#then a while later I think this time will be different

[norrisradio]

SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark.  A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk 

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.” 

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore. 

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer.  Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best. 

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be 

from: +61 *** *** *** always. 

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.” 

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice. 

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot. 

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now. 

He keeps his word. 

He never finds the same sweater. 

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

[dark-wackademia]

uh, "i just need to focus on myself right now, thanks for understanding", and then do that regardless of how they react because you deserve to take care of yourself.

also, controversial opinion: you really don't need to explain yourself to anyone, ESPECIALLY when you're in a place like this. babes, your first priority is to let go of that feeling of worrying how others will take you living your best life/feeling obligation to anyone but yourself in order to start living authentically to you and doing whatever you need to for yourself.

secondly: you can do that for maintaining a healthy state so that you don't reach this place too, like preventative medicine... people forget it's worth much more than the methods we enact once at a later stage with something that could have been perhaps avoided all together, if not lessened had we caught it earlier. something i wish more people really understood is that you don't need to be AT deaths door or burnout/this level of not doing well to step back and get back to basics for yourself. imho, you can stay there as long as you need since we all interact with the world differently, and so, we all have varying needs, and those needs shift. sometimes, for a long while, you'll need to stick to being minimal in one area of life to create a sense of peace and balance for yourself in areas that matter more, at that time, and then reverse areas at another point in life. it's alright to just need to do what you need to in order to feel the best you can in life. it's kind of your only real job for yourself because it is YOUR life, after all. and no, that's NOT being selfish, because i hate when people i know take this time that their bodies, minds, and souls are crying out for them to only to frame it in "it's okay to be selfish". taking care of yourself (even if your support needs at the moment, or even in general, long-term, are high) does NOT equate to being selfish AT ALL.

repeat instead the mantras like "i can't pour from an empty cup" and keep in mind that you DONT want to wait until your cups empty. in other words, you don't need to keep pouring just because you have something in your cup. it's okay to keep yourself for yourself. if you have the time and energy, it doesn't mean you need to give it, even if you have been doing maintenance for a while. let go of that guilt, shame, and obligation you feel for simply existing and living. you deserve to enjoy yourself too. you deserve to enjoy your own time and energy before giving it away (even if you want to, which i get is a hard middle ground to strike but in time you'll find it). it's much more enjoyable when you do it this way. try to think about it in the way of water, if you went around literally pouring your water into everyone's cup just because you have even a drop, you'd end up killing yourself because you're drinking nothing. even a little, even half a cup is still not enough. framing it in that way has helped me shed the internalized ablism I had for most of my life, being someone that needs to support myself by giving myself a lot more alone time than most, especially, made me vulnerable to people who socialize more shaping my own perception as negative towards my natural inclination. now that i've let go of this, and keep doing so, i find i actually want to socialize more and find it more energizing whenever i do. i even make it a priority now, instead of finding it to be a chore, as i once had. also, i rec socializing only in areas of interest when you're craving some but are low on energy and vibes to give.

hope this helps someone. <3

also, i think people will understand, and even if they don't, in time, you'll meet someone who does. give yourself that space and time you need so you don't burn yourself out on ones who don't, so you're not burnt out for the ones who come along and get you. You are worthy just as you are and you don’t need to keep changing yourself for the approval or support of others. Even if you have to support yourself for a while, it’s more worthwhile to stay true to yourself and prove to yourself that there’s nothing wrong with you and choose to accept yourself and show up for yourself than to keep shapeshifting for people who don’t really know, see, or accept you for you, and will only “love” you for the version of you provide. Love isn’t a service to offer anyone, if that feels to be the case, revaluate and pour your love into yourself for a while. A book that really helped me in processing this was “unmasking autism”, and I believe it’s helpful for not just autistic or neurodivergent people but all people! Especially so for those that feel othered in some way!

[thedeadstoryteller1]

𝒮𝓃𝒾𝒻𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒫𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 - 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝑒𝒷 𝓍 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 - 𝒩𝒮𝐹𝒲

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘣 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜: 18+, 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘺

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝: 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 @cafekitsune

“Caleb, I think our dryer is eating my underwear.” Your voice is casual, but it hits him like a missile. His heart skips a beat. For a second, he freezes—panic flaring in his chest—before forcing himself to act normal, hoping you didn’t catch that micro-heart attack.

It’s not the dryer. He knows exactly where your missing panties are—tucked away in his drawer, buried beneath a tangle of boxer briefs, lube, and a pocket pussy. He thinks of the blue lace ones, delicate and intimate, soaked in your scent. Just the memory makes him stiffen, his thoughts crashing into a wave of raw, aching desire. He bites his lip, imagining your softness, your sweetness, the taste of you—how badly he craved all of it.

“Helloooo, you're burning the pancakes.” Your voice cuts through the fog. This time it’s closer.

“Shit.”  He snaps back to reality, tossing the charred pancake aside with a curse. “Sorry, Pips. Just… got a lot on my mind.” He avoids your eyes, guilt sinking heavy in his chest. If you knew what he was really thinking—

“I can see that.” You glance pointedly down. His eyes follow, horrified to find the very obvious erection straining against his grey sweatpants. You smirk, and his entire soul wants to combust.

He wanted to disappear. Without thinking, Caleb lashes out with his evol, spinning your body gently but firmly away from him with a shift in gravity. His cheeks go crimson.

“Not fucking cool, (Y/N)!” he blurts out, voice tight with frustration and embarrassment.

“Caleb… it’s f—” He storms past you before you can finish, gravity snapping back to normal. His bedroom door slams, and the click of the lock twists something in your stomach.

He's mad. You would be too if someone called you out like that.

You walk to his door, fingers resting gently against the frame. “Caleb, I’m sorry.”

A long pause. Then, muffled through the wood: “Go away… please, (Y/N).”

It hurts more than you expect.

“I’ll be back later then,” you say softly, swallowing the ache. “Don’t worry—I have some paperwork to finish anyway.” You wait, hoping. But the door stays closed. Heavy rock music starts to blare. That’s your answer.

You leave.

Caleb tries to sleep. Tries to think of anything but you. But even in dreams, your body haunts him—naked, warm, perfect. He imagines your thighs wrapping around him, your breathless moans, the way your fingers would claw at his skin as he sinks deep inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans into his pillow.

All day, he’s wrecked with lust. Rock hard and rabid with want, he can’t shake you. Can’t touch himself without imagining your voice in his ear, your body under his hands. He’s losing control.

“This is the last time,” he growls.

But even he doesn’t believe it.

He pulls out the usual: lube, the pocket pussy. But then—his ultimate sin—the blue lace panties. The ones he stole from your dirty laundry while doing the wash. He tells himself it was just once. An accident, really. The red ones got mixed into his load, and curiosity got the better of him. Then came the black ones. That’s when it became a habit.

An addiction.

