#it's just. It's long. so progress is slow

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Hold Me (More Like That)

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, fluff, pre-established relationship, lotta smut (oral m! receiving, p in v sex)

Summary/Warnings: Dean takes a second to pick up on what you want, but doesn't disappoint once he starts to play your game.

Author's Note: Sorta request from an anon! I wanna be thrown around so bad you guys don't even know.

Word Count: 3.3k

“I bet I could beat you in a fight.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

“I could.” You push up on Dean’s chest, glaring at him in the shifting light of the TV. “You don’t believe in me.”

A small smile plays on Dean’s lips, but he doesn’t look away from the movie. “Never said that. I’m pretty damn sure I agreed with you-“

“Yeah, but you said sure.” You drop your tone to mimic his, and that gets his attention. “That’s how you say sure when you don’t really agree, Dean, I know you-“

“Alright.” Dean catches your finger as you poke his chest. “I don’t think you could beat me in a fight, baby. You win.”

You whack his chest, and his grin only grows. 

“That what you wanted to hear?”

“You know it’s not-“

“Then you want me to keep lyin’?”

You roll your eyes at him. “No, I want you to admit I’d beat you.”

“Okay.” Dean shrugs, kissing your knuckles before turning back to the TV. “You’d beat me. You’d kick my ass, Sammy would have to drive me to the hospital, and- Oof-“

You’d climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and bracing your hands on his shoulders. Dean raises his brows with a half amused, half befuddled expression, and his hands fly to your hips in half a second.

He could push you off—easily, too—but he won’t. 

You really want him to. 

“I bet I could beat you.” You lean down until your noses are almost bumping. “In a fight.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Dean hums your name, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing small circles on the bare skin under your shirt. “What’re you doing?”

You shrug. “Trying to make you take me seriously.”

“I always take you seriously-“

“No. You don’t think I could beat you.”

For a man you know looks for any reason to jump your bones—you’ve seen him walk you back against a wall because the wind blew up your skirt, and he needs to check you’re okay—Dean is impressively confused about what’s happening. He just keeps looking at you in confusion, holding you firm enough by your hips you know he’s not going to take your bait and toss you around. You’re going to have to step it up. 

You love him. He’s adorable and sweet and trying really hard to be a good boyfriend, to the point that you feel sort of bad about what’s about to happen, but you’ll get over it. Call it vengeance for when he tried to prove he could change a tire faster than you could, and it was just an excuse to fuck you on the hood of the car. 

“C’mon.” You drag his hands off your hips, pinning them to the couch, and he doesn’t fight you at all. “I can win, Dean.”

“Yeah, you could-“

“Stop agreeing with me-“

He snorts, putting on a weak, mock show of trying to push out of your grip, but mostly just flexing his arms and making the heat in your core spark. “Look, sweetheart, you’re stronger-“

“I didn’t say I was stronger,” you grind down onto him, disguising it as a just a shift of your body, and Dean’s jaw twitches slightly. “I said I could beat you.”

You grind again, and he lets out a long, slow breath. 

Progress.

“You want the truth, baby?” He gives you a pointed look, still not struggling against you, and you nod. 

“I could-“

“No, you couldn’t.” Dean shrugs, and to sort of obviously prove his point, pushes just one hand out of your hold to wrap around your waist. “Not ‘cause I don’t think you’re strong, or smart, or sexy as fuck when you kick ass. But I would beat you. I’ve beaten Sam, and he’s a fuckin’ Sasquatch. It’s my freakin’ job-“

“It’s my job, too-“

“It’s your job when we’re real short on hands.” Dean eyes narrow, and that was the right button. He doesn’t like the maybe you should hunt more conversation. “And we’re not.”

You raise your brows. “So I couldn’t beat you because I don’t hunt?”

“Yes- No-“ He sighs, hauling you a little further up his chest. “You just couldn’t beat me, baby, I promise-“

“Prove it.”

Dean frowns at you. “What?”

“If you think I can’t beat you.” You grab his arm around you—he lets you move it again, but that’s fine, you don’t actually care about winning—and pin it back down. “Then prove it.”

“I’m not gonna fight you, sweetheart-“

You shrug. “Then I win. And if I can beat Dean Winchester in a fight, maybe I should hunt more-“

That does it. Your words turn into a yelp as Dean flips you over like it’s nothing, pinning your hands over your head and pressing his hips down to keep you pinned to the couch. You have to take a quick breath to stop from caving right away, but you can see his muscles rippling through his shirt and his eyes shamelessly scanning your form below him, and he’s half-hard already and pressed right into your thigh-

“I don’t know what goin’ on with you.” His voice is a half growl, and the sound almost vibrates through your body. “But I can beat you, babygirl. And you fuckin’ hate hunting-“

“Maybe I just miss you when you’re gone,” you challenge, hooking your leg around him and flipping him back over with a grunt. “You always leave me, De, and I get lonely-“

He snorts, standing up with you almost thrown over his should. “I call you every day, smartass, and I never hear you complaining when you cum from just me talkin’ to you.”

“Not the- fuck-“ You’re trying to squirm away as he walks through the halls of the bunker—the movie long forgotten—but it’s not working in your favor. “It’s not the same-“

“Then you can come on a few hunts and stay in the hotel.”

He needs to stop being so rational and sweet. “No, I want to hunt-“

“No, you don’t.”

“Don���t tell me what I want, Dean-“

You squeak as he drops you onto the mattress, standing over you with a glower. 

“You don’t want to hunt,” he grunts your name, grabbing your face between his hands with an adoring, vaguely annoyed expression. “You hate it, you always get mad about blood on your clothing- Hell, you get pissed about blood on my clothing-“

“I’m over it.” You lie quickly, and throw all your weight into pulling Dean down. He lands on the mattress with a grunt, and you crawl back on top of him with a grin. “I can beat you, Dean. You haven’t proven I can’t.”

He shakes his head. “I told you I’m not fighting you, sweetheart-“

“Cause you’ll lose.”

“I-“ His eyes narrow on yours, right as you wiggle slightly, and you know that expression.

You won.

“If I beat you, you drop the hunting thing.”

You nod quickly, and don’t even get the chance to say deal before Dean’s moving. He flips your back over with practiced ease, and he probably could’ve won right there, but you’re determined to put on a mock show. So when his hand go to pin both of yours, you worm then against his chest and shove right into his gut. It catches him off guard, just enough for you to roll away and scramble up onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Dean grunts, and rises up on his knees before dropping onto his side, just enough to knock the wind slightly out of your chest, and pry you off his neck. You try to roll away, but he’s—somehow—faster, and catches you by the waist, hauling you right up into his lap and pinning your arms behind your back with one hand, the other grabbing your jaw to keep your gaze trapped on his. 

And you’ve lost. It was only a few seconds of fighting, but you lost dramatically. 

In Dean’s eyes, at least, you lost.

But you feel a little high, right now. Dean’s big and warm and all around you, touching you everywhere with his chest pressed right against your breasts and his legs wrapped around you to keep you pinned to him. There’s a building, almost mind-numbing ache for him between your thighs, and you can feel his muscles every time he shifts, and he barely out of breath but you’re a giggling, needy mess his arms, and-

You can see the exact moment it hits him. He blinks at you for a second, his grip tightening on your jaw just enough to pull out a tiny, soft moan, and his cock twitches against your leg.

“You’re fucking-“ He cuts himself off with a groan and shake of his head. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, if you wanted to be fucked, you coulda told me.”

You shake your head, still beaming at him like an idiot. “Better when you mean it. I- I wanna feel you, Dean, please-“

“Please, what?” He hums, squeezing your jaw again, right as he thrusts up against your clothed cunt. “Please fuck you? Toss you around? Or should I make you wait, for giving me a damn heart attack about hunting?”

You flush, and shake your head. “I’m sorry, I just- You weren’t getting it and I- I wanted-“

“I know what you wanted.” Dean shrugs, grinning down at you. “You wanted me to touch you, didn’t you.”

You nod desperately, and he’s so close. His lips brushing over yours, his grip on you tight and perfect and god-

“You wanna touch me, babygirl?” His question is a low, teasing hum, his hips jerking up again to make sure you can feel how hard he is, and a high, needy moan escapes your lips. 

“Dean, please-“

He shakes his head, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Answer the question, sweetheart-“

“Yes- I do, I need it-“

“Yeah, you do.” He mutters, his hand on your jaw dragging down to rest lightly on your throat. “Lie down.”

You scramble back the second Dean lets go of you, settling into the pillows and giving him your prettiest, most hopeful doe-eyed look. He just chuckles, peeling his shirt and jeans at a painfully slow speed, and gives you a pointed expression. He doesn’t have to say it aloud to know what he’s asking. You know him well enough.

“Not those,” he grunts when you go for your panties, the rest of your clothing now discarded onto the floor. “Wanna rip them off you.”

You sigh, pouting up at him, and it hard not to get dizzy from his attention—standing at the edge of the bed, all strength and softness, stroking his cock to the sight of you below him—but you manage. “You always rip them off of me, Dean, I’m going to run out of underwear-“

“Good.” He mutters, starting to prowl over you with an almost feral grin, and you roll your eyes.

“Dean-“

“Don’t worry, baby.” He hums, and your protests about the panties die in your throat as he stops right over you, pressing his thick cock right on your lower lip. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

You hum, blinking hopefully up at him as you open your mouth, and he nods. Dean’s hand tangles in your hair as he slides into your mouth, and you moan shamelessly around him, making his hips jerk and his dick press right against the back of your throat. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans your name, and you suck on him, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock as he pulls slightly out. “You’re gonna choke, you can’t- Shit-“

It’s too easy to whine and run your tongue up his shaft, and he ruts into your mouth with a groan. 

“God- You’re-“ He glares down at you, and you return it with an innocent expression. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You just blink at him sweetly, grabbing his thighs, and trying to guide him deeper into your mouth, and his brows raise, his voice suddenly a slight rasp.

“More, baby?” 

You hum, already grinding into the sheets from the feeling of him heavy in your mouth and the intensity of his gaze, and Dean groans. 

“You gotta stop me if it’s too much-“ You swallow around him, and his words turn into a loud moan that goes straight between your legs.

The leash Dean’s been keeping on his movements snaps, and your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure as he starts to fuck your mouth. You can feel his gaze as the lewd sounds of his balls slapping your chin and his cock sliding in and out of your lips fills the room. Your nails are digging into his thighs, and your breathing is heavy through your nose, but it feels so good.

There’s all the power of him over you, making you lightheaded and your pussy start to clench around nothing every time he groans your name. You can taste the salt of his precum on your tongue whenever you manage to flick it over the head of him, and when you whimper around him, he always pulls all the way out before slamming back it and groaning your name. 

He’s getting close. You can feel it in the growing sloppiness of his thrusts and the tightness of his grip on your hair. So you double your effort and start to suck him off best you can, but all you can really remember how to do is wiggle and moan-

Dean pulls aways with groan, and your eyes flutter open to see him looking down at you with borderline wonder, his arm braced on the headboard above you and his chest heaving.

“You’re too good at that.” He mutters, moving his hand from your hair to wipe a little bit of drool over your cheek. “Almost came in your mouth, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth again, sticking your tongue out, and he groans, leaning back with a shake of his head. 

