#and this is FAR from the first time this has happened

[pucksandpower]

Oscat

shifter!Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: when you see an adorable stray black cat hanging around your neighborhood, you can’t resist taking him in … but there’s just one problem, the cat’s not actually a cat

Oscar Piastri never thought his life would come to this — crouched under a battered kitchen chair in a cramped university flat, ears flattened against his skull, tail twitching nervously as he watches you fumble with a small red collar.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” you coo, your voice soft and coaxing. You wiggle your fingers, the sound of the collar's bell jingling faintly as you shake it. “I promise you’ll look so cute in this.”

Oscar can’t believe he’s let it get this far. One moment, he’s wandering the neighborhood as a cat, enjoying the freedom that comes with paws instead of feet, and the next — this. A crazy girl who somehow managed to corral him into her apartment and is now intent on … he doesn’t even know what. But he knows it’s not good. He considers bolting, but you’re blocking the only exit, and he isn’t sure he has it in him to leap past you without causing a scene.

“C’mon, I know you like the tuna,” you say, holding up a plate with some leftover fish you’d put out for him earlier. “Just let me get this on you, and I’ll give you more, okay?”

He narrows his eyes, inching back under the chair. This whole situation is ridiculous, and he’s thoroughly regretting his decision to stick around after the first time you fed him. But there was something about you that drew him in — a warmth, maybe, or just the sheer determination with which you tried to get him to trust you.

But now you’ve crossed a line.

You sigh, clearly frustrated, and sit back on your heels. “Why are you being so difficult?” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I just want to make sure you’re safe, you know? What if you get lost or hurt? You need a collar, at least …”

Oscar’s ears perk up at the concern in your voice, and he feels a pang of guilt. You don’t know what you’re doing — how could you? To you, he’s just a stray cat, not a twenty-three-year-old Formula 1 driver with a secret he can’t afford to let anyone find out. He’s supposed to be smart, calculated, always one step ahead. Not cowering under a chair because a university student wants to play house with him.

You huff and toss the collar onto the table with a clatter. “Fine,” you say, standing up and crossing your arms. “I’ll leave you alone for now, but you’re not getting any more tuna unless you let me put that on you.”

Oscar’s stomach growls, and he curses his weakness. The tuna had been good — too good, if he’s being honest. He watches as you turn away, heading into another room. This is his chance. He could make a break for it, slip out the door before you even realize what’s happening.

But he hesitates.

Why? He wonders, paws shifting restlessly. This isn’t like him. He should be gone by now, back to the comfort of his flat, where he can shift back and pretend this whole mess never happened. Yet something keeps him rooted in place.

Then, he hears you talking to someone on the phone.

“Yes, I found a stray,” you say, your voice echoing slightly through the walls. “He’s so cute, but I don’t know … do you think I should take him to the vet? Get him checked out?”

Oscar’s blood runs cold. This is bad. This is really bad. He needs to get out — now.

You continue, “I was thinking maybe I could get him neutered too, you know? So he doesn’t run off and get hurt or something … ”

He bolts from under the chair, skidding across the linoleum as he makes a beeline for the door. But before he can reach it, you step back into the room, phone pressed to your ear.

“Whoa, whoa!” You exclaim, dropping the phone onto the table as you rush to block his path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Oscar tries to dart around you, but you’re quicker than he anticipated, and he’s forced to leap onto the counter instead. He glares at you from his new perch, fur bristling in warning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, hands on your hips. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“Yeah, help me lose my manhood,” Oscar mutters under his breath, though it comes out as an indignant hiss.

You frown, clearly not understanding his displeasure. “You’re acting like I’m torturing you or something,” you say, reaching out cautiously. “Just let me put the collar on, okay? Then I’ll leave you alone.”

Oscar swats at your hand, his claws barely grazing your skin. He doesn’t want to hurt you — he just wants you to back off. This is getting too close for comfort.

You pull your hand back, eyes widening in surprise. “Okay, okay, no collar,” you say, trying to soothe him. “We’ll figure something else out.”

But Oscar’s had enough. He leaps from the counter to the windowsill, then down to the floor, and races towards the door again. This time, he manages to slip past you, his sleek black fur a blur as he darts through the narrow opening.

He hears you call after him, your voice tinged with worry, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sprints down the hallway, paws pounding against the carpeted floor, until he reaches the stairwell. He takes the steps two at a time, his heart racing as he finally bursts out into the cool evening air.

Freedom.

He doesn’t slow down until he’s a good block away from your building, his chest heaving as he ducks into the shadows of a nearby alley. He’s safe. For now.

But then he hears it — your voice, faint but unmistakable, carried on the breeze as you step out of your apartment, searching for him.

“Kitty?” You call, your voice trembling slightly. “Where did you go?”

Oscar slinks further into the shadows, his heart twisting with guilt. He didn’t mean to scare you, but he couldn’t let you take him to the vet. He couldn’t let you get too close. But now, as he listens to the sound of your footsteps growing fainter, he feels a pang of something he hasn’t felt in a long time — regret.

“Please come back,” you whisper, and he can hear the tears in your voice. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to help …”

Oscar’s resolve weakens, his tail flicking nervously as he peeks around the corner. He can see you standing there, arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together. You look so small, so vulnerable, and it tugs at something deep inside him.

He shouldn’t care. He’s not supposed to care. He’s always kept his distance, never letting anyone get too close, especially not like this. But here you are, and for reasons he can’t quite explain, he doesn’t want to see you cry.

He takes a tentative step forward, but then stops himself. What can he do? Walk back into your life, let you put that collar on him, and risk everything? Or turn away, leave you behind, and never look back?

You’re wiping at your eyes now, sniffling quietly. “I’m so stupid,” you mutter to yourself. “Why did I think I could just … ugh.”

Oscar’s ears droop. This is all wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t feel this way. But the sight of you, standing there alone, makes him want to go back, to do something, anything, to make you smile again.

Before he can make a decision, you give up and turn back towards the building, your shoulders slumped in defeat.

Oscar watches you go, every instinct telling him to stay hidden, to let you go. But as you disappear through the door, he finds himself inching forward, until he’s standing just outside the entrance, ears perked up, listening for any sign of you.

Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, this isn’t over yet.

***

Oscar can’t help it. He tells himself he’s just checking in, that it’s only temporary. But day after day, he finds himself outside your building, watching, waiting, listening.

It starts with a cautious glance through the window, his keen eyes picking out your silhouette as you move about your flat. The blinds are often drawn, but he can still see enough. Enough to know that something’s changed.

You’re not yourself.

The first day after he ran away, he saw you sitting by the window, staring out into the distance, your face etched with worry. He tells himself it’s none of his business. That he’s done the right thing by leaving. But every time he turns to go, he finds his paws rooted to the spot, his gaze drawn back to you.

And then there’s the phone calls.

Oscar doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he can’t help it when your voice carries through the thin walls of the apartment building. One day, he’s curled up on the windowsill of the flat next door when he hears you talking on the phone again, your voice tinged with frustration and sadness.

“I just don’t understand,” you say, pacing back and forth. “He was here one minute and then gone the next. I’m so worried about him.”

Oscar’s ears perk up, guilt gnawing at him as he listens. You’re talking about him, of course. He knows that. And the fact that you’re still thinking about him, still concerned for his well-being, makes him feel like the world’s biggest jerk.

“He looked healthy,” you continue, your voice shaking slightly. “But what if something happened to him? What if he got hurt or … or worse?”

He winces at the pain in your voice. He didn’t want to scare you, didn’t want to make you worry. But what choice did he have? Letting you take him to the vet would have exposed him — both literally and figuratively. He couldn’t risk that.

“I read somewhere that stray cats have a lifespan of less than two years,” you say, your tone now laced with a mixture of fear and sadness. “I don’t want that to happen to him. I just … I just want him to be okay.”

Oscar closes his eyes, your words cutting deeper than any wound he’s ever felt. He doesn’t want to be the cause of your pain. But what can he do?

Then, he hears it — the soft, broken sound of you crying.

It’s like a punch to the gut. His ears flatten against his head, and he feels an overwhelming wave of guilt and shame. He doesn’t like seeing you like this. No, that’s not right — he hates it. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you, yet here you are, crying because of him.

He tries to walk away, to tell himself that it’s for the best, that you’ll move on and forget about him eventually. But the sound of your sobs echoes in his ears, haunting him, and he knows he can’t just leave it like this.

Maybe going back for a few hours won’t hurt anyone, he rationalizes, pacing back and forth in the alley. He’ll show up, let you see he’s okay, and then leave before things get too complicated. Simple.

But as he sits there, tail flicking with nervous energy, he realizes it’s not that simple. Because the truth is, he doesn’t want to leave. Not really. There’s something about you that draws him in, something that makes him feel … safe.

Wanted.

Needed.

And so, with a heavy sigh, he makes his decision. He waits until the sun sets, the shadows growing long and the streets quiet. Then, he slips through the narrow gap in the window that you always leave open, landing softly on the worn carpet of your living room.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to your chest, your phone discarded on the cushion next to you. You’re staring at the TV, but it’s clear you’re not really watching it. Your eyes are red, cheeks stained with tears, and Oscar’s heart clenches at the sight.

He takes a cautious step forward, then another, his movements slow and deliberate. He doesn’t want to startle you, doesn’t want to make things worse. But as he approaches, you suddenly turn your head, your eyes widening as they meet his.

“Kitty?” You breathe, sitting up straight. For a moment, you just stare at him, as if you can’t believe he’s real. Then, slowly, a smile breaks across your face, soft and relieved. “You came back.”

Oscar doesn’t move, watching you carefully, trying to gauge your reaction. When you don’t make any sudden movements, he takes another step closer, his ears twitching nervously.

You wipe at your eyes, trying to compose yourself. “I thought I’d lost you,” you say, your voice shaky but full of warmth. “Where did you go?”

He doesn’t answer, of course — he can’t. But he does allow himself to move closer, until he’s standing right in front of you, his nose just inches from your outstretched hand.

“Can I … ” you ask, your hand hovering in the air, waiting for his permission.

Oscar hesitates for just a moment before he nuzzles against your palm, his fur brushing against your skin. It feels … right, somehow. Comforting. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as you gently stroke his head, your fingers trailing down his back in soothing motions.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, and Oscar can hear the relief in your voice. “I was so worried.”

Guilt twists in his chest again, but he pushes it aside. He’s here now, and that’s what matters. He’ll stay for a little while, just long enough to make sure you’re okay, too.

You sit back, still petting him, and Oscar takes the opportunity to hop up onto the couch beside you. He curls up next to you, resting his head on your leg, and for a moment, everything feels … normal. Peaceful, even.

“You must have been so scared,” you murmur, your voice soft as you continue to stroke his fur. “Running away like that … I don’t blame you, though. I must have freaked you out with all that vet talk.”

Oscar doesn’t react, but internally, he’s cursing himself. Of course you’re blaming yourself. Why wouldn’t you? You have no idea who — or what — he really is. To you, he’s just a scared little stray cat who panicked and bolted at the first sign of trouble.

“But I’m not going to push you anymore,” you say, as if reading his thoughts. “I just want you to be safe. That’s all.”

The sincerity in your voice hits Oscar like a ton of bricks. He knows he shouldn’t be here, knows he’s playing with fire by getting this close. But in this moment, he can’t bring himself to care. He’s missed this — missed you, even though he barely knows you.

You lean back against the couch, your hand still resting on his back, and Oscar feels a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this way — since he’s allowed himself to feel this way. And as much as he knows he should leave, he can’t. Not yet.

He hears you yawn, the sound soft and tired, and he lifts his head to look up at you. You’re fighting to keep your eyes open, your movements slow and drowsy. It’s late, and he can see the exhaustion etched into your features.

“Guess we both had a long day,” you mumble, your hand coming to rest on the couch beside him as you settle back into the cushions. “I should probably get to bed.”

Oscar watches as you slowly push yourself up, stretching as you stand. He expects you to head to your bedroom, to leave him on the couch for the night. But instead, you glance down at him, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Wanna come with me?” You ask, your voice soft and inviting.

He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows he should stay right where he is, let you go to bed, and slip out the window before morning comes. But the thought of leaving you alone, of returning to the cold, empty streets outside, makes his chest tighten with a loneliness he hasn’t felt in years.

So, against his better judgment, he hops down from the couch and follows you down the short hallway to your bedroom.

You open the door, flicking on a small bedside lamp, and Oscar watches as you move around the room, pulling back the covers and fluffing up your pillows. He hesitates at the threshold, his instincts warring with the pull he feels toward you.

But then you turn to him, patting the space beside you on the bed, and he’s powerless to resist.

