s never felt the absence. Just noticed the difference.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “So you just told her I wasn't even real? That’s the story you told her?”

“What would you have preferred?” she snapped. “That I tell a four-year-old that her father left and never came back? That he made promises he didn’t keep? That he gave me a specific date and let it pass like it meant nothing? That he blocked me for no reason after promising he'd love me for as long as he lived?"

He dropped his eyes. She continued.

“You told me you’d come back. You said May 23rd like it was a vow. And I waited, Megumi. For weeks. Months. Even after you blocked me, convinced you would come back. I was eighteen and pregnant, going to classes and living off cup noodles and pity, and I still waited.” Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for letting it.

He looked up then, and there was something awful in his face. Remorse. Grief. Shame. The whole cocktail.

“I wanted to,” he said. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to. Gojo—”

“Gojo didn’t carry your child,” she cut in. “Gojo didn’t bleed for three days straight on the floor of a one-bedroom apartment. Gojo didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. because the baby wouldn’t stop screaming.”

Megumi said nothing.

She leaned back, folding her arms. “You got your big break. You got your fame. That’s great. I hope you think about me every time you win an award.”

“I do,” he said, and there was no bravado in it. Just quiet devastation. “I thought about you when I wrote every song. Especially the ones I didn’t let anyone hear.”

Yn blinked, not expecting that. Not knowing what to do with it.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him. Really looked at him.

There were flecks of the boy she once loved still there, hidden beneath sharper cheekbones, under the exhaustion pooling beneath his eyes. He looked weathered. The type of tired that went beyond missed sleep. And in some twisted way, that made her angrier. Because he had no right to look like he’d suffered.

“You thought about me?” she repeated, her voice quiet. “What do you want, Megumi? Redemption? Closure?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t forget you.”

“You did.” She tilted her head, expression unreadable. “You just remembered too late.”

Silence bloomed between them, heavier than anything they’d said.

“Yn,” he started again, voice rough, “I don’t want to rewrite the past. I know I can’t. But I’m here now. And if you’d let me, if there’s even the smallest chance, I want to be a part of her life. Of yours.”

He paused, something cracking in his tone. “I’m her father. I’ve already missed four years, I can’t miss another one.”

Yn’s face didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened.

“You’re about to go on tour,” she said flatly. “You say you want to be a present father, and maybe you even mean it, but let’s be honest. That’ll last what? Two weeks? Then you’re gone for months. Then you come back. Long enough to smile for a few photos, maybe learn her new favorite color, until it’s time to disappear again and start another album.”

"You can't be present like you want to Fushiguro because being present means giving up everything you worked on which means all those years? Were for nothing."

“You want to be her father?” she said, eyes sharp. “That’s noble. But being her father isn’t a title, Megumi. It’s consistency. It’s being there when she throws up at 2 a.m., when she can’t find her favorite socks, when she’s scared of the dark for no reason and only wants me. That’s what it means.”

“I can try,” he said, almost breathless. “Even if I’m not perfect—”

“You’ll fail,” she interrupted flatly. “You’ll miss a birthday or a ballet recital or she’ll have a nightmare and cry because you haven’t called in two weeks. And you’ll feel bad, and say sorry, and you’ll write a song about it. And I’ll be the one sitting on the floor with her, picking up the pieces.”

Her voice didn’t waver. It was too tired to.

“Because that’s what I’ve always done.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to find something to say that wouldn’t sound like another promise he couldn’t keep.

“I don’t want to make it worse.” His voice was low. “I just… I want to try. Even if it’s messy. Even if I’m late. I want her to know I’m not a ghost.”

“You were,” Yn whispered. “For four years, you were nothing but a ghost.”

Megumi opened his mouth, but she raised a hand to stop him.

“You can’t be what you’re asking to be, Megumi. Not unless you give up everything you worked for. And if you do that, then what were the last four years for?” She leaned forward slightly. “All that sacrifice. All that distance. All that silence. For what? To become a mediocre dad with a Spotify plaque and a suitcase?”

Her words weren’t cruel. They were clinical. Precise. Like she’d rehearsed them in her head a thousand times.

“You can’t be two things at once. You can’t belong to the world and to her. So figure out who you’re showing up for.”

She stood from the table, readying herself to leave. "And if you chose it's her? She gets home from daycare at 6pm."

He showed up at 5:50.

Overeager? Possibly. But in his defense, he was given nothing to work with. He knew she was a four-year-old girl named Yume. That was about the extent of it.

What did four-year-olds even like nowadays? He had no clue. He’d dragged Nobara out of bed and into a toy store at 8 a.m. like his life depended on it.

Now he stood in front of the apartment door with a pale pink gift bag dangling from his wrist, stuffed with a glittery sticker book, a bunny-themed coloring set, a fuzzy blanket shaped like a cat, and, Nobara’s idea, a tiara that lit up and played a horrible tinkly version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star when you tapped the heart in the center.

In his other hand was a plastic tub the size of his ego, filled with pastel-colored candy floss that screamed cavities. He was almost certain Yn was going to banish it on sight.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Re-checked the time.

5:52 p.m.

He debated knocking. Debated waiting in the hallway like a weirdo until the clock hit six exactly. But before he could make a decision, the door creaked open on its own. Not wide, just a crack, like it had been left slightly ajar.

He took it as a sign.

Tentative, he stepped forward, knocking gently on the open wood. “Uh… hello?”

The smell of food hit him first, ginger, garlic, maybe salmon, and then the sound of soft humming. A familiar voice, not directed at him. A child’s laugh followed it.

“Mamaaa, I can’t find Tax Fraud’s crown!”

“You took it off her head, baby, now retrace your steps.”

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

The laughter faded as Yn appeared from around the corner, still in her pale blue scrubs, hair pushed back the same way it had been at lunch. She blinked when she saw him, less surprised, more resigned.

“You’re early,” she said, tone flat.

“You said six.”

“And it’s not six.”

He held up the gift bag helplessly. “I brought offerings.”

Her eyes flicked to the bag. Then to the tub of candy floss.

She sighed. “You’re insane if you think I’m letting her eat that.”

“Knew it,” he muttered under his breath.

She stepped aside. “Shoes off."

He obeyed without question, slipping out of his sneakers.

The sound of a cartoon show flooded his ears and he followed it.

The living room was warm and dimly lit, with the soft glow of late afternoon sun pushing through the curtains. The cartoon played on low volume, a pink, sparkly mess of dancing cats, or maybe singing puppies, he couldn’t really tell.

Yume was on the floor, perched on a throw pillow like it was a throne, legs criss-crossed and socks mismatched. Her penguin plush, Tax Fraud, wore a beaded necklace and a bandage sticker on its head. A glittery crown lay abandoned next to a coloring book that had clearly already been half-filled in.

She didn’t notice him at first.

He hovered awkwardly by the entrance to the room, unsure if he should speak or wait to be invited. He was already intruding. He didn’t want to spook her.

“Yume,” Yn called calmly from behind him, “we have company.”

The little girl looked up then.

Her big eyes blinked at him, curious but unafraid. The TV blared some indecipherable high-pitched jingle in the background, but she muted it with a click of the remote, already displaying better manners than he had at her age.

“You’re the singer,” she said, standing up slowly, her grip on Tax Fraud unwavering.

He nodded. “I am.”

She tilted her head. “You came to our house.”

“I did.”

Her gaze drifted to the gift bag in his hand, then the candy floss. But she didn’t grab for it. Didn’t even step closer. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at Yn.