“Need to fuck you,” he grunts, shifting so your caged below his arms, his brow pressed against yours. “I’m gonna make you cum ‘till you can’t walk, baby. That sound good?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, spreading your legs as wide as you can. “Good. Touch me, Dean, I- I need you-“

“I know you do.” Rough, warm fingers dance on your panties, teasing on your inner thigh for a second before ripping them away, and running over your pussy. “So fucking wet for me, babygirl, need it that bad?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes, please-“

Dean cuts you off with a long, sloppy kiss, and you gasp his name into his mouth, grinding onto the palm of his hand in chance of any relief.

“You wanna try and wrestle again?” He hums, rubbing his hand right over your clit. “Or you gonna let me take care of my girl.”

“Take care.” Your voice is barely a breath, but you might fly out of your mind if he doesn’t really, properly fuck you. “Dean, your cock, I need it-“

His hand moves away, but you don’t get a moment to complain before Dean’s shoving himself into you with one rough movement, and your back is arching off the bed.

“That’s right, baby.” His voice is a teasing coo, but you don’t really care. He’s earned it, and it feels so good, being filled up and split open with him all over you and kissing up your neck- “You’re so fuckin’ tight, son of a bitch-“

“Dean.” You gasp, and his mouth crashes back over yours, kissing you into the pillows until you’re limp in his arms, only fluttering desperately around his cock. “Move-“

He groans into your mouth, and your breath hitches in your throat as he slams into you. You wrap your arms around him tight enough to strangle him, just he doesn’t even flinch, just moaning your name and repeating the movement once more. Pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, then starts to fuck you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. 

Sometimes, Dean likes to sit up and watch you come apart below him, or flip you over and fuck you into the mattress. But he knows what you need right now is to just keep feeling him, everywhere, and he’s perfect so that’s exactly what he gives you. Almost holding you off the mattress like it’s nothing, fucking into your pussy with a feverish pace, until your head is falling back with pleasure as he hits that deep, painfully needy spot deep inside you. 

His lips attach to your throat, biting and sucking small marks that make your mouth fall open in a silent scream, and your start to grind onto him. Trying to get your clit to rub on his abdomen, because you’re so fucking close-

Dean grabs your ankles, shifting your around below him without ever breaking pace, and only once you’re securely hanging off his body does his arm wrap around your waist and-

You spasm as his fingers find your clit and start to rub tight, firm circles, and you cum with a scream of his name. He just groans, fucking into you harder as you spasm around his cock, and you’re not coming down. Dean pushes your back down onto the mattress, slams his lips back over yours and angling your hips further up, and you stare up at him as he just keeps fucking you. Your orgasm crests into another one, and there’s a strange, new heat building in your core that’s hot and tight, and-

Dean slams hip hips at the right angle to almost bruise your g-spot, right as his fingers on your clit pinch, and your body goes loose as the coil snaps. Something wet is gushing out of you and running between your legs, and Dean’s jaw is clenched as he drops his brow to yours, his eyes fluttering as he tenses over you.

“Dean.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “Please. On me.”

He stares at you for barely a second before giving a tight nod, and sitting up on his knees. He pulls out with his hand braced on your hip, and it’s a beautiful sight. Dean beating his cock into his hand at the sight of you wrecked and fucked out, thick white cum shooting over your stomach and cunt as he cums with a moan of your name. 

He collapses over you with a grunt, and you hum happily, your fingers shooting into his hair. 

“That what you wanted, baby?” He hums into your ear, and you nod.

“Perfect. Thank you, my love.” 

He grunts as your kiss the side of his head, shifting down to bury his face between your breasts. 

“Love you too.” He grumbles, wrapping his around your body, and you beam up at the ceiling. “Even when you play dumb tricks.”

“I think you liked that trick.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But next time, just freakin’ ask me to fuck you stupid.”

You hum. “Dean?”

He grunts, and you tug on his hair, forcing his gaze up to yours. 

“Can you fuck me stupid.”

His lips twitch and he grabs your hand, turning it to press a kiss to your palm. “Jesus, sweetheart-“

“Please?” You flutter your lashes at him, and he sighs. 

“Gimme ten. In the shower?”

You give him an amused look. “You just wanna cum on me again.”

“Yep.” He grins up at you. “You love it.”

“I do.” You mumble. “But you like it when I play dumb tricks.”

He rolls his eyes, but hauls your upright, standing with you cradled in his arms and a kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah, sweetheart. But I think I just like you.”

End Note: It's probably good for my productiveness that Dean isn't real. I'd never get anything done again.

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𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER TWO: THE REPRISE

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

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 6.7k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Slow Burn, Yearning, Fluff, Smut (in later chapters), Soulmates, romcom vibes, billionaire harry, harry learning how to fall in love the human way, nervous harry castillo, pining, emotional vulnerability and all that sweet shi

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Five years after they met, Harry attended her concert.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Poster/Masterlist

Harry Castillo was still not married.

He wasn’t against the idea, not exactly. But he wasn’t in a rush either, and that had been fine for a long time. He liked things that made sense. He liked return on investment. He liked decisions that came after long walks and longer silences. For most of his adult life, marriage had sounded like a kind of liability. Or at best, a negotiation. His mother, of course, saw it the same way. A transaction. She didn’t push—she was too elegant for that—but she was always saying things like, “Don’t wait so long you forget what it’s for.” Sometimes she would ask, “So?” and he’d be expected to say progress. Or, “No one wants to be alone when they’re sick.” As if the whole point of love was to secure a caretaker for your worst-case scenarios.

He could pay someone for that. Probably.

At first, he didn’t take her seriously. He thought he had time. And more than that, he thought he had options. He was successful, composed, a man who knew how to move through a room without stumbling. He dated, casually and then not-so-casually, and when things ended, he never wondered why for very long.

But it started to get to him. The way his brother looked at his now wife. The way the world suddenly had traditions you had to keep up with—holiday dinners, christenings, photos with matching sweaters. He started to wonder if maybe he had missed something. If maybe his mother was right in that subtle, unnerving way she always was.

As a businessman, the answer was simple: pick women who appreciate financial stability. Someone who will be impressed with a couple hundred bucks worth of dinner every night.

So when Lucy came into his life, he thought, this is it. He didn’t fall in love. But he did feel a kind of clarity. She ticked all his boxes, the same way he ticked all of hers. Smart. Grounded. Attractive in the way that ages well. She was pragmatic, emotionally efficient, and rarely sentimental—just like him. She didn’t ask questions she didn’t want honest answers to. She respected boundaries. She’s also easily impressed, which made it easier for Harry. They worked in the same world, spoke the same language: meetings, margins, expansion, sustainability. The relationship felt like a merger with excellent terms. It wasn’t thrilling, but it was reasonable. And he liked reasonable. A reasonable investment is always better than a thrilling one.

They didn’t talk about love often. He assumed that was the point. This wasn’t about drama or passion or whatever ruined people tried to salvage from their twenties. This was about building something stable. Something good. At least that’s what he told himself. Until, of course, it ended. Until the thing that made the most sense became the thing that unraveled. Harry Castillo thought Lucy might be the final, grown-up answer to the question his mother never stopped asking: “Who will take care of you?”

Truthfully, he just liked what she represented. An answer to the question. A working formula. A beautiful, rational equation with clean lines and no jagged edges. They went to dinners. They work well. She looked good on his arm and didn’t get nervous in front of his friends. They could sit in silence without discomfort. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He remembered telling her once, not long before the end: “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.” And he meant it. But what he’d been looking for at the time wasn’t true, gutting love. It wasn’t fire or ache or anything close to wonder. It was something that worked. A system that ran without friction. A calm, competent life partner. It wasn’t “I love you.” It was something like “You’ll do.” 

He was sad when they broke up, of course. But he didn’t fall apart. He didn’t get drunk and call her at 2 a.m. He didn’t beg on his knees or lose sleep or spiral. He just went back to work. Took the trip they were supposed to take together alone. Upgraded his sheets. Changed nothing else.

It didn’t even change his routine. Didn’t make his work life harder. He just… continued to live. Because even then, deep down, he’d known he could live without her. And that was the difference.

He tried her matchmaking company after they broke up. He was set up with Gemma. A nice woman in her thirties. She’s an art dealer. He went into the date the same way he went on a date with Lucy: with business in mind. His criteria: someone who he could trust (because isn’t that how you do business? With someone you could trust?) and someone he could respect. Gemma was someone he could respect. Gemma could do business like Lucy, but unfortunately, like Lucy, she also wanted love. He didn’t call after the first date. Didn’t even pick up the phone from the matchmaker.

He didn’t know if he’s capable of love. Not yet, at least. And certainly not with Gemma. Gemma was supposed to be a perfect investment. And you don’t have to be in love with something to invest in it. You just need to know it works. 

So after Gemma, he lied to his matchmaker that he found someone else. Organically. Rose, his matchmaker, was upset but she said it made sense. People like him weren’t gonna be in the market for very long. He laughed like it was true. They were nice enough to give him a 80% refund. It didn’t matter, really.

Eventually, he gave up on the idea of marriage. Peter, his brother, had the family name sorted—happy wife, golden retriever, maybe even babies soon. That was enough legacy for the Castillos. Harry told himself he’d be the cool uncle. The one who sent expensive Christmas gifts and taught the kids poker too early.

He could live with that.

Harry had always preferred structure—clear lines, calm offices, espresso over cappuccino, silence over chatter. And when the chaos of life inevitably found its way in—whether in the form of a failed relationship or an overly ambitious intern—he had learned to manage it with professionalism, coolness, and if that didn’t work, expensive liquor.

Emma came in during one of those transitions. He had needed a new assistant, and she had been available. She was in her early thirties. Maybe thirty-three? Had left her dream of becoming an artist to help her husband support her family. He remembered her saying something vague during the interview—fine arts? Theatre? Maybe music theory? He hadn’t listened that closely, to be honest. It hadn’t seemed important. The job wasn’t creative, after all. It was scheduling, logistics, emails, making sure the water bottles were always stacked in the little fridge under his desk.

But Emma did it well. Unobtrusively, efficiently. And, yes, she was the sort of secretary who remembered things like what kind of bagel he preferred after a heavy night out. Everything bagel, warm, no cream cheese on Mondays and Tuesdays. She had shown up one morning, already in office attire—black dress, far from what artsy people look like.

She held out the bagel without comment, then opened his calendar and said, “We need to move the two o’clock. You’ll want a nap before the calls.”

He had blinked at her, still hungover, and realized she’d become indispensable.

He paid her well. He didn’t think about her much beyond that. She was a good assistant. She didn’t make his life messier. She didn’t ask questions when he was late, or when he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. She knew how to read a room, how to bring him coffee when he was fuming but didn’t want to say so.

On slower days—days like this—he moved through his space like a man wandering the remains of an empire. Half-shaved, robe still hanging loosely, coffee cooling on the desk. Emma was already there, seated at her desk just beyond the open glass divider, typing away, her own mug beside her and classical music playing quietly from her laptop.

It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she puts on jazz. Sometimes piano. He didn’t mind. It filled the air gently. It softened the sharpness of the city skyline beyond the windows. And then—

He paused. Mid-step, mid-thought, the motion caught in his throat.