But these blue ones? These are different. Maybe it’s the little apple print on the waistband. Maybe it’s the way they still smell like you. Whatever it is, he can’t give them back. Not yet.

He imagines sliding them down your thighs—after he’s spent minutes teasing your clit with his fingers, coaxing out those breathy moans he dreams about. Your face flushed, lips parted, eyes begging.

His cock twitches, painfully hard.

He picks up the panties like they’re sacred. Raising them to his nose, he breathes in deep.

Euphoria. Your scent hits him like a drug, raw and dizzying.

“Fuck, (Y/N)...” he whimpers. “I want to taste you.”

And then—he does. He brings the fabric to his tongue, licking the crotch of the panties, where your pussy would be. Slow at first, savoring the imagined taste, the heat, the fantasy.

He loses control.

Boxers off, lube at the ready, he strokes himself hard—rough and needy—panting your name under his breath. He sees you in his mind: laid out for him, legs open, your pussy wet and waiting. He hears you, whimpering, begging:

“Please, Caleb… more.”

He licks the panties faster, deeper, as if it’s you. Tonguing the fabric like it’s your folds, like you’re moaning against his mouth.

He’s so close.

“Not yet,” he pants, holding back, body shaking.

His eyes roll back as he wraps the panties around his thick cock, fucking into them like he’s fucking you.

His moans are loud. Unrestrained.

“Thank god she’s not home,” he thinks, before his mind blanks out in pleasure.

“I know you'd be tight,” he whimpers.

“I know you’d feel amazing,” he grunts, hand working faster.

“Fuck, (Y/N)… you make me fucking weak,” he pants, breath ragged and voice thick with lust.

He pictures you beneath him—your back arched, your lips parted, eyes glassy from pleasure. His thick cock stretching you open, your body trembling as tears stream down your cheeks.

“Caleb… I—I’m gonna cum,” your voice echoes in his mind, breathy and sweet, like a melody he can’t forget.

“Me too, princess,” he murmurs, responding to the illusion as if it were real.

And then—it hits. His orgasm rips through him like fire, and his cum spills in thick, hot ropes all over the blue panties. So much of it. The vivid image of his cock buried deep inside you, filling you up, begins to fade as the high crashes over him.

His legs nearly buckle. Gasping for breath, he leans against the dresser, his body twitching from the intensity. After a moment, he grabs a towel hanging from the closet door and wipes himself clean. Quiet. Methodical.

The soiled panties go into his hamper. Later, he’ll slip them into the wash—just like always.

“I’m disgusting,” he thinks, loathing the way his chest still burns with afterglow.

His heartbeat slows. His breathing evens out. The haze of lust finally begins to lift… until—

Creeaak.

His head snaps up.

The floorboards just outside his room groan under the weight of someone. He freezes. His eyes dart to the thin crack beneath the door.

A shadow.

“Oh no.”

𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 !

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦. 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝐿𝐴𝐷𝑆 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑠 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑏 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟. 𝐼𝑀 𝐻𝐸𝑅𝐸 𝐹𝑂𝑅 𝐼𝑇. 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈!

~𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎 𝒯𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 ~

[lukie17]

Ordering a body pillow of them!

It was a sleepless night when you decided to doom scroll until sleep finally kicked in. Until an ad caught your attention, a deal of a costume made dakimakura. It was 50% off and you could ask for the pillow to show a fictional character, an actor or even someone you knew. Without thinking twice, you send the picture of your husband with your specifications.

You tried to keep it a secret from him, until he found out.

Xavier

He was supposed to be on a mission and not return until a few days later. While he was gone, you used the pillow and put it back into your secret spot. But this time it went wrong, Xavier being the freak he is, ended up the mission earlier than expected and wanted to pass out in the arms of his partner in life.

But what did he find? His beautiful wife hugging someone else. He did not know who it was nor he cared, he yanked the pillow out of you and his sword pressed against the "neck" of the intruder. Scared out of the sudden attack, you raised your weapon and aimed at him, carefully turning the lights.

Xavier's scowl only grew heavier as his own eyes met him. The pillow showed him in his cat butler self with the difference that his uniform was open, showing his torso and chest. The hunter's face was an enigma, and you froze, knowing too damn well that it could either go wrong or really wrong. Xavier was even jealous of himself and the pillow might trigger it even more.

To your demise, but not surprising, Xavier cut the pillow into tiny pieces. You sighed as you let him rage, trying to find the right words to ease him, maybe there could be a way where you get out of the mess without walking funny for the next few days. But the beast was on the loose.

In a second, Xavier's lips were on your own, one hand pressing you against the bed while the other one ripped his uniform apart. His kisses were a warning, he would make sure that you won't even for a pillow or him.

Zayne

Zayne discovered it by accident. He was doing some spring cleaning at your apartment when he found it. Stacked at the bag of the closet, Zayne almost froze the dakimakura when he landed his eyes on it. Not because of jealousy, but he thought that there was an intruder.

Out of curiosity he examined the pillo. He was in his doctor's coat or at least a spicy version of it. He wondered why you had ordered it and when you did it. Since the pillow smelled like you, he guessed that it was something that you used frequently. Zayne could have taken the path of hiding the pillow away, and save you the embarrassment, but you had played a lot of pranks on him lately, so he had a score to settle.

That evening you walked home tired of a long shift and just wanted to rest, but Zayne had everything planned. As soon as you opened the door, he greeted you.

"Welcome home, cheater" sipping tea from his mug "Did you have a nice day?"

You were confused. You would never dare or wanted to cheat on Zayne. In fact, he looked really calm and was he smirking? He had not a smile on his face but you could tell something was going on.

"What?"

"No need to play dumb" his head pointing to your room "I have discovered the man that is in your bed"

No sound came from you, still trying to understand what was going on. Yes, you invited friends like Xavier or Caleb to your apartment but never cheated on Zayne. Wondering what made him act like that, only to discover your body pillow in bed. You wanted to crawl in a whole, you wanted to die and get eaten by a wanderer. But Zayne had other plans.

"I think I got the messge" his arms caging you against him "I need to stop more time with my wife or else she would leave me" before you could explain yourself, Zayne devoured your lips.

Sylus

He will never, never, NEVER, let you forget what you did. You were on your knees sitting on front of him as the pillow floated infront of you while Sylus made it turn around with his evol. In the pillow, he was wearing some kind of armor that looked like a dragon. It was both endaring and weird.

You did not know what to say. Sylus, as always, had the upper hand and there was no way gettint out of it. So you decided to play your trick card: jumping into his lap hopping to distract him but he had other plans.

The red mist caught you and pushed you down until your face was against the body pillow, making sure that your face was against his face in the pillow. Then he position himself behidn you, his lips brushing against your ear.