“What's he holding?”

“Ask him,” Yn said, from the kitchen. “It’s his gift.”

Megumi crouched down, holding the bag out carefully. “It’s for you. Thought maybe you and your penguin could use some new supplies.”

She took the bag gently, almost reverently, peeking inside. Her lips parted in a small gasp.

“I love cats,” she whispered, pulling out the blanket. “And sparkles. And pink.”

“I guessed,” he said.

She looked up at him again. “Thank you, Mister Megumi.”

He smiled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

She turned and trotted off toward the couch, already pulling the sticker book from the bag with practiced glee. Tax Fraud was tucked carefully beside her, his crown now replaced on his head.

Megumi stood slowly, watching her settle in.

“Hey,” Yn said quietly beside him. He turned.

She nodded at the candy floss. “Kitchen counter. If I see it near her toothbrush, I'll rip out your vocal cords. Let's see you try to go on tour then.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender and moved to drop it off. As he set it down, Yuuta emerged from the hallway, giving him a mock salute.

“You survived,” he said under his breath.

“Barely.”

From the couch, Yume called, “You can sit here, Mister Megumi! Tax Fraud says you can share his throw pillow!”

Megumi looked at Yn, who shrugged. “She named it, not me.”

He walked over and lowered himself onto the pillow beside her.

He had no idea what he was doing.

But she leaned against his side like it was nothing, like it was normal, and Tax Fraud gave him a very solemn nod of approval.

Yume had already spread the blanket over her lap, carefully flattening the corners like it was something precious. She peeled a glittery sticker from the new book and stuck it, without hesitation, right on Tax Fraud’s belly.

“Mister Megumi,” she said, peeking up at him with a grin. “Did you know penguins don’t have knees?”

He blinked. “I… didn’t, actually.”

She nodded solemnly. “That’s why he walks funny.”

Megumi bit back a laugh, but the smile came anyway, real this time. “Makes sense.”

From the kitchen, Yn called, “Yume, dinner in ten. You want to go wash up?”

“Okay!” Yume leapt up, the tiara lighting up obnoxiously with every bounce as she scampered toward the bathroom, her penguin tucked under one arm.

Megumi followed her with his eyes. Then, almost to himself, he whispered,

“She’s perfect.”

From across the room, Yn didn’t look back.

“I know.”

extra! extra! read all about it! (no seriously read it)

yume named her penguin tax fraud after maki almost got arrested for it

yn is hating every second of this

maki hid in her room because she really doesn't want to give that $855 back

not proofread and i actually really hate this chapter

< back | next >

Send an ask to be added to the taglist! Also my inbox is always open, TWRY related asks are under 🎤— this won't reach you!

taglist: @shokosbunny @aestheticallyvini @princesa14 @frickpickle @stark-head @lauuriiiz @verisette @chaoticducky @bakarinnie @saltypuffin1040 @w31rd0s7mblur @amberpanda99 @emvss @karvokr @matcha-kitty13 @love-me-satoru @ivydoesit23 @idexmids @oscars-wifeyyy @1l-ynn @oreotunes @2ukika @kunikuzushisbeloved @julieannah @celestialm1nd @crimsonhallucinations @seashellelel @s6rine @bubblegumcat229 @luvrs-isle @goonforgeto @hawkwithsocks @hannagcherry @d4rlinxs @lorikuma @flamey-comet @cassywasy @d4rlinxs @maeviees @agzio180 @loverofannabeth @knkzshx @idknunsadly @poopooindamouf @maeviees @nanamisbitch @l1v1ngzomb1e @aquaberrydolphin @itsagoodluckkiss @arrozyfrijoles23 @megumisluciouslashes @reverrieee @fushigurq

[loveyouprongs]

bringing up baby part 5

remus lupin x whimsical fem!reader | Buttoned-up grad student Remus Lupin has the rare chance to work under one of the top scholars in the country. But his carefully laid plans keep getting derailed by the scholar's free-spirited whirlwind of a daughter who seems determined to unravel both his plans and his sanity.

upcoming content: fluff, alcohol mention, food mention, minor fire

authors note: part 5 baby!!! i really tried to take it back to the beginning with their dynamic! this was so much fun to write!!! i hope you all love it :")

word count: 3.6k

series masterlist | masterlist

tagging (pls send me an ask to be added or taken off): @wrenisrad @daydreamandforget @jamesweather @oldhollywoodniall @sillygirlantics @shipwreckedlor @slutfortheblog @rulesareshadesofgrey @lettertovera @knew-better-forever-girl-three @siriusement @detmarmalade @turnmeintoaflower @soulshaped @lilians17 @rhettsluvr

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Sirius let out a low whistle from the living room, not even having to look back to know that Remus was scurrying around their kitchen like a man on the brink of collapse.

“How’s it going, Rem?” James asked overly enthusiastically, and it reminded Remus of how his primary school teacher would talk to him when he would present a craft that was just a mess of glue and ripped up construction paper.

Remus looked up at him, hands on his hips, which only smeared more tomato sauce onto his trousers. It had already splattered across his shirt while he was stirring, and when he’d tried switching to the blender, the lid popped off and sprayed sauce everywhere. He panicked and tried to cover the top with his hands, which only left the sauce coating his arms and dripping down to his elbows.

Egg and breadcrumbs were stuck in his hair from when he’d dragged his hands through it in a fit of frustration, completely forgetting they were still coated in gunk. And the final straw was when the oil in the frying pan snapped with a hiss and spit directly into his eyes.

“How’s it going? Pretty bad, Prongs! Pretty bad!”

“Don’t say that!”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, “Mate, look at him!”

“Alright, that’s it-”

“Don’t listen to Sirius,” James began, “i-it’s not as bad as you think it is!”

Any other time Remus would’ve appreciated his friend’s never ending support, but considering the fact that you were supposed to arrive for dinner in less than an hour and there was no food he wasn’t exactly in the mood.

“Oh, shut up!” Remus groaned, tossing the spoon into the sink with a loud clatter.

“The plan was to impress her. You know, look like a functioning adult who can cook a nice meal and use an oven! I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face and smearing sauce across his cheek.

Sirius wandered into the kitchen, arms crossed as he looked down into the surrendered pot. “Was this the egg thing or the pasta thing?”

“Yes,” Remus deadpanned.

Sirius gave it a slow stir, then quickly pulled back. “Alright, yeah, that’s- don’t serve that.”

Remus sighed. “I should just cancel.”

“No, you are not bailing,” James said firmly, steering him away from the stove before he could injure himself further. “You’re just overwhelmed. You always get like this when you care.”

“Which is funny,” Sirius added, “because you clearly do. Like, a lot.”

“Out. Both of you,” Remus snapped, pointing to the living room. “You’re not helping.”

“On the contrary,” Sirius said, already backing away with a grin, “I personally think we’re doing great.”

“Just ignore, Pads, he’s being annoying,”

“Oi!”

“and just clean up and start again, yeah? Come on Remus, you know how to make pasta. Just try one more time.”

Remus took a look at the sauce-covered blender, the trail of breadcrumbs across the counter, the smoking pan, and the slightly crooked stack of plates he’d meant to set. The whole scene seemed beyond repair.

And his defeat must have shown on his face because Sirius sighed and rested his hand on his friend’s back. “Listen Moons, think about who you’re seeing, yeah?”