She was watching something. A video. And on the screen, there she was.

The cello, the way she moved with it like it was another limb. That impossible grace, unrepeatable in anyone else he’d ever met. And that face—green eyes, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips, dimples barely there. Freckles on her neck. Honey blonde hair, pulled back now, neater than he remembered, but unmistakable.

His throat tightened.

Emma hadn’t noticed him. She was lost in whatever it was. He stepped closer, quietly, without even meaning to. Just one word rose in him, like breath held for too long finally escaping.

“Catherine.”

Emma looked at him, brow lifted in genuine curiosity.

“You know classical music?”

“No.” Harry barely glanced at her before his eyes flicked back to the screen. “I know her.”

“You do? People who aren’t into classical music wouldn’t know about composers.”

“She’s a composer? I thought she was a cellist.”

Emma smiled faintly, as if charmed by how clueless he sounded.

 “She plays sometimes, but she was always a composer,” said Emma.

He didn’t respond right away. He was listening. Listening the way he had that night in the cabin—when the music hummed under his skin and dared him to remember it. Now, years later, it was back in his chest like a pulled thread. One sound and the whole memory unraveled.

“Catherine Ainsworth,” he murmured, reading the video title aloud.

“She’s one of the youngest composers ever commissioned by the Royal Philharmonic,” Emma said, sliding back in her chair, watching him. “At 25, she had a piece debuted at the Barbican, and another in Vienna. Her music’s this weird thing—elegant, unpretentious. Sort of haunting, sort of joyful.”

Harry smiled quietly at that.

"I’m surprised you know her, really. She composed mostly love songs, not for everyone. Certainly not something I imagine you listening to. It’s always sweet and never too complicated, like she’s not trying to impress anybody with her skills. Where did you hear of her?" Emma asked.

“I didn’t.” He shook his head, still lost in thought. “I met her.”

Emma’s head tilted. “Oh. You know know her.”

The room went soft for a moment. There was a long pause—his pause, really. He leaned on the edge of her desk, looking at nothing.

“We met. About five years ago,” he said finally, his voice low. “She was very young.”

“She’s still young. Twenty-seven,” Emma said, her voice mild.

“Yeah.” He nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the window. “That’s young.”

“She’s going to come back to New York in December. A concert. You wanna go see her?”

“I don’t know,” he said quickly—too quickly. 

Then, without giving her a chance to prod further, he turned the conversation elsewhere. A safe detour into something about schedules or deadlines or the mess with the Anderson account.

Emma didn’t push. She rarely did. That was something he appreciated about her. She knew how to clock a boundary without making a show of it.

But the thought lingered.

Even when he made calls or sat through meetings with people who talked too long and said too little, Catherine’s name threaded through his mind like a whisper. Not loud, not insistent. Just there.

It came to him in odd flashes—the way her fingers had moved on the cello strings, the way her coat had smelled faintly of cedar and something floral, the way the storm softened when she’d spoken.You’ll need a coat. The memory played like a looped symphony movement, quiet in the background, but impossible to ignore.

And that was new, because Harry rarely lets anything disrupt his routine.

He tried not to let it show. Not in the emails he dictated, or the investor pitch he reviewed. Not even when he watched Emma walk out with her coat, humming something vaguely classical under her breath.

But distraction had a way of making a home. It seeped into the quiet moments. When the office emptied, and the city buzzed below. When he poured himself a drink he didn’t finish. When he stood by the window with nothing in his hands, nothing to do, and everything waiting.

He pushed it down. Like he always did. Folded the thought neatly, tucked it beneath work and habit and his carefully measured life. That was what he had built in the years since forever—a life that made sense on paper. Balanced, professional, manageable. No edges. No typhoons. Until the very end, at least.

He told himself he didn’t want it, not anymore. The whirlwind, the ache, the unpredictability of falling in love. Love—God. Even the word sounded like a marketing scheme these days.

But he wasn’t proud of that version of himself. He was older now. Wiser. Tired.

And maybe a little lonelier than he cared to admit.

It was one morning in December when he saw it. He looked at the screen, a red circle on his calendar. Underneath it, in a font he definitely did not use: 7 PM, Carnegie Hall.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

Emma, sitting on the edge of his office couch, froze like she’d been caught stealing. Then she exhaled. “Oh.” A pause. “I bought you a ticket. For Catherine Ainsworth.”

He stared at her. No words. Just stillness.

She shifted uncomfortably but kept her chin up. “You have to go. It’s my money.”

“I’ll pay you back,” said Harry quickly.

“Go. Consider it a Christmas gift from my husband and I.”

He couldn’t say anything to that. Not without unraveling something. Because Emma didn’t know the weight of that name in his chest. She didn’t know the smell of cedar and drizzle or the way her voice could quiet a room like snowfall. But still—she had known enough, probably from his reactions. Enough to draw the circle. To say go.

And the reason he did not want to go was because of the feeling in the pit of his stomach, something like anticipation. It felt familiar. Like hope.

The days leading up to the concert passed in a strange kind of haze. New York in December was both beautiful and brutal—icy wind on your face one second, holiday lights the next. Fifth Avenue glimmered like a snow globe, and every sidewalk corner had someone selling roasted chestnuts or playing saxophone under twinkling strings of fairy lights. It was a romantic city if you had someone’s hand to hold. He didn’t.

But he didn’t feel alone either. Not in the obvious way.

He thought about canceling the day before. Told himself he had a meeting, that he couldn’t sit through two hours of music without unraveling. But he didn’t cancel.

Instead, he let the day arrive.

He let himself walk into it slowly, like stepping into cold water.

Emma picked a great suit for the evening.She had thought of everything—down to the cufflinks he’d forgotten he owned. She laid it all out on his office couch that morning, like a quiet but firm declaration: You’re going. 

He hadn’t said thank you, not out loud. He just looked at her, nodded once, and said, “Remind me what time it starts.”

“I know you know, Harry. You’re not going to be late,” she replied, not looking up from her computer. “I already scheduled the car. It’s in your calendar.”

The car ride was quiet. Just the city humming past. His mind raced, slowed, raced again. He didn’t know why he suddenly told the driver to pull over near a florist on 57th.

He stood outside the small, warmly lit shop for a few seconds, hands deep in his coat pockets, before walking in and asking for a bouquet. “Something simple,” he said.

The florist gave him a look that said every man says that, and put together white ranunculus, some pale eucalyptus, and a few soft roses—not red, not pink, but a washed-out cream, like candlelight.

He didn’t know why he bought it.

He didn’t know if Catherine would want flowers.

He didn’t know if she’d forgotten him entirely—or worse, remembered him only faintly, like a passing storm she once sat through and never thought of again. She might have a man. A husband. A life. She might look at him and smile politely, say thank you, take the flowers and never think of it again.

But he bought them anyway.

He told himself he’d just say hello. Just a word after the concert, in that strange backstage hum of applause and exhaustion. Hand her the flowers, thank her for the music, maybe say I saw you in a storm once, and you’ve never really left my mind, though he probably wouldn’t say it out loud. He’d give her the bouquet, smile, and walk away.

And that would be that.

He’d go back to his life. The office. The schedules. The version of himself he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

He went inside Carnegie Hall as if in a haze. Sat down, as if drunk, not knowing where to look. His back was rigid. He looked around the room and saw how it was mostly couples, enjoying a romantic night out. He smiled at that.

The lights dimmed slowly, like the hush that fell over New York on snow-heavy nights. The crowd at Carnegie Hall settled into silence.

Then she stepped out.

Catherine Ainsworth.

It had been years, and yet Harry recognized her instantly. She had changed, yes. There was a quiet grace to her now, a self-assuredness in the way she walked toward the cello, cradling it like a part of her body. Her once wild, wet hair was swept up neatly, revealing the softness of her face, the light freckles that still danced faintly on her neck. The girl who had offered him a coat was now a woman who commanded an entire room with a glance and a breath. Still green-eyed. Still real. But older. Better.

The small smile on her lips hadn’t changed either. That half-smile, the one that never stretched too far, but tugged at something deep inside him. He remembered it. It was the smile she wore the night she bought soup with a song.

And then she played.

The first piece was a solo—a quiet, yearning composition that began with a single note held long enough to stretch across the years. Harry felt it in his chest. No grandeur. No showing off. Just beauty, unveiled gently and without ego. Effortless. Alive.

He hadn’t known he could still feel things like that. It came uninvited, the smile—slow and real—tugging at his mouth before he realized it. God, it had been a long time.

And he understood, finally, what Emma meant when she called her music romantic.

He watched her fingers dance over the strings—those same dainty fingers he remembered from a memory blurred by storm and scotch.

Harry, who knew music like most people knew algebra—just enough to pass by—was completely disarmed. He didn’t need to understand it. He felt it.

The concert unfolded in movements. After the solo, the orchestra filed in. Catherine returned later—not to perform, but to conduct. She stood at the front like she belonged there, eyes focused, hands lifting, guiding a dozen musicians like it was second nature.

The audience watched with a silence that buzzed. And Harry—he didn’t watch like an audience member. He watched like a man who had just remembered how to live.

She conducted one more piece. Then came another solo—a piano this time. She played with her eyes half closed, and it felt like the sound was pouring from her very lungs.

Harry didn’t blink.

He sat there in the dark, flowers beside him, and let the music do what it had always promised to do: make everything else fall away.

And for just a while, it did.

It started soft—quiet strings, then piano. And there, tucked into the melody like a memory, was a sound that reminded him of home. Not literal bells, but close enough. That kind of jingle they use in old movies—the kind you hear when someone falls in love on a snowy street. It made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t ready for.

He looked down at the program again. Love, in December.

It wasn’t a flashy piece. None of hers were, really. The entire concert had been like that—emotional, but never begging for it. Beautiful, but never loud about being beautiful. She didn’t show off. She didn’t need to. She just played, and that was enough.

People were crying. He caught a few wiping their faces. He watched Catherine through the curtain of applause and could tell she’d been crying too—just a little. But she smiled through it, bowed low. Everyone stood up and gave her a round of applause.

When the light came on, the crowd slowly stood.

He stood too, eventually. Walked out with the rest. But when they veered toward the exit, he didn’t.

He followed the hallway signs to the backstage area.

Of course there was security. A guy at the corridor—stocky, name tag said Hubert—held up a hand to stop him.Harry expected that. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the slick business card. Not the casual one, the serious one, the fancy one. Harry Castillo. He introduced himself with his business voice too, and said something about some opportunities for some of the musicians. Hubert squinted at the name, clearly didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Harry said it like it should be recognized. Like it belonged in the room. And he had a lot of practice with that. The security guy hesitated a second, then stepped aside with a short nod.

He walked past without a word.

He passed a few dressing rooms—most with names taped to the doors, some cracked open to reveal assistants and musicians gathering coats or finishing bottles of water. Some cheering. Laughter.

And then—at the end—her name. Catherine Ainsworth. Typed neatly, taped to a white door.

He stared at it for a beat.

His palms felt hot.

He raised his hand. Knocked once, firm but quiet.

Inside, movement. A pause. Then her voice. Familiar, unmistakable.

“Coming.”

And there he stood. Suit pressed, bouquet in hand, heart stupidly loud in his chest.