"I never thought that you would be such a naughty kitten" you could not tell if he was mad or happy about the fact that you had a body pillow of him, and you did not want to know "Though, I do not know what it took you to buy another version of me when you have me right here"

He sponned you around so you could face him, and when you tried to look away, his evol made you look at him. He looked like a lion about to devour his prey, and for the first time in a while you were a little afraid of Sylus, in a good way.

"Cat got your tongue?" he mocked as he leaned closer "Or are you only going to talk to the pillow, kitten?"

Sylus closed the distance between you, making sure that any sound woud be trapped in his mouth. You don't know if you regret buying the pillow or not changing the address direction to other place rather that your shared home with Sylus.

Caleb

My husband , Caleb would tease you and feel so flattered at the same time. He didn't know that you had it in you, but he also had to tease you as we know. He will lift the body pillow high enough for you to not reach it, and he will se your face blusing as you try to get it back.

"What's that pipsqueack? You missed me so much that you have to get one pillow out of me" you were basically a tomate, but you could not lose.

"Who are you to talk, panty-thief!"

Caleb froze and he left the pillow hit the floor, quickly you grab it at tossed in the closet.

"You- you know?" he was now the one who was turning red "How-how? I was sure that I was careful..."

"How could I not when my old underwear kept reapearing as if it was new!" you protested, hoping that he would forget the body pillow "You pervert! Why do you think I make sure to do all the laundry?"

The body pillow was now a thing from the past for him, the lonely travels to the deepspace tunnel were only bareable because he took a piece of you with him. He never anything pervert with them, but he liked to have them close, he did not know if he could survive with them. He got in his knees, and hugged your legs, looking like a dog who was sad for being scolded.

"Pips, pleasee" he rubbed against your legs "Let me do your laundry again"

You only sighed with relief, now he would forget about the pillow and let you be. After all, you need someting to cuddle against when he went to missions for while. Though you were lucky that he had not open the pillow and found his own underweare in there. What can you say? Weirdos attract each other

[aislinregin]

I don't like getting political anymore. I have too much to protect, too much that leaves me and people I love profoundly vulnerable in the current climate. But I feel like I have to say this, so I'm going to do something that makes me sick to my stomach: I'm going to censor myself.

I have always told myself, my partners, my friends, my children that when you're getting the measure of someone, you should definitely trust your gut. Or your pet, whichever gets there first. Animals have a keen sense for danger, and your gut is just the part of you that doesn't realize you're supposed to be a civilized human. But also, possibly even more importantly, people always tell you who they are eventually. It might take a while, they might put on a good show for years. But sooner or later, people always tell you who they are and what they want to do. That can look different in different people. Let me give you an example.

When I was seventeen I started dating a guy I worked with. He was 19, so only a little older, but where I lived he was a legal adult so there was definitely a power dynamic at play that I was not equipped to navigate safely. This guy said all the right things, made all the right moves, for months. And the whole time my gut was whispering "this isn't right, something is wrong." But I could prove it, not even to myself, so I told myself I was imagining it. I was not imagining it. One day I was riding in the backseat of a car with this guy and he wanted to go to a friend's party. But it had been a long day for me and I was tired and I knew his friends were the type who would want to drink a lot of beer and act foolish and I was just not in the mood. So I said that was fine but he could go by himself because I wanted to go home and read a book. He said "no, we're going to the party." And I said "No, you can go if you want but I'm going home."

And then he slapped me across the face.

He did it once. I think it surprised him how little I reacted (it wasn't the first time I'd been slapped, it wasn't even the hundredth). I looked him in the eye and I remember very clearly that my gut was suddenly louder than a bullhorn: "YOU KNEW THIS WAS WRONG, AND NOW HE'S SHOWN YOU HOW."

So I smiled, all coy and sweet, and unbuckled my seatbelt to scoot over like I was going to cuddle up to him and "apologize." Then I unbuckled his seatbelt, reached across him, opened the door of the car, and shoved him out of the car. It was moving, slowly through a neighborhood, and the driver was so shocked he slammed on the brakes while I closed the door and locked it. The now ex boyfriend was screaming like he'd been shot (he was fine, was barely bruised). I told the driver that if he didn't drive me home right then I was calling the cops.

All that to say that people will always tell you who they are and what they want eventually. If they're being honest, what they say won't change much over time, just as they grow and evolve. You can track those changes, be part of them. But if they're lying or putting on a mask, sooner or later they'll slip up and then you'll know. What you do next will tell them a lot: it will tell them if you're going to let them be who they really are, if they can continue to use and abuse you. Trump has never been anything but brutally honest about who he is. He has been telling us from the start who he is and what he wants. And the whole damn country or even world has been scrambling to assure us that it's fine, he can't do those things, we have all these things that protect us (Congress, police, the military, the Constitution). But I have been listening to Trump and his people. I've heard everything they've said. They've told us who they are. And when people tell you who they are, the trick is to take them at their word. Believe them. So you know what? I believe him. But I can't shove him out of a moving car. I can get out of the car though. It's happened before. It's happened before here. We have a secret history no one wants to talk about, one with mass graves under residential schools less than two hours from where I sit right now, chemically castrated queers, non consensual lobotomies on autistics and other neurodivergents, internment camps and forced migrations and outright fucking massacres. What Trump and his puppeteers want is not out of line with this country's soul. This is not new. This is what this country has always been. It's time to believe it. It's time to get out of the fucking car.

Let's connect some dots here

The Trump administration kidnaps and sends hundreds of people to a prison camp in El Salvador with no due process (meaning they never have to prove these people committed whatever offence the Admin claims)

The Administration sets the precedent that anyone, up to green card holder and naturalized citizens, will be subject to this for practicing free speech in a way the Administration doesn't like

The Administration puts out two Executive Orders, one which says they believe trans people and parents of trans children are all sexual offenders and another that anyone who criticizes Israel is a terrorist

The President puts out a statement, in public, saying he wants to find ways to send US citizens to those foreign prison camps

The Administration directly defies 2 different SCOTUS decisions that say anyone who is deported must get due process and (this one a unanimous decision) they must return a wrongfully deported man

The US President now tells the President of El Salvador, again in public, that they will need to expand their facilities because he wants to start sending "homegrown criminals" to El Salvador very soon

We aren't even in boiling the frog territory any more, we're in a flash frier.

Like I hate sounding like a fucking tinfoil hat nutjob, but it's clear as day, right? He's saying exactly what he wants to do. And no one is doing anything about it. They're just saying "hey that's illegal!" and then letting it happen anyway.

[wosospacegirl]

loved the latest alexia fic haha

i had an idea for us stem girlies (not wanting to study virology btw, so fkn real)

i was thinking a kika fic where readers a bio/stem student & is trying to teach kika something & likewise kika (and the rest of the younger barça girls) tries to teach r football

Summary: Y/N’s been buried in virus replication pathways for hours. Kika’s had enough.