“C’mon, kitty,” you say, your voice warm and coaxing. “You can sleep here tonight.”

He pads over to the bed, jumping up onto the soft mattress. It’s warm, inviting, and before he knows it, he’s curled up next to you, your presence calming in a way he didn’t think possible.

You slip under the covers, lying on your side, and Oscar snuggles closer, his body pressed against yours. He can feel your steady breathing, hear the soft rustle of the sheets as you settle in, and it lulls him into a sense of safety he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice already thick with sleep.

Oscar's eyes drift closed, his body warm and relaxed as he nestles against you. He knows he should be on high alert, ready to bolt at any moment, but for the first time in what feels like forever, he allows himself to let go. Just for tonight.

As you fall asleep beside him, your hand resting gently on his back, Oscar realizes he’s found something here — something he didn’t know he was missing. He can’t stay forever, but maybe, just maybe, he can stay a little longer.

Just for tonight.

***

Oscar wakes to the sound of a scream that nearly sends him bolting out of bed. His eyes fly open, his heart hammering in his chest, but the feeling that greets him isn’t the familiar warmth of fur or the safe confines of a small, curled-up position.

It’s a body — a human body.

His human body.

And beside him, you’re staring at him, your eyes wide with shock, your mouth open in mid-scream as you scramble to the edge of the bed, clutching the covers around you like a shield.

“What the — who the hell are you?” You shriek, your voice high-pitched and panicked.

Oscar’s brain stutters to catch up with what’s happening. He glances down at himself, realizing with a jolt that he’s completely naked. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This isn’t happening. How could he have been so careless? He’s been shifting for years, but never like this. Never in front of someone. Never in such a vulnerable position.

“I-I can explain,” he stammers, his voice rough with sleep and panic. He grabs at the nearest pillow, pressing it to his lap in a desperate attempt to cover himself. “Just, um, don’t freak out. Please.”

“Explain?” You repeat, your voice trembling as you blink rapidly, as if trying to wake up from a nightmare. “What the hell are you doing in my bed? And why are you … why are you … naked?”

Oscar’s mind races, the words tangling together in his head. He’s supposed to be good under pressure — he’s faced down race cars at hundreds of kilometers per hour, for crying out loud. But right now, all he can think about is how utterly screwed he is.

“I-I’m not a creep, I swear,” he blurts out, his face flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to — this isn’t what it looks like.”

Your eyes narrow, still full of fear and confusion, but also dawning recognition. You stare at him for a long moment, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Then, slowly, the pieces start to fall into place, and your expression shifts from terror to something else entirely.

“Wait a minute,” you say, squinting at him. “I know you. You’re … Oscar Piastri?”

He winces at the sound of his name. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the words. “Oscar Piastri is in my bed. Naked. And I’m … wait, am I still dreaming? Did I fall asleep watching Formula 1 highlights again?”

“No, no, you’re not dreaming,” Oscar says quickly, shaking his head. “This is real. But I promise, I can explain. Just … can we, maybe, both take a breath for a second?”

You inhale sharply, clutching the covers tighter around yourself as you stare at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. “Okay,” you say, your voice shaky. “Breathing. Breathing is good. But you still owe me a pretty big explanation.”

Oscar nods, taking a deep breath himself to steady his racing thoughts. He’s never had to explain this to anyone before, and now that he’s actually faced with the situation, he realizes just how insane it’s going to sound.

“Okay, so, uh …” He rubs the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to start. “I know this is going to sound really weird, but … you remember the cat? The one you were worried about?”

Your brow furrows in confusion, and you nod slowly. “Yeah …”

“Well,” Oscar continues, his voice trailing off for a moment before he forces himself to say it. “That was me. I mean, I was the cat.”

You blink at him, clearly trying to process what he just said. “Wait. You’re saying … you’re the cat? Like, you were the cat?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, wincing at how ridiculous it sounds out loud. “I’m, um, I’m a shifter. I can turn into a black cat. And I was the cat that you, uh, accidentally … kidnapped.”

You stare at him, your mouth hanging open as you try to wrap your head around this. “So, you’re telling me that the cat I’ve been feeding, the cat that I tried to take to the vet, was actually you? The whole time?”

Oscar nods sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I was just … curious, I guess. But then things got a little out of hand.”

You sit back on the bed, your mind clearly spinning as you try to reconcile the image of the cute, harmless black cat with the sight of Oscar Piastri — fully human and fully naked — in your bed. “This is … this is insane,” you say, shaking your head. “I mean, I believe you, I guess. But it’s just … wow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Oscar says, offering a small, awkward smile. “It’s a lot to take in. And I’m really sorry for scaring you like that. I didn’t mean to shift back. It usually doesn’t happen unless I want it to, but I guess I must’ve just … relaxed too much.”

You laugh, a short, incredulous sound. “Relaxed? You were relaxed enough to just shift back into a human? Wow, I must be really good company.”

Oscar chuckles nervously. “You have no idea.”

There’s a moment of silence as you both try to process everything. Then, you look back at him, your expression softening slightly. “So, you’re really … a shifter? Like, that’s a real thing?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah. I’ve been able to do it since I was a kid. It’s not something I talk about, obviously. It’s kind of a secret.”

“A big secret,” you say, your eyes wide. “I mean, it’s not every day you find out an F1 driver can turn into a cat.”

Oscar blushes at that, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief that you’re taking this better than he expected. “Yeah, it’s not exactly something I advertise. And, uh, I’d really appreciate it if you could keep this between us.”

You nod quickly, your expression earnest. “Of course. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I mean, who would believe me, anyway?”

Oscar lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thank you. Seriously. This whole thing … it’s complicated, and I don’t want to make things harder for myself or anyone else.”

You smile, a hint of playfulness returning to your eyes. “Well, I guess I’m the last person who’d have room to judge. I did kind of … try to get you neutered.”

Oscar laughs, the tension in the room easing slightly. “Yeah, that was … a close call.”

You shake your head, still looking slightly overwhelmed but more at ease now. “I’m sorry for that, by the way. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” Oscar says, smiling. “I’m just glad I got out of there before it was too late.”

There’s another pause, the awkwardness slowly fading into something more comfortable. You glance over at the clock on your nightstand, and then back at him, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“So,” you say, a teasing edge in your voice. “What’s the plan now? Are you just going to stay here or …”

Oscar’s eyes widen as he remembers his current state of undress. “Oh, uh, right. I should probably … get dressed. Do you have, like, a blanket or something?”

You laugh, your initial shock giving way to amusement. “Yeah, hold on.” You reach over to the chair by the bed, grabbing the throw blanket draped over it and tossing it to him. “Here. Cover up before I have to start charging you for the show.”

Oscar catches the blanket, wrapping it around himself as best as he can. “Thanks. Sorry about that. Not exactly how I planned on spending my morning.”

You smile, still shaking your head in disbelief. “This is definitely the weirdest morning of my life.”

“Same here,” Oscar admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, uh, now that we’ve got that out of the way … do you maybe want to grab breakfast or something? With no canned tuna this time.”

You raise an eyebrow, the playful spark back in your eyes. “Breakfast? With a shifter who accidentally ended up naked in my bed? Sounds like the start of a weird romcom.”

Oscar grins, his nerves finally settling. “Yeah, maybe. But, I mean, the offer still stands. We could … talk more. Or not talk at all. Just … eat?”

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’ve always been more of a Ferrari girlie. But I guess I can make an exception this once.”

Oscar chuckles, his heart lightening at your teasing tone. “Well, I appreciate that. I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

You laugh, standing up and stretching, the tension finally draining from the room. “Okay, then. Breakfast it is. But you owe me a proper explanation over pancakes. I still have a lot of questions.”

“Deal,” Oscar says, standing as well, the blanket still wrapped around him. “And, uh, maybe I can borrow some clothes? Just until I get back to my place.”

You smirk, clearly amused by his predicament. “Sure. I think I have some sweatpants and a T-shirt that might fit you. They’re probably not papaya, though.”

Oscar laughs, feeling more at ease than he has in days. “That’s fine by me. I’m not picky.”

As you head off to find the clothes, Oscar takes a deep breath, letting the reality of the situation sink in. It’s definitely not how he expected this to go, but somehow, it feels right. Like maybe this bizarre turn of events was exactly what he needed.

And as he watches you rummage through your dresser, he can’t help but think that, for once, shifting back to his human form at the wrong time might have been the best mistake he’s ever made.

***

Oscar leaps onto the windowsill, his black fur sleek and gleaming in the afternoon light. He peers through the glass, watching you, seated at your desk, hunched over your textbooks. Your hair is pulled back, a pen held between your teeth as you jot down notes with a furrowed brow.

He feels a surge of affection watching you work so hard, but it’s mixed with a touch of mischief. He’s been patient all day, but now he’s had enough. It’s time for a study break, whether you want one or not.

With a graceful hop, he slips through the open window and lands silently on the floor. His tail flicks behind him as he pads softly toward you, his green eyes locked onto your focused expression. He almost feels guilty interrupting you — almost. But then again, it’s been hours since you last gave him any attention, and he’s starting to feel a bit neglected.

You don’t notice him at first, too engrossed in whatever academic puzzle you’re trying to solve. But Oscar is nothing if not persistent. He jumps onto your desk, landing squarely on your notebook, and lets out a soft, insistent meow.

Your head jerks up in surprise, your eyes widening as you take in the sight of him. “Oscar! You scared me!”

He purrs, rubbing his head against your arm, his way of saying, “Sorry, but you’ve been ignoring me.”

You sigh, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays your affection. “I’ve got a lot to do, you know. Finals are coming up.”

Oscar meows again, louder this time, before nudging your hand with his head. He can feel you wavering, your resolve crumbling as you reach out to scratch behind his ears. His purring deepens, vibrating through his small frame as he leans into your touch.

“You’re so spoiled,” you mutter, but there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “You know that, right?”

Oscar only purrs louder in response, nuzzling against your hand. He steps carefully onto your lap, circling once before settling down. You laugh softly, resigned, as you set your pen aside and lean back in your chair.

“Alright, alright. I guess I can take a break for a few minutes.”

He stretches out, making himself comfortable as you begin to pet him in earnest, your fingers trailing through his fur in long, slow strokes. It’s blissful, the way you touch him, the warmth of your hand against his back.

All thoughts of studying fade from your mind as you focus entirely on him, and Oscar relishes every second of it. This is what he’s wanted all day — to be close to you, to feel your affection without any distractions.

Minutes pass, and your strokes become slower, more languid. Oscar watches you through half-lidded eyes, sensing your fatigue. The stress of studying, of exams, is catching up with you, and he knows how much you’ve been pushing yourself lately. He nudges you with his head, encouraging you to relax even more, to let go of the tension that’s been building up.

You yawn, a deep, sleepy sound that makes him purr in satisfaction. “I think you’re a bad influence on me, Oscar,” you murmur, your voice drowsy. “I should be studying, but all I want to do is cuddle with you.”

Oscar’s purring doesn’t falter — if anything, it grows even more content. He watches as your eyelids grow heavier, your breathing slows, and your hand eventually stills against his fur. You’re falling asleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of petting him and the comfort of his presence.

He stays perfectly still, letting you drift off completely. You deserve the rest, he thinks. You’ve been working so hard, and a little nap won’t hurt. Besides, he likes being the reason you’re able to relax like this, to forget about your worries for a while.

When he’s certain you’re fully asleep, Oscar carefully extracts himself from your lap, moving with the quiet grace of a cat. He pads over to the couch, glancing back to make sure you’re still sleeping soundly. Then, in one fluid motion, he shifts back into his human form.

Oscar sighs softly, standing by the couch for a moment as he stretches his arms over his head. It’s been a long day for him too — training, meetings, the usual demands of being a Formula 1 driver. But this is the part of his day he looks forward to the most: being with you, in this quiet, peaceful space that the two of you share.

He carefully lifts you from the chair, cradling you in his arms as he carries you to the couch. You stir slightly but don’t wake, your head resting against his chest as he settles you down on the cushions. Oscar smiles, brushing a strand of hair from your face before he stretches out beside you, pulling you close.

He wraps an arm around you, your body fitting perfectly against his. There’s something indescribably comforting about holding you like this, feeling your warmth seep into him as you sleep. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, closing his eyes as he allows himself to relax fully for the first time all day.

The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you, entwined on the couch. Oscar can hear your steady breathing, feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his. It’s moments like this that make everything worth it — the races, the pressure, the endless travel. None of it compares to this simple, quiet happiness.

As he holds you, Oscar’s thoughts drift. He thinks about how much his life has changed since that day you found him in your bed, how unexpected it all was. He hadn’t planned on letting anyone in, on sharing his secret with someone else. But you … you’ve become so much more than he ever anticipated.