She opened the door, and green eyes fell into his.

Her cheeks were still flushed from the stage, a touch of powder barely hiding it. Her hair was up now, pinned and loose in places, elegant without trying. She still had her performance dress on— black silk dress, modest, but it did something with the way she moved. Or maybe it was just her. Grown. Poised. Lovely.

“Harry?”

He smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

“Oh gosh. How long has it been? I didn’t know you were coming. Please—come in! I’m so sorry it’s messy, I didn’t expect—why didn’t you contact me first? I would’ve gotten you a better seat, somewhere I could see your face and guess what you think.”

She stepped back to let him in. He took a breath and followed, the bouquet light in his hand, but suddenly feeling foolish.

The room was cozy—soft lighting, clothes and makeup scattered in corners, a chair with a coat slung over it, another bouquet sitting forgotten on the counter. There was a faint scent of perfume and roses, warmed by stage sweat and hairspray. Her cello case was still open.

He sat on the edge of the couch while she fussed with tidying, though it didn’t do much. He didn’t mind.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said. “But I’m glad I did. You were… incredible.”

She looked over her shoulder with a quick smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

“No, really. It was beautiful. When you played— it felt like something cracked open in me.”

Catherine blinked, then looked down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You always knew how to say things like that. Like a line from a book.”

He gave a soft laugh.

There was a pause. The kind that wasn’t awkward.

“You never called me,” Harry said, quieter this time. “Or left a message.”

Catherine looked at him, then leaned against the vanity, arms folded.

“Oh, funny story about that. I fell into a puddle. And the card was too wet and it ripped. You should really invest in some high-end business cards. You know, the ones made of metal.”

“Really?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah.” She grinned.

“That’s the best you came up with?”

She laughed. “It’s true! It was a big puddle too. I sprained my ankle and everything.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry.” He leaned forward a little. “Should’ve taken you back. Given you a ride.”

“No, no. It was fine. Managed to get a ride.” She shrugged, then smiled gently. “I still had a fun day, despite it all. The soup, Jim, you, the people I met… it more than made up for it.”

There was a stillness after that. Not tense. Just charged.

Harry’s fingers tapped against his knee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and alert at the same time. Maybe years ago, back home, when he still thought he had a future doing things that mattered. Now it was mostly boardrooms. Deadlines. Deals. People speaking at him, him barely listening.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “you wanna go for a burrito?”

He blinked. “What?”

“There’s a truck I like. Not far. But it’ll be gone in thirty minutes, so we have to hurry. Come with me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, sure. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” She stood up.

He tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends. Still strangers, really.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” she said as she grabbed her coat. “I remember everyone who’s made an impression on me.”

“And I did?” he asked, following her to the door. He noticed the other bouquets still sitting untouched on the counter. Only his was in her hands.

She shooed him out with a grin. “’Course you did. Hold on—” she handed him her scarf, like he was already someone she knows well. She bent, locking the door and Harry couldn’t help but admire her form, for just a moment. “I told you, didn’t I? I’ve always had a soft spot for old men in the rain. Like they’re in a French movie.”

He smirked. “Yeah. I forgot you said that.”

That was a lie. He remembered. Word for word. He thought it was funny because he didn’t look French at all.

They left through the back hallway, her coat slung casually over one arm, the flowers still in his hand.

“Tell everyone I’m going out for dinner,” Catherine called to someone down the hallway.

“Aw, you got a date already, Catie?” the man shouted back.

“Sure do! I’ll see you all at midnight—Jen’s place, yeah? We’re still on.”

There was laughter from down the corridor, and someone called after her—teasing, familiar.

He didn’t plan on asking. He really hadn’t. But the words edged out anyway, like steam from a cracked pipe. “So… it’s a date?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you want it to be.”

“Sure. It’s a date. But we’re going somewhere after.”

“Only if you drop me off at my friend’s place by midnight.”

“Done.”

It should’ve felt strange—rushed, unexpected, unprofessional, even—but it didn’t. It felt like something that had already begun years ago, paused somewhere between wet clothes and a café table, and picked up again the way only real things could. Without fuss. Without ceremony.

They didn’t talk much on the walk. There wasn’t a need. She led, he followed. He noticed how she kept her hands tucked inside her sleeves, her shoulders relaxed despite the weather.

He didn’t know what scared him more: how easy it was, or how deeply it settled into him. That feeling. That quiet, breathless, inevitable sense that this—whatever this was—wasn’t a spark. It was something else. A match already struck, a flame he’d walked away from once and was now standing in front of again. 

He’d dated, of course. Dated well. Dated enough. There had been pretty ones, brilliant ones, ones who challenged him, soothed him, made him laugh. But even at their best, it had always been a climb. Work. Polished versions of himself turning over carefully rehearsed lines. But Catherine—God. Catherine had never asked for any version of him. Even worse, he didn’t have the need to put on a version of himself.

And he remembered—how comfortable it had been the first time. That rain-soaked day. How much of him had stayed with her, tucked away in whatever memory she carried. How she remembered the soup, and Jim, and his card—ruined by a puddle, apparently. A story so absurdly hers, he almost laughed when she told it.

He glanced at her now, walking a few paces ahead.

They ate outside. Not at a table, not at a restaurant—just the side of a food truck wrapped in yellow lights, on a quiet street where the steam from open grates rose like lazy ghosts. She had ordered two burritos, extra hot sauce, and passed him one without asking what he wanted. He took it anyway. It was good. Greasy, hot, and falling apart in the right places.

They stood side by side on the curb like they had done this a thousand times, like they’d done this in another life, another city, another version of themselves. She talked while chewing.

“I always wondered what happened to you,” he said, as they leaned against the side of the truck, warm foil burritos in hand.

“Well I told you what would happen to me.”

“Your studio?”

“Yeah. I have a studio. It’s underground. You wouldn’t know if you weren’t in the arts.”

“Ah, exclusive club?” he asked, biting into the burrito. “How’d you get the money?”

“I have my ways.”

He believed her. Not because it made sense, but because of how she said it—like the details didn’t matter as long as the music still got made. And maybe they didn’t.

She didn’t stop talking when they got into his car. She didn’t even stop to think about how Harry had a driver ready a few feet away, almost like he was trailing them since they left the concert hall. He smiled at how easy it was. Answered all her questions about his life like they were old friends instead of two people who met only hours in total.

The driver took them somewhere not too far—somewhere fancy he liked to go—for just a drink.

He hadn’t expected to like the night this much. He hadn’t expected to feel younger, or older, or anything at all. But he did.

She told him she’d order a Shirley Temple, but when the waiter came, she asked for coffee instead. She said it was because she had to stay awake for the party tonight. He could tell she was tired, though.

He asked, gently, “You sure you want to go? You can rest. I’m sure your colleague would understand.”

“My friends, you mean. I’m sure they will, but I have a big ‘Fear of Missing Out’ disease. You wouldn’t get it. You probably want to miss out.”

He laughed at that, because she was right. It was funny how she knew him. After living the life he had (and a long one at that), parties became boring, friends became few, and the older you get the less you want to waste your time spending it with random people. Somehow, he thought, it wouldn’t be the same for her.

He canceled her coffee when she wasn’t looking and ordered her the Shirley Temple anyway. She sipped it with that little smirk of someone who knew exactly what happened, yet happily drank anyway.

She tapped her foot beneath the table like music was playing somewhere only she could hear. 

He didn’t say much for a while. He just watched. And felt. And tried not to let the warmth of the moment scare him the way good things sometimes do.

She had never felt fragile to him—never delicate or breakable. But she did feel real now in a way he hadn’t been ready for before. Real, and within reach. And that was what terrified him. Not the night, or the feeling. But how easy it was to want it again.

It was still only 10:30 when they left and the fancy drink place was long behind them. They ended up back in his car with popcorn in their laps, the kind sold in plastic tubs from a vendor outside a movie theatre. Something childish about it made her laugh. That had been his favorite part of the night so far.

They didn’t need a plan. The city hummed around them, but for once, he didn’t feel like they were in it. It felt like they were just… here. Two people sitting side by side, like they’d done it every Thursday for years.

The conversation drifted.

She asked how long he’d been in private equity now, if he still flew to Zurich every January, if his friend had finally retired like he’d once promised. He said over a decade, yes, and no. He said he focused on acquisitions mostly—real estate, hospitality, infrastructure—though he didn’t touch the spreadsheets anymore. Just the closings. Just the capital.

She asked if he liked it. Just that.

Not "how’s work." Not "how’s business." But do you like it?

He’d been asked that before, of course. At dinners, in passing. But it was always rhetorical. No one ever really wanted an answer. Catherine, though—she just waited. Like he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

So he told her. That he didn’t hate it. That he was good at it. That it paid well. That it was easier than what his brother did, and harder than what people thought. That he was good at it and that’s what matters. He also told her how it distracted him from his boring life. How he liked the stability, and somehow it made him feel in control. 

She nodded through all of it. Not like she understood, exactly. But like she thought it made sense that he felt that way. And for some reason, that was enough.

She had already given the driver an address—her friend’s place, he assumed. Some apartment where the music people gathered like moths to the last lamplight of the night. But the car didn’t move.

Somewhere along the way the conversation had started to quiet. A long pause here. A soft sigh there. And somewhere between the story about her audition in Berlin and the one about the pianist who once fainted on stage, she stopped responding.

He turned, and found her asleep. Just like that.

Head tipped against his shoulder, her face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been all night. Hair slipping slightly from its clip. Her breathing even.

Harry didn’t move. Not right away. He just stared ahead, the lights of the city blinking through the glass like distant stars, and let the silence stretch.

It wasn’t that she’d fallen asleep—that part was almost funny. But that he’d talked her there. That she felt safe enough to let her guard down.

When they pulled up in front of her friend's building, just a minute or two before midnight, Harry didn’t have the heart to wake her.

He tried, halfheartedly. Nudged her shoulder, murmured her name. But she barely stirred—only shifted deeper into sleep, like her body had made the decision for her. She’d stayed up for everything else, carried the whole night on sheer momentum, and now it had run out.

So he let her rest. Gently slid his shoulder out from under her head, left her curled up in the corner of the backseat, jacket draped over her legs. For once, the city outside the car didn’t feel hostile. The streetlamp made everything look a little softer. Her building stood tall but not unkind.

He got out and looked around, unsure at first what to do. Then, like fate was a little too on-the-nose tonight, a man walked past with a guitar case strapped to his back. Early thirties maybe, thin, a little dazed-looking—like someone who’d just played a show or left one. Harry asked if he knew the musicians he’s looking for, the apartment number, said he was trying to find a friend’s place.

The guy didn’t even blink.

“Yeah, everyone’s upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Harry followed him in but stopped at the entrance to the stairwell. Another man, still in a suit, exactly like the concert outfit the orchestra wore a few hours ago, greeted him.

“She’s asleep in the car,” he said, quietly. “I don’t think I can wake her up. It looked like she needed rest.”

The guy nodded, unfazed. “Ah. No worries. She is safe, though, yeah?”

“Safe.” Harry handed over a card—his actual one, with his personal number. “Here. Just in case.”

The man squinted at the card, nodded again. “Cool. Mr… Castillo.”

