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Hello!
I’m Lu. Black Latina, they/she. Full-time supporter of talking about your favorites and enjoyer of many things! My ask is open for all thoughts, feelings, and conversations when I'm able to get to them. Feel free to come and chat whenever you feel. Below are my current works and series! I also have blurbs and random HC’s that can also all be found under my tag of lu.logs Thank you for visiting, treat yourself sweetly 3
Simon “ghost” Riley x Reader
CW: mentions of death, angst, trauma, alcoholism
To love you would be death. And he’d already faced it before. So why not try again?
Prologue Ramble
i.
The pub was quiet tonight. One would hope it would be this quiet on a Tuesday at the very least.
But it was the kind of silence that felt almost comfortable. The soft clink of glasses, the distant hum of a TV somewhere in the corner giving you the final scores of the premier top 14 and premiership rugby matches, and the occasional murmur of conversation. You’d been coming here more often lately—more than you cared to admit—just for the peace it offered.
Your neighbors were loud, intrusive at the worst of times, and the constant noise was unbearable. The move to a new country was already close to being your 13th reason and now neighbors who don’t understand common courtesy? Could’ve stayed back home for that.
So a drink, a book, and the quiet hum of the pub were your refuge.
You didn’t really expect to be approached. Most people didn’t bother you here. Owner called you his “quiet pub boss” as you immediately found a corner booth to tuck yourself into, a steady stream of light casting over the pages of your book thanks to the ancient stained glass light above you, making it almost feel like you were alone in the world.
Then, the shadow fell over your page.
You peered up through your brow, slightly startled, but the guy standing before you didn’t seem all too threatening.
Not really.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his black jacket a contrast to the soft lighting of the bar as it made his light blonde hair almost invisible if you looked a certain way. A deep, formed scar hugged the valleys of his cheek down to the left corner of his mouth.
“You always read in a place like this?”
His voice was low and effortlessly smooth. It didn’t grate the ear, but cradled it. The vibrato settled in the chest, weighted and certain.
Big. Broad. A presence more than just a person.
His question wasn’t mocking, just curious. That was interesting.
You gave him your attention, book lowered slightly, fingers marking the page. “I do now.” You smiled.
“Want to have a seat? Had some friends but they left me awhile back and I’d hate to look like a lonely loser reading in a pub.”
A pause, a slight tilt of his head like he hadn’t expected the answer and definitely not the invitation. And then, without hesitation, he took the open invite and sat.
He didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words. He just settled in like he belonged there, waving at the bartender who moved swiftly in getting his order together. The weight of his presence now tangible. A moment passed before his eyes flicked to the book.
“What’re you readin’?”
The way he asked, there was no expectation, no angle. Just interest.
That was interesting, too.
Lifting the book a bit , you turned it so he could see the cover. “Cats Cradle.”
The title was printed in worn white lettering on a pink background, the kind that had been traced over by familiar hands too many times to count. His eyes flicked over it, and then back to you.
“Any good?”
“Depends,” you said, letting the hint of a smile play at the corner of your mouth. “Do you like satirical post-apocalyptic novels?”
Something about the phrasing made amusement flicker in his gaze. “I’ve got patience enough to start givin’ it a try.”
You hummed, considering him for a moment before nodding. “Then you might like it.”
He leaned back slightly, settling into the chair like he had nowhere else to be. His gaze lingered—not intrusive, just observant. Taking stock. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he spoke again.
“Place like this doesn’t seem the usual spot for your type of going on.”
There it was. The curiosity again. Not prying, just… interested.
You let the question sit between you for a moment, like a held breath, before you finally answered.
“It’s quieter than home.”
His brow lifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge the answer without pressing further. He didn’t seem the type to fill silence needlessly, which suited you just fine.
Instead of another question, he nodded, then gestured toward the book. “Go on, then. Don’t let me stop you.”
You blinked, a little surprised. Most people would have tried to keep the conversation going, would have taken the opening to talk about themselves. But he just sat there, letting you exist, book and all.
The pub owner came to the booth, beer and another virgin Long Island in hand, placing them on the table.