A/N: for the STEM girls who haven’t seen the sun in 3 business days and need a footballer girlfriend to drag them outside - Everything written here was taken from my own notes...I hope they are right, or else it means I failed my own exam.

..

Y/n had been studying for what felt like seven years straight. 

Realistically, it had only been four hours, but time blurred somewhere between drawing replication cycles and muttering the difference between RNA-dependent RNA polymerase and reverse transcriptase.

Kika had been patient. She really had. She brought her water, kissed her temple, and even sat silently nearby, scrolling through TikTok while Y/n ranted about capsids and envelope proteins. 

But now it was too much.

“...and that’s why enveloped viruses are more susceptible to disinfectants,” Y/n concluded, still scribbling away. “You would’ve thought that the envelope would make them more resistant, right?”

There was a beat of silence.

“You realise we were just talking about lunch?” Kika said.

Y/n blinked. “Were we?”

“You brought up protein bars, and then somehow transitioned into protein coats. Again. That’s like the third time.”

“Okay, but it’s actually a really–”

“No.”

Kika stood up with the kind of quiet menace only a very tired girlfriend could summon.

“You need to get out of this apartment.”

“I’m busy! I have an exam, Francisca.”

“You need to touch some grass.”

Y/n gasped, clutching her notes to her chest. 

“You sound like my mom.. Are you okay? Did a neurodegenerative virus get to your brain?” Y/n  squinted her eyes, talking in a very mysterious and suspicious voice. “It could be rabies.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “Por favor, put on some gym clothes.”

“No.”

“You’re coming with me to the training ground.”

“I’m not playing football.”

“You are, just a bit. You’re going to run, breathe some fresh air. Maybe learn how to use your legs again.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “I feel like you want to sabotage my academic life.”

Kika deadpanned, “I just want to have a normal conversation with my girlfriend again.”

Half an hour later, Y/n was in mismatched gym clothes, standing awkwardly on the sidelines of the Barça training pitch while Kika passed her a ball.

“Okay,” Kika said. “Basics. Pass it back.”

Y/n kicked it directly into Kika’s shin.

Kika didn’t even flinch. “Right. That was bad.”

“Yeah, well,” Y/n muttered. “I use my brain, not my feet.”

“You used your foot just now,” Kika deadpanned. “You’re just not good at keeping control of it.”

Before Y/n could come up with a scathing reply involving cortical motor neurons, a trio of voices interrupted from behind her.

“Hi amiga,” Jana grinned, jogged up with Pina and Vicky flanking her. “That pass was criminal.”

“Terrible,” Vicky added.

Pina nodded solemnly. “You’re bad, bad.”

Y/n crossed her arms. “Wow, thank you. So much support.”

Kika smirked from the sidelines.

“She made me come here,” Y/n gestured vaguely toward her girlfriend, “because apparently I’m ‘studying too much’ and need to ‘go outside like a normal person.’”

The girls blinked.

“What are you studying?” Jana asked.

Y/n brightened instantly, like a switch flipped. 

“Oh! I'm doing an exam on virus replication pathways, and it’s super interesting because…wait–okay, so you know HIV, right?”

All three nodded slowly, unsure where this was going.

“Well, it’s a retrovirus, which means it uses reverse transcriptase to turn its RNA into DNA inside the host cell. And that DNA actually integrates into the host’s genome and–wait, let me draw it.”

Somehow, within ten minutes, they’d migrated off the pitch and into the tactical analysis centre. 

A whiteboard was pulled over. Y/n commandeered a marker, drawing the double-stranded DNA meticulously.

“This is the viral envelope, this is the capsid, oh, and DpRd-RT is like–the main enzyme you have to remember, alright? So now we have a full DNA–”

Pina was blinking rapidly.

Vicky was furrowing her brows like she was trying to understand it, really trying.

Jana had started taking notes on her phone.

Kika walked in fifteen minutes later, looking for her girlfriend.

“Amor,” Kika said slowly, “why is my team being held hostage by you and– ai meu Deus…is that a virus?”

Y/n turned around, completely unfazed. “I’m teaching them how HIV uses the host's RNA polymerase II to transcribe proviral DNA.”

Kika stared. “...This started with a bad pass.”

“And now it’s a public health seminar!” Y/n grinned. “Honestly? You're welcome.”

[sk-touchthesun]

Happy anniversary of the best show I know, Dead Boy Detectives💀🔎 How are you celebrating today?🥂

–

I watched the series for the first time last autumn. I watch queer shows and movies, and had heard this show is queer. That was all I knew about it beforehand.

After the first ten minutes of the pilot I knew I would watch the entire series, and after finishing all the episodes in a day, I thought "wow, ok, so that was kind of good." Then a couple of days later I realised I wanted to watch all of it from the beginning again, which I've never done with any other series before!

I watched the show for the second time. And then the third. Eventually I ended up creating public social media accounts and started drawing digitally for the first time in a decade or so. Frankly, me posting on this account is quite a miracle; I'm very uncomfortable having an account that anyone can access.

Why did the show have such a huge impact then? Well, first of all, it's truly fresh and brilliantly done. The pace is fast while still giving space to all the important moments that require it. The mix of different genres works extremely well. There's a balance of warmth and darkness—bad things may happen, but there's still light to be found.

I love how the series discusses heavy topics: they're taken seriously while the overall tone of the show stays light enough so that it doesn't get overwhelming. The characters are relatable, and I especially relate to both Edwin and Charles on various levels. Moreover, I think it's the loneliness all the characters experience that really speaks to me, combined with the found family theme that gives me hope that things can be better.

Lastly, the cast and crew are incredible and did absolutely brilliant job bringing Dead Boy Detectives to life. I'm grateful for this show and the wonderful fandom🩵 I now daily talk to friends I've made because of the series! I'm not sure how I would've made it through what has been an incredibly heavy spring without all this.

Love you all🫶🏼 Yes, you right there reading this post! Let's save Dead Boy Detectives!

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Choose One (Chapter 1) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Adult language, Angst, Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 3.8K

Masterlist HERE.

"See-line woman (see-line)

Dressed in red (see-line)

Make a man (see-line)

Lose his head (see-line)"

Nina Simone – "See-Line Woman"

She fucked them both.

Smoke and Stack.

Seducing the twin brothers was easy, but confusing at the start.

She met Stack first. The gold in his teeth gleamed in the light of the Sunset Café, one of the most popular Black and Tan clubs in the Bronzeville section of Chicago. Lena Blackwell worked behind the bar instead of the floor, where jam packed circular tables faced an at capacity dance floor moving to the sounds of the latest jazz band snazzed up in tuxedos.

Although the Sunset Café advertised itself as a supper club and a popular music venue, people along the stroll knew it was a higher class speakeasy. Unlike other clandestine establishments with secret code words whispered to get in and concealed entrances to deceive law enforcement and politicians, the Sunset owners paid off low-salaried policeman to look away. Their mob ties kept money in the right pockets to warn of raids and shakedowns from other gangsters. People wanted liquor and any other spirits they could get their hands on in a city that was supposed to be as dry as the Sahara.