“Oh, and uh—if you could not mention too much how fun it was tonight,” Harry added, hesitating. “She said she had a big, uh—”

“FOMO?” the guy offered.

Harry blinked. “Sorry?”

“Fear of missing out?”

“Yeah. That.”

The man chuckled. “All right. So you do know her.”

“I do.”

“Okay then. Take care, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry said goodbye, offered one last thank you, and stepped back out into the night.

The car was still idling quietly under the streetlight, warm and sealed away from the hum of the city. Catherine hadn’t moved. She was still curled up in the backseat, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and slow. 

He opened the door gently and slid inside beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet. He settled her head on his lap, trying his best to make her comfortable. The driver gave him a look in the rearview mirror—something between curiosity and amusement—but said nothing. Harry thanked him, and made a mental note to ask Emma to give him a raise.

There was something sacred about that moment. Maybe because no one else was watching. Maybe because it didn’t feel like something he’d earned. Her hair spilled across his legs like ink, and her breath was warm against his thigh. He kept a hand hovering near her face, just in case she stirred. She didn’t. Somewhere along the way, his hand patted her hair.

The last time he brought a woman back to his apartment, it was only for sex. And it had been… vastly different. Intentional, sexual, carefully orchestrated. He’d made sure the lights were dimmed just right, that there was a drink ready, that jazz was playing faintly in the background. There had been laughter and flirtation, the smooth exchange of practiced lines and mutual expectations. But this—this was not that. This was Catherine.

When the driver pulled into his building, Harry didn’t think too hard. He didn’t want to. He just slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted.

He carried her inside—not like a friend doing someone a favor, but more like a partner would. Not in the public way, the performance of it. But in a quiet way. Arms around her back and legs, careful not to jostle her. Not a single word said. He kicked the door closed behind him with his heel and moved straight to his bedroom. There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation.

She weighed less than he expected.

He laid her down, eased her onto the bed like she was something fragile. Removed her shoes, then tucked the blanket over her legs. She shifted again, brow twitching at the change in environment, but never opened her eyes. 

Harry stayed there for a long time after. Kneeling beside the bed, just watching her. As if she might disappear if he looked away. As if none of this was real, and she might flicker out like the ghost of some half-forgotten evening. He didn’t touch her. Just watched. Only for a moment.

He got up, pulled off his tie and jacket, and went to sleep on the couch. He didn’t bother with a blanket, but he slept better than he had in months.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Will be updated every week, but might upload twice a week if I feel like it/confident enough to do it.

[leashybebes]

several sentences smonday

tagged by @ambernotember, @rcmclachlan and @liminalmemories21 - thanks, gang. made some decent progress on allying yesterday so here's a little more of buck being the one going through it while tommy's happily oblivious (we love a role reversal!) special guest star: the author's barely disguised longing for thai food

"Hey," Tommy says. "This place looks great. You know I'd have been happy with the usual street meat, right? What's the occasion?"

There's an opening right there, but Buck hears himself say, "N-no occasion. Just heard Hen talking about it and I thought it sounded cool."

"Awesome. Did she have any recommendations?"

"The kang pah with catfish is supposed to be really good."

"Cool. I would fight god for even a mediocre massaman curry, honestly, so we should get something with a little spice too," Tommy says. "We can share?"

Buck files that away for future reference. He doesn't know if massaman curry is in Bobby's repertoire, but maybe he can figure it out himself. God, he wants to kick himself, thinking back on the way he had Bobby help him cook up a feast for Tommy when he got hurt, so eager to deliver it and share it with Tommy and - how didn't he know, he wonders, for approximately the seventy five thousandth time.

Tommy's leaning forward a little so they can look at the same menu, the low light making him look just - breathtaking. Like, Buck literally cannot get a proper breath and he wipes his hands on his slacks under the table, agrees to Tommy's appetizer choices without really hearing them because he's so fixated on Tommy's hand as he points out options, his short, neat fingernails, the hangnail at the base of his index finger.

Tommy has such good hands - they're capable and sturdy and strong and flecked with scars and freckles from work and time outside, and his fingers are big and blunt and - Buck wants to hold his hand so badly it's making him crazy. He can almost see it - the way their fingers would look intertwined, the way Tommy's knuckles would flex when he squeezed.

He could reach out, take Tommy's hand. That would - that would make it clear, right? If he reached out and slotted his fingers through Tommy's, that would say it for him. But it won't, will it? If he reaches out and takes Tommy's hand he'll probably just get a weird look in response. God, they blurred those lines so comprehensively that Buck isn't sure if there's any way back. The idea makes him feel miserable, and he only startles out of it when the server comes to take their order.

Tommy rattles off the appetizers and entrees Buck apparently agreed to while deep in the fog of the most PG fantasy he's had in years. Tommy launches into a story about his latest shift and Buck nods, makes affirmative noises in the right places, takes slow sips of his water, tries to calm the fuck down. How can it possibly be so much easier to fuck Tommy, to get fucked by Tommy than to have a conversation with him about what he wants?

"So uh - h-how was your date?" Buck asks. He kind of desperately does not want to know, but he guesses if Tommy met the love of his life last night he should probably know about it.

"Yeah, it was nice," Tommy says with a shrug, and something in Buck settles. Nice doesn't scream 'whirlwind romance of the century, eloping to Vegas next weekend'.

"You gonna see him again?"

"Well. Not for a date," Tommy says with a smirk, and Buck abruptly feels like his insides are on fire.

no pressure whatever day it is tags for @trombonechurchill, @setmeatopthepyre and @bidisasterevankinard

[kimquatz]

Hi Kimbo! Atacus and Hafora are my fave of ur OCs, they live rent free in my mind >=] Can you tell us about Hafora Anfeng? 10 and 19 on the Ask Meme please

Send me an OC name and a number to ask!

Thank you for enjoying them as much as i do! 🥺🫶 And ty for asking for Hafora, they're one of the more underrated of my OCs LOL

10. What is their main character arc in the story? Where do they start and how do they develop? Do they get a happy ending or is their story a tragic one?

Since Hafora is one of the more minor characters present in the jadebloods' story, her arc is a bit more subtle and still a WIP! She, like the other jades (Lanque and Bronya), is also trying to cope with the grief and loss of someone they deeply cared for. Where the main story begins, she's very closed off. After Atacus' death being 'punished' by the Empire, it scared her into never opening up and unable to embrace herself as an individual. She was already quite reserved, and Atacus was one of the few people she could confide in, to feel comfortable with herself, and have a hope for the future. But, with them gone, it was like a grim reminder of Alternia's cruelty towards kindness and individuality in this world.

Hafora is only relevant in their way past though, and is already off-planet by the time the story technically "starts." I like to imagine either Lanque or Bronya would run into her again off-planet! They were only kids since they last saw her, and it would be nice to see them reconvene when they're older to talk about their feelings on the past. 🤔 Whether she gets a "happy" or "tragic" ending is yet to be determined, but i'm inclined to think it will be a very slow progression of learning to overcome her fears.

19. What is your general favourite thing about the character? What is your least favourite?

One of the many things I'm fond about about Hafora's character is that she's very reminiscent of what it feels like to be a closeted dfab individual growing up in a severely strict asian household (the brooding caverns lol). There's expectations on you; who you have to be, who you're growing up to be, how to act, etc. Even when you know deep down you don't want to, you put it all aside because of the fear of disappointing and/or failure. Of course, It's not a complete 1-to-1, but it definitely draws from a lot from those feelings and experiences that i feel sentimental towards them. My least favorite thing about them is how stubborn they are LOL. Though, not that i hate that about them, it's just a result of the life they've lived. More like I just want them to learn to be happy and free, and it makes me sad that they keep holding themselves back for so long v_v

[stellar-collective]

I'm asking real niceys for you to talk about beebo!! 🙋‍♂️

holy CRAB this took a long time to get to, so sorry about that, my thoughts on the game were so disorganized i kept putting it off lol!! when u see how much i have written down u will understand. u will understand.

this is gonna be my ~spoiler review~ where i ramble incoherently about character and plot beats i liked! this will assume that you have played the game and remember it well. if u want the spoiler free version, that one can be found here! you have been warned!

ok so a lot of this are taken straight from the notes i jotted down whilst replaying the game! very stream of consciousness style lol

alrighty! right off the bat, this game just has SO much quality of life stuff that you’d think would get overlooked bc it’s such a small project but no! like seriously this game is way better than some Big Company games i’ve played that have cost, y’know, money. like for example, i touched on this in my spoiler free review but the way the dialogue changes throughout the loops? first loop, all of Oliver’s observations are brief and impersonal, leaving plenty of room for them to develop as the loops progress

i said in my first ramble post that Mari made me laugh out loud towards the beginning; this was incorrect, it was actually VIVI who made me laugh with her “i arrive.”

speaking of Vivi, she’s just peak. in general. i love her so much she’s such a vibe and i don’t think there was a single scene she was in that she didn’t make me laugh or smile like what an icon

the introduction to the time loop was KILLER ooh it had so much intrigue behind it already. also the IMMEDIATE implication of the memories carrying over with Oliver quoting Ángel’s “this isn’t the best place to get trashed” (they’re down so bad already AUGH)

haunted houses. oh my gosh. put those things up there with taming robots from Oneshot for “game concepts that make me BONKERS” like. i gained so much appreciation for that lore when i got all the endings. it’s delicious.

also the relationship between haunted houses and the concept of ghosts and how both relate to Oliver…

also love how every loop there’s a way for Oliver to learn the code without the player just knowing it! the fourth wall remains intact (we ain’t playing deltarune…)

I HEART DOOMED/TOXIC SIBLING RELATIONSHIPSSSS and oh how i love how much the characters in this game act like deeply irrational people with layers of relationships and trauma and love that muddles things up and affects their actions it’s so nice <333

Nina’s “mad at me island” joke was a one hit KO for me

after the explosion when Ángel is reaching THROUGH the panel borders and the clock echoes slow and loud AHHHH (also “i never got his name. he looks like an Angel” KILL ME KILL ME NOW)

i LOVEEE how the loops echo and echo and echo with the memory loss being imperfect and how that makes you the player never doubt that it can be cracked and sets up the endings

CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE COLORS i knowwww it’s simple but SHH i’m having fun. absolutely ADORE how everything is Eugene’s purple until they break the house and his hold over them and then everyone gets their own colors back. also love how you don’t even realize that they HAVE their own colors until the flashbacks (maybe) or the end when you’re like “ohhhh that’s NOT normal.” the house changes u. filters u. ur only halfway urself. AND THEN IN THAT ONE ENDING WHERE OLIVER DOESN’T GET OUT AND THEN HE’S PURPLE. HE LOST HIS COLOR AGGGHHHH

the fact that Oliver made one joke calling Ángel a seraphim years ago and he named his company that. soulmates fr

their banter drives me crazy i have so many notes in this document that are just quoting them bc it’s all so good. like Oliver showing Ángel his guitar callouses and Ángel wanting to make puzzles for him and just ADHLSJSK

also hugeeee shout out to autistic Beebo once again the grounded writing shines thru in how he takes all the jesting comments one step too literally. and like the whole bedroom misunderstanding? autism moment fr