“There we are. Another Long Island for the lovely lass and a Budweiser for you, mate. Cheers.”
Simon lifted his bottle, nodding his head to give a silent cheer and slipped slowly.
“Tell me about it when you’re done, yeah?”
Interesting. All too interesting.
Simon “ghost” Riley x Reader
CW: mentions of death, angst, trauma, alcoholism
To love you would be death. And he’d already faced it before. So why not try again?
Prologue Ramble
i.
The pub was quiet tonight. One would hope it would be this quiet on a Tuesday at the very least.
But it was the kind of silence that felt almost comfortable. The soft clink of glasses, the distant hum of a TV somewhere in the corner giving you the final scores of the premier top 14 and premiership rugby matches, and the occasional murmur of conversation. You’d been coming here more often lately—more than you cared to admit—just for the peace it offered.
Your neighbors were loud, intrusive at the worst of times, and the constant noise was unbearable. The move to a new country was already close to being your 13th reason and now neighbors who don’t understand common courtesy? Could’ve stayed back home for that.
So a drink, a book, and the quiet hum of the pub were your refuge.
You didn’t really expect to be approached. Most people didn’t bother you here. Owner called you his “quiet pub boss” as you immediately found a corner booth to tuck yourself into, a steady stream of light casting over the pages of your book thanks to the ancient stained glass light above you, making it almost feel like you were alone in the world.
Then, the shadow fell over your page.
You peered up through your brow, slightly startled, but the guy standing before you didn’t seem all too threatening.
Not really.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his black jacket a contrast to the soft lighting of the bar as it made his light blonde hair almost invisible if you looked a certain way. A deep, formed scar hugged the valleys of his cheek down to the left corner of his mouth.
“You always read in a place like this?”
His voice was low and effortlessly smooth. It didn’t grate the ear, but cradled it. The vibrato settled in the chest, weighted and certain.
Big. Broad. A presence more than just a person.
His question wasn’t mocking, just curious. That was interesting.
You gave him your attention, book lowered slightly, fingers marking the page. “I do now.” You smiled.
“Want to have a seat? Had some friends but they left me awhile back and I’d hate to look like a lonely loser reading in a pub.”
A pause, a slight tilt of his head like he hadn’t expected the answer and definitely not the invitation. And then, without hesitation, he took the open invite and sat.
He didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words. He just settled in like he belonged there, waving at the bartender who moved swiftly in getting his order together. The weight of his presence now tangible. A moment passed before his eyes flicked to the book.
“What’re you readin’?”
The way he asked, there was no expectation, no angle. Just interest.
That was interesting, too.
Lifting the book a bit , you turned it so he could see the cover. “Cats Cradle.”
The title was printed in worn white lettering on a pink background, the kind that had been traced over by familiar hands too many times to count. His eyes flicked over it, and then back to you.
“Any good?”
“Depends,” you said, letting the hint of a smile play at the corner of your mouth. “Do you like satirical post-apocalyptic novels?”
Something about the phrasing made amusement flicker in his gaze. “I’ve got patience enough to start givin’ it a try.”
You hummed, considering him for a moment before nodding. “Then you might like it.”
He leaned back slightly, settling into the chair like he had nowhere else to be. His gaze lingered—not intrusive, just observant. Taking stock. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he spoke again.
“Place like this doesn’t seem the usual spot for your type of going on.”
There it was. The curiosity again. Not prying, just… interested.
You let the question sit between you for a moment, like a held breath, before you finally answered.
“It’s quieter than home.”
His brow lifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge the answer without pressing further. He didn’t seem the type to fill silence needlessly, which suited you just fine.
Instead of another question, he nodded, then gestured toward the book. “Go on, then. Don’t let me stop you.”
You blinked, a little surprised. Most people would have tried to keep the conversation going, would have taken the opening to talk about themselves. But he just sat there, letting you exist, book and all.
The pub owner came to the booth, beer and another virgin Long Island in hand, placing them on the table.
“There we are. Another Long Island for the lovely lass and a Budweiser for you, mate. Cheers.”
Simon lifted his bottle, nodding his head to give a silent cheer and slipped slowly.
“Tell me about it when you’re done, yeah?”