Stack slithered over to the far end of the long polished mahogany table with a toothpick wedged between his gums. For over twenty minutes, he rapped to her while she tried to keep the prohibited drinks flowing.

"You should come work for me," he said, sizing her up with blatant lust in his bold brown eyes.

"I'm not a whore for you to put on the stroll, mister. Order another drink or leave me be."

He gave her a crooked grin with his sexy lips, then admired her perfectly coiffed hairdo styled with pin curls and slathered in Sweet Honey Brown pomade. Lena cut him to the quick.

"I know a pimp when I see one," she snapped, mixing drinks for one of the female servers.

"I ain't mean it like that baby. This is a legit business proposition. I'ma go back home and open a juke. I need a talented drink mixer such as yoself."

His delta accent was raspy and thick like overcooked grits. He was one of them sorry souls who migrated from the dirty south. She wondered if his feelings got hurt when he discovered the north was no different than the low down redneck peckerwoods he ran away from.

"Mmm hmm," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious. Think about it. Lemme have some cold water," he said.

Lena reached down into a false shelf and poured Stack some high grade illegal moonshine. She slid the glass to him and he guzzled it down.

"Stack!"

Lena tilted her head to see the caller.

Well, damn.

The head of the Bronzeville syndicate gestured toward Stack. Ernie Miller, the Black godfather of the south side, was wide in the gut and built low to the ground like a bulldog. A dangerous cat, who carried a switchblade known to cut throats on a whim.

Stack slid a fat wad of cash out of his pocket and laid a crisp twenty on the counter.

"Keep the change for your tip," he said, winking at her.

The change from his tab would cover her rent for two months.

He stuffed the rest of his money in his pocket where a shiny set of brass knuckles dangled, and left the bar to join Ernie. For the first time, Lena took notice of Stack's finely tailored brown suit and the sharp creases in his pants. He had syndicate connections. A gangster. And a good tipper. She watched him enter a secret door in the back and never saw him again that night.

Two days later, as she started work at the bar, she spotted Stack nursing a drink at the far end, listening to an older barfly chat away to him. He drained the last of what was in his glass and Lena offered him some cold water.

Stack looked at her in confusion and shook his head in the negative.

She worked her shift, expecting Stack to hit on her at the bar again, like most men did.

He didn't.

"Cat got your tongue tonight, mister?" she teased, wiping down a spill near his arm from another patron.

He stared at her and then turned away to watch chorus girls tear up the Black Bottom dance in short dresses. Maybe she'd been too curt for him last time, and he took the hint. Ironically, that made her take a sudden interest.

He was tall, fine-looking, and a sharp dresser. She wondered if he smelled as good as he looked. Her eyes stayed on him until he wandered off to take an empty seat next to Ernie in a far left corner with some other broad-shouldered men.

"What was he drinking?" she asked another bartender.

Max, a reed-thin high yella man with a nasally voice, glanced at her.

"A South Side and the last glass was some Smoke."

"Eww, he likes that Smoke shit? That could kill him," she said, crinkling her nose.

"Them ex soldiers like that cloudy fuel alcohol."

"How you know he's an ex soldier?"

Max held out his hand and wiggled it.

"His hands. They shake a little bit. Lotta them war boys came back messed up."

Lena couldn't imagine the jovial man she met the other night acting shell-shocked. She reached under the bar and grabbed some gin. Adding some lime, sugar, and a bit of mint, she made a fresh glass of South Side.

"I'll be right back," she said.

Her heels click-clacked on the floor and she passed several raucous tables enjoying the floor show. Ernie had stepped away to talk to some people two tables over. She placed the South Side in front of the ex soldier.

"Thought you might enjoy this better than that rot gut you were drinking earlier," she said.

He glanced down at the drink and a slow smile raised the corners of his lips. No gold on his teeth. She studied his features, his hair, and the large build of his body. This had to be the same man.

"What they call you around here?" she asked.

"Smoke."

"Not Stack?"

He showed more teeth and some dimples.

"No. Just Smoke."

He had a twinkle in his eye and he chuckled softly.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"Mississippi."

"You really opening a juke down there?"

He squinted at her, but before he could answer, Ernie returned.

"Let's go," Ernie said, grabbing his coat.

The soldier stood and brushed against her. She looked up into his eyes and shivered. He reached down for the drink she prepared for him and sipped it down in front of her.

"Thank you," he said, handing the glass back to her.

She clasped it with both hands, feeling woozy by the scent of his cologne. He grabbed his suit coat, and she glimpsed the gun in a holster strapped to him.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft like cotton.

Lena stepped aside and touched her forehead. The man had her breaking out in a sweat.

Two more men caught up to them near the bar and that's when she gasped, seeing double. The man who called himself Smoke greeted his twin brother Stack. Lena returned to her post and Stack peeled back his lips, showing her gold in his mouth. She ended up grinning, and he leaned an elbow on the bar.

"You look even more beautiful when you smile," Stack said.

Staring at them both, she could tell they were physically identical, but the personalities, their auras…so opposite.

One thing was for sure, seeing them together…she was smitten.

And she wanted them both.

Stack usually showed up at the Sunset around nine.

Lena figured out his routine quickly because out of the two twins, Stack liked to party and be around the nightlife the most. He stood out in a crowd of men and the ladies loved him.

The Sunset Café started advertising to lure more women into the place for capitalistic gain. Originally the owners created it as a gentlemen's club, but in order to stay lucrative during prohibition, they had to open up the market to new customers, and women loved to drink.

To hide the odorous stench of bootleg hard liquor that could turn female customers away, new cocktails were created adding syrups and various fruit juices to sweeten the bitter taste. The club manager ordered all bartenders to add more cherries, orange slices, and canned chucks of pineapples in the drinks to appeal to the good-time girls who sought excitement. Especially the white ones.

White women loved the Sunset.

White men loved it too, and the forbidden allure of rubbing shoulders with negroes brought out their lascivious side. Everyone in Chicago knew that colored folks couldn't have their own entertainment spaces without white folks sniffing for some action in the mix. As much as they pretended to hate negro people, they sure couldn't stay away from them. Colored patrons and performers tickled their libidinous fantasies. The best music, the best food, and the best dancing happened on the south side where negroes were crowded together. They didn't call it Bronzeville for nothing.

Lena eyed the entrance. Stack was due to swagger through any minute.

The supper hour kept the bar less hectic as folks ate garnished devilled eggs, green beans, steaks, fried catfish, buttermilk-dipped fried chicken, with the added sides of creamy macaroni and cheese with generous slices of honey cornbread.