“What do you mean by that?” Remus asked, a tad too defensive. He was less careful with hiding how he felt about you these days.

“I mean, do you really think she’s going to care about any of this? You could go put on your Gandalf costume and she wouldn’t care-”

“I don’t still have that.” Remus said, stiffly and both James and Remus gave him matching looks that they weren’t buying it.

“Yes you do. But, she wouldn’t care, hell, she’d probably prefer it, yeah? She’s fun like that!”

“Exactly Rem, you’ve finally got what you wanted, just have fun with it, okay?” James added.

“Yeah,” he sighed, and then again, with less doom and more determination, “yeah, yeah, you’re right. She’ll be here soon. And that’s enough.”

Sirius grinned. “That’s the spirit! Now go wash your face, and you have to change your clothes, you look like a butcher just back from the slaughter, dear GOD!”

“Alright, just get out!”

“Let us know when we can come back, if at all,” James quipped as he put on his jacket, waggling his eyebrows.

“Bye!”

Remus stepped out of the shower, freshly scrubbed and finally free of tomato splatter, breadcrumbs, and shame. A clean pair of trousers and a soft jumper were laid out for him on the couch, and the ingredients he hadn’t ruined were now neatly lined up on the kitchen counter, like little soldiers ready for round two.

He’d just begun to chop the tomatoes when there was a rhythmic knock on his front door.

Remus froze. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. On the dot.

“This can’t be happening.”

He scrambled, hopping on one foot as he yanked on his jumper and fumbled to pull up his slacks. “Um! One second!” he called out, voice slightly strangled as he tripped over his own trainers on the floor.

“Remmy! It’s me!” You sang through the door.

“I- I know, love, I’m, oh damnit,” he swore under his breath, trying to not fall flat on his face as his long legs got tangled in his pants.

His hair was still damp and sticking up at odd angles, but he made it to the door in one piece.

He swung it open, slightly out of breath.

And there you were.

Remus looked down at you as the hall light tinged you in an orange glow. You donned a faded orange flowy dress, decorated in lavender stalks. A long necklace trailed between your torso, golden charms of shamrocks, berries, and stars hung off it. You looked like a comet that dropped from the sky and right there on his doorstep.

He blinked at you, a little dazed. “You’re early,” he said, though it wasn’t true. You were right on time. He was just very, very not ready.

You tilted your head with a smile, taking in the man before you. His sweater looked so soft you wanted to forgo dinner all together and just rest your head on his chest, and his sandy hair fell just before his rich eyes, and his neck was flushed from his soft, panthing breaths.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Me? Yes! Yes, totally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Please, come in! Sorry.”

You giggled lightly, biting your lip at how nervous he was. Even though these past two weeks had been filled with the two of you kissing in corners, and whispering jokes and stories to each other over the phone late at night, he still reminded you of the first time you met, and how you thought you couldn’t wait to ruin him.

You walked past him, slipping off your shoes and taking in the scene with bright eyes. The apartment was tidy enough, candles flickering on the coffee table, the stack of plates now somewhat centered—but the dining table was bare, and there was a conspicuous lack of food.

Your eyes landed on the counter, where ingredients sat untouched beside a suspiciously shiny blender that looked like it had recently been hosed down.

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Nothing’s cooking yet?”

Remus ran a hand through his still-damp hair, only making it worse. “Right, about that—”

You gasped.

“What, what, what?” Remus asked, panicked.

“Oh my god! Are we going to cook together!”

Remus hesitated. “Is… is that something that sounds fun to y-”

“YES!” You exclaimed, cutting him off and throwing your arms around him.

An oomf escaped him as your bodies collided. “Well then, good thing that was my plan all along, isn’t it.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Let’s get started, shall we?”

You clapped your hands and Remus swore he saw your shoulders vibrate a little.

“Remus, this is adorable!”

He blinked again. “It is?”

“Obviously,” you said, already heading toward the kitchen and rolling up your sleeves. “You get to show off your domestic skills and I get to boss you around. It’s perfect.”

Remus laughed, a wave of happiness all day washing over him for the first time all day. “My domestic skills?”

“Well yeah! I have to see how much your dowry should be. Cooking is worth at least ten goats!.”

“Ten?” Remus repeated, reaching for a chopping board. “That’s steep.”

“Well, I’d say five for personality alone, but you haven’t even chopped an onion yet.”

“I’m being bartered for livestock and you haven’t even seen my knife skills,” he said, sliding her a look.

“Go on then, show me,” you challenged, nudging the onion toward him.

Remus smirked and began to peel. “You know,” he said as he worked, “in some medieval Welsh traditions, dowries included things like wool cloaks and cows, not goats.”

“Wool cloaks? That’s so strange! Like, here’s my child and also a cape.”

Remus laughed, and decided not to comment on the fact that you were so excited about cooking with him, yet now you sat on the counter, a glass of fizzy strawberry wine in your hand. “Essentially, yes. The cloaks were a sign of status. And cows, obviously, meant wealth. Milk, meat, land labor and the like.”

“That’s so interesting that you know that, Remmy. What else?” You asked, popping a cube of cheese in your mouth. Watching him move around his kitchen, 

Remus brightened, clearly thrilled by the interest. “Well, it depended on the region, but there were all sorts of specifics. Like, in some cases, the number of cows a woman brought into the marriage could determine how much legal say she had in household disputes. And the cloaks—those weren’t just practical, they were dyed specific colors to represent family status. Deep blue was especially prized, because the dye was expensive to make.”

“Wow,” you said, genuinely. “So she’d walk in like, ‘I brought you my finest cow and also I’m wearing blue, so you better listen to me’?”

He laughed. “In a way, yes. Oh! And there was something called the amber, stir this for me, love? A kind of fee paid to the lord when a woman married. It was meant to symbolize her transition from one household to another, but in practice it was basically just a tax.”

You nodded, stirring the sauce absentmindedly. “Fascinating. Do you think anyone ever said no to the girl but kept the cow?”

Remus blinked. “What?”

“I’m just saying, if she brought a really nice cow—like top-tier, shiny coat, good attitude—I feel like someone might’ve gone, ‘No thank you to the marriage, but I’ll be keeping the cow.”

“Wh—no, that’s—what are you talking about?”

“I’m just curious about the logistics. Would there be a court for that? Like ‘Your Honor, I already emotionally bonded with the cow. I named her. She knows my scent!”

Remus dropped the spoon on the counter. “I’m trying to tell you about medieval economics and you’re running off with some custody battle over a cow!”

You beamed. “You love it, Mr. Lupin”

He narrowed his eyes at you, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but now you’re picturing the cow in a little witness box, aren’t you?”

Remus shook his head, reaching for the pasta. “Absolutely not. And she’s wearing blue, too, isn’t she?”

You gasped. “You are picturing it!”

He sighed through a grin. “We are never getting through this dinner.”

Before he could say anything else, you hopped down from the counter, your bare feet making a soft sound against the tile as you stepped toward him, tilting your head like you were studying something behind his eyes.

“I don’t really care if we do,” you said airily, blinking up at him. “Your eyes look like tea left out in the sun. Did you know that?”

Remus blinked, ignoring your question. “What? What do you mean you don’t care? We’ve already started cooking! I planned this!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, he got hung up so easily. 

You reached out and ran your fingers lightly over the edge of his sleeve, grounding him and also entirely ungrounding him. “I mean, I’d still be happy even if all we had was… I don’t know, burnt toast or something.” How much longer would you two have to talk before he kissed you?!