Interesting. All too interesting.
Hiromi Higuruma, a calculating yakuza consigliere, is forced into an arranged marriage with you, a woman who despises everything his world represents. Bound by family loyalty and political power, you must navigate a dangerous alliance where trust is scarce, and hearts are even rarer.
Torn between duty and desire, can you survive the marriage you both never chose—or will loyalty cost you everything?
CW: DARK THEMES, violence, angst, arranged marriage, sexual content, misogyny, mentions of addiction and substance use, sprinkles of fluff (I can’t not write without a little break from the pain), more will be added as the story progresses.
Modern yakuza and I am biting my nails off with each word I type. This will be updated slowly as I finish one series, dive into another and chomp away at this as it comes to me. I have been sitting on this for a minute and now I can finally let it out!
I: Giri
II: Kuromaku
III
IV
V
VI
VII
“I was never disillusioned. They simply never listened.”
Suguru Geto was once a man on the brink of no return—until he stopped himself. Now, under strict supervision, he lives with the weight of his past choices, his freedom reduced to carefully monitored steps. Tasked with overseeing him, you are both his keeper and his unfamiliar tether to the world he nearly abandoned.
Defined by duty and unspoken tension, Suguru begins to carve a new path, something shifts. Finding purpose beyond the ideals that once consumed him, he slowly pieces himself back together—and in doing so, you find yourself caught in something unexpected. A man searching for redemption. A bond that defies the boundaries set between you. And a question neither of you are ready to answer:
What happens when the lines between obligation and something deeper begin to blur?
cw: angst, mentions of illegal acts, spoiler heavy, canon divergent, murder, use of drugs, will add as chapters are added.
“I was never disillusioned. They simply never listened.”
Suguru Geto was once a man on the brink of no return—until he stopped himself. Now, under strict supervision, he lives with the weight of his past choices, his freedom reduced to carefully monitored steps. Tasked with overseeing him, you are both his keeper and his unfamiliar tether to the world he nearly abandoned.
Defined by duty and unspoken tension, Suguru begins to carve a new path, something shifts. Finding purpose beyond the ideals that once consumed him, he slowly pieces himself back together—and in doing so, you find yourself caught in something unexpected. A man searching for redemption. A bond that defies the boundaries set between you. And a question neither of you are ready to answer:
What happens when the lines between obligation and something deeper begin to blur?
cw: angst, mentions of illegal acts, spoiler heavy, canon divergent, murder, use of drugs, will add as chapters are added.
The bathroom was warm with post shower steam, that faint scent of shower gel and shaving cream hung in the air as you swirled the brush in the tin of shaving cream.
Toji sat on the closed toilet lid, shirtless, boxers stuck to his thighs that spread in that lazy way of his, one arm draped over the sink next to him . His hair’s still damp from the shower, black strands falling messily into his eyes, and there's a flicker of amusement in his gaze as he watched you gather a bit of the shaving foam on the brush.
"You sure you know what you're doin', sweetheart?" he drawled, voice a gravelly hum that settles deep in your chest.
"I've watched you enough times, haven’t I?" you retort, tapping off the excess cream. "Besides, you promised I could because you wouldn’t let me hold it while you pee. If I nick you, that's on you."
He chuckled softly, a rare sound that always filled your heart, and tilted his head back just a little, offering the strong line of his jaw shadowed with rough stubble. “Mkay. Apply a nice even layer to cover all the stubble. Circular motions.”
And you did. You guided the brush, the lather spreading over the dark stubble dusting his jaw. Soft circles that had Toji’s eyes slipping half closed.
You swept a few more gentle circles near his Adam’s apple before sitting the brush down.
You looked over at the straight razor then let your eyes move over to Toji.
“You really trust me with a blade to your throat?” You murmured, voice losing its bravado as he picked the blade up.
Toji's lips curved at the corners. "Trust you more than I trust myself."
The weight of those words hangs between you for a beat too long before you clear your throat and nod. “Okay.”
“Alright.” Toji flipped the razor open. “You’re going to hold the razor with your first finger on the shoulder of the razor and your thumb just outside the heel. Make sure the first three fingers rest on the tang.” He gently took hold of your dominant hand and placed your fingers appropriately.