Max flipped through his tattered, olive-colored copy of the H.P. Dreambook. A man wearing a turban in front of a crystal ball illustrated the cover. He pestered busboys, servers, and Lena about their dreams so he could search them up in his book and find the corresponding numerical interpretation to play the numbers. Another bartender named Frank polished glasses and worked the other end of the counter.

"C'mon Lena, your turn, what you dream last night?" Max asked.

"I don't really have dreams."

"Everybody dreams. Bernice, what about you?"

Bernice scratched an itch on her prominent nose and thought about her answer while she waited for Lena to pour whiskey into three tumbler glasses.

"The night before, I dreamed about going to Paris and seeing Josephine Baker," Bernice said.

She spun around and shook her hips.

"Y'all think she really dances over there naked wearing bananas?" Bernice asked.

"Lemme see, travel… bananas…dancing…" Max murmured.

He circled numbers in his book with a stubby pencil. Lena placed the drinks on Bernice's tray and tapped her foot waiting for Max. Two other female servers went to Frank to fill their orders.

"Okay…two…twenty-nine…seventeen," Max said.

He reached into his tip pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to Bernice.

"Give that to Melvin and tell him to combinate my numbers," he said.

"You give your own money to the numbers man," Bernice said.

She flounced away from the bar, and Max sucked his teeth.

Stack strolled in and took off his hat and coat, leaving it with the coat check girl. He surveyed the room and two gleeful white women sauntered over to him.

"Them ofays sure do love them some Big Stack," Max said.

Bernice returned with another drink order. She glanced at Stack, too.

"Can you blame them? Look at him…just a big stiff drink I'd love to pour down my throat."

"Man can't even get into the club without women flocking to him," Max said.

"Those two wait to see him every week. They reserve the table closest to the door to catch him," Bernice added. "I ain't never seen him with anything darker than a paper bag, though."

"That's cuz you and those ladies are at the top of the hierarchy."

"What are you bumping your gums about now, Max?" Bernice sighed.

"Niggas out here go for color first, hair texture second, and shape last. Listen to me…don't roll your eyes…white girls and you lightskins…that would be you Bernice with your mixed ass…are at the top. If a woman ain't that, they'll take a brownskin, like Lena, if they have good hair. But if they can't have number one or two, a woman has to at least have a good shape. See, Bernice here, she only got one and two—"

"I got a cute shape, too! I'm all three!" Bernice protested.

"Not with those knock knees and small tits…anyway, like I was saying…you gotta have what's on that list or you won't get no attention in this club. That's why Lena is behind the bar and not on the floor with you all night getting the fat tips. Facts is facts, and that man over there likes to have all three."

They watched Stack as he charmed the women blocking him from the rest of the club.

"Hmmph. Men are stupid," Bernice huffed. "Miss Two-out-of-three, can I get three shots of rum?"

"Coming right up, Miss Three-out-of-three," Lena said.

Bernice cackled, then took the drinks away.

"I never noticed she had knock knees," Lena whispered to Max.

Stack sauntered over with the women and their loud chatter livened up the counter.

"Hey Max," Stack said.

"Good to see you this evening, Mr. Moore," Max said, taking on his polished bartender voice.

He dropped his dream book under the counter.

"What can I fix for you tonight, sir?"

Max waited for the order. Lena headed over to another patron who wanted hooch.

"Ladies, what would you like to drink?" Stack asked.

The first woman, a shapely red head with narrow features asked for a Sidecar, and the second woman, a wide-eyed brunette, requested a Malört.

"You like that bitter stuff?" Stack asked.

Lena clocked the brunette's curling edges from perspiration, and the slight roundness of her nose. To a regular white person, she could pass as Italian or even a Jewish Russian. However, the hair, the extra curve in her ass, and the nervous fluttery eyes told the truth to Lena. The woman glanced at her; a mutual understanding passed between them that she would be treated as a white woman. Who was she to judge what people had to do to survive a depression?

If Stack knew, he didn't let on. Max gave them their drinks and Stack turned his steady focus on Lena.

"You look real nice tonight, Lena."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," she said.

"When you wear all those curls, it makes your pretty eyes look mysterious—"

"Stack," the redhead interjected.

Her tone came out sharply, saying his name.

"I'm talking, baby, give me a minute," he said.

The bass in his voice caused her lips to bunch up. Her brunette friend sipped the Malört and looked away.

"I didn't come down here to watch you talk to a bartender," the redhead whined.

"Bitch, I don't care what you came here to do."

Max stepped in to de-escalate.

"Mr. Moore, what would you like to have?"

Lena left them to serve other people, and Stack dismissed the two women. He conferred with Max and the floor show began, capturing his attention. Stack loved watching the dancers. He probably ran through most of them based on his reputation. Irritation stretched across his face and Lena served him the moonshine he loved.

"Those girls don't know how to act when you talk to other women," she said.

"I'm tired of them dingy broads anyway. They both have dry coochie and bad attitudes. White bitches love slumming with dark dick, but act all bent outta shape if a colored woman gets a tiny bit of attention."

"You do know one of them is colored, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

He grinned and looked deep into Lena's eyes. She gave him a sly smirk and his eyes drank her in.

"You want some more?" she asked, enunciating each word.

Stack watched her succulent red lips and his gaze dipped to the top of her white blouse, eyeballing the outline of her breasts.

"You undressing me with those eyes, Mr. Moore?"

Dimples.

"I think you're undressing me," he said.

"I been did that," she teased, and sashayed away to serve a counter rush of older men with their mistresses.

She knew he kept his eyes on her ass the way she intended by swinging her hips extra hard.

He loved watching her.

For weeks she acted coquettish and purred his last name any time she served him. Ernie treated him and Smoke as his most trusted muscle men. If he needed an enemy whacked, he sent the Smoke Stack twins with the chopper to deliver a Chicago overcoat first class. Stack strutted around the club with a dominance that aroused her. Most tough guys annoyed her, their performative masculinity a tremendous joke to her.

Not Stack.

He oozed overt power, and she wanted a taste of that in her bed.

"Be careful, Lena, being a gangster's woman ain't the life you want," Max warned on a different night.

He caught her ogling Stack. Lena loved the way his thighs stretched the material of his pants, and she licked her lips at the heavy bulge in the crotch. What she would give to sit on all that hefty weight. She flirted with the gangster using long unblinking stares on him, and lightly touched his hand whenever she served glasses of rum, gin, or the moonshine he liked to call dog soup. Eventually, he would just beeline to the bar to greet her the moment he walked into the club. He only had eyes for her.

Women were easy for Stack to catch because they threw themselves at him. She lured him in night by night, forcing him to chase her, keeping him expectant, and on his toes. The man hadn't chased a woman for a long time and it showed.

Her calculated seduction worked.