Remus stared at you like you’d spoken in Parseltongue. “Why would we have burnt toast?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“I made a whole menu!”

You smiled, stepping a little closer. “And I think you’re lovely. With or without your timeline.”

Remus let out a breath that hitched somewhere halfway between exasperation and surrender. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” you said sweetly, “I’m trying to kiss you.”

“Oh,” he breathed, very intelligently. “Well. In that case—”

And you were finally kissing again, smiling against his mouth as he pulled you in with more confidence this time. Your hands wound into his shirt and his fingers found the small of your back, gripping you in a way that made electricity shoot up your legs.

Lost in each other, and Remus growing rapidly fond of the honey lipgloss you wore, neither of you noticed the slow creep of smoke of the dish towel beginning to curl on the burner.

Remus leaned into you, his hips slowly pushing yours against the counter, with all the intention of pushing you back atop it, his mind clear of anything else but your warm body under his. His hands fumbled at your waist—warm, careful—before one reached out to steady himself on the counter behind you.

Clink.

His fingers knocked into the half-full bottle of white wine, sending it teetering, then tipping.

You both barely had time to react before it spilled, the liquid splashing across the burner where the dishtowel had already begun to smoke.

WHOOSH.

A sudden rush of flame flared to life, licking up the side of the stovetop and devouring the corner of the towel in seconds.

“Shit-!” Remus jumped back.

“Oh my god!” you gasped, scrambling for the dishcloth, but it was already half blackened.

“No, don’t touch it!” He grabbed a nearby pot lid and tried to smother the flame. It only made the fire sputter angrily, then grow.

“Why is it doing that?!”

“I don’t know!” Remus yelled, waving a wooden spoon helplessly.

Remus darted for the nearest pan, fumbling to get it under the tap.

But the second his fingers wrapped around the metal handle, 

“Shit!” he yelped, yanking his hand back like it had stung him. Which, to be fair, it had.

Right then, the smoke detector let out a piercing shriek overhead. From outside the door, a rising murmur began, footsteps, voices, the slam of a door. Then another. Then another. The boys’ building was quite small, only 30 flats or so, so the smoke quickly alerted everyone.

“Remus…” you said carefully, watching the smoke coil toward the ceiling. “I think we have to go.”

He whipped around to face you, a little wild-eyed. “Just wait- wait, one second-!”

Before you could argue, he bolted into the hallway, nearly tripping, as he disappeared around the corner. You stood frozen, blinking against the sting in your eyes and nose, until he reappeared, clutching a bright red fire extinguisher.

With a hiss and a pathetic wheeze, the flames gave up. The pan was scorched, the towel was history, and the alcohol bottle had rolled somewhere under the fridge—but the kitchen was, technically, no longer on fire.

You stared.

Remus coughed once, setting the extinguisher on the ground with a wheeze of his own.

“Alright,” he said, blinking through the fog. “Crisis managed.”

But the alarm was still blaring overhead, and out the window, you heard the low, ominous wail of a fire truck approaching.

You gave him a flat look. “Remus.”

“I know,” he groaned. “We still have to evacuate.”

He reached for your hand without thinking, lacing your fingers together as the two of you made your way toward the door. The hall outside was already filled with neighbors filing out, most of them in pajamas, one in a towel, and someone else carrying what looked like a fish tank.

“Lovely,” Remus muttered.

You studied the side of his face as he led you both down the stairs and through his neighbors. The carefree smile that had graced his face all evening had now morphed into a disgruntled frown, his eyebrows furrowed harshly and his shoulders drooped. Your heart ached in your chest, having gotten so used to loved-up Remus, who would giggle when your fingers trailed under his shirt, just above his waistband. You hated seeing him so put out.

When you stepped outside, blinking in the flashing red lights, the usual crew was already gathered—Mrs. Ellison from 3A with her twin chihuahuas, the very stressed man from 1C holding two laptops and a half-eaten bowl of cereal, and a mom with her son who was crying his eyes out over clearly being woken up. 

Remus stared at everyone, his face looking like a puppy that’s just been kicked. And that just wouldn’t do.

“Come on, Rem!” you said, tugging gently on his hand.

He blinked as you guided him away from the cluster of blinking lights and confused neighbors and over to the brick wall lining the front of the building. You dropped down first, tugging him down beside you, and he followed with a tired sigh, knees folding up as he leaned back against the cool stone.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead at the firetruck with a dazed look on his face, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t still part of some stress dream.

Then he let out a long breath. “I’m so sorry.”

You turned to him, frowning. “What? Why?”

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “This was a disaster. I wanted tonight to be nice.” His arms rested on his knees, his eyes focused on the dirty sidewalk.

“It was nice!”

Remus snorted, but it was a quiet, sad sound. “You deserved better than this.”

You shifted to face him more fully, your knee knocking gently against his. “Hey. Look at me.”

He hesitated before opening his eyes.

“I had fun,” you said simply, voice soft but certain. “You opened the door looking like you just survived a food fight. We made a mess, you gave me a very passionate speech about Celtic cattle cloaks, we almost died kissing! Do you know how romantic that is?”

Remus gave a choked laugh.

“And, I haven’t stopped smiling since I got here. I like you, Remus.”

His eyes searched your face for a long moment. And then, finally, that sweet, lopsided smile returned.

“You like me even though I set things on fire?”

“I especially like you because you set things on fire!”

That earned a real laugh, one that shook his shoulders and softened every sharp line on his face. He leaned his head against yours and squeezed your hand.

“You’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” he murmured.

Before you could respond, a loud, “REMUS!” echoed from down the block.

You both turned to see James sprinting toward you, hair flying, eyes wild.

“Oh no,” Remus muttered.

“REMUS ARE YOU OKAY!?” James shouted again, skidding to his knees dramatically in front of him and throwing his arms around his shoulders. “I swear to God, if you died, I would never forgive you!”

“I’m fine, James, bloody hell,” Remus groaned, patting him stiffly on the back. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” James sniffled. “You scared me! What happened?”

Sirius strolled up a few moments later, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the flashing lights behind you. “You okay, doll?” he asked you casually, like this was any ordinary evening.

You grinned. “I’m great! Who knew Rem was such a bad boy?”

“Ha! You’re responsible for this, Moony? No fucking way.”

“It was just a kitchen fire. And we put it out before the fire truck got here.”

“With what? The fire extinguisher?” James asked, still breathing heavily.

“Of course,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Good! Good! And you didn’t have any trouble with it like last time?”

“Prongs!” Remus hissed under his breath.

“What happened last time?” You asked.

“Nothing-” Remus started.

“I made us all practice using it during one of our roommate meetings, and Remus had the nozzle facing himself by accident,” James said, cupping Remus’ head.

Remus just buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

“I’ve been so scared ever since!”

“James,” Sirius winced, this was getting too embarrassing for Remus, even for him.

“But look at how he held his own!!” James cried, shaking Remus by the shoulders.

“He had a lot to drink at the pub,” Sirius added dryly.

James threw his hands up. “Let’s go back! All four of us!”

You jumped up, “I would love that! Remus and I still haven’t had dinner!”

“This is perfect!” James grinned. “I can get more Sangrias!”

Sirius turned, already walking. “If we’re not ordering cheesy chips, I’m not coming.”

The four of you began heading down the street, still lit red from the lights behind you.

“I never thought our first date would be a pub dinner,” Remus murmured beside you, leaning in close enough that your arms brushed.