“you have the look of a man who would be hunted for sport” Vivi is the funniest character ever written end of sentence.

the thief instincts showing up with Ángel yoinking Oliver’s hat. it’s so cute

OK I NEED TO TALK ABOUT HOW GOOD THE ART GALLERY SECTION IS. this is a puzzle game. you’ve spent the last two or three hours of gameplay making things fit neatly together. that’s Oliver’s favorite thing; solving puzzles! and then the art gallery… it’s tantalizing. it feels that there’s rhyme and reason to it. like there’s a pattern you just can’t quite see. but… there isn’t. but there has to be. the game doesn’t end here, does it? and just like Beebo, you start to wonder if you’re doing something wrong. if you’re missing something. when you get trapped between those two rooms— oh man, i was panicking just as much as Oliver

and then!! the solution is to CHANGE THE GENRE!! this ain’t a puzzle game anymore, this is a doom style fighting game. and you’re gonna kill that house. i LOVE it when games pull stuff like that

OK THE KISS. it was actually SUCH a smart plan dude and also the fact that they GOT THEIR COLORS BACK because the house CAN’T wash out or dilute that kind of emotion? mm. genius. showstopping.

also like. there’s something there about the angel vs ghost iconography. the divine versus the natural. the house is breathing. the house is watching. the house has a purpose that breaks the natural world. fear not. you should be scared. i’m not making any sense but Man

ok the decision to make Ángel not know what cells or dna is so the player can hear a differently flavored explanation this game is really just a masterclass on how to repeat information without getting stale (there are many games that could do with this lesson)

the love this game shows for a mundane life is SO sweet and important to me like here’s this villain that’s so so so sosososo scared of death that he misses out on his life and like. that IS the story that timeloops have to tell. that you have to live the imperfect life because that’s all that matters!! immortality don’t mean nothing if you’re a hermit!! existing in a coffin, aging without living, that’s what a ghost freaking is!! and you don’t wanna be one of those!! you wanna be alive!! like a lot of games n movies n books n stuff make you want to go out and have a wild adventure but i rlly appreciate this game for gently taking ur hand and saying “the REAL adventure is the friends u make along the way and the best part of the story is the holiday parties and the sleepy mornings and the board game nights and the pottery classes and the vinyl records and the sunrises and the love” bc it’s RIGHT.

anyway. thank u for coming to my ramble. i should become a youtube video essayist or smth i’m so good at yapping to an audience of No One. i’m not normal about anything ever and that’s never gonna change sorry

[junkuna]

°❀.ೃ࿔* ink me like one of your french girls - sukuna x reader

chapter 4 - thief ! ˎˊ˗

────────────────────

࿔ pairing - tattooartist.sukuna x tattooartist!fem!reader

I summary - you let out an exasperated breath, pushing the needle against the skin a little too hard. “Oh, great. You took my blue ink. You swiped my needles. You’re stealing my apprentice now.” you throw your hands up in the air, feeling a bit of that frustration that’s been simmering since Megumi’s decision started to settle in your chest. “What else do you want?”

࿔ warnings - still none ! the fact there r no warnings makes it seem like this fic is all fluff but TRUST just u wait

࿔ fic tags - they're both idiots so 0 communication, DEFO gets frustrating at times / shameless smut, mostly vanilla though for the chapters ive already written / megumi is ur apprentice which is cute / sukuna + yujir BROTHERS / mahito is an asshole, mentions of attempted sexual assault. / enemies (ish?) to lovers / trying 2 go 4 a slow burn but i fear it's not as slow as i wanted it to be. will add more as we progress probably be i suck at describing my work

࿔ wc - 2.6k

— enjoy as always !

════════════════════════════

You’re not watching the clock.

You’ve got too much to do to waste time wondering how long Megumi’s been gone, what kind of chaos Sukuna’s dumped him into, whether he’s elbow-deep in color packs or getting lectured on “brand vision” and “artistic energy” by a man who once tried to trademark his own face.

No. You’re working.

Two walk-ins, one rework, and a custom sternum piece. The girl flinched the whole time, but it came out clean. You even caught her smiling into the mirror when you peeled back the final wrap. That’s enough to keep your hands busy, to keep your brain from wandering.

Still—without Megumi shuffling around the shop, mumbling under his breath, rolling his eyes when you forget your coffee on the top shelf—it’s quiet. Unsettlingly so.

You scrub your station down harder than necessary, eyes flicking to the empty chair he usually haunts near the front. The sketchbook’s still there, but closed. You don’t peek.

You won’t admit it, but the place runs different without him.

Late afternoon rolls around. You finally get five minutes to sit, stretch your back, stare at your phone like it owes you something.

No texts. No updates.

You could message him. Ask if he’s alive. Ask if Sukuna’s made him pierce someone’s eyebrow with a needle dipped in Monster energy drink. But you don’t.

He’ll be fine. Probably.

You lean back in the chair, arms crossed behind your head, letting the low hum of the shop lull you into a brief, heavy quiet. The front bell doesn’t ring. No laughter from the back. Just the low thrum of a playlist Megumi didn’t queue up for once.

And for the first time in a long time, your shop doesn’t feel entirely like yours.

You tell yourself it’s just for today.

One day.

That’s all.

_________

across the street :

Sukuna’s shop didn’t believe in silence.

The bass from the speaker system shook the walls, spilling heavy beats and distorted guitar riffs through the exposed brick and polished cement. The walls were covered in framed pieces—bold, vivid, intense. A full back piece of a flayed-open dragon next to a gory portrait of some mythological god mid-scream. Neon lights buzzed above the mirrors, casting the whole place in a bruised purple haze.

Megumi stood near the front, hands in his pockets, trying not to look too stiff.

“Yo, new kid!”

A voice cut through the music. Sukuna’s second-in-command—Yuu—was sprawled behind the counter, chewing on a toothpick and gesturing lazily toward the back. “He’s in the pit. Go say hi before he thinks you’re scared.”

Megumi didn’t answer. He just nodded once and stepped past the buzzing stations, the half-laughed conversations, the smell of blood and antiseptic and permanent ink.

Sukuna was hunched over a thigh piece, forearm slick with ink and sanitizer, talking to his client like they were longtime friends. His hair was pulled back, sleeves rolled up, the little flower you tattooed on his bicep covered neatly in fresh wrap.

Megumi didn’t say anything until Sukuna glanced up and caught him.

He grinned. “You’re late.”

“I’m on time.”

“For you, maybe.” Sukuna leaned back, wiped his machine down with a flick of the wrist, and turned to grab a second needle. “Grab gloves. You’re assisting. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Don’t ask questions unless they’re good ones. Got it?”

Megumi nodded once, already pulling gloves from the box on the counter.

The day didn’t slow down from there.

He watched as Sukuna worked with brutal precision—clean lines, aggressive shading, confident motion like his hands had never fumbled. Everything he did had flair, but none of it felt hollow. Even when he talked shit, joked with his crew, or bragged about his own designs, his needle never slipped.

He was loud. Obnoxious. Way too sure of himself.

But he was good.

Really good.

Megumi didn’t want to like him—but he couldn’t ignore it, either.

Sukuna didn’t treat him like a rookie. Didn’t coddle him or explain every little thing. He just kept tossing instructions over his shoulder mid-session.

“Refill this. Don’t touch that. Line weights matter more than you think.”

And Megumi followed, quietly absorbing every detail.

By the time the fifth client walked in—asking for a full sleeve with a horror theme—Sukuna cracked his neck and finally tossed a glance his way.

“You tired yet?”

Megumi shook his head.

Sukuna grinned. “Good. Draw me something for this. Five minutes. Back table.”

Then he went to clean his station, leaving Megumi alone with a pen, a blank sheet, and the heavy pulse of bass still thrumming in the walls.

He crouched at the back table, sharpie bleeding fast across the sketch paper, lines coming together in quick, angular strokes. A stitched-up skull. Something monstrous curling behind it. Veins like smoke. Teeth like broken glass. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually drew, but it felt right under his fingers.

The shop around him hummed with noise—someone yelling for backup at the sink, the buzz of machines layered like static over the pounding bass. No one told him to hurry. No one asked if he needed help.

It was assumed he’d figure it out.

And he did.

By the time Sukuna wandered over, stretching his arms like he hadn’t been hunched for hours, Megumi was already sliding the sketch across the table.

Sukuna stopped. Looked down.

Raised a brow.

“Huh,” he muttered, picking it up with one hand, turning it slightly under the overhead light. “Not bad.”

Megumi didn’t say anything. Just watched as Sukuna traced the lines with his eyes, lips twitching at the corners.

“You sure you don’t wanna transfer here?” he asked, glancing sideways.

Megumi snorted. “Pretty sure.”

“Shame.” Sukuna tossed the page back down. “Your style’s starting to rot, y’know. Sitting in that minimalist palace across the street. All that clean line work and negative space bullshit. It’s like watching a boxer wear ballet shoes.”

Megumi didn’t rise to the bait. “Minimalism’s not bullshit.”

Sukuna grinned, like he was impressed. “You have feelings. Good to know.”

He didn’t press the issue after that. Just scanned the sketch one more time, then flicked the paper toward his client waiting up front.

“Line her up. You’re assisting.”

Megumi moved without needing another word.

For the next few hours, time folded in on itself. They worked through another sleeve, another shoulder piece, another girl asking for something “feral, but sexy.” Sukuna cracked jokes, barked commands, and barely looked twice when Megumi started cleaning down without being told.

By the time the sky outside was violet, slipping toward night, Sukuna finally leaned against the counter and let out a long exhale.

He wiped his brow with the back of his arm and glanced at the clock.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t think you’d last.”

Megumi tossed a rag into the bin. “You thought I’d flake?”

“I thought you’d cry.”

“I don’t cry.”

Sukuna gave him a sharp grin. “I’ll keep pushing ‘til you do.”

Megumi didn’t smile back—but he didn’t leave, either.

Megumi was cleaning up his station, wiping down his machine, stacking the chairs. His mind felt strangely sharp after the hours spent shadowing Sukuna, absorbing the way he worked with both aggression and precision. For the first time in a while, Megumi felt like there’s something more he could be doing. Like maybe this place has something he can learn after all.

He was about to grab his things when his eyes caught on Sukuna, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watching him. It took him a second to realize what’s drawing his attention—Sukuna’s sleeve is rolled up a little higher than usual, and the wrap around his arm is barely visible beneath the folds of fabric.

A tattoo.

A small flower, hidden under the wrap, delicate and minimalist. It’s unmistakably the one from the other night—the one you did on him.

Megumi’s gaze flickered up to his face, who was now watching him closely, eyes narrowing. He didn’t seem particularly bothered, but there was a moment of quiet between them, heavy with the knowledge of what really happened that night.

Megumi couldn’t help it. He asked before he could stop himself. “Why don’t you just remove it?”

Sukuna quirked an eyebrow, lips pulling into a smirk as if he was waiting for the punchline.

“Remove it?” He repeated, voice dripping with amused disbelief. “You think I’m the kind of guy who’s gonna go through the effort of erasing a tattoo that’s already been done?” He snorted. “You sure you wanna be giving me advice on how to remove anything?”