He started bringing her things. Diamond earrings. Real ones. Fancy gold hair clips and chocolate candy in heart boxes. He asked around and found out her favorite snack was the roasted peanuts sold a block away on the street from an old German man. He left her small warm bags at the bar before her shift started on Fridays to last her all weekend. She showed up to work one night and Max could barely contain himself. He handed her a large box with a knee-length fur coat inside.

He asked her out a few times, but she played demure, citing the rules of employees not fraternizing with employers.

"Aw Lena. I don't own this place…I work for the man who does. He pays your checks, not me."

"The other girls will be mad if they see me with you."

"Fuck 'em."

"I'll think about it."

He floated for a week after she said that. Like most men, he wanted a slut to fuck in private, but a good girl to woo in public.

A month later, Lena had a rough night with some rowdy patrons. Lower-level men of Ernie's syndicate. Stack had been out of town on business, and she missed interacting with him. His flirty nature kept her work nights fun, and they flew by fast. Without him, they dragged on for hours.

After Lena helped clean the bar area and counted money at closing, the numbers man slid over to Max and handed him a fifteen dollar win.

"Holy shit!" Max shouted.

He turned to Lena, his eyes shiny with joy.

"I'm taking you to Al's Diner for steak and eggs!"

Lena grabbed her coat and purse and walked out of the club with Max. Bernice joined them. They caught a cab to Al's Diner in a seedier area, but the food was delicious. Lena ate her fill and listened to Max make plans to buy his girlfriend new dresses, and a new tailored suit with nice dress shoes to replace the clodhoppers he wore outside of work. Bernice planned a rent party and Lena promised to spread the word and address to their shared apartment building. Max offered to pay for all the food at her party so she could sell dinner plates and keep all the proceeds.

After Max splurged on chocolate malts, she shared another cab ride with Bernice to her second-floor walk-up.

Another week passed, and Stack didn't come to the Sunset. Lena worried that the Italian mafia under Al Capone's orders gunned him down in the windy city or Bugs Moran and the Irish mob caught him slipping and threw him in Lake Michigan. Smoke huddled with Ernie and the other men in their crew, talking animatedly. She made her way around the bar counter. Tensions around the city had been thick among the immigrant groups, but colored folks kept on striving for better. Tempted to ask the other twin about his brother, she felt two muscular arms lift her up when she headed to the secret storage room to retrieve more spirits.

"Stack!"

Her heart triple-thumped in her chest like a train roaring down an uneven track. She turned and threw her arms around his neck instinctively.

"You missed me," he whispered in her ear.

The vibration of his voice along the delicate skin on her neck thrilled her. The breathiness in the shell of her ear heated the blood in her veins.

She kissed him.

Smashed her plump wanton lips across his fuller ones and slipped her tongue past the seam, tasting the strong whiskey on his breath. Their heads slanted for the proper angle to slide warm tongues together. His deep kisses sent love pulses straight down to her toes. Stack tongued her breathless hidden behind an alcove. He cradled her face before pulling away first.

"Damn. I ain't been kissed like that before," he drawled out in his delta accent.

She held his longing gaze in the yellow light of the hanging lamp that dangled above them. As tough as he was, his face looked so gentle and pure up close. Like a big ole puppy that just wanted to play fetch with her heart.

"Go out with me tonight," he asked.

She tickled the facial hair on his chin, then ran a slender finger down the part in his hair.

"How 'bout you go out with me?"

He grinned.

"Where?"

"It won't be nowhere high class like you're used to, but you'll have a good time. Promise."

He lunged for her mouth again, wrapping his beefy arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet.

"Oh, no wonder it's taking you so long to bring those bottles out," her co-worker Frank said.

Lena jerked away from Stack and grabbed the bottles she came for. She rushed past Frank, beaming all the way back to the bar.

Chapter 2 HERE.

A.N.:

Thanks for your patience! It's easier to do little chapters to buy me time to finish it. But y'all read so darn fast though!

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[emeraldthelynx]

I've actually been thinking about this for a while since I saw this post. So, I have some ideas on how it would work.

The first episode has to be Suguroku getting the Puzzle from Atem's tomb. I know that this flashback takes place way later in the manga, but it has to be at the start in order to string the 'Shadow Games' and the 'Duel Monsters' parts of the series. The tomb would also need pictures of the monsters, as another connection. The first episode could be a longer Special, and continues with Yugi solving the Puzzle. Kaiba would have to be in the background of the classroom scenes. There long enough to know he's important, but not presented as the rival just yet.

I would think the plot beats would be something like, Gramps Mutou finds Puzzle, Yugi completes it, some sort of indication by somebody like an Item Bearer or even an odd conversation between Dark Magician and Kuriboh, but some party sensing that the Millennium Puzzle has finally been completed for the first time in 3000 years. During Season 0/early manga things, Duel Monsters could be hinted at in the background, with things like maybe a televised match of Kaiba becoming the National champion or Gramps Mutou playing a friendly, normal round of it against Yugi. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that Gramps had Dark Magician in his deck, so there could be scenes where the Puzzle gleams in response to Dark Magician being played, which can help connect the ancient Egyptian Puzzle guy with a trading card.

Speaking of the Egyptian Puzzle guy, the encounter with Shadi is absolutely necessary to tie all the randomness together. Shadi has to be the first to indicate that Yami Yugi isn't just Yugi's other self, but maybe something more. More behind-the-scenes stuff needs to happen to. Things like Mokuba finding out that Yugi beat Kaiba, Pegasus watching the Death-T match, maybe even just somebody annoying like Haga in the audience at some point giving commentary. And concerning the Monster World game, the version of Zork in that game needs to be hinted at being something bigger. (Also... anime-Zorc's design needs to go, forever thank you.)

Once Duelist Kingdom is finally hit, things can proceed more closely to the original, but there needs to be little things that connect to the eventual Memory World arc, because that whole arc was never really expected I don't think.

A whole separate tangent would be about the filler seasons and maybe even Yu-gi-oh! R. Those things cannot be squashed in with the main storyline, and they absolutely need to be refined so they don't feel like every Yugioh fanfiction on FF.net. A good option would be films or OVAs. Since the Kaiba backstory can be covered with Season 0 stuff, we don't need the backstory filler. A term I like using for this stuff is 'another time, another place.' It's like the Pokemon movies being somewhere in canon, but not really part of the story. If they were to work at all, they would need to be put in the 'another time, another place' state. But just think about how much more interesting things would be if it was that way! A lot of complaints about the filler arcs is that they're too long. By having a series of OVAs or a couple of movies, all the good stuff can get condensed into a much, much shorter timeline.

I know that it would probably be animated by Gallop, but I would really, really like to see a different studio work on it. Toei would be fine by me, although I'm biased, and Bones would be amazing. (Again, biased.)

Those are just a few thoughts though.