“Keep the handle pointed up and place your little finger between the tail and the handle just like this. Feel good.”
You loosely gripped the razor before adjusting it for your comfort, feeling the cool steel on your finger joints. “Mhm.”
“Perfect. Now. Come closer so we can begin.”
“Toji, if I fuck your face up-“
He chuckled pulling you closer by your waist, the pads of his calloused fingers rubbing at your plush hips. “Then I’ll be glad it was you who did it. Breathe, peach. I’m guidin’ you.”
With a deep, albeit shaky breath, you smiled and took a step closer as he tilted his head up again.
“Now softly pull my skin upward on the cheek you want to start with,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble, chin up to expose the sharp angle of his jaw.
Your thumb lightly pulled up, creating a smooth shaving surface. “K. Skin pulled.”
“Now don't press too hard — let the weight of the razor do the work. Shave with the grain.”
Easy enough.
You held the razor at a thirty degree angle. Your other hand steadied his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, and you felt the slight shift of his jaw as he smirked.
Hands stayed steady, drawing the blade slowly along his jawline, the quiet scrape of the razor filling the space between you.
Toji reached up, running his fingers over the smooth surface and raised his brows. “You got that really close on a first go.”
Squinting, you raised your own, “That’s good, right?”
“Very good. Now, keep going. You’ll be done in no time.”
His stubble fell away in neat lines, revealing the smooth skin beneath, and you caught yourself lingering — fingertips grazing his cheek, tracing the corner of his mouth after you wiped his face clean.
He reached and ran the cold water, rinsing his face, splashing small amounts until it was free of shaving foam and was soaked.
Toji's eyes fluttered shut for a moment at your touch as you patted his face dry.
Lips parting just a little, the soft look so tender it could knock the breath right out of you.
“You're good at this,” he says softly, almost like it's a confession.
“You're just saying that so I finish the job.”
He chuckles, the sound reverberating through the small space, but there's a weight to the way he's watching you — like this simple act, the trust it requires, means more than either of you can put into words.
“Nah,” Toji finally says, voice rough. “Just like having your hands on me.”
Your heart stumbled over itself, and for a moment, the razor in your hand felt like the most delicate thing in the world — second only to the man in front of you.
“Now. Let’s do skin care. Your face is gonna feel amazing with a little snail mucin.”
His lips twitched. “Snail what?”
Hiromi is tired. Not just in the way that settles into his bones after a long day, but in the way that lingers, stretching across years and threading through every cigarette-lit evening he’s spent alone.
His law office is closed, the last case files left in haphazardly neat stacks on his desk, but the weight of them still sits between his shoulders as he walks down the quiet street.
Friday nights in the city buzz with an energy he no longer understands.
The always familiar path brings him comfort as he lays the foot work on his way home.
He passes by bars pulsing with music, couples pressed close, laughter spilling onto the pavement. He keeps his hands in his coat pockets, his breath curling in the cold, and tells himself he prefers it this way.
Then he sees them.
You.
It’s in the reflection of a bar window first—familiar posture, the tilt of their head, something in the way they stand that sends a current through him before he can name it. He turns, slow and hesitant, and there they are.
Your smile as tantalizing as it was on your first date many moons ago.
The last, maybe only person he ever allowed himself to love.
The world has suck a cruel way of doing things. It doesn’t slow down, doesn’t soften around the edges to give him time to collect himself. No, the lights of the city still shine too bright, the people still push past without care, and all he has is the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.
Your gaze met his gaze, and there’s recognition, there’s hesitation, but there’s something else. Something softer, like a page turned back to a story left unfinished.
“Hi Hiro,” you greeted him, his name on your tongue like a secret.
He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “It’s been a while.”
And it has. Long enough that you should be strangers, but you aren’t. Not really.
“Late night in the office?”
“Yes. Just trying to stay on track.. helps avoid an early morning.”
You talk. The smallest of words, nothing heavy.
How have you been? Are keeping with your resolutions? What brings you out here so late?