You’re his confidant, his partner, his best friend. And though he’s still getting used to the idea, you’re also the person he’s fallen in love with, slowly and completely. It’s a realization that both scares and excites him, because he’s never had something — or someone — this important before. Racing has always been his focus, but now, you’re a part of his life that he can’t imagine being without.

As you sleep in his arms, Oscar tightens his hold on you, a protective instinct kicking in. He’ll do anything to keep you safe, to make sure you’re happy. And if that means taking any opportunity to spend more time with you, to be there for you when you need him, then that’s what he’ll do.

You murmur something in your sleep, your body shifting slightly against his. Oscar’s heart swells with affection, and he kisses your forehead again, a silent promise that he’ll always be here for you.

Outside, the sun begins to set, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The world keeps turning, the demands of life waiting just outside the door. But for now, in this moment, there’s nothing else that matters. Just you, and him, and the quiet contentment of being together.

Oscar closes his eyes, letting the peace of the moment wash over him. There will be time for everything else later. For now, he’s exactly where he wants to be.

[penis-recital]

Perfection beyond all.

The two of my lovers are well provided by me.

This is my 2nd stepdaughter. Once I seek for whenever I miss my wife, especially our fucking her.

However, things changed from that night. The one that I have spent a week of glorious sexcapade.

I have made love to her not as my stepdaughter but like my lover. Unlike her eldest sister, she never called me daddy even without my penis parking inside her vagina.

I love her tenderly.

And I know she hasn't had any boyfriend unlike her sister. She has been my loyal lover. Just like her mother.

Because I have sent someone to trek for me. 😈😈

So when she has graduated from her college with honour and majoring in law, I have bought her an apartment which she is much prefer and a porche.

No one knows this except the two of us.

She has gone to build her career as a lawyer. And we continue to be together, as lover and partner.

She only comes home for the Christmas holiday and never really bonded well with her sisters.

One of the reason has been that she blames my wife for divorcing her father, and the other 3 girls support their mother decision.

These all happened before I was in the picture. So when the wife introduced her daughters to me before our marriage, I didn't have any problems getting to know them. At that time I don't have any sexual contacts with them yet.

The first was the eldest when we first met. We practically together before I even propose my wife. And no sexual contact with the 3rd and 4th daughters. They were a bit younger than my age limit.

As for this 2nd stepdaughter, I was to meet the last one - a week before our wedding. She has been staying with her father and refused to know anything about her mother.

I practically had to arrange my meeting with her by myself and met her all by myself. And I never regret that.

Just like her eldest sister, she has probably made me ejaculated the moment I saw her perfect breasts.

We talked. It was a pleasant conversation but never about her mother. I know what her likes and hobbies are. I want to talk on those relevant topics, but I don't understand our topic turns out to touch on sexual preferences.

Like she enjoys bdsm. She never wore bra when her breasts outgrown from cup B. And she love getting fuck whenever she is stress out.

After hearing this, I excused myself but not too far long as I just detour to walk behind her seat - bend over to slide both my hands into her blouse and massage her perfect breasts of 36-DDDs, stopping at her perfect tits and ever lightly rubbing her nubs.

Her reactions has been pleasant and almost loud. She closed her eyes and lean back. But she suddenly jerk up as I know she felt my hard pointed rod poking her back.

I whispered.

"Let's fuck."

I paid for our uneaten dinner. Then, I texted my wife that I would be visiting some imaginary relatives and won't be back for a few days. She, too, texted her dad that she was visiting her imaginary cousin.

I drive us back to my apartment but not my unit that I usually live with my girlfriend but the other one that she has no knowledge of, even to these days.

It was risked that I am taking, but I can't hold on anymore. I was going crazy with her daughter.

We made love. She may be experienced with the boys near her age, but she is not on the same level as her mother.

Experience makes perfections.

And feelings grows.

After that sweet night's from her college, my love for her deepened.

And after now, I still have her in my life - not as stepdaughter but more like a partner and lover.

My wife has no knowledge of this special relationship.

It won't end. Not for me.

[buckybuckyboo]

Where does Bucky go after missions?

Warnings: Little bit of smut. Fluff.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Should I write meeting Steve and the others? Enjoy reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated. Feedback is always welcome.

-------------------🦾--------------------

Steve always wonders but he tells himself when Bucky is ready he will tell him. As soon as they get back to the compound he showers quickly, changes into some jeans and a Hanley and he's gone for a couple of days. They always try to get him to stay for a bit to eat or just unwind especially if it's been a tough mission. He turns them down every time with a big smile and then leaves the compound.

Of course Steve calls but it's likely Bucky won't answer. He always sees him again after a few days and his mood is always better than it was when he got back from the mission. So where does Bucky go?

He goes to you of course.

You're wondering around your apartment while eating some left over Chinese food when you hear a knock at the door. When you open it and see that beautiful face your arms automatically wrap around his neck and your legs around his waist. His head in the crook of your neck inhaling your sent that he has missed so much.

"I'm so happy you're home safe baby! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He doesn't answer but smashes his lips to yours in a heated kiss. He carries you back inside, kicking the door closed with his foot and heading towards your bedroom. This was nothing new of course this is what happened after missions. Especially long missions.

For the next day or two... or maybe four, there are some rules.

1) nobody leaves the apartment.

2) clothes stay off.

3) Food will be ordered in. And

4) you are always in arms reach.

Once he's got you naked on the bed he can't help slipping his cock in stright away. He needs to feel you hugging his cock. He slides all the way in and the moans from both of you are pornagraphic.

There are no words spoken that first time, but when he looks into your eyes he smiles making you smile back. "Hi baby" you whisper. He leans in kissing you sweetly "Hi doll, I missed you".

That first night you don't move far from each other. Then gradually you will move about the apartment but Bucky is always right beside you. You moved from the bed to the couch to watch some TV but Buckys head always ended up between your legs after a few minutes.

After about 3 or 4 days of being together, Bucky felt he had relaxed and was happy to be home and to see you. His phone started to ring on the coffee table and you seen it was Steve. "Answer it, he just wants to know you're alive" you giggle kissing his cheek.

Bucky laughs and picks up the phone and answers.

"Hey steve"

"Hey Buck, where have you been?"

"Uh just winding down after the mission"

"Oh okay, you wanna hang out later or are ypu still winding down?"

Bucky looks at you and smiles.

"No I'll be over soon I uh- I have someone I want you to meet"

"Oh? So there is someone you've been sneaking off to see. Well I can't wait to meet her!"

Bucky laughs and leans in kissing you. "Okay, I'll see you later punk"

[eightstarr]

pacify — sevika.

summary: is it possible to miss a stranger, or does one thing negate the other? maybe you miss sevika because she isn't a stranger, because she stuck her claws far too deep in you and never let go— or just because she looks really fucking good sitting there, looking at you like she's waiting for you to say "hello again".

warnings: mild descriptions of violence, smut (mdni!), pre time jump sevika!

notes: my thesis with this one is that eating out a woman you love will revolutionize you in a way nothing else can and i'm joking but also dead serious. also dear god please me and who… okay bye i love you

・。.・゜✧・. ────

“You know, I’ve always liked this place the best.”

It’s the first thing you remember him saying, blue uniform to match his now slightly reddened eyes, vile alcohol in his breath. You’re at a different bar, not Vander's, the first actual job you ever had if you don't count what came before— the shiny rock of a stranger’s ring in your pocket, another’s gold coins in your bag, all from the quick trips to the city above with your father. “It’s not difficult to steal from a Piltovan,” he’d say, squinting at the engraving on the inside of a sparkly bracelet, a small bounty spread over the kitchen table, “they’re all show, all ego.”

Now watching the smirk on the Enforcer’s face after he downs his fourth glass without taking a breath, a laughable skill for an audience of no one, you find it hard to disagree with your father’s assessment. The well nurtured instinct to wonder what you’d get if you slipped your fingers inside the pockets of his tailored jacket grows loud and tempting in your head, but you shove it away and keep your eyes on the dusty floor you’re meant to sweep, determined to keep this job.

“The drinks are better than up there, I’ll give you that,” the drunk man continued, half empty fifth glass tipped dangerously towards the brooding barman, your only coworker tonight. There’s barely anyone left in the bar at all except a couple regulars. Tension has been brewing through the entirety of your shift, an argument in one of the booths during your first hour, a drink on someone’s face by the third, a wave of tired scoffs when the man in uniform walked in near the end of the night; the last nail on the coffin. In your head, you’ve listed all the possible exits you could use to escape enough times to memorize them.

The man takes a surprisingly controlled sip, thin lips furrowed in a grimace. “Wish it was enough to make up for that fucking stench.”

The air in Zaun is different to foreigners. You’ve never minded it the way they do. It's your air, the first to ever fill your lungs, the one you’re so used to that you can feel the way it shifts— the way it becomes a stench, as he called it, when blood is about to be spilt.

The barman does, to his credit, offer you the chance to leave. Or orders it, morelike, his sharp eyes meeting yours and then a tilt of his head towards the door. Maybe he pities you for the nerves splashed all over your face, or maybe he’d just find it a shame to lose an employee he hired barely a month ago. “You. Out.”

“Out?” the Piltovan repeats, turning his head, his voice grossly high pitched. “Why? What's gonna happen now?” he’s drunk enough that you notice the seconds that pass before his eyes properly focus. You remember the exact way his smirk faded, the deep-set wrinkles between his eyebrows when he recognized your face, a nauseating anger. “No. No, you don't move.”

Enforcers never go anywhere alone. Maybe the man had just remembered this, just now realized the true risk of his cockiness when it's not backed up by two or three of his colleagues. Maybe that's why he finds it easy to target you rather than the angry figures lurking in the tables behind him. Maybe that's why he draws his gun so fast.

“I know you, little thief—”

A woman approaches at the same time he does, and you don't know why exactly you decide to focus on her instead. A plea, maybe. You remember the dull gray of the brass knuckles on her fingers, the thick leather belt hung around her lower waist, the thump of her boots against the old floorboards. You've never noticed her before. How ridiculous it feels to think that she was there all night. How lovely that she could be the last thing you see. There's comfort in her being there, a morbid, sad thing that feels almost like company. At least you’re not alone in the room with the monster, at least there's someone to watch you die. 

Her hand falls on the Enforcer’s shoulder and she pushes him back with little effort, the quickest movement, almost without thought. The man stumbles (blame the well praised alcohol or Sevika’s strength), and the glass that had stayed in his hand shatters against the edge of the bar at the same time his gun fires a loose shot to the wall behind you.

Next comes a blur, a vague memory of hearing the Enforcer hiss in pain, a thread of red spilling down the open palm of his hand.

“You got somewhere to go?”

Her voice is the first and only thing that brings you back, the only sound louder than the heartbeat pounding in your ears. She sounds smooth, clear-headed, not like a woman who just stepped in the middle of the fastest paced violence you’ve ever encountered. Gray eyes move across your face, then the rest of you, and you quickly look down at yourself as if to check along with her that you’re actually unharmed.

Your lips feel awfully dry when your tongue brushes against them, enough air passing through to let you breathe, but not quite talk. You nod your head and remember in a rushed, distorted thought— somewhere to go, yes, home, now.

Sevika returns your nod, small praise, an odd way of saying something like good job. Less odd than the quiet satisfaction you feel for having earned it. She tilts her head towards the door, short black hair brushing her shoulder, her voice the kindest you’ve ever heard to this very day. Perhaps the thing you remember most. “Go on, love.”

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Years pass, deaths and joys and new odd jobs, and you still think about it. She sits at the back of your head like a softly worded reminder. And then one day, as things go, you find her again. Her making a deal at the back of The Last Drop, you behind the bar serving drinks.

There's a chance she doesn't remember it. What are the odds that she thought about you at all after the incident? You were just a stranger on a random night. It's not often that people fully understand the weight of what they did for someone, the trickle down of an action, of a kindness. There's a chance for you to go home, alone and unchanged. Instead (and not for the first time) you work for an hour longer, unpaid labor for a chance to serve her a drink.

Sevika doesn't come every night. You see her maybe once a week, talk to her maybe once a month. You don't expect tonight to be any different, but—

“You gonna watch me all night?” she mutters it into her glass, swallows the last sip before she looks at you. The are tiny wrinkles beginning to form on the corners of her eyes now, along each side of her lips from her smiles. Watching her is entrancing, the easiest thing you do, as natural as drawing a breath. “What are you still doing here?”

You blink downwards at the washed glass in your hand, continue to dry it like it could ever be half as interesting as being under her spell. “Working overtime.”