You looked up at him with a mischievous smile, “Let’s make a scene there too!”

<- part four

[flawlessflesh]

i've always felt constrained and confused by fandom where everything is shipping focused - it is difficult to find meta or works which aren't filtered through the lens of inevitable romance. i have more success with characters who don't have easy/widely-appealing Shipping Prospects, such as thistle or like, a fromsoft character with 10 lines who then dies LOL

i don't know if it's my irl indifference leeching through, but romance is not any more interesting or important than other relationships. because romance is not particularly notable in my worldview, i am alienated by fandom's focus on shipping and true love, and i am irritated when it feels like people are only capable of interpreting my work through it.

i understand shipping as a shorthand. i've tried in the past to fit my interests into it, but it just felt like people were misunderstanding me because of a '/' between two names, and like i was mimicking behavior i observed rather than felt. i think it's a matter of intent. i am interested in stories which explore romance/sex (some of my favorite movies/books do!), but i am rarely interested in Shipping as a function of fandom. maybe it's because of how characters are placed into well-used templates to serve the ship? or how any interaction must mean a romance that can't be challenged? the character becomes unrecognizable to me - the ship has replaced them.

i've been in fandoms for almost twenty years and i still don't get it! so i gave uppppp

all of this is to say that i am trying to find a ground where i can write stories that matter to me about topics like incest or abuse, which are treated in wider fandom as either radioactive OR only titillating. extremely reductive and limiting. so i am thankful that followers/friends appreciate my stories - if i didn't care, i wouldn't be sharing anything online.

(this is my experience, i am not telling others what they should feel or do. i do not care about that...)

[cobra-creampuff]

the fact that they made it illegal to make ads louder than programs on tv in 2010 but haven't updated it to apply the same regulation to streaming. who do i have to call.

[pocketgalaxies]

ya i mean if we're looking at the campaigns as a narrative existing in a vacuum then i would personally have a hard time arguing that vax's return makes for a better story than if he died forever. and as someone who consumes critical role as a narrative completely separate from myself, i do v much wish he didn't come back, and i think keyleth's story would have been richer for it. but it's a dnd game and no narrative exists in a vacuum and every story is influenced to some degree by the desires and indulgences of the creators, and in this case maybe the creators said "hey we kinda want a warm and fuzzy and hopeful and full-circle happy ending that, on a meta level, connects the end of our first and our third campaigns." and that's also fine! because sometimes you just want your beloved characters to be indulged, even if it might detract from the poetic meaning of the story. sometimes you just want them to be happy, because you love them.

[sweetestflow3rs]

tw for abortion talk ( fictional ) //

and if i said that i am contemplating the idea of the dr impregnating vanida in the institution and vanida inducing her own miscarriage by eating poisonous herbs in the forest when escaping, how many rocks will be thrown at me?

[boundwithpurple]

something interesting you encounter on here is like the site culture averages out to this saccharine reverence for fiction - through these values of being well-read or “media literate” - to be so self-evidently and overwhelmingly vital to human life but also evidence this really, really narrow understanding of what fiction does for people that i think hamstrings these conversations because there’s like…on the one hand all this reverence is built around appeals to emotion and the emotional power fiction can have in human lives, but there is sort of this real confusion about how that is exactly why people don’t need to be “good readers” by various metrics because some of the functions of fiction are fantasy, libidinal drives, emotional relief, distraction, entertainment, etc. and for that if a fragile scaffolding of words allows you to fill in the rest to meet own purposes, that’s actually fine, and not actually understanding what you read perfectly isn’t really a flaw. and this is a lot of what fandom is and why it’s so annoying. but also just a pretty fundamental component of that oh-so-special unique human urge for storytelling you’re all jerking off about

[loregoddess]

sometimes I see genuinely earnest writing advice about writing fiction, but the advice is written as a blanket statement for a narrative device that honestly? only works for certain types of fiction, not all types of fiction, and therefore the advice ends up missing out on the fine nuance between "fiction that is written literally" and "fiction that is written figuratively" and also how literal vs. figurative narrative devices function differently in different types of genre--but like, I don't want to come off as a pretentious brat, so I just skip the post w/out saying anything

[archersgoon]

the good ending to any hypothetical celie story would be her giving up on the idea of that one big love shes on the grind for

[complainblogforthevoid]

I've finally figured out an argument that convinces coding tech-bros that AI art is bad.

Got into a discussion today (actually a discussion, we were both very reasonable and calm even through I felt like committing violence) with a tech-bro-coded lady who claimed that people use AI in coding all the time so she didn't see why it mattered if people used AI in art.

Obviously I repressed the surge of violence because that would accomplish nothing. Plus, this lady is very articulate, the type who makes claims and you sit there thinking no that's wrong it must be but she said it so well you're kind of just waffling going but, no, wait-- so I knew I had to get this right if I was gonna come out of this unscathed.

The usual arguments about it being about the soul of it and creation fell flat, in fact she was adamant that anyone who believed that was in fact looking down at coding as an art form as she insisted it is. Which, sure, you can totally express yourself through coding. There's a lot more nuance as to the differences but clearly I was not going to win this one.

The other people I was with (literally 8 people anti-ai against her, but you can't change the mind of someone who doesn't want to listen and she just kept accusing us of devaluing coding as an art) took over for I kid you not 15 minutes while I tried desperately to come up with a clear and articulate way to explain the difference to her. They tried so many reasonable arguments, coding being for a function ("what, art doesn't serve a function?") coding being many discrete building blocks that you put together differently, and the AI simply provides the blocks and you put it together yourself ("isn't that what prompt building is") that it's bad for the environment ("but not if it's used for capitalism, hm?" "Yeah literally that's how capitalism works it doesn't care about the environment" she didn't like that response)

But I finally got it.

And the answer is: It's not about what you do, it's about what you claim to be.

Imagine that someone asks an AI to write a code and, by some miracle, it works perfectly without them having to tweak it---which is great because they couldn't tell you what a single solitary thing in that code means.

Now imagine this person, with their code that they don't know how it works, goes and applies to be a coder somewhere, presenting this AI code as proof that they're qualified.

Should they be hired?

She was horrified, of course. Of course they shouldn't be. They're not qualified. They can't actually code, and even if by some miracle they did have an AI successfully write a flawless code for every issue they came across that wouldn't be their code, you could hire any shmuck on the street to do that, no reason to pay someone like they're creating something.

When actual engineers use AI what they do is get some kind of base, which they then go though and check for problems and then if they find any they fix them, and add on to the base code with their own knowledge instead of just trying different prompt after prompt until they randomly come across one that works.

People who generate code like this don't usually call themselves engineers. They're people who needed a bit of code and didn't have the knowledge to generate it, and so used a resource.

And there you go. There are people who have none of the skills of artists, they don't practice, they don't create for themselves. When they feed the prompt to the AI they then don't just use the resulting image as a reference point for their own personal masterpiece, and if they don't like it they don't have the skills to change it---they simply try another prompt, and do that until they get something they like.

These people are calling themselves artists.

Not only that, these people are bringing the AI generated thing to interviews, and they are getting hired, leaving people who slave over their craft out of the job.

And that is the difference, for the tech bros who think AI art isn't a big deal.