Questions that brush against something deeper but never quite press. He doesn’t tell you that he dreams, sometimes, of a life where he stayed. Where he tried to make you feel how you should.
To stay beside him when he had perfected pushing you away.
That when he sees glimpses of warmth between strangers, he thinks of you. The warmth you created that even in the coldest caverns, you’d make it feel like summer. That he’s spent too many nights in half-lit rooms convincing himself he made the right choice.
You smile at the subtle shake of his cigarette holder. The gold box being clutched in his hand as he brought it to his mouth and it cuts through him sharper than any verdict. “You look good, Hiro.”
“So do you.. I love the jacket.”
There was a time when he thought love was something he could build a life around. Something he could hold onto with both hands and not have it slip away. But life demanded sacrifices, and he was always so good at making them. Too good.
A part of him wants to ask if you were happy. If you found the life he couldn’t give you but came perilously close to asking for another chance.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods at the time, at the way the night grows later, and offers a quiet, “It was great seeing you. Take care.”
And when you walk away, he doesn’t stop you.
Just watches until you’re out of sight, until the city folds back into itself, until he is, once again, alone with his choices until he musters up the courage to ask for your forgiveness.
Fun thing about this is I’ve been sleep deprived for a few days and I typed this out right before I passed out at 2am last night and don’t remember where this came from 😌🫡
Hiromi is tired. Not just in the way that settles into his bones after a long day, but in the way that lingers, stretching across years and threading through every cigarette-lit evening he’s spent alone.
His law office is closed, the last case files left in haphazardly neat stacks on his desk, but the weight of them still sits between his shoulders as he walks down the quiet street.
Friday nights in the city buzz with an energy he no longer understands.
The always familiar path brings him comfort as he lays the foot work on his way home.
He passes by bars pulsing with music, couples pressed close, laughter spilling onto the pavement. He keeps his hands in his coat pockets, his breath curling in the cold, and tells himself he prefers it this way.
Then he sees them.
You.
It’s in the reflection of a bar window first—familiar posture, the tilt of their head, something in the way they stand that sends a current through him before he can name it. He turns, slow and hesitant, and there they are.
Your smile as tantalizing as it was on your first date many moons ago.
The last, maybe only person he ever allowed himself to love.
The world has suck a cruel way of doing things. It doesn’t slow down, doesn’t soften around the edges to give him time to collect himself. No, the lights of the city still shine too bright, the people still push past without care, and all he has is the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.
Your gaze met his gaze, and there’s recognition, there’s hesitation, but there’s something else. Something softer, like a page turned back to a story left unfinished.
“Hi Hiro,” you greeted him, his name on your tongue like a secret.
He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “It’s been a while.”
And it has. Long enough that you should be strangers, but you aren’t. Not really.
“Late night in the office?”
“Yes. Just trying to stay on track.. helps avoid an early morning.”
You talk. The smallest of words, nothing heavy.
How have you been? Are keeping with your resolutions? What brings you out here so late?
Questions that brush against something deeper but never quite press. He doesn’t tell you that he dreams, sometimes, of a life where he stayed. Where he tried to make you feel how you should.
To stay beside him when he had perfected pushing you away.
That when he sees glimpses of warmth between strangers, he thinks of you. The warmth you created that even in the coldest caverns, you’d make it feel like summer. That he’s spent too many nights in half-lit rooms convincing himself he made the right choice.
You smile at the subtle shake of his cigarette holder. The gold box being clutched in his hand as he brought it to his mouth and it cuts through him sharper than any verdict. “You look good, Hiro.”
“So do you.. I love the jacket.”
There was a time when he thought love was something he could build a life around. Something he could hold onto with both hands and not have it slip away. But life demanded sacrifices, and he was always so good at making them. Too good.
A part of him wants to ask if you were happy. If you found the life he couldn’t give you but came perilously close to asking for another chance.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods at the time, at the way the night grows later, and offers a quiet, “It was great seeing you. Take care.”
And when you walk away, he doesn’t stop you.
Just watches until you’re out of sight, until the city folds back into itself, until he is, once again, alone with his choices until he musters up the courage to ask for your forgiveness.
Priscilla Del Castillo by Logan Simon