“Vander can't afford to pay you overtime,” Sevika scoffs, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk. 

You frown, maybe a little flustered. “He—”

“She's right. Why are you still here?”

The man himself stands tall to your left, glaring at this one permanently stained spot on the bar, working at it with a rag like he hasn't tried the same thing a hundred times before. There are dark shadows under his eyes, a purple hair tie on his wrist— Powder’s, if you were to guess. You’ve grown close to Vander since you met him, even closer when he hired you to work here. “‘S not a favor,” he’d said, quickly catching the suspicion on your face. “Just a gesture to him.” Turns out a lot more people knew your father than you thought; Vander isn’t old enough to have grown up with him, but they still found ways to end up at the same places. If he hadn’t been so secretive about who he was beyond the man who raised you, maybe you would’ve met Vander years ago, became friends at some bar in your teen years instead of at a diner a few days after your father’s funeral. But gaining a friend is a timeless thing, it obeys luck, not sensitivities. One day he wasn’t there, and then the next he was.

You spray some cleaning liquid over the spot on the table, roll your eyes as he leans closer to wonder at how the stain begins to slowly fade. “I’m working,” you repeat.

He looks at you from the corner of his eyes, one eyebrow raised. “I ain’t paying you.”

“I know, okay? It's fine,” you cross your arms over your chest, embarrassed to have been caught even though neither Vander nor Sevika seem to know what the real reason behind you staying late is. “It's a busy night, take it as a favor.”

“I can't afford favors.”

“Good thing they’re free, then,” you deadpan.

Sevika chuckles at the banter, forever amused at your unreserve, how simple you make things. It makes no sense to her to be that generous, that open, but it makes even less sense to think that you’d be any other way. Sevika isn’t particularly trusting, but she is loyal— the more you talk, the more watching you becomes addicting, her thing. She fixates on learning new things about you, clings to your words like a cat to its owner’s scent and wonders, over and over and over, if you remember her. From all those years ago. From last week. With you, she’d take anything.

And when she does finally see you up close, finds a good enough excuse in asking you for fire or a refill, there's little you could ask that she would say no to. It's senseless and thrilling and above all, it's true. She feels it down to her bones, painfully clear, like it's written all over her face.

“What do you do, Sevika?”

Sit and wait for you, she thinks, and instead replies, “What?”

“For work,” you clarify, your hand against the bar, leaning slightly forward. “I see you every week and I still don't know.”

You do know what she does, at least as much as anyone else does— too little to run your mouth, enough to stay away. And if you didn't know, you know her enough to be certain that she wouldn't tell you. It's a pointless question. Unless, of course, you’re as infatuated as you are.

Sevika takes another gulp of her drink, her eyes tracing over the line on your waist where the apron ties behind your back, the soft curve that the pull of it forms. She needs a smoke. “Same shit as everyone else,” she answers, and palms her pockets for a cigarette case. “What do you do? Other than this.”

“This is it,” you watch her flick open the case and shrug. You don’t sound particularly sad or frustrated, just plainly aware. “I pour drinks for people who all seem to do the same shit.”

Sevika hums, sets the case down, a click of metal against well worn wood. An unlit cigarette sits between her index and middle finger. “Be honest,” she starts, and it's the same voice that's been talking to you this whole time, but the gruffness still manages to catch you off guard. “Am I just as bad?”

You chuckle, the same addicting shimmer of genuineness in your eyes that she chases everytime you speak. “Just as bad as what?”

Her eyes follow your hands where they go to pull a lighter from the chest pocket of your apron. “The drunks that flirt with you while you do your job,” she lets the cigarette hang from her lips and leans forward.

“Hm,” you hum. The reflection of the flame sparkles in her eyes before you pull it away, orange against gray, odd and pretty. “I don't know.”

You’re not sure if she looks amused or slightly offended. It's a nice view regardless, the way her eyebrows lift and her lips curve downwards for a second before she breathes out, spilling smoke from her mouth as she talks, “You don't know.”

“I guess I didn't realize you were flirting with me.”

Sevika chuckles, a tiny half moon of a smile line on her cheek when she smirks, smugly aware of the way your eyes are looking at her. “You’re funny.”

Sevika is loyal. It would be easy to say that she doesn’t get what this feeling is, that it’s meaningless, that she doesn’t understand it— but she knows. She knows what it is even if it goes unnamed, because she’s the one deciding to keep it, stubborn and tight gripped, close to her heart. It’s in her dreams, in her first thought of the morning, in the disappointment that sours her mouth when she doesn’t find you at the bar. It’s in her stomach, tugging with need, when she looks at your face and realizes that if she asks if you wanna go home with her tonight, you will say yes.

She takes the leap. Parts her lips, names herself yours. “You wanna get out of here?”

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

You rarely pour your own drinks anymore. It’s a funny thing— Sevika doesn’t ask about your preference, which liquor is your favorite, if you’d like for her to do it for you. She figures it out like she does most things, making a study out of it, watching you enough. Maybe a little extra, too. The cork slides up with a pop!, her fingers around the neck of the bottle. The warmth of her still lingers on your thighs, your own fingers sitting restless over your lap now that her hair is not close enough to play with.

It’s been months since the first night she came home with you. You wouldn’t yet say that the newness is gone, or that you’re as quick of a student as she is, but there are things you know about Sevika already. Vivid truths, bright like the visions of her in the sunlight that you dream about sometimes. Reassurance is one of the first languages you learn from each other.

For Sevika, it's almost always about touch— you notice it immediately at the core of most of her silences, the way closeness makes her demeanor shift to something calmer, more true to herself. Slide closer to her on the couch and her arm will find itself around your shoulders immediately. Pat the empty spot next to you on the bed and she’ll let out a heavy sigh of relief, join you in sleep instead of torturing herself about tomorrow’s line of business. Part your lips when she's kissing you late at night with no goal other than to kiss you and she’ll let out a sound that vibrates through you and changes her mind on what was once an innocent gesture; she’ll tug your shirt off instead. Brush your hand over her shoulder when she's resting her head on your lap and she’ll guide it to her face instead, a lazy hold on your wrist while your thumb brushes her cheek. Coming to love her is the warmest science. But it’s not always exact.

You watch her pour you a drink at the bar table that sits in front of your bed— watch the dark hair that sits against the nape of her neck, messy and loose, watch the waistline of her pants sitting low on her waist, watch the bareness of her back. If there’s a reason why you decide to say it now, you don’t yet realize it. The words just spill out of you before you have a chance to stop them. “I remember you, you know."

Sevika’s hand hovers over the whiskey glass before she hums, resuming the movement and bringing it to her lips. "You didn't say."

“You didn’t ask,” you rest your back against the bed frame, watch her carefully.

The air sits still and you see her shoulders lift, muscles shifting as she shrugs, a big gulp of golden liquor sliding down her throat. Her voice comes in a mutter, low and almost shy, "Thought I might scare you off.”

The idea is so ridiculous that it's almost laughable. A startled chuckle dies in your chest and leaves room for aching sadness, your back leaving the frame as you lean forward and pray for her to turn around. "He was going to shoot me. Nobody moved a finger but you, Sev," you shake your head, try to manage your expression from saying too much, from confessing to something that’s been inside of you for years. At the tip of your tongue sits a raw desperation for this exact unraveling, for her. "How could you scare me?"

Another moment passes before Sevika turns to face you, lower back against the edge of the table, holding her drink down by her side. She won't look at your eyes— can't, maybe. You wonder if she's considering leaving, if she's already decided that she will, as soon as this is over. A part of you, small but dramatic and loudly pessimistic, is surprised that she’s entertained you this long. Even more surprised when she asks, "Is that what this is?" a turn of her head and the gray in her eyes finds you in a second, mechanical and unforgiving, the snap of a bear trap. You don't think you could look away if you tried. "Are you here because you think you owe me something?"

Your reaction is something close to a flinch, your frown deepening, feet firm on the floor instantly. "You can't seriously think that."

Sevika feels the regret come instantly. It splatters on her face, the pads of her fingers rough when they're brushed over her cheek to wipe herself clean of it like she does blood, gunpowder, fear. She watches out of the corner of her eye the way you part your pretty lips and can hear it in her head, imagine it so clearly, you asking her to leave. 

She's already reaching for her coat to make quick work of obeying your wishes when, instead of that, you ask, "You wanna know why I’m here?"

Sevika lowers her hand and the glass hits the table with a thud. Her head tilts to make the slightest nod— and that's as much of an answer as you'll get, you think.

“Look at me,” your finger sits under her chin, a touch barely there, the rise of her head more her choice than your doing. “You’re good, Sevika,” she grimaces, feels like she's swimming in gross viscous shame older than herself and barely surviving it. You press your thumb into her cheek, firm but kind, and keep her from being swept away by it. If she used to find your openness sweet, right now she finds it fucking miraculous. How can you call her good and mean it, how can someone else know so deeply that she could be, that she will be, when most days she doesn’t even know it herself? How can she look you in the eyes and deny you that truth? Her face relaxes, grimace replaced by an aching need as she listens to you. “I see it better than most, but they all catch up eventually. Whatever you put your mind to, you’re fucking good at it,” you pause, try to read her expression and find yourself unsure, but calm. How lovely to think that there's still so much to learn. “You don't owe me and I’m not trying to change you… you don't need—”

Sevika rests her hand over your cheek, a warm hum from her throat to acknowledge what you're saying, a desperate shake of her head to say but I do. “I need you,” her forehead falls against your own, in her brain a chant of please.

You look at her through your lashes, nod your head and feel warm, warm, warm. Her hand guides your face closer, a needy pull of her fingers where they press against the back of your neck, your whisper of “me too” spilled into her mouth. Sevika kisses like there's nothing in the whole fucking world she’d rather be doing, nothing that could possibly distract her. She has kissed you in nightclub bathrooms even with someone's knocks shaking the flimsy door, in alleys with her knuckles still bloody from a fight, dangerously close to opening hours with your back against the very bar where she rests her drinks every night. She's hungry, insatiable, and every time you can't wait to part your lips and let her in.

It takes godlike strength to hold on for as long as you do, but there's power in making her wait too, a satisfaction that feels drunk and just as divine as it makes its way down your spine. A few more chaste kisses take seconds or a century, and Sevika indulges them for as long as she can before she breaks, falls to her knees at your altar and breathes, “Please.”

There's nothing you like more than hearing her beg, except maybe what happens after you give in— the relief, the sigh against your mouth, the wet warmth of her tongue and the desperation in the way she pushes her body against you like she hadn't til then realized just how famished she’d been. Her hands wrap around your waist meanly, pressing indents, and you're too busy soothing your own hunger on her lips to realize that she's switched your positions.

You feel the harshness of the table against your back and pull away to look down, catch up, your daze maybe a little too obvious judging by the curl of her mouth. She's panting as much as you are, though, tongue peeking out barely to brush over her lips, tingly and wet from your kisses. “Up,” she says with a tilt of her head, more a warning than a command, her hands already down on your hips to get you sitting over the wood.

Sevika is a sight, pretty and inviting and overwhelming— you reach for her waist and pull, entranced by the way she follows, the way your legs interlock. A thin layer of sweat glimmers over her chest and you've never found so much beauty in the undercity’s humidity, never felt yourself get wet as easily as she makes it, never been so desperate to find some relief from the aching between your legs. Your thighs squeeze into Sevika’s and looking up to meet her eyes feels like a punch, like the sweetest blood, a sea of glazed-over gray barely visible against the black of her pupils. A mirror of your wanting; how the hunger grows when it meets reciprocation this delicious. You lean forward to taste it from her lips and she meets you halfway, a hand traveling up your spine and ending at your neck.

You don't know when you started grinding against her, but you know you want more. And you know Sevika’s holding back, savoring the same power you’d tried before, a smirk against your lips when she feels you speed up, hears you moan from somewhere deep in your throat. It suits her, the way she holds control. Sevika likes to wonder if she’d ever hold on longer, make you really wait. Sometimes she thinks she might, and then (like now) your voice fills her ears and clouds every thought that says anything other than please, god, fuck, let me make you feel good. “Don’t be mean,” you say this time, breathy and achingly sweet. “Please, Sevika.”

The first grind of her thigh against your pussy makes you end a kiss with your teeth biting into the meat of her lower lip, rougher than you intended. “Fuck, Sev—” you say, cut yourself off with a gasp when she does it again. Sevika figures out the angle unsurprisingly quickly, a hand on your hip and another on your ass to guide you back and forth at a rhythm that matches the movement of her own hips, enough fervency behind it that you know she needed this as much as you did. Maybe more, judging by the groans she spills on your neck every time you press up into her.