[lionblaze03-2]

idc that I’m allergic I love dog so much I need dog in my life. Look at this face. Like come on

And this one??? Forget about it

[nancytheslutwheeler678]

Very talkative and provacative rn

[5-htagonist]

l@imari has a place in my heart fr

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Ralsei has known what's been going on with Kris the ENTIRE time, and once you realise that, EVERYTHING he says and does around them makes a thousand times more sense. And you realise that, far from dismissing Kris's "true" self in favour of a copy, he has been working tirelessly to prop them up, to validate their most basic and fundamental choices, to keep them from the brink of despair, and perhaps even death.

We always thought it was strange, how Ralsei seems to baby Kris at times - how he offers heaps of praise upon them for performing the simplest of tasks, how he lets them express themself through violence while chastising Susie for the same thing, how at every turn he puts so much emphasis on Kris's choices, their talents, their intrinsic personhood, almost above the very prophecy he serves. We thought him mollycoddling and completely out-of-touch at best, and downright malicious at worst. We presumed he was encouraging the player to keep playing, and was in fact speaking over Kris's head directly at us. We presumed that the prophecy was all he cared about, and him encouraging Kris was simply a means to that end.

And we were wrong about all of it. Because we didn't know what Kris was truly going through until now. We thought that our possession was the worst thing that was happening to them, and that he was complicit in their suffering by trying to downplay it.

But Ralsei knew. Because Ralsei knows Kris better than anyone else - better than Susie, better than Noelle, and certainly far better than us.

Kris is hopelessly trapped, at all times. There is no hope for them, they cannot see a way to escape their bonds... not alive, in any case. Their suffering is so great, the pressures upon them so immense, that they have been hollowed out into a catatonic shell of their former self - unable to move except through great effort, unable to speak except through stilted phrases. They don't sleep or eat well at all. They don't try at school. They cannot tell anyone about what's happening, and they cannot make friends because of it. For all intents and purposes, they have given up.

But it's worse than that, because they KNOW that what they're being made to do is wrong. They don't want to do any of it, and yet they feel they cannot refuse. That knowledge eats away at them, to the point where they feel like they are inherently Bad, because only Bad people do Bad things, and they're doing Bad things all the time. They don't feel like they deserve the good things in their life because of it. They feel like they're living a lie. And no-one else knows - no-one else can possibly know.

But Ralsei knows.

Why does Ralsei go to the trouble of arranging a tutorial battle for Kris, when they've already demonstrated their capabilities fighting against Lancer? Because Kris doesn't know what they're doing during that fight. They're issuing commands, fighting alongside Susie, and they don't know how or why. They're scared, they don't know where they are, and the one other person they knew from school just ditched them. Through the tutorial, Ralsei breaks down each combat function step-by-step, walking Kris through each one with patience and restraint. And he lets them go off-piste up to a point - he'll let them attack his mannequin and say it's alright if they want to hit him too, he'll let them hug him several times throughout the tutorial, and he will show remarkable restraint throughout the entire endeavour, despite his obvious frustration at their uncooperativeness.

Seen this way, the Tutorial becomes less about the GAME teaching the PLAYER how to battle, and more about RALSEI providing to KRIS some semblance of structure and context to a new and frightening world. Both of them are literally starting at Zero, and have to establish the basics before anything further can happen.

This in turn establishes the framework for their relationship - not an annoying tutorial fairy lecturing an experienced player on things they already know, but a kindly tutor gently guiding a broken teen, one tiny step at a time. Not lashing out at mistakes, not admonishing when they try to assert themself against the established framework - he will let them fight, and let them command him to fight as well, because his desire to help Kris find themself again means he has to provide leeway for if they "misbehave". There have to be bounds, but they must feel like the choices they make matter - even if they actually don't.

When you're drowning in a world that has seemingly conspired to take your agency from you, and break you down into nothing more than a pawn that does what it's told and nothing else... even the illusion of choice is a life-preserver that you'll cling onto for dear life. The support Ralsei provides Kris in this capacity is what gives them the drive to protect Susie from King's attack - to make a choice to protect their friend, even if it wouldn't have meaningfully changed anything.

It explains his secret conversations with Kris too - while we are busy watching Susie, Ralsei is free to let Kris know that despite being literally controlled, the one controlling them is on their side, and that we will help them break free from the more insidious influence of the Knight. He has to tell them to trust in us, trust that we will do right by them to the best of our abilities. And indeed, by Chapter 2, they have become more willing to express themself through their tone of voice, through how they choose to interpret the instructions given to us, either to play pranks or to show their appreciation for the people who, despite everything, still care for them.

And even Ralsei's apparent dismissive attitude to Spamton NEO's effect on Kris can be explained through this prism. Kris is very very slowly starting to recover from the trauma of their situation, and literally EVERYTHING about Spamton is a huge trigger for them. It's not farfetched to say that Kris sees in Spamton a cautionary tale of how they will end up - used up, cast aside, wretched and desperate and bitter and broken. All of Ralsei's work building Kris back up could be undone in an instant, and so he has to tread extremely carefully - downplay its significance, offer nonthreatening proximity (he will hug Kris, but only if they hugged him on the boat ride prior to this), distract them from the immediate trauma with very basic "nice" thinks like cake, and warm/soft things. It seems dismissive at the time because we don't yet know what Spamton truly represents to Kris - not just the fear of being controlled against your will, but of being used up and broken down, and then tossed away like an unloved toy. It's only when we have that additional context that all of Ralsei's actions towards them start to make sense - not only make sense, but also show a level of care and tact that we did not previously assume him capable of.

And I suppose the last question is: why does Ralsei do any of this in the first place? Why go to this trouble when he knows he'll just be left behind, when he knows that if he succeeds, Kris will go back to the light world and live a full life without him? Well... look at the colour of his horns. If Ralsei is the horned headband, and Kris wore him for months, he would have borne witness to Kris's deepest, darkest fears about themself. It's possible that he might have seen the inciting incident that led Kris down this unfortunate path. Either way, he would have been so close to them that he'd almost be like an extension of them.

So, again - why does he do this? Because his purpose was always to guide them back to themself - first as a pair of horns to better fit in with their family, and then as a physical manifestation of those same horns to help them overcome the terrible harm that has been wrought upon them.

But more than this, I think it's because he loves them - the same way that they would have loved him when they wore him all those years ago. And isn't that what you do for the people you love - help them when they're struggling, comfort them when they're sad, gently challenge them to expand their window of tolerance, give them the tools they need to return to the light, to heal and grow back into themselves?

Ralsei knows Kris better than anyone else. And maybe we should start listening to him.

[navybrat817]

Mr. and Mrs. Barnes

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky suggests sneaking off at the gala. How can you resist?

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Unprotected v. sex, sex in a closet, dirty talk, possessiveness, established relationship, slight insecurities, mention of breeding, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes and he's a simp for you (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Sorry, lovelies. I just really wanted this. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn’t bother to hide his discontent as he looked around at the ballroom. Was it a gala? Fundraiser? What cared? He hated functions like these. People were either there to kiss ass and move up the chain of command or gloat about how well off they were in life under the guise that they were doing good for others. He didn't attempt to converse with any of them, but still had to go as a way to support SHIELD in some capacity and show that he was no longer the Winter Soldier.

At least Steve and Sam were excused from the event due to a mission.

Leaning against one of the pillars and tugging at his bowtie, he spaced out momentarily. No one looked his way, but he still felt judged. Like he didn’t just belong at the event, but amongst anyone. He wanted to go home, get out of his tuxedo, and get the product out of his slicked back hair. He debated sneaking away from some air until he blinked and saw the reason he was truly there: you, the only real person in the crowd of liars and cheaters.