Megumi crossed his arms, not backing down. “It’s not like you actually like it. It’s—”

“—It’s nothing,” Sukuna interrupted, voice cutting through like a blade. “We were drunk. And if you’re looking for a reason to try and make sense of it, well, you’re wasting your time. Not everything has to be some deep, meaningful thing.”

“You could just do a cover-up tattoo, you know.”

“Yeah. I know that, kid.”

Megumi doesn’t buy it. “So why keep it?”

Sukuna shrugged, his posture lazy but his eyes flickering over to Megumi in a way that almost feels like a challenge. “It’s just a little flower. You think it’s a problem?”

Megumi glanced back at the wrap, but he couldn’t make out much else except for the clean, delicate outline of the petals. There was something unnerving about it, something that didn’t match the rest of Sukuna. The guy who always has something sharp to say. The guy who doesn’t do subtle. The guy who scoffed at anything that doesn’t hit hard enough.

“Yeah,” Megumi muttered. “It’s a problem.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s weird.”

Sukuna’s smirk twisted, but there was no anger behind it. It was almost like he was entertained by Megumi’s bluntness.

“I thought I told you to stop looking for meaning in everything.” Sukuna took a step back, adjusting the strap of his apron like the conversation’s already over. “You’re still learning, kid. Don’t try to overcomplicate shit.”

Megumi doesn’t respond. He just watches Sukuna move across the room, his back to him as he grabs a drink from the fridge.

There’s something about that tattoo now, about seeing it on Sukuna’s arm, that’s starting to gnaw at the back of his mind. He’s still not sure how to feel about it, or whether it’s even worth thinking about. But as he picks up his bag and heads for the door, he can’t help but wonder.

_________

The bell over the door rings.

It’s an hour into the next day, and you were in the middle of prepping for a sleeve when Megumi walked in, looking like he’s already made up his mind. The moment he stepped into the shop, you know—he’s leaving. You don’t need the words yet, not with the way he’s standing there, his shoulders set a little differently, his eyes just a bit sharper than they were yesterday. Like he’s been thinking about this longer than he should have.

He didn’t sit down. Just stood at the entrance, shifting his weight, clearly unsure of how to break the silence.

You know. You can’t help it. You’ve been expecting this.

Still, it didn’t stop the little jolt in your chest when he spoke.

“I want to transfer,” he says quietly, voice hesitant but firm.

You paused, your hand frozen on the needle, a line of ink still in the machine. The sound of it whirring filled the room, but your focus shifted completely.

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t.

Megumi doesn’t meet your eyes right away, though his hands are fidgeting with the straps of his bag. He looks so… small. So unsure. Like he knows you won’t like this decision, but he also knows it’s the right one for him.

“I… I think I could learn more there,” he continues, swallowing slightly. “Sukuna’s been showing me more. I’m starting to get it. He’s teaching me things you can’t.”

A bitter pang of something settles in your stomach, but you push it away. You’re a professional, and you can’t make this about you. You can’t hold him back.

You take a breath, setting the needle down carefully on your station. The tension hangs in the air between you, but you finally speak.

“You’re right,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “Sukuna will teach you more. He’s a different kind of artist. And you are learning. You’re better than you were when you started.”

Megumi looks up at that, and his expression softens—maybe surprised you’re not fighting him.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “But I—”

“I know,” you interrupt, swallowing hard. You glance away for a moment, gathering yourself, and then look back at him. “You’re not going to grow here forever, Megumi. You’ve got to spread your wings. You’re going to get better at what you do, and it won’t be here. It’s fine.

You smile, though it feels more like a reflex than anything genuine.

“Just… don’t forget where you came from, alright?” You let out a breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first time I showed you how to load a needle.”

The sadness is creeping in—he’s really leaving—but you shove it back down. He’s not gone yet. And maybe, just maybe, this is what’s best for him. What’s best for the both of you.

Megumi nods. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then, after a breath, he gives a quiet, “Thanks.”

You don’t say anything else. Instead, you grab a few supplies from the drawer, pushing yourself back into the rhythm of work. He’s already made his decision, and you’re not going to change his mind.

You’ll deal with it.

You breathed in and out, focusing on the tattoo in front of you. The needle glided smoothly across the skin, the ink marking its path. You were almost back in your groove, forcing the weight of Megumi’s decision out of your mind, but the doorbell rang, snapping you back to reality.

You turned, already knowing who it was.

He strolled in like he owned the place—which, technically, he kind of did, given how often he was here taking supplies from your shop. Your shoulders tensed before he even said a word.

“Hi,” Sukuna said, his smirk already on display as his eyes flickered around the room. “How’s everything today?”

You ground your teeth, not bothering to respond with anything more than a sharp, “What do you want?”

He didn’t even flinch at your tone. Of course not. He never did.

“I just wanted to check on my artwork.” Sukuna shrugged, voice smooth like always, like he hadn’t taken enough from you already.

You let out an exasperated breath, pushing the needle against the skin a little too hard. “Oh, great. You took my blue ink. You swiped my needles. You’re stealing my apprentice now.” You threw your hands up in the air, feeling a bit of that frustration that had been simmering since Megumi’s decision started to settle in your chest. “What else do you want?”

Sukuna tilted his head, like your annoyance was a strange but amusing puzzle he was trying to figure out. “I didn’t know you cared so much,” he said, mockingly thoughtful. “But hey, I get it. I do.” He stepped closer, looking down at your lower back, his eyes catching on the stylized serpent tattoo you got while drunk at his place—the one he did for you.

The irony of it was almost laughable.

“What?” you snapped, catching his eyes, and he smirked, bending down to inspect the lines. His fingers almost touched the skin where the tattoo wrapped, but he pulled back just in time.

“It’s healing alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His gaze narrowed, inspecting every curve and every detail of the ink. “But you haven’t been cleaning it properly.”

You frowned, confusion sweeping over you. “What?”

He looked up, fixing you with a look that was somehow both knowing and mocking. “You should’ve been washing it, you know? Don’t want it to get infected.”

“Seriously? What do you think I am?” You stepped back, irritated. “I know how to take care of a tattoo. I own this shop. I’m not some rookie.”

“Sure looks like it,” Sukuna shot back, grinning. Before you could protest, he took a step forward, unrolling a fresh bandage, and crouched down in front of you without waiting for permission. His hands moved quickly and expertly, cleaning the tattoo as if it was second nature to him.

“You’re really going to do this?” You scowled at him. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Sukuna interrupted with a smirk, his fingers working as he carefully wiped the inked area, his touch lingering just a bit too long.

The silence stretched between you two until your annoyance bubbled over again. “Well, if you’re gonna be all… thoughtful,” you muttered, “how about you tell me if you’ve been taking care of the one I did for you?”

Sukuna paused, fingers brushing against your skin before pulling away. He looked up at you, his expression unreadable. “I got it removed the morning after,” he lied with the same calm, nonchalant tone he always used.

You raised an eyebrow, a cold laugh escaping your lips. “Really? You got it removed?”

He smirked, a little too smooth, a little too sure of himself. “Yeah. Can’t have a flower like that on my arm, now can I?”

“Okay, show me then.”

“Um, no.”

You narrowed your eyes, sensing a lie in the way he was too calm about it. But you didn’t press him. It didn’t matter, did it? You told yourself you didn’t care about the tattoo anyway. It was a mistake, right? Just a drunk decision.

Except now, Sukuna was standing there, treating your tattoo like it was something worth cleaning. And that didn’t sit right.

He finished, standing up and tossing the used cloth into the trash bin. “There. All better.”

He gave you one last look—half-pitying, half-amused—before he turned toward the door.

“You’re welcome,” he called out, his voice light but full of something else you couldn’t quite place.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you felt a strange heaviness settle in your chest. Maybe it was just the tattoo. Maybe it was the way he spoke about it. Maybe it was the fact that he was right, and you hadn’t been taking care of it properly. You didn’t know.

[porterdavis]

How I spent my Sunday

[Possibly too personal, perhaps too boring, certainly way too long. You've been warned]

There's never a good time to be sick. I don't mean sniffles, or heaven forbid even something as deadly as a man-cold. No, I mean something that lays you out flat in bed wishing you weren't too old to be calling out for your mommy.

That was me. I got a cold when I was in Halifax visiting my daughter and family (love those kids!!). For a variety of reasons, mostly stupidity in my youth, I almost always develop bronchitis as a parting gift from a cold. Somehow I had forgotten to bring my 'action pack' medicine -- prednisone and a lung-specific antibiotic prescribed by my doctor, meaning the bronchitis had a free 2-day head-start in my alveoli.

I started my meds as soon as I got home and went to bed. I kept hoping for signs of improvement but there were none. By Friday afternoon my breathing capacity had sunk to mouthfuls of air at a time. Fevers and chills took over my corpus and a wracking cough convulsed me while providing no relief. It was almost impossible for me to lie down without having phlegm choke me. Somehow near dawn I managed to sleep for a few hours and as the hours went by I thought I was getting better and dismissed thoughts of going to the hospital. My biggest fear is pneumonia, which a previous doctor had described to me as God's helper in clearing out nursing homes. But I've had it twice and felt I knew it's symptoms and I wasn't there.

Unfortunately by late afternoon I had declined even further, I felt as if the proverbial elephant was sitting on my chest. I couldn't draw a deep enough breath to inhale a dose from my inhalers. By nightfall I was sitting slumped on my couch, wracked by coughing fits every time I took more than a wisp of air. Minute after minute, hour after hour, I watched the clock above my TV barely progress. I felt like I had to take a sip of air as if through a straw, otherwise a spasm of coughing would set me back, creating an oxygen debt that would take minutes to overcome.

And that is when my mortality hit me for the first time in my life. I realized that I could die then and there. I don't say that to be dramatic, just that I had never before faced dying in such a specific manner. Of course I'd had near-death experiences, but those were mostly accidents, inexplicable, unpreventable (mostly), and thus understandable.

In the early hours of Sunday I had led my life into a pass where I could die. People would say 'what a shame', but I'm old enough that no one would be surprised. Another book closed, another bridge crossed. I was too weak, too fevered, to take any steps one might reasonably take. I thought it was an impossibility to find my phone and call 911. How would they get in? How could I even speak...make myself understood? Laugh if you must but these seemed insurmountable obstacles to someone in delirium.

Well, not to give away the plot, but I survived the night. After all, I'm here writing about it. I spent 11 1/2 hours in the ER of my local hospital, shuffled from one test to another, one waiting room to another, always treated respectfully, but the pace was dreadfully slow. My triage must have read 'sick, but won't die here' so I was gently but repeatedly moved down the ladder as normal Sunday ER trade filled the rooms.

By the time I finally got face to face with a doctor I hadn't slept more than three hours in two-plus days, I hadn't eaten in 24 hours and I was feeling a little cross-wise. She asked me what I wanted and not wanting to get all dramatic on her I just said I wanted to know if I was going to get better. She shuffled my charts a bit and finally said 'we sometimes have to remember to look at the patient, not just the numbers. Yes, you're going to get better. You're very sick, but we've got you covered'.

And that's when I cried. There's more to the story, but this is long enough already.

Hug the people you love.

[2isted-chocol8-art]

Hiii this past month has been hectic and I couldn't draw much so like, have some doodles I had saved in my computer. You got time buddies, post loop shenanigans and uhhhh a little me. -> More Outer Wilds Art!