Full lips kiss at your pulse, open mouthed, her breath cool against your skin when it meets the wetness she left there. Your nails rake over her shoulder, over her scalp where your fingers are buried in between strands of dark hair— and when Sevika groans it sounds raw, a broken noise, her hips moving desperately faster. You can feel her warmth on your thigh and you've never wanted so badly to have her undressed, laid out, rubbing her pussy against you, leaving a mess on skin rather than the fabric of your pants. She's getting carried away, you know it, chasing her high and barely giving you a chance to catch up. You've never wanted anything more than to let her use you.

“You feel so fucking good,” she grunts, wrecked with need for you to pacify when she lifts her head from your neck, her eyebrows furrowed. You watch her get lost on your lips and you can imagine what they look like, how plump she left them, how the pride of that must simmer in her lower abdomen. Her thumb brushes over them once, then again, and you barely register that she's asking for permission before your mouth moves on its own accord to let her index and middle finger inside. It's filling, just what you needed; how beautifully unsurprising that she knew it more than you did, or that she needed it just the same.

You're fully caged in now, your back pressed against the wall, Sevika’s free hand on your waist still steering you back and forth on her thigh. “Too— hm, fuck,” her fingers slide out of your mouth and press wet indents into your cheek as she holds your jaw, traps you in her eyes. She’s far too gone to warn you but she doesn't have to, it's so painfully clear. Her eyes two dark pits to swallow you whole, lips parted, the grinding brutal and so fucking good— she says it until she can't form the words anymore, her head tilted back, thighs stuttering and tightening around your leg as she comes.

Your tongue tastes the skin of her bared neck and you feel yourself get closer and closer, fed by the feeling of her nipple under the pad of your thumb, by the shaking moans she spills into your ears as you keep grinding against her. Sevika must feel it too, in the same way you did, notice the change in your breath or the speed of your hips— because she pulls away and knows to soothe the needy desperation on your face with a messy kiss before she gets down on her knees.

“Shh,” her shushing comes soft and agonizingly kind, your whines barely contained as she presses kisses to the inside of your thighs. “What happened to my patient girl?” she asks, a tilt of her head and a smirk, the meanest angel.

Your palms press onto the table to lift yourself up enough to let her slide your pants and underwear off in one motion. “Spoiled me too much,” you answer, your mind foggy, drunk on the sight of her kneeling in front of you.

It takes Sevika a moment to reply, the pads of her finger pressing into your thighs. Her eyes meet yours and she wants to tell you, how could I not? You’re not trying to change her, you’d said, but you do. These days, she doesn't think about anything else like she used to— I love you prefaces everything. I love you, so I’m winning this stupid fight and making some money. I love you, so I gotta get home alive. I love you, so I think we could change this city. I love you, you should have every-fucking-thing. But Sevika's not really a woman of many words, especially not when you're looking at her like this, especially not when she's this hungry, so she shrugs her shoulders and says (like it explains everything, and maybe it does), "Look at you.”

The intensity of her makes your legs squeeze together, but you barely make it an inch before she’s pulling them apart and hooking them over her shoulders exactly how she likes.

Your face feels like it's burning, heat crawling up your neck, your grip on the table tight. “Please.”

Sevika barely manages to pry her eyes away from where you're open and glimmering, soaking her fingers after just one brush of them against your lips. Her voice comes out strained, drowned in hunger. “Please what?” 

You must sound worse, but the thought barely registers, hardly matters. “Please, Sevika, make me come.”

And she does— pretty nose bumping perfectly against your clit whenever her tongue is too busy inside you, her lips shiny and wet and relentless. Like everything else, she's fucking good at it.

[brittle-doughie]

Anticipated Arrival (Golden Cheese Cookie)

Previous part with Dark Cacao Cookie!

You turned off the faucet as you wiped your face with water, but only with so little as not to soften up your dough. You take a deep breath as you look up at the mirror.

You weren’t looking alright. Tired eyes, a bit of sweat here and there as if it was always a little heated whether you go, and the constant..visions that you see out of the corner of your eyes.

A cookie of blue that lets out little laughs that make you turn your head at nothing and silhouettes of a cookie of white within the shadows, doing nothing but…stare, speaking only briefly…

“Ehehe…”

“Set yourself free, cookie…”

“It’s only a matter of time…”

“Let yourself go..and return to Beast-Yeast..”

You shake your head at those voices in your head. You can’t, you didn’t want to. Things have only gotten worse ever since your first visit to that place….as you glance at your forehead and your wrists…

A faint eye on your forehead and specks of flour on your wrists….these things only you can see, invisible to others…always there no matter how hard you tried to remove them…

A knock at your door snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Excuse me, your Majesty. A little bird has come with a message, it says that it was of a urgent matter. Do I say that you are unavailable at the moment?”

A little bird? Oh dear, was it one of the Blueberry Birds?

“No, I’ll be there right away, Blackberry Cookie. Just..gimme a second.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

———————————————————————

It wasn’t a blueberry bird.

A cheesebird was waiting for you in the throne room, a letter in its beak. Cheesebirds were only native to the Golden Cheese Kingdom, so it could only mean that Golden Cheese Cookie had sent this bird to you.

“Chirp, Y/N Cookie! Your Majesty!”

“You’ve flown quite far to hand me this letter, what is going on at the Golden Cheese Kingdom?”

“Golden Cheez Cookie has asked for your support! She needz help with moving thingz to her Secret Vault! Chirp!”

“This letter seems to be accurate. Is that all there is to it? Just helping her move things to a hidden spot? Nothing…too dire I’m going to guess?”

“Terrible thingz she sayz might happen! She needz your help just in case! Chirp!”

“If that’s all, then I’d be glad to help her. I just need a moment to catch my bearings…”

A part of you wanted to stay, this was too coincidental during the recent rise of the Beast Cookies to be unrelated…you had no intention to go back to that horrid place…

But you can’t just turn away Golden Cheese Cookie if it really was something as simple as that, not after what had befallen her and her kingdom…

You steeled yourself and went to gather your things….

———————————————————————

“Your Majesty, Y/N Cookie has arrived!”

“Have they? Bring them here!”’

You walked in to the main entrance to the pyramid, the cheesebird on your finger. You tell it to fly away now as you turn your attention to Golden Cheese Cookie.

“Golden Cheese Cookie, I’ve gotten your message. What seems to be the pro-oh my goodness!”

“Oh, it’s good to see you again, Y/N Cookie! It’s been a while since you were here, but it’s felt like forever!”

“Oh!”

You barely finished your question before Golden Cheese Cookie rushed at you and held you closely, wings around you two like a makeshift barrier from the outside world. You were kind of expecting that and immediately reciprocated the hug.

“Ehehe, yep! It’s been quite some time, Golden Cheese Cookie. It’s good to see you again too.”

“It’s perfect timing, I’ll need your help to move the last of the soulcheese to the Secret Vault I have prepared!”

“You said it was because grave danger might come to the kingdom. What exactly is this danger? Is it Dark Enchantress Cookie?”

“Not just her, but the Beast Cookies that Pure Vanilla Cookie has told me in his letter.”

Beast Cookies…

You already felt a little lightheaded, you leaned on a pillar for a minute. Golden Cheese Cookie was quick to tend to you.

“Y/N Cookie, are you alright?! You lose your balance there!”

“I-I’m fine. Just a little desert heat making me feel hot, I need to stand in the shade for a bit.”

“Very well, but we must make haste. There’s no telling when and where these Beast Cookies might make their attack!”

“Y/N Cookie…? Y/N Cookie, you’re looking off! Y/N Cookie!”

———————————————————————

You felt like you were back in that cocoon…

Couldn’t move…

Only able to directly face…Mystic Flour Cookie…

“Why do you keep resisting the truth? That all of your efforts to stay away will only bring you closer to us…”

No, it couldn’t be…this had to be a dream…the shaking, the feeling of tiredness, sweating like mad…

Your wrists…the flour on them was very much visible…

“I promise that this is all very real. My marking makes sure that I can have this connection with you…”

“No! Get out of my head!”

“You are only delaying the inevitable, Y/N Cookie. It is completely futile to try and fight it…”

Her voice quiets to a sickening whisper…that smile on her face as it darkens…

“RETURN TO US, Y/N COOKIE.“

———————————————————————

“Y/N Cookie, are you there?!”

You gasped as you wake from your nightmare, standing up from the pillar, looking at your wrists to see the familiar faded marks of flour from Mystic Flour Cookie.

That only you saw….

Golden Cheese looked worried at you, holding you by the shoulders.

“Y-yeah, just..a little tired from last night, hehe. Just needed a little snooze is all..”

“Are you sure that’s all to it? You can tell me if something is troubling you.”

“Y-yeah! I’m good!”

“Please…just..promise me that if you ever feel wrong, you’ll tell me right away!”

“I will, I….promise. Now, what was it about some soulcheese you needed moving?”

“Oh! Yes, I need your help to move the last remaining soulcheese to the Secret Vault! Let us go!”

It pained you not to tell her…but she couldn’t know…

She can’t learn that you’ve been haunted ever since you first stepped on Beast-Yeast.

She’ll be fine if you didn’t tell her just yet.

Right…?

[random2908]

Iowa has historically been a swing state! It went for Obama both times! It went for Gore in 2000, Clinton both times, and even was one of the few states to vote for Dukakis in 1988. In other words, in the past 36 years, it's only gone red three times.

More seriously, there are three big possibilities here.

The first, and possibly most likely, is that this poll is--unfortunately--just wrong. Selzer is reputed to be a high-quality pollster, but her polls tend to be pretty small; and so no matter how good she is, she's going to get wrong results sometimes.

The second possibility is that opinion is swinging really fast in Harris's favor this past week, and this reflects a real change in people's opinions.

The third, and most likely, possibility is what's called "bias". This isn't bias like it's used in common English. This is the data analysis sense of bias: something wasn't taken into account, so all of your results are offset in one direction or another.

What's interesting about the bias hypothesis, though, is there are so many ways it can go. Are people embarrassed to say they're Trump voters, so you undercount them? Are the people more likely to vote for Harris less likely to answer polls, so you undercount them? Are pollsters trying to take these things into account in their data analysis and accidentally going too far? Not far enough? So many possibilities, so many explanations, and we won't know until the election.

But. There's an interesting source of bias that Nate Silver brings up about once per election: herding. A poll comes out, and all the other pollsters are like, "Ok, this is the TRUTH. So anything I get that isn't similar to this must be bias." So then they reanalyze their data with this "bias" in mind, and then when they publish their poll results, their results look very similar to the previous poll. This is thought to be especially likely to happen if the previous poll showed an even split, because for some reason people tend to think that's a "fair" result so it must be true.

The pollsters can't help but put their fingers on the scales, because they KNOW bias is a thing they have to watch out for in their weighing of results. But they don't know what the bias is that they have to counteract in their weighting. So all they have left is their bias--in the regular English sense! their personal beliefs and assumptions--to counteract the technical bias. And there's no reason to think that's right, either, but what else are they going to do. The result may be that they tend to predict elections are going to be closer than they are, because they believe that's "fair" and "normal".

And then here a completely different poll comes out from a very trusted pollster, and maybe she's right. Or, maybe she just adjusted her biases differently in a way that was equally irrational. (Her claim is actually that she does a lot less bias adjustment than most other pollsters. Which is interesting, because you wouldn't think that's necessarily a good approach--after all, polls miss entire demographics of voters. And anyway, a lot less isn't none. That said, as a scientist, I agree: when you know, go ahead and subtract out all the biases; but when in doubt, it's always better to analyze less.)

In the end, though, whatever the answer is, we won't know until the election.

Reports are coming out that Harris is leading in Iowa.

So what does this mean for Iowa voters?

Iowa was red in 2020 and has historically been red. As someone who lives in AZ, a red state that is now a swing state, it is entirely possible to flip a state or at least make the Republican Party sweat. So if you are in Iowa and were considering not voting because “your vote won’t count in a red state anyways”, please get out and vote.

Obviously polls can be inaccurate, but how great would it be if we could flip a state that republicans considered an easy victory?

Iowa also allows same day in person registration!!! So if you are over 18 and a U.S. citizen who resides in Iowa it is not too late! Click here for info on voting in Iowa: https://voterready.iowa.gov/registertovote/

Link to article: https://www.desmoinesregister.com/story/news/politics/iowa-poll/2024/11/02/iowa-poll-kamala-harris-leads-donald-trump-2024-presidential-race/75354033007/

[warblogs17282]

Blitz and self-hatred, plus his self-forgiveness journey.

Aka, watch me try to make sense of the massive lore drops in ghostfuckers. (Long post alert, my first meta post after ghostfuckers dropped)

Section 1: The roots of Blitz's self-hatred.