He never understood the expression of clothes clinging to someone like a second skin until you stepped into your floor-length black dress earlier this evening, the fabric enhancing every beautiful curve of your body. His eyes narrowed as you moved around the room and exchanged smiles and handshakes with people. Your aura drew people to you, men brushing against you and their stares lingering for far too long. It served as another reminder of why he didn’t want to go tonight, especially when a General gripped your arm.

If he had a glass in his hand it would’ve shattered.

Convincing you to stay in bed didn't work since you both had to make an appearance, but it didn't mean he wanted you apart from him. “Get over here,” he whispered, craving your attention, needing you close.

As if you sensed him seeking you out, likely feeling the weight of his stare, you turned to meet his gaze across the room. Your eyes sparkled with love that he never thought he’d receive in his lifetime. The kind of love he never wanted to be without again. “Would you please excuse me?” You asked loud enough for him to catch as you removed your arm from the man’s grip. “My husband is waiting for me.”

Your hips swayed as you worked your way toward Bucky, not stopping for any other man who tried to catch your eye. Hearing you call him your husband brought the first smile to his face since he arrived. He still couldn’t believe some days that you wanted forever with him. “I was wondering when my beautiful wife would remember I was here,” he said once you were close enough, reaching out for your hand.

The moment you took it, he stood tall and pulled you against him. He was certain no one else came close to the intimidating vibe he put out, his hold on you possessive as you smiled. “As if I could forget. Practically heard you growling when General Rando touched my arm,” you teased.

“Because he has no right to touch you,” he said, your lashes fluttering as you spun away. His hands guided you back to him. “I know you’re better with people than I am, which is why you’re the one who has to socialize and I’m sorry for that. But you also said I’m not allowed to break any fingers tonight and I won't be held responsible if he tries to touch you again.”

He swore he didn’t have a possessive bone in his body until you sauntered into his life, giving him hopes and dreams and longing.

You laughed at him, a seductive sound that had a few heads turning. “You do know I can break his fingers myself, right?”

He chuckled, leaning close to your ear and tickling your skin with his breath. “I know you're more than capable of kicking his ass. One of your many wonderful qualities,” he whispered. People underestimated you and that was always a mistake. “But I still don't like that he touched you like he wanted to own you.”

You rang a finger along his bowtie. “We all know who owns me and we know I own you, too,” you said, holding up your hand to show him your wedding ring. He tried to ignore how fast his heart pounded at the sight of his ring on your finger, the pledge you two made together. “In a very healthy, non-toxic sort of way, of course.”

He smirked, glancing around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Of course, but maybe we could give everyone a friendly reminder that we’re a happily married and loyal couple.” His voice dropped lower, teasingly. He wanted to make your heart race like his. “Or maybe we could sneak away for a bit. Make this night a little more interesting.”

“Sneak away?” You feigned innocence as you blinked at him. He was certain any innocence you had before he met you was gone thanks to him. “Whatever for?”

“You know what for. It’ll be like that expo we went to a few months ago.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying your face closely. He easily picked up your sharp inhale, the way your pupils dilated and lips parted. It was clear that sneaking off was something that very much interested you. “C’mon, baby. This gala is boring and neither of us want to be here. My idea is much more fun. You know it is.”

He touched your cheek, your skin warm under his hand. He wasn’t able to keep you in bed earlier like he wanted, but the thought of pulling you away and having you right here and now had his stomach fluttering with excitement. “This gala is boring,” you agreed carefully.

“Then let’s make it exciting.” His thumb brushed across your lips and it took everything in him not to push his thumb inside. “You made me come to this thing. Don’t I deserve something for showing up and behaving?”

“I haven't made you come yet.” His muscles went taut when you briefly sucked the digit into your mouth, electricity crackling under his skin. He admired your boldness, how you were unashamedly yourself in front of these people. You didn't and would never care what they thought. “And I didn't make you come to this event, but I can make it worth your while.”

He held your chin and moved close until only an inch separated your faces. Your eyes gleamed with a hunger that rivaled his. The air crackled between you, daring you both to give over to your obvious desires. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” He rasped when you suddenly pulled back and helped move him across the floor in a dance.

“My plan? I thought sneaking away was your idea,” you smiled, guiding you both closer to the open doorway. “But if we can find a closet or dark corner, you can do whatever you want with me. And I’ll even let you fuck my throat first thing tomorrow morning for behaving.”

A rumbling, deep groan escaped his throat. His fingers dug in possessively when he gripped the nape of your neck and tilted your head so he could taste your skin. Your body molding against his, soft and yielding against his solid frame, wasn’t enough. There were too many clothes in the way and he wanted to bury himself deep inside you.

“You drive me crazy, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered, lifting his head to look into your eyes.

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Barnes.” You bit your lip once he waltzed you for enough away from prying eyes, the heat flaring between you. “I need you.”

Every nerve ending came to life when he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged past your lips, holding you steady as he devoured you. You melted against him, which only brought forth his primal hunger more. His intensity never scared you and he would be forever thankful for that.

You gasped as your back hit a wall, the sounds of chatter and music from the ballroom muffled. Your nails scraped the fabric of his jacket, both of you lost in sensations of lust and desire. As one of your hands continued its journey to his shoulder, the other wandered down his torso and didn’t stop until you gripped his thick erection through his pants.

He abruptly broke the kiss when you gave him a squeeze, his eyes wild. “Fuck,” he breathed, gripping your wrist and pushing more firmly against your hand. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

With dizzying speed, he spun you so that your back pressed against his front. You panted as his hand ventured through the slit of your dress and brushed along your trembling thigh. “Wait until you feel how wet I am,” you whispered, grinding your hips back against his.

His mouth brushed the exposed column of your throat, alternating between small bites and open mouthed kisses. “Still get wet for me?” He asked, massaging your breast with his vibranium hand and drawing another gasp from you when he pinched your nipple. He marveled at how much he could feel with that hand and how he’d never harm you with it.

“Have you seen yourself? One look from you and I’m soaked.” Your back arched as he bit down again. He wished he saw himself the way you did. “And you’re my husband. That craving for you isn’t going away.”

He rocked his hips against yours, seeking out more contact and friction as his cock throbbed and heart swelled. Marriage wasn’t a constant honeymoon phase. It took work. Effort. Compromise. But you were worth every moment, every struggle, every up and down.

Laughter from a few feet away had him lifting his head, both of you looking toward where the noise was coming from. “Fuck,” he snarled, wanting to scream at whoever it was to go the fuck away.

“There’s a closet around the corner. We just need to pick the lock,” you told him, smiling over your shoulder. “I may have scoped out the place in case this happened.”

He chuckled, utterly in awe of you. “I fucking love you,” he exhaled.

Walking with an aching hard-on wasn’t easy, but he managed to get you both further away from the ballroom. He picked the lock with record speed once you got to the door and moved you both inside. He flipped on the light, wanting to see as much of you as he could. For a moment, you two stared at each other and waited for the other to make a move. He loved the anticipation.

���I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Barnes,” you said, reaching for the doorknob to lock it. He was about to ask what he possibly did to upset you when you smirked. “You didn’t mention anything about me not wearing any panties.”

His cock was ready to burst from his pants. “Because that fucking clown out there interupted me,” he rumbled, pinning you against the door and crowding your body. His nose touched yours as he hiked your dress up, desperate to kiss you again. Eager to feel your wetness. “You trust me?”