[spliqi]

higuchi thoughts of the day: as much as i love the idea of her having some devastatingly destructive ability… her having a healing/support ability would explain so much of her character. like. her high ranking in the mafia despite (as far as we know) not being extraordinarily strong. her assignment to akutagawa + his resentment of her + her being so overprotective of him. the irl author’s connection to mori and yosano. dw about it

[bipanicoverthegravessiblings]

How about Ashley x Emo Fem Reader? Like gothic with uhh emotic? Or something like that. Like they meet when they been in high school. And they live in Y/N's house that she get from her parents when they passed

If you had any questions, ask me

Oooohhhh- okay okay!

Ashley Graves x Emo Fem!Reader

Social outcast, you generally considered yourself

Not just you, your peers as well had called you that- or…crude variations of it

Point is, no one in school really liked you

You’ve overheard their gossip- all the same shit really

“I bet she lights cats on fire!” “Look at her sleeves, I bet she cuts herself.” “She’s gonna blow up the school I swear”

They couldn’t even bother to be creative with their assumptions about you- a lot of the same depressed demon stuff

….and you are depressed- but that’s besides the point!

You never really connected with any of your peers..

…well- except one..

Lunchtime was quite possibly the worst part of your day. It was a war zone. In the classrooms you had teachers to lessen the blows your classmates would throw at you, both metaphorically and physically, here the only solace of a savior were the underpaid lunch ladies who were occupied handing out food to students.

You hugged the wall as you carefully watched your peers, they all seemed fairly occupied in their own conversations- not even noticing you. You liked it when they forgot your existence. Loneliness beat cruelty.

There was a table you always sat at, tucked into the corner of the lunchroom- and for good reasons. The surface was littered with graffiti of swears, slurs, those cool S’s, and various crude doodles left by your peers. Not only that, but the table was very wobbly, so badly you usually have to use two textbooks to prop it up. The bottom was covered in dried out, chewed gum- the entire thing was just a sitting “DO NOT COME HERE” sign.

And it was perfect!

No one ever sat there due to how shitty it was, you think the students and faculty didn’t even bother to go near it. They either think it’s cursed, or forgot about it. Or both. Maybe both. But today someone had actually got there before you did.

A disgruntled girl with messy black hair poked at the mystery meat on her lunch tray. Poked isn’t the right word- more like viciously stabbed it repeatedly. Her nose scrunched in frustration, likely not directed towards the so-called food, but it was the only thing she had to vent her frustrations on to. She hadn’t noticed you.

You stood there a little awkwardly, not wanting to startle her on accident, so instead you spoke up meekly.

“Uhm…hi.” You smiled a little, trying to harmless. She didn’t look like your average bullies, but you can never be too careful.

She looked up at you with her pink eyes- her gaze was sharp, and you instinctively tensed in preparation for some insult to be thrown. She gave you a once over before returning to her tray, “…hey.”

“Can I…sit here?” It was a dumb question. Technically this table had been your seat, and this girl just showed up out of nowhere- but, oh well.

She gave a frustrated sigh, “God- did Andy put you up to this?” She asked rather accusatory, pointing her fork at you.

You opened your mouth to reply before she interrupted you, “Look how many times do I have to tell you hussies, you’re just wasting your time! He’s not going to fuck you if you’re nice to me so just—“

“Who’s Andy?”

The question you asked sounded genuine….cause it was. Really, you had no idea who this ‘Andy’ guy was. The girl lowered her fork, eyeing you wearily before she decided that you weren’t lying. She turned her head and muttered,

“….you can sit.”

And so you did. The two of you ate in relative silence. Well- you ate. Your new lunch friend more-so stabbed at her food then ate it. You swallowed down the lump of unidentifiable cafeteria meat and gave her a friendly smile. The silence was deafening and you’d never had anyone to eat with so maybe…maybe this could be nice for a change..

“I’m Y/N.” You introduced yourself.

The girl glanced up at you before returning to her tray, “…Ashley..”

“I’ve never seen you at this table much.” your hands patted the surface nervously.

“Normally I sit with my brother and so-called friend,” her words dripped with malice, “But my stupid brother had to go study for some history test! And my ‘friend’ conveniently didn’t save me a seat…” she stuck her fork into the biggest chunk of her food and muttered, “Fucking bitch…”

“That’s a bit harsh..” you mumbled, causing Ashley to perk up and glare at you.

She practically climbed over the table and held her fork out towards you, making your hands instinctively raise in surrender, “She is a bitch! A doe-eyed hussie who thinks she’s soooooo innocent when she sucks just as much as everyone else!”

“I meant it was harsh that she wouldn’t let you sit with her,” your eyes were fixated on the fork, kind of worried Ashley would drive it into your neck, “I…should’ve been more specific. Sorry.”

Ashley’s pink eyes widened a little, she almost seemed- shocked someone took her side. Slowly, she clambered back to her seat and went quiet. You lowered your hands back into your lap and stared at her. Ashley pushed her tray and folded her arms overtop the table.

“….thanks.” She mumbled.

After that, you saw Ashley a lot more

It wasn’t every day, maybe once a week or two she would show up at your hidden table to eat

Slowly, she came out of that shell and actually initiated conversations

Well- conversations were a stretch. It was more like her venting about her frustrating day while you nodded along and ate.

Eventually, she liked you enough to stop you in the halls and walk with you

Usually her brother, Andrew you had come to learn his actual name, walked with her and she made a show to cling on to your arm

It never failed to make the heat rush to your face

Ashley was cute. Very cute. And had a general unhinged vibe that just made her all the more alluring

So it didn’t surprise you that you’d catch feelings for your new friend

No- what surprised you was when Ashley actually liked you back

You paused, silence hanging in the air as Ashley stared at you expectingly. Her foot tapped with impatience as she awaited what you were going to say.

“Well?”

You didn’t know what to say, the only time anyone has asked you out was as a prank. This was different. The question wasn’t coming from some bully barely able to keep their giggles in, this was coming from your friend. Someone you trusted. Someone who wouldn’t hurt you…..at least you think. She did threaten you with a fork.

Ashley’s growing impatience let you know just how slack jawed you were, “Look- if you’re going to be weird about this then just…forget I said anything.” She crossed her arms, turning away from you in a huff.

That was when you came out of your stupor, trying to salvage this, “No! No! It’s okay- really! I’m just….shocked that you asked me out.” You stammered with your explanation, “I didn’t even think you liked girls..”

“Me neither.” She mumbled, the faintest starts of a blush painting her cheeks. It was cute. She was cute.

Your face softened as you placed a hand on her shoulder, “….I’d love to.”

From there you two were dating

Had it only put more unwanted attention on you? Yes, but you wouldn’t have it any other way

You were happy, so fuck what those jerks had to say

Things were good, and after high school the both of you fucked off to another town

With Andrew in college, it’s not like Ashley wanted to stick around her shitty homelife

And you- honestly had no connections aside from your parents, and moving out was expected

So, it was you and Ashley. Outcast for outcast

[quesadilla-day]

"...perhaps there was no reason for her yearning. Maybe it was like… when different elemental types of Fungi come together, or how Cryo creatures are drawn to bodies of water.

Maybe she just loved him—

The moment the thought crossed her mind, she choked rather suddenly on her fruit juice."

[daffi-990]

WIP Wednesday 📝

Tagged by the amazing @wikiangela & @lover-of-mine. Thank you for the tags mwah mwah 😘

I’ve almost finished this chapter … it’s been fighting me for weeks but now I’m finally getting somewhere and hopefully will finish it this week and can finally move forward onto chapter five and all the random stuff I have written for that chapter 😅

From stuck now so long, we just got the start wrong aka rival firefighters 🚒 . Pre snippet here.

Diaz moves first, storming past Buck and the remaining onlookers who didn’t scatter after Captain Cooper dealt out their punishment. Buck feels like a child being sent to his room for a time out. A part of him wants to fight Cooper’s orders, to argue and gnash his teeth that Diaz was the one to cause a scene, but he knows it’s not worth it. Captain Cooper could’ve written both him and Diaz up but instead chose to be lenient, so Buck needs to bite his tongue and just bare it, or he’s going to do more damage. Pick your battles and whatnot.

Buck walks over to the 118 engine and climbs in, taking some satisfaction in slamming the door before he remembers Bobby’s stance on treating the engine, truck and ambulance with respect like they’re one of the team, because they are. He winces and mumbles out an apology to the engine, moving around until he’s in a comfortable position where he still has a good view of what’s happening outside. His eyes find the 136 engine and the angry glare of Diaz. The dude has sunglasses on now, but Buck knows those brown eyes are ablaze with rage and that Diaz is probably imagining lighting Buck on fire with his mind, which is absolutely ridiculous because Diaz was the one who escalated things. All Buck was trying to do was check in with the guy because he didn’t seem okay. And by the way he broke his professionalism and snapped at Buck, something is definitely not okay. Maybe Diaz got some bad personal news or had a tough shift, maybe even lost someone on a call.

No pressure tagging: @athenagranted @monsterrae1 @callmenewbie @clusterbuck @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @hoodie-buck @watchyourbuck @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @honestlydarkprincess @steadfastsaturnsrings @spagheddiediaz @malewifediaz @wildlife4life @rainbow-nerdss @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz @evcndiaz @try-set-me-on-fire @devirnis @giddyupbuck @theotherbuckley @disasterbuckdiaz @jamespearce9-1-1 @jesuisici33 @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz and as always, anyone who wasn’t tagged but wants to share something - consider yourself tagged now 🥰

[meownotgood]

I'm still writing... unfortunately work has been really busy again so I definitely won't be able to finish chapter 4 by the end of the month like I planned.... 😭 but I'm nearly done, I'll keep working 🫡

[cathymee]

maybe it's to maintain a sense of tension & turmoil that would eventually reach an explosive peak, a sense of tug-of-war, a back-and-forth to hammer home the ideals they want to deliver and for the viewers to chew on, but although these arguments regarding hiroshi & his stance as a man torn between his loyalty for his country & the loyalty for his Filipino friends and lover is of course important, how they write these scenes & the points they present from this week alone is getting too repetitive...? literally the argument scenes from last night & tonight between adelina & hiroshi is basically the same; the ideas were the same, the dynamics were the same: the aggressive, radical adelina, bristling rage and fear over the injustices she's seen thus far, and the cautious, inspiriting hiroshi, all hopefulness and reassurance one moment as a lover, defensiveness and sternness as a japanese soldier in another. this debate will be ever-present ofc, it is one of the series' biggest conflicts, but it is unfortunately so easy to tell when it is a.) being pulled up as a main topic to move the plot along / be a necessary conflict for character development/introspection / be the conflict to deliver the morals & messages the writers want to send to their viewers, or b.) when it is being pulled up only for the drama and filler to pass the time. like watching the characters sit down to argue for 10 minutes, do other things for the plot for 2 minutes, then sit down again to argue for the next 20 minutes. lol.

[einsatzzz]

realized a LOT of my wips rn are big ones so i'll prob just be posting mostly sketches the following few weeks

[kiddphel]

Juno and The Future are 100% oc-ified canon characters but it IS very funny seeing them vs the characters I technically stole them from