The circus fire. We know what Blitz's actions were that day, he saw Fizzarolli, and tried to call for help, but then he realized that Tilla was also caught up in the fire, and instantly rushed over to attempt to save her the moment Blitz realized that fact.

We know that Fizzarolli getting severely hurt in that fire affected Blitz very deeply, considering that it was one of the memories in that slideshow.

If you look at this frame by frame, you can see some sort of face in the fire when Blitz is rushing to save Tilla from the fire. The face in that fire looks like a mix of an angry face and a screaming face at the same time. Signaling that Tilla has been consumed by the flames. That she's dead.

There's an interesting detail within the hallucination sequence as well.

"This is your life." The fact that the fire in this sequence starts right at Blitz's hand is really telling. It tells us that Blitz still blames himself for accidentally causing the fire. Blitz blames himself for the fire that severely hurt Fizzarolli, and the fire that killed Tilla. Blitz feels like he hurt Fizzarolli and killed Tilla, his own mother.

Look at Blitz's hand during this memory, you can very clearly see that it's quite badly burned, including some that haven't even fully scarred properly yet, placing this memory very shortly after the fire happened. During this scene, Cash hits Blitz, and it's very clearly a memory that still deeply affects Blitz, a memory that most likely reinforced Blitz's own self hatred, because he's blaming himself for Tilla's death and Fizzarolli's injuries at this point, and his dad is just rubbing that in a lot by getting extremely pissed off with Blitz and hitting him because of the circus fire.

Plus, just look at Blitz's reaction to this memory, look at Blitz flinch, look at Blitz starting to struggle against the chains the moment this memory comes up. Blitz's reaction to this just proves how deeply it affects him to this day, and also proves that Cash hitting Blitz added to Blitz's self-hatred over the circus fire. Also, just how many times did Cash physically abuse Blitz like this over the course of his life so far?

Finally, we have the memory of Cash keeping Blitz from seeing Fizzarolli at the hospital. "But they told me you didn't want to see me.", Cash lied to Blitz and most likely the hospital staff as well considering the 'they' used, saying that Fizzarolli didn't want to see Blitz again, having strong implications to Blitz that Fizzarolli hated him. He also lied to Fizzarolli and said that Blitz never even visited him in the hospital. Further adding to Blitz's self hatred over the circus fire.

Section 2: Everything that has reinforced Blitz's self hatred, and is important on Blitz's self-forgiveness journey.

Let's start with Loona, we see her two times during the memories sequence.

The first having this exchange of dialogue.

Blitzo: Because, I adopted you! And that should mean something!

Loona: Oh, what does it matter?! You're not my real dad! I was almost eighteen!

Blitzo: It still counts!

Loona: Well, it shouldn't! I didn't need you then, asshole! I don't, now!

Notice the word 'need.', it's something that Blitz has internalized by now, Blitz thinks that if the people in his life don't 'need' him, they'll just leave him. Another thing that this shows is that Blitz is worried about if Loona hates him.

And it's very clear that Blitz is still effected by this exchange in s1 e3, even quite a while later. In s2 e2, we see Loona kick Blitz right in the balls, and just look at Loona's face in this scene, what Blitz sees here is his fear that Loona hates him, which is why it's in the memory sequence, and there's also these pieces of dialogue to consider.

Loona: If I'm so terrible, how about you just grow a pair and replace me?

Blitzo: Okay, well, maybe I- Maybe I might.

Blitzo: Oh, Loona, my sweet baby girl! I'm so sorry, I'll never replace you no matter what you--

Blitz is still concerned that Loona hasn't forgiven him/hates him for saying that he might replace her, hence why he instantly says he'll never replace her the moment Blitz sees her again, and that face and kick in the balls definitely fed into Blitz's fear that Loona hates Blitz.

And this fear that Blitz has about people who he cares about hating him seems to be something that applies to a lot of different people.

We see this fear in Fizzarolli, because this is one of the memories that comes up in that sequence. The malice-filled stare Fizzarolli gave Blitz during Ozzie's, and we all know Cash was the reason why Fizzarolli hated Blitz for so long, because he lied to Fizzarolli and said he started the fire on purpose, and said that he never visited him once. Alongside other things like Cash making Fizzarolli the golden child. So even all those years later, Cash is still contributing to Blitz's fear of the people he cares about hating him.

Don't be mistaken as well, just because they made up in s2 e6 doesn't make this fear of Blitz's go away, doesn't make the pain of the malice-filled stare go away, which this memory being brought up proves.

And, as I've said before, Blitz still blames himself for accidentally causing the fire that severely hurt him, also adding to the fear and self-hatred.

Barbie Wire, we can see this fear play out with her as well.

"I never wanna see you ever!"

Looking at both Blitz's face at the time and the fact that this scene made it into the memories sequence, it just shows us that Blitz has this fear for Barbie Wire as well, just like how he had it for Fizzarolli. The fact that Barbie Wire doesn't even want to see Blitz again just confirms that fear he has, that Barbie Wire hates him, and the memory of it also confirms just how deeply her saying that effected Blitz.

"Are you worried I may have enough of it one day as well?"

Truth Seekers, the fact that this is Blitz's subconscious telling him this is proof of the fact he has this fear that Moxxie will get tired of Blitz's behavior, that Moxxie will hate him and just, leave.

And the sequence with all the dead Millies and her appearance in the memories sequence also confirms that Blitz has this fear when it comes to Millie as well. Plus, the sequence with the dead Millies also tells us quite a few things, but I think the main ones are the insecurities Blitz has that he 'keeps fucking people's lives up' and 'leaving them worse and more broken than he found them', which both add to the fear that the people in Blitz's life who he cares for hates him.

The last person, Stolas.

There's three memories in ghostfuckers of him I'd like to bring up here.

The first being the All 2 U song memory, just look at how angry Stolas looks to Blitz in this specific memory, while singing lines like "'Cause I don't think it meant a thing at all!"

This one, Stolas was literally just crying a moment ago with all the makeup streaming down his face, but Blitz doesn't seem to remember that fact, instead, he's more focused on what Stolas said, more specifically, "You! Why are you here? I don't want you here, go home, please! Let me not feel so sad!"

And the final one, Stolas and the BTB guy. It's not jealousy, it's god damn heartbreak, especially considering the 'I mean you're a fucking prince. How could you ever actually care for an imp... Me? How could anybody?' Which shows us that Blitz thinks Stolas deserves a better partner, and then a guy literally with a shirt named 'Better than Blitzo' came in, with them dancing and enjoying each other, something that Blitz most likely wished he could do.

Plus, it had been around 24 hours since Stolas' confession to Blitz, and to Blitz, Stolas is already with someone else, someone 'better' than him. With the moment of the BTB guy kissing Stolas being all the confirmation Blitz needed, that he'll never be enough for Stolas, that Stolas has found someone better than him. That he's unlovable.

With all these three memories just massively contributing to Blitz's fear that Stolas hates him, and his self-hatred in general.

(Obviously Stolas doesn't hate Blitz, and that the BTB dude is a one night stand at most, but I'm speaking like how Blitz sees things rn)

Something else that's also relevant is this memory of Verosika, and the reason why this is specifically in the reel is because this was the moment that Verosika said "A reckless, heartbreaking freak!", all while Stolas was watching, which is something Blitz very clearly noted in his memories of the event, showing how much this effected him as well.

And to show that even more, this is the exact point that gets Blitz's tears flowing.

Another thing I want to quickly mention is that Blitz struggles to understand concepts and such of love, outside of a transactional context. Like, correct me if I'm overthinking this, but the 'unconditional support' card is yet another example of Blitz doing this kind of stuff. Everytime they give Blitz 'unconditional support', Blitz punches a hole in the card, with the one at the end being that Blitz has to leave M&M alone for one date, like, my babygirl, that isn't unconditional.

I also suspect that this has roots with Cash as well, considering that Cash was 100% the type of person to only see their value as 'how much money they can make him', and that the less they make for him, the less that Cash will 'love' them, something that is extremely clear in the difference that Cash treated Blitz and Fizzarolli on multiple occurrences. Like, here for example. Plus, there's also the fact that Blitz was bought by Paimon to be friends with Stolas as a kid.

And well, I think we all know what the biggest example of this kind of relationship has been throughout the show, it being something that only ended a few episodes ago.

Of course, I have to mention "I believe your subconscious is trying to tell you that you simply cannot fathom proper intimacy, but… also crave it as well.", which is something that is extremely intertwined with this subject, and the best example of this is probably s2 e8.

Something else in the memories sequence that this line from truth seekers also heavily applies to are these memories.

It shows us very clearly that Blitz is rather envious of the relationship that Moxxie and Millie have, because Blitz craves proper intimacy, so what Blitz sees is something he wants, but something he feels like he can't obtain.

Finally, the last subject I'd like to talk about is the fact that Blitz, hasn't really been able to see much of the good things he's done for the people he cares about or that he straight up doesn't know, by just being himself.

Blitz saved Moxxie from a life with Crimson and also busted him out of prison, Blitz gave Millie a life, a husband, and a purpose, Blitz gave Loona a home and a loving father, right before she was about to get kicked out the system, and Blitz gave Stolas the courage to stand up to his abuser, to allow him to choose for himself and get that divorce.

But, the sad part is that Blitz doesn't really see much of that.

Section 3: The progress Blitz has made on self-forgiveness journey so far.

S2 E6, the fact that Blitz and Fizzarolli was able to make up after so long removed a huge roadblock in the way of Blitz's self-forgiveness journey. The fact that Fizzarolli no longer hates Blitz. While there are still memories about Fizzarolli that still haunt Blitz, as I've shown in this post, this is still a huge step forward for Blitz being able to repair his relationships.

The first real heart-to-heart Blitz and Millie conversation, a lot gets brought up here, just exactly how Blitz has improved Millie's life for the better, confirmation to Blitz that Millie never hated Blitz and the fact that they're best friends. Of course, there's also Millie's apology to Blitz, with this conversation being something that Blitz desperately needed to hear, and I really hope everyone else eventually tells Blitz just how much he's changed their lives for the better.

And the second conversation between the two, the first thing that Blitz mentions is Millie's best friend comment, and that is huge for Blitz, because it signals the start of Blitz learning that people in his life can care for Blitz unconditionally. That Blitz can just have friends in his life, as the line "I- I've never had a real friend that I didn't want to fuck."

(hit the image limit, so time for timestamps!) Timestamp 24:31

(Timestamp, 24:45) "The bird got to you that bad, huh?", it just means so much to me that Blitz has finally admitted the fact that Blitz has feelings for Stolas, because it shows that Blitz is slowly, but surely starting to open up, and this is gonna be a huge thing for Blitz's relationships, including when Stolitz finally gets back together.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Jake Kim x Reader: Nightcalls

G/N. Masterlists

Jake doesn't drink often.

At least, he never did when you were together.

But you know he drinks more now, whether that's catching up with Sinu and the boys or for other reasons, you don't really know.

The only reason you do know he's drinking at all - is that he seeks you out everytime.

When your doorbell first rang in the early hours of the morning, you ignored it. Nothing good can come from answering unexpected visitors at 3am. Then the ringing stopped and your phone started buzzing - a message from Jake Kim.

He's on your doorstep.

You didn't have the heart to turn away the sweetest guy you had ever met, even if he did break your heart. You had split, sort of amicably, with promises to stay as friends and keep in touch.

Except it never really ends up that way, does it. He had faded from your life, not even a stranger anymore.

Yet-

Here he is. Slightly swaying in your doorway, alcohol on his breath, face flushed.

Damn. He looks better than you remembered, even if his lips are turned down and his eyes downcast. They look suspiciously red rimmed, like he's been crying. But Jake Kim doesn't cry, or what you mean is - he never cried over you. So what has upset him?

"Jake?" you say, even though there is no doubt who this man is.

He looks at you then, a sad smile on his face. "I've missed you."

.

.

The first time this happens, you lead him into your home and sit next to him on the sofa.

He caresses your face tenderly, expression wistful, and when you go to get him a glass of water, he falls asleep. You wrap his coat around his body and tuck him in, running your fingers through his hair.

You never drift back to sleep after that, instead staying in your bed tossing and turning wondering how do you deal with Jake, what will happen in the morning.

Turns out, he didn't intend to stay. You hear the creak of your floorboards and him quietly shutting your front door.

Before sun up, he had gone.

.

.

The second time, Jake kisses you.

In your doorway, he cups your face with those big strong hands of his, and brings his lips down to meet yours.

"This is a terrible idea," you breathe and you hate how much you've missed this.

"I know."

And he kisses you again.

.

.