It was a question he always asked. You put all of yourself into his care, your body, mind, heart, and soul. It was only fair that he made sure you still wanted him to be the one for you today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Even then a single lifetime would never be enough for him. He wanted a thousand lives with you.

“Always,” you said, an ache in your voice that he couldn’t resist. He fused his lips with yours, building up the fire all over again when his hand found your damp heat. The most intimate part of you where you allowed him to make himself at home. Your hands shook as you went to undo his pants, wanting to free him. “And you trust me?”

It wasn’t just his heart that contracted. His very soul trembled, wanting to wrap itself up in your light and love. “With everything in me,” he promised, sighing when he pulled his cock free from his underwear. “I’ll worship you later. Those gorgeous tits of yours. Your sweet cunt.”

Once you were home, he’d slip off your dress and give every beautiful inch of your body the attention it deserved. He’d draw a bath for you, too, and hopefully join you so he could simply hold you. But he was desperate for you now. He thought he’d burn if he didn’t have you.

You hiked a leg around him, moving your hips enticingly. There was only so much he could take. And who wouldn’t fall under the tempting spell of your body? “I’m ready for you.” Your soft moan echoed in his ears as he trailed a finger along your slit to your clit, barely touching it. He knew it would shoot small sparks through your body until you begged for more. “I mean it, Barnes. Get. Your cock. In me.”

“My needy little wife,” he whispered against your lips as he gripped the base of his cock and probed your entrance. The breathy sound you made when he began to push in had his blood pulsing in euphoria. It was a wonder he fit some days with how tight you were, but your slick heat stretched and welcomed him every time.

“My needy husband,” you smiled as you enveloped him completely, your fingers curling in his hair.

“What kind of man isn’t needy for his wife?” He began to thrust in deep, deliberate strokes. It matched the rhythm of the music in the distant ballroom, the two of you creating your own sultry dance. Maybe he would go up in flames. At least he’d have you to burn with. “Fuck, your body was made for my cock.”

Each snap of his hips tore more moans and whimpers from your throat and sent shockwaves through his system. You clenched around him with a smile, looking like a debauched angel. “My pussy was made for you, so ruin it.”

He groaned, his pulse beating strongly as his grip tightened on your hips. He fucked you without restraint, just as greedy for you as you were for him. Allowing himself to feel you and what you did to him was everything he was denied for so long. His life had only been order. Pain. You let him lose control. You gave him pleasure. Even a home.

I love you.

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you panted, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone as his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to surface. “I love you, too.”

His pace picked up, urgent, frenzied. At this rate, he might explode into fragments from your declaration and how good you felt. “You love me?” He bit out, his eyes opening and breaths harsh as he felt you clench again.

You cried out, his hand flying up to brace your head before it hit the door. “So much,” you moaned as you gazed at him. You were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Fierce in love and loyalty, patient and steadfast. He feared some days he’d need you more than you needed him, but you drove that thought from his mind. “I’m yours.”

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned. He couldn’t with the way you looked at him, the way your walls gripped him, knowing you were his.

“Neither am…” Your mouth fell open as your release hit you, your fluids drenching him. It was a wonder to watch you go over the edge in a blissful orgasm. He wanted to be right there with you.

“There you go. Good girl,” he encouraged, your body still tight around his cock. He erupted in one last thrust, his head falling back with an animalistic roar. “Fuck…”

Bucky braced a hand against the door, the other holding you like a lifeline. If only the two of you were at home so he could properly cuddle with you. His breathing remained ragged for a bit as he came down from his high, your breathing beginning to steady, too. He couldn't help but smile as he took in the sight of you thoroughly ravaged and satisfied. “Worth every second of being here,” he sighed, slowly pulling out of your twitching hole. You inhaled when he moved a hand down and swiped two fingers along the mess seeping out of you. “Clean them off for me, baby,” he ordered huskily, bringing them to your mouth.

Obediently, you parted your lips and allowed him to push his fingers in. You swirled your tongue around them to taste your combined essence, moaning at the tangy flavor. He tucked himself away once you finished up, afraid that he’d fuck you all over again if he didn’t get completely dressed. It didn’t stop him from gazing longingly at you as he fixed his jacket.

And it didn’t stop him from imagining your mouth around his cock the next morning.

“Now.” You grimmaced slightly as he helped you steady yourself and straighten out your dress. He knew that look. It was the look you got for a split second whenever the sticky remnants continued to trickle down your thighs. He loved having that claim on you. “How do you expect me to go back to the gala after that?”

“I don’t,” he smirked, his hands moving back to your hips as he snuck in a gentle kiss. “I think it’s time to get you home and back in our bed where you belong. I promised I’d worship you, remember?”

You nodded, your eyes still slightly dazed. “On one condition.”

He titled his head. “What’s that?”

A slow smile curved your mouth, his heart pounding and cock twitching back to life at your answer, “You put a baby in me tonight.”

So, lovelies, was it okay? I feel rusty. And who wants a future fic of Bucky breeding you? Just me? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[darkblueboxs]

I think my favourite element of the writing in aftg is how Riko's downfall is utterly, entirely, beautifully self-inflicted.

Riko is power hungry, a glory seeker, jealous, cruel, vindictive and unable to share the spotlight. His worst actions and features come back to haunt him over and over in a way that is *incredibly* satisfying from a readers' perspective.

-Riko breaks Kevin's hand. Kevin leaves to become one of the foxes' best players, training them into a team worthy of finals and bringing them to victory with the game's final point

-Riko moves the Ravens to the southern district, placing his team directly in the path of the team that will eventually beat him

-Riko terrorises Kevin on the Kathy Ferdinand show, angering Neil into taking a stand against him (...which causes Andrew to re-evaluate Neil's worth, which leads to their deal, which leads to Neil staying with the Foxes...and so on)

-Riko kills Seth, who becomes a driving force for members of the team, particularly Alison, to beat the Ravens

-Riko setting Drake on Andrew further angers the Foxes and motivates them to beat him; Aaron in particular.

-This also results in Andrew sobering up sooner than he otherwise would have, arguably making him a stronger player and helping the Foxes reach finals

-Kidnapping Neil over Christmas break and forcing him to play as a backliner gives Neil an intensive course in Raven teamwork, drills, etc. Which Neil then teaches to the Foxes.

-Oh, and my favourite. They force Neil to play as a backliner against Riko. The very move which Neil then uses to block Riko from scoring in the final. Fantastic. Ten out of (jos)ten.

-Incidentally, beating the shit out of Neil and putting him in a different position causes the Ravens to vastly misunderstand/underestimate how Neil's abilities as a player have developed

-Forcing Neil into his natural appearance and helping his father find him leads to the most unifying moment for the Foxes of the entire series; the Foxes rally around Neil, and finally become one functioning, dedicated unit.

-and god, just when it seems like it couldn't get any better; Riko destroys Jean, taking one of his team's best players off the court before the match can even begin

Riko set almost every moment of his team's defeat into motion months before their match even began; the consequences of his cruelty not only weaken the ravens but fashion an opposing team which is stronger, more unified, and more determined than ever to beat Riko.

And it doesn't end with the match; Riko attempts to kill Neil, serving Ichirou all the justification he needs to dispose of his brother on a silver platter.

Riko Moriyama's fate is self-inflicted from start to finish, in the most deeply satisfying way possible.