You tumble into bed the third time.

It's mostly innocent. He lies there, eyes bright in the darkness, and strokes your hair, your hand, your skin.

He gently grips your chin and runs his thumb along your bottom lip before pulling you into his arms.

You fall asleep in Jake's embrace, and wake up to his absence.

.

.

"I tried," Jake murmurs, pulling your t-shirt over your head, "I really tried."

"Tried what?" You match his urgency as you unbutton his pants. It had been months since you last saw him.

The hope of a reunion faded after the first few weeks, even if you drifted asleep every night, wishing that the sound of your doorbell ringing would wake you up.

Perhaps tonight, the fourth time he had sought you out, you should have had more dignity than to fall back in bed with your ex, who only ever seems to contact you in the dead of night when beer has loosened his inhibitions.

But you're so weak for this man.

Weaker still, when he kisses you, rough and desperate, and whispers, "To stay away."

.

.

Jake doesn't tiptoe out in the morning.

He's far too much of a gentleman to do that, he loves you too much to do that.

But he also doesn't say anything else. No asking for a second chance, no promises to do better this time around.

It's a promise he wouldn't be able to keep and there's some things he just can't give in or give up no matter how much it kills him.

Big Deal, for one. He's their Leader first and foremost. He can never fully give you the attention you deserve.

You - are another. He has tried so so hard to give you up, then his defences weakened the first time with alcohol and he has used that as an excuse every time since.

'Just this once, it won't happen again,' Jake lies to himself, holding you in his arms. Lying to himself is easier than lying to you.

As long as you answer him, as long as you will open your door to him, as long as you'll have him; there'll be a fifth time and a sixth and a seventh and so forth -

Until history inevitably repeats itself, and this isn’t enough anymore.

[kawowoa]

a snapshot of nanami’s life after shibuya

info : everyone lives n no one dies trope, gn. reader, nanami and reader are married, reader in their late fifties, nanami in his early fifties, he’s kinda pathetic for reader, old married couple !!!! not proofread

nanami couldn’t believe how far his life has come. the dream of living along the beach side, lounging away on his balcony that overlooked the sea coming to fruition. he doesn’t regret leaving the jujutsu society knowing this is his life now.

it was almost twenty years ago that the trajectory of his life changed—one that made him realize that life wasn’t for him. he earned his scars, now it was time to rest. the shibuya incident still lives in his mind, half of his body a constant reminder of what happened and what he went through.

if it wasn’t for you, he would’ve been dead; falling into a delusion of his hopeful future life on the beach as his body worked overtime trying to fend of a ward of transfigured humans, who lost there lives to the curses and curse users that put them to that terrible fate. dead would engulf him if you didn’t show up in time with that worried look on your face, calling out to him. you were his savior, someone he knew he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life with.

“ken! i’m back!” setting the book down on the side table, he watches from the lounge chair as you head straight to the balcony, that same wide grin you held for years for him on your face. even with your age you still had energy as if you were in your twenties.

you stood in front of him, beaming brightly like you were his personal sun. your crows feet extenuating your bright look. he felt your hands cup his face, your lips peppering kisses along his forehead, even pressing one against his eyepatch. “you’re growing your first grey hair, ken! you’re gonna be catching up to me soon!” you teased, running your fingers through his blonde hair as you leaned over him. the grey hair in question was hard to spot, located on his hairline, seamlessly blending into the rest of his hair.

nanami shook his head, catching your hand in his, running his fingers against the thinning skin of your knuckles. “haha, of course. i wouldn’t mind, i get to match with you.”

you waved nanami off, laughing away with that sweet voice of yours. “oh please! you’re such a sap.”

“it’s true, your hair is beautiful now” his gentle hands tucked a stray piece of your greying hair behind your ear, mimicking the way you just held his face.

you grinned, pressing a kiss to his knuckle before pulling away. the wind swept in between your hair as you gazed at the sun setting beneath the waves. “the days about to end, let’s go to the beach.”

it was nice living on the beach, heading the waves crash against the shore and the seagulls chirping as they flew. the summer days weren’t nanami’s favorite, the heat annoyed him, but at these times where the sun wasn’t melting him and the mixing colors of the sky draped across your body giving it a nice glow was his favorite. he loved looking at you when you were laughing and tugging him along the sand.

you made him and his soul smile.

“i love you, you know that?” nanami tugged you closer as your feet stepped onto the wet sand, the waves tickling against your ankles. “im glad to be here with you.”

“i love you too, im sure anyone would be able to see that” you leaned against him, staring up the stars that began to peek out from the clouds as the sun finally set beneath the ocean. “i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[undead-moth]

I’m a TA. I’m adamantly opposed to the use of Ai/LLM in my class.

I’m still required to use them. First and foremost because if AI/LLM are going to be our “new normal” somebody has to teach these kids how to “ethically” use them. Someone also has to teach them how to recognize when AI/LLM is wrong, when it’s (more overtly) plagiarizing, when it’s hallucinating and when it’s just producing low-quality garbage.

Most teachers and TAs incorporating AI/LLM are either doing so because they’ve been literally ordered to, or because they recognize that their students are going to use them regardless.

It is completely unfair to “not blame the students” who are often doing it to get out of even the most basic and simplest of assignments, and then call teachers, who all have their hands tied to some degree, “irresponsible.”

My school has just created an AI masters program. You can now get your masters in AI at my school. This is happening at the same time our English department is at risk of being defunded entirely. Our school is considering no longer requiring English Comp as a Gen Ed too. My school is far from the only one.

The people at fault for this, who should be held responsible, are the administrators who have immediately and completely sold their souls to AI/LLM, entirely because they see it making money and they don’t see needed subjects like English making money.

I just started grad school this fall after a few years away from school and man I did not realize how dire the AI/LLM situation is in universities now. In the past few weeks:

I chatted with a classmate about how it was going to be a tight timeline on a project for a programming class. He responded "Yeah, at least if we run short on time, we can just ask chatGPT to finish it for us"

One of my professors pulled up chatGPT on the screen to show us how it can sometimes do our homework problems for us and showed how she thanks it after asking it questions "in case it takes over some day."

I asked one of my TAs in a math class to explain how a piece of code he had written worked in an assignment. He looked at it for about 15 seconds then went "I don't know, ask chatGPT"

A student in my math group insisted he was right on an answer to a problem. When I asked where he got that info, he sent me a screenshot of Google gemini giving just blatantly wrong info. He still insisted he was right when I pointed this out and refused to click into any of the actual web pages.

A different student in my math class told me he pays $20 per month for the "computational" version of chatGPT, which he uses for all of his classes and PhD research. The computational version is worth it, he says, because it is wrong "less often". He uses chatGPT for all his homework and can't figure out why he's struggling on exams.

There's a lot more, but it's really making me feel crazy. Even if it was right 100% of the time, why are you paying thousands of dollars to go to school and learn if you're just going to plug everything into a computer whenever you're asked to think??

[hiddenreamers]

Telegraph Road 1977 & 2024 - Lando Norris

SUMMARY: For Lando, the words "first love" just make him think of his childhood neighbour. Then, his heart breaks a little when he remembers she's somewhere in San Francisco. How surprised he is when it turns out you're much closer - in an apartment across the hall. Lando couldn't be more grateful for the strange mysteries that led you to this doorway.

WC: 983

Everybody has those moments when they are suddenly reminded of someone they knew long ago. Old classmates, kids from summer camp, playground friends – people who once were part of your daily life but now you think about them maybe once a year if not less often. Those silent questions of “I wonder what happened to them?” come and go just as quickly, like a golden brown leaf carried by the wild, autumn wind.

Lando is something of an exception to that rule. The thoughts of his old neighbour never quite leave him, as though his autumn is more of a perpetuity than a season. Despite the passage of time, that curious quirk of his stuck. However, the why has changed. While still a child, he’d ponder the memories of you simply out of longing. It is only natural when one’s closest companion is gone one day. Then, as his young heart began revolving around crushes, dates and girlfriends, Lando suffered an epiphany. Finally, he understands! It was as if on some random Tuesday lightning had struck him – it was love he felt for you, not just friendship. And what a tale of one’s first love it told! “We were inseparable, soulmates, if you will, when one day she moved away and I never heard from her again.” Truly, a drama worth a thousand novels.

Little does he know, that those strange mysteries that separate lovers, sometimes lead them to each other’s doorways…

Lando is closing his front door, when the sound of paws tapping the floor grabs his attention. Without much thought, he looks down the corridor.

The tapping belongs to a rather happy-looking Scottish setter. He recognizes the breed only because he’s spent his childhood running around a small British town with you and two of those dogs. Despite the lingering memories of the past, Lando doesn’t mind the pet any longer, again focusing on his own things. Then, a strangely familiar voice distracts him again:

“Come on, Axel! We’ll have plenty of time to make friends later.”

Almost giving himself whiplash, Lando looks for the source of the sound. Could it be…?

You’re a little surprised when you hear someone calling out your name in a questioning manner. As far as you know, none of your friends live in Monaco. So how come someone here knows you? Fixing your grip on the box labelled Kitchen, you take a look around the corridor.

For a moment, you think you’re just seeing things. But you’ve stared at that face for so long, you could recognize him in the darkest, most inexplicable fever dream; the face that you’ve associated with home for your whole life.

“Oh my God, Lando Norris!” you exclaim between chuckles. “I can’t believe it!”

His cheeks redden a little. “You remember me?” The question has a distinct tone of surprise.

“Of course I do! You were my best friend,” you say. “Well, the only friend for a few years,” you add, your voice noticeably quieter than before.

“What are you doing here? I thought your family moved to San Francisco.”

It is only then that Lando truly sees who you’ve become throughout all those years away. Perhaps you are more beautiful than he could imagine but you’re also much sadder. There’s a wistful look in your eye, a tell-tale sign of maturity that is only born out of tears. He can only wonder what pains have brought you back to him.

“At first, it was San Francisco, then New York, Chicago, L.A… I never fit in anywhere. They’re all very lonely cities, you know?” Just for a second, your eyes become glossy. His heart feels a painful sting that only gets worse as you force a wide smile on your face. You’ve had practice in faking happiness, haven’t you? “But enough about me, it’s not that interesting,” you say in a casual tone. “Congratulations on your driving career. Seriously, you’re amazing. Would it be creepy if I admitted now that I’ve watched every single one of your races?”

“Not as creepy as admitting I’ve stalked your social media and never followed you because I thought you don’t remember me.”

“Are you dead serious right now?” Lando’s sheepish smile earns a loud laugh from you. “You should have tried anyway!”

“Funny that you’re the one to say that,” he retorts. “Why didn’t you message me if you’re such a big fan?”

Flustered, you look away for a moment. “Honestly, I thought it would be weird,” you confess. “I was sure you’d forgotten all about me and pulling this ‘we were childhood friends’ schtick now that you’re famous would be so embarrassing. You’re this top-of-the-top racing driver and I’m, well, me.” A bitter chuckle comes after your words but the faux amusement isn’t enough to fool Lando.

“You’re staying for long in Monaco?” His question is accompanied by a light gesture towards the box in your arms.

“As long as they don’t fire me, I guess.” That strange, sad laughter again. “Listen, you look like you have somewhere to be and I’ve already taken up too much of your time. You could come by in the evening, catch up if you want?” Your tone rises, revealing uncertainty about whether the invitation is welcome.

But to him, the answer is obvious. “I’d love that.”

You give him one last smile, then disappear behind the door to your apartment.

In some sense, he has you back. Not the girl he remembers, no. Something innate seems to be gone from your soul but Lando lacks the words to name the change. The sights, the loves, the pains – whatever it was that took your life on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, it sprouted melancholy in the very marrows of your bones.

“What happened to you?” he whispers to himself.

The only answer that comes is muffled footsteps and the shuffling of cardboard boxes.

Check out other fics in the Ampersand Themed Works

[mouseymousey]

The scratches on D-16 and Orion when they meet for the first time were bothering me a lot.

Ignore the background creepy Prowl......

Look at Orion's hand. It's WAY more scratched up than D-16's. Even if it's just the light, Orion's hand is scratched over and over, and where their arms are about the same color, Orion's arm is far dirtier and scratched than D-16's.

Then look at D-16's front. It's way worse than Orion's. Most of the scratches are along the shape of the armor. D-16's are more circular on his right shoulder (left in the picture), and he has a huge mark on the front of his helmet.

Orion is known for his parkour skills, so Imma just say that the variety of scratches all in the same places and that controlled down the shape of his form are from practicing parkour moves over and over. Maybe the hand scratches could pass for picking locks instead, but it seems to still be a controlled repeated movement. On the other hand, D-16 looks like he was in a fight. At very least, his helmet looks like he got punched in the face, and his side looks like someone tried to grab him from behind and he tried to pull away. Plus, we already know that bots' eyes can change from life events, and his eyes have already changed to yellow by their meeting.

Whatever inciting incident that made D-16 into Megatron had already happened by the time he met Orion Pax. Optimus Prime was already too late. :(

Edit:

blackberry-lulu in the comments reminded me this might be relevant:

I also theorize that some of the miners are citizens that broke the law in some way.

They got their memories taken away and made into miners, so they would no longer be a problem for the government. D-16 could have been a warrior, and Orion could have been an archivist. It would explain why they have so many scratches on their first day (maybe even first day being "alive" as cogless bots). They would have both found out about the government's corruption eventually if they were their usual jobs, even if OP was in law enforcement instead.

We don't really see what prison looks like, but Orion seems to get off with nearly no punishment after breaking in places or running from police. It's not like he can't be identified; one of the people on the train even says his name out loud. He's a fairly public figure. It's because he never found anything useful.

Even then, instead of imprisoning them, Darkwing just throws them to a lower floor (OP and 16) or fires them (Alita). They have no other way to punish people, probably because the way they do so is to take away peoples' memories and cogs. They're already cogless, so there's not really anything he can do.

[diazsdimples]

"When will I see you again?" + buddietommy

“When will I see you again?” Buck pants.

Eddie stands a foot away from him, close enough to reach out and touch, but it feels as though there’s a gaping chasm between them. Full of unspoken words and actions that couldn’t be taken back.

“I don’t know, Buck,” Eddie replies. His voice is heavy, shoulder slumped as though the weight of the world rests on them. And in some way, Buck supposes, it does. Eddie has always taken on the burdens of others, whether he needs to or not. “I just… I can’t… I don’t know.”

Buck feels Tommy behind him, his boyfriend’s presence familiar and comforting. The evening air is cool, a slight hint of damp as the dew begins to settle, even now. He shivers and Tommy wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“Eddie I – I’m sorry, I thought you felt – I didn’t mean to fuck this up for us.”

“It’s not you Buck.”

Eddie turns now, and Buck can see the fear in his eyes, the blind panic as the weight of what they’ve done finally sinks in. It had been so good, with their bodies sliding against each other, rutting and writhing like animals in heat. It had been intoxicating – Buck had thought he might have an aneurysm when he watched Eddie grab Tommy by the shirt and haul him in to claim his lips – but now it sits heavy in the pit of Buck’s stomach. It had soured the instant Eddie had thrown his clothes on and rushed out the door.

“Then what -?”

“I just need a little time, okay?” Eddie’s breaths come in gulps. He’s working his way up to an astronomical panic attack – Buck can tell – but when Buck steps forward to place a hand on his arm, to comfort him, he shies away. “Just – please – let me have some time. Let me figure all this out.”

Buck opens his mouth to respond, to beg him not to leave, but Tommy cuts in first.

“It’s okay, Eddie,” he says, his tone far more understanding than Buck could manage. “Take all the time you’ll need. We’ll be here.”

“I’ll always be here,” Buck wants to say, but he holds it in, biting his lip. He doesn’t need to say it aloud. Eddie knows.

Eddie softens slightly, relieved. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, regret dripping from his words. He takes a step forwards, closing the gap between himself and Tommy and tentatively, as though expecting rejection, places his palm on Tommy’s cheek and kisses him softly.

Buck aches as he watches, the ecstasy he’d felt the first time he’d watch Eddie and Tommy kiss now replaced with a deep yearning. He wants Eddie so badly.

Eddie breaks his kiss with Tommy and turns to Buck. His thumb is rough and calloused as it strokes across Buck’s cheekbone, but it’s pleasant. It’s familiar, not dissimilar to Tommy’s. Buck’s heart stutters in his chest as Eddie’s lips brush against his. He curls his fingers around Eddie’s belt loop, needing something tangible to cling to. Too soon, Eddie pulls away, patting Buck’s cheek twice before he restores the distance between them.

“I’ll call in a few days, okay?”

Buck can’t do much else but nod. Tommy’s hand rests on the back of his neck, grounding but not enough. Not what he craves.

“Drive safe,” he croaks before turning on his heel and heading back into the house, unable to watch as Eddie drives away.

Tommy must follow him in a moment later, settling into the couch beside Buck.

“Did I ruin everything?” Buck whispers, his head in his hands. It’s his biggest fear – he can’t lose Eddie. Losing Eddie means losing the best friend he’s ever had, losing the biggest rock in his life, losing Christopher.

Tommy’s arm circles around Buck’s shoulders and he pulls him close. Buck goes easily, leaning into Tommy’s comforting embrace.

“No, I don’t think so. I think he just needs some time. He’s got a lot to process.”

“But…” Buck begins, but he doesn’t know what else to say. What else there is to say. Nothing he says will bring Eddie back into their home, or undo what happened – make them talk about it before rushing into something they weren’t ready for. He settles for the phrase that’s been echoing in his mind since Eddie stepped over their threshold an hour prior.

“But I love him.”

“I know, baby,” Tommy sighs, pressing a just about Buck’s birthmark. “I love him too.”

[poppyberry]

See, the wild cards are NOT unbalanced. I reject that notion very very strongly. It's complete nonsense to me. If anything, the wild cards have so far all been extraordinarily fair and not biased towards players with any particular skillset. What is causing a massive difference in lives between players in something else entirely.

To start with, the first one? Obviously not biased to any particular skill.

The hunger? What, you're going to argue some players are better at eating than others? Better at resource management, maybe, but with the edible food changing at random all the time, I really don't see how anyone's skills gave them a leg up. Skill is a factor in surviving mobs, not the wild card: if anything, players with less skill could have used the various food-given buffs to their advantage in a fight with good planning.

The snails? There's no skill required to survive them. Nobody died from lack of skill. No particular fighting or parkour ability was needed to escape them.

So why is there such a drastic difference between players' ability to survive? It all comes down to their individual personalities, and how each of them tackles an unexpected problem being presented to them. Some of them panic, others remain calm. Many make the lethal mistake of trying to beat the wild card instead of using it, and that's when they die.

Many of the deaths in the third session happened because players were trying to find a way to trap or destroy the snails, instead of accepting and embracing the mechanic like they should. Once the initial shock wears off, it becomes abundantly clear that the wild cards are intended to be tools.

The size-changing had incredible potential in PVP and resource gathering, but it was just an intro: just a simple mechanic that was easy and quick to get a grasp of.

The food one gave players practically infinite options for making the game easier for themselves. You can fly. You can get all sorts of buffs. Grian himself even gives away the game when he tries to rally Mumbo and Skizz to use the various buffs for mining; that was probably his original intention for how the wild card should be used. Grian deliberately used this session for resource gathering; in fact, I'd say the second wild card encouraged players to gather as many resources as possible in the early game, because you don't know what will be useful on the next reroll (or for future wild cards).

The snails provided new ways to steal lives from players without engaging in pvp; that's why Grian immediately states killing via snail is allowed and encouraged, and even reveals he has his own ideas of how players should go about it. It's clearly part of why the drowning mechanic exists as well; you could drown another player's snail, or force them into having to save their snail from drowning and then dying to it, like what happened to BDubs.

However, some players, such as Tango and Impulse, are naturally the type to try and beat an unbeatable mechanic, and got hyper focused on experimenting to find ways to permanently beat their own snails, and became easy prey. You can't beat the wild card, but they couldn't help but try because that's who they are.

Meanwhile, some players think just as inventively, but from the opposite direction: rather than just wonder how to beat the mechanic, they think about how they can use it to their advantage: Etho (and Martyn) got closest to Grian's intention of the snails essentially being used as assassins. If anything, Etho's invisibility plan improved upon Grian's original vision. They still died due to being occasionally caught off guard, but fared better than those that got stuck on trying to get rid of the snails.

Lizzie, Cleo, Scott, Gem and Joel (and BigB, after his initial ambush death) of course all survived their snails by adapting to the wild card. The difference between them and Etho and Martyn is their lack of risk taking; while Etho and Martyn went running around in the Nether for assassination supplies, all of the still dark greens played really, really safe.

Meanwhile, some players, such as Skizz, Scar, and Jimmy, played it very unsafe, but failed to take advantage of how the snails were meant to be used, even when Grian was trying to spell it out for them, and struggled because of it.

TLDR: the wild cards are weapons and should be treated as such. Trying to circumvent them is what is killing the players so fast, not any inherent imbalance in the cards themselves. Every single one of the players* has equal opportunity to use the cards to their own advantage. It's just a question of whether someone will.

*besides Grian, who is not trying to win anyway

Most importantly, I’m glad the lifers are having fun, and Wild Life has been a blast so far.

[dlxxv-vetted-donations]

Nov 3 Update:

First of all, bad news: we're unlikely to get to $8,000 by the end of today. Even if we do, donations have slowed significantly and we're also unlikely to meet the final international student fee goal which has a hard deadline.

Tawfik sent an email to his school asking for more time or the ability to pay the tuition in installments. It'll probably take a few business days for a reply. Aside from him not being able to register for the next semester, what happens if he can't pay the fee is unclear. Idk how much legal consequences he can face during a genocide from a school in a different country.

I messaged Tawfik and hope to discuss next steps with him soon.

Thanks everyone for your support so far, I will keep you posted.

Urgent Request For Help my to pay Tuition

Only we have 10 hours

Current Progress :

USD $ 7,674 / $8,000

Ko-fi donate by Paypal

My account : shadowbanned @devtawfik , shadowbanned @90-tawfik @dev-tawfik

This is my new account.

Campaigns verified by @90-ghost link

Please reblog and donate.

[diremoone]

yakuza! ryomen sukuna | hcs.

overdone trope with this man but here we go again lmao. i’m just writing little drabbles that pop up in my head atp to keep the inspiration going sobs… i need a gallon of coffee

🖤 Yakuza! Sukuna, who’s been involved in yakuza bullshit since his last year of middle school, has a soft spot for you. Most people who went to school with you (who are also apart of his gang) two know that, and they know that unless they want to end up like the Zen’in named Naoya, they won’t fuck with you. You’re untouchable, and the second anyone starts rumors about you (everyone knows they were lies regardless because of your character), they’re moving schools within 48 hours.

Fuck ‘em.

🖤 Yakuza! Sukuna keeps you far away from his gang bullshit as he gets deeper into the darkness and you pull yourself farther away, into the light where he wants you to be. But he knows that even his little sunshine is capable of being mean like him, but it’s tucked away for those that warrant your wrath.

He thinks fondly back to the time you knocked out a couple girls cold with a volleyball for picking on Miwa.

🖤 Yakuza! Sukuna who swears his hands aren’t stained red whenever they’re holding your hands. Whenever he’s with you, he feels nothing like how his gang makes him feel—he feels normal, like that part of him doesn’t exist. And inside the walls of your home, it doesn’t. To you, in those shared moments, he’s just the nice boy you helped get through middle and high school and grew feelings for.

🖤 Yakuza! Sukuna who buys you pretty things with money that isn’t gotten by bloodshed… as much as possible anyway. You aren’t ignorant to where the money comes from, but you’ve done your best to make your wishes clear. And Sukuna abides by them as much as possible.

🖤 Yakuza! Sukuna who has his younger cousin Choso posted as your personal bodyguard whenever you go out, even when it’s just to do some simple grocery shopping. He isn’t taking any chances, this you’ve been made aware of and have accepted. And you’re fine with it, too, considering you grew up with Choso.

But what you don’t know is that there’s already been multiple attempts on your life and your safety. Sukuna isn’t having it.

🖤 Yakuza! Sukuna who gets fed up when you’re on your third date within four months. What pisses him off is that he can’t tell if you’re enjoying the asshole’s time and company or not. But when he sees the man press a kiss to the back of your hand at the end of the date, jealousy rears its head.

The next night, he’s at your front door, dressed in leather and with a spare bike helmet under his left arm.

You answer in a hoodie and black sweatpants, confused and dazed until he says softly, “C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme show you how a man gives a woman a good time.”

Your confusion turns to amusement. “Was wondering when you were going to take me out. It’s about time.”

Sukuna grins and holds out his arm. “C’mon then.”

🖤 Yakuza Husband! Sukuna who ends up putting the ring on your finger two months after that date. You end up signing the papers long before the actual ceremony happens. And to Choso, Yuuji; and all the others that have witnessed your relationship from its first greeting to the ring on your finger, they can only sigh in relief because it’s about fucking time.

… Oh, shit.

Kids.

a/n: the rain and thunder while writing this was a big help lol. it’s been raining for two days now hehe