When people are like “There should be a Yugioh reboot that fully adapts the story including the early manga” I’m like are you sure? You know that Yugioh’s story structure is batshit, right? You want a season full of random unrelated death games followed by an abrupt veer into exclusively card games for 20 volumes followed by an abrupt veer into ancient Egyptian political intrigue, which itself does a complete 180 on all of its own themes 35 chapters in? I’m not saying I wouldn’t watch it, but, uh,

[tobiosbbyghorl]

the man who waited | psh

pairing: sunghoon x reader

genre: angst, comfort,slow burn, and fluff

Summary:You met Sunghoon during your healing stage—a time when love felt too fragile to hold. He was kind, patient, and everything you thought you needed, but no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t give him what he deserved. Years later, fate brings him back… and this time, you're ready.

You met Park Sunghoon when love was something you no longer believed in. Not in the way you used to—bright and promising and all-consuming. After everything, love had become something small and quiet. Something you kept hidden like a scar.

He didn’t try to fix you. That’s what made him different. He never once said you needed to heal faster, or that your sadness was inconvenient. Instead, he held space for you—wide and warm and safe.

You met at a book café your friend dragged you to. He was there with a soft smile, helping the elderly barista with the espresso machine, flour dusted on his sleeves like he’d just come from baking something himself. He had that kind of aura—gentle, like the first breeze after a storm.

You were in your healing stage. Or whatever people liked to call that liminal place between heartbreak and wholeness. And he… he was the kind of person who made you feel like being whole wasn’t necessary to be loved.

You talked over cups of tea. Walks through the park. Quiet dinners where he’d ask about your day and actually wait for the real answer. He made it easy to laugh again. To smile without forcing it. But even as warmth bloomed in your chest, you felt the edges of your heart still frayed. Still stitched together by trembling hands.

And you knew.

You knew it wasn’t fair to let him fall when you were still learning how to stand.

⸻

“I really like you,” he said one night, voice soft under the stars. “But I’m not asking for anything. Just… wanted you to know.”

Your throat tightened. Because deep down, you liked him too. Maybe even more than that. But love, real love, terrified you.

You turned to him and tried to say what your heart was screaming.

“I wish I met you later,” you whispered. “When I was more whole. When I could love you the way you deserve.”

He smiled, just a little. The kind of smile people wear when they’re hurt but understand.

“I didn’t come into your life to be owed something,” he said. “I came in hoping maybe I could be part of your peace.”

And for a while, he was.

But there was always a part of you that stayed behind a locked door. A part too afraid to let someone in again, even if they knocked gently, even if they waited.

You tried. God, you tried.

You’d text him first. You’d invite him over. You’d cook his favorite meals. But it still felt like you were holding his love with trembling hands, afraid to drop it. Afraid to break it. Afraid you were the one breaking.

⸻

The last time you saw him, it was raining.

He stood by your front gate, umbrella in hand, eyes searching yours like maybe they could still find a way in.

“I know you care,” he said, voice steady despite the ache behind it. “But you keep giving me half of you. And I want to be understanding, I do. But I also know I deserve to be loved fully.”

Your lips parted, but the words didn’t come. You wanted to say, I’m scared. I don’t know how. I’m trying, please believe me.

But you only nodded. Because he was right. And because the hardest thing about healing was realizing that sometimes, love wasn’t enough—not if you couldn’t let it in.

“Sunghoon,” you said, voice cracking. “Be the man I couldn’t pursue. The man I couldn’t love the way you deserve. Not because I didn’t want to… but because I couldn’t yet.”

He looked at you for a long time. Then, with a soft exhale, he reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear.

“You will one day,” he murmured. “And when you do, I hope someone gives you the kind of love you kept trying to give me in pieces.”

Then he walked away.

⸻

You never stopped thinking about him. About the way he loved you without pressure. About the way he never made your healing feel like a burden.

And sometimes you wonder—if you met him now, years later, would things be different.

But some people enter your life not to stay, but to remind you what love should feel like. Gentle. Safe. Given without begging.

He was the love you needed at your lowest. The peace in the middle of a war you were fighting inside.

And maybe he wasn’t meant to be your future—but he was the reason you finally started believing you had one.

———————————————————————————

Three years later, you saw him again.

It was in the most unexpected place—an art exhibit downtown, one you almost skipped because of a last-minute meeting. You were walking past a piece that looked eerily like a memory—painted with the same kind of softness he used to show you.

And when you turned the corner, there he was.

Park Sunghoon.

Still with that familiar gentleness in his eyes. Still with the kind of presence that made the world go quiet for a moment.

He looked up just as you saw him, and for a second, everything stilled. Time. Breath. All of it.

“Y/N,” he said, a little breathless. Like saying your name brought something back.

You hadn’t prepared for this—for the way your heart would ache and flutter at once.

“Hi,” you whispered.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no tears, no running into each other’s arms. Just a silence that held everything you hadn’t said back then. A silence that, for the first time, didn’t feel heavy. Just… full.

He motioned toward the piece on the wall. “I like this one.”

You stepped closer. “Me too. It reminds me of the quiet after the rain.”

He smiled softly. “Still poetic, I see.”

You smiled back. “Still kind.”

He glanced down, nervous for the first time since you met him again. “Do you want to grab a coffee? Catch up?”

Your heart skipped. Not from panic this time. But from hope.

“I’d love to.”

⸻

The café down the street hadn’t changed. You laughed softly when you realized it was the same one from your very first meeting. Same mismatched chairs. Same cinnamon scent in the air.

“So,” he said, wrapping his hands around the mug. “How have you been?”

You paused. Thought carefully.

“I’ve been better,” you said truthfully. “Stronger. I went to therapy. Learned how to stop apologizing for taking up space.”

He looked at you like you’d hung the stars.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.

You sipped your tea and smiled at your cup. “I thought about you a lot. About what we could’ve been if I wasn’t so… scared.”

Sunghoon nodded slowly. “I used to wonder the same thing. But I stopped holding it against you. I knew you weren’t ready, and I didn’t want to become another weight you had to carry.”

Your throat tightened at how gentle he still was.

“You were the first person who made me feel safe,” you said. “The first love I didn’t have to earn.”

He met your eyes, voice steady. “And you were the first person I wanted to wait for.”

Your eyes welled unexpectedly. Not from pain this time—but from relief.

“I’m not broken anymore, Sunghoon,” you whispered. “I’m not perfect, but I can love now. Fully. Bravely.”

He smiled then, slow and soft, like a sunrise.

“I never needed perfect,” he said. “Just someone who would let me in.”

You reached across the table, hand trembling slightly as you placed it over his.

He turned his palm to hold yours.

⸻

You didn’t rush it this time.

You spent the next few months learning each other again—only this time, it wasn’t during your healing. It was during your becoming.

You learned that Sunghoon had taken a break from dating after you. That he traveled. Took cooking classes. Helped his sister raise her kid and started painting again.

And he learned that you started journaling again. That you ran your own small business now. That you learned how to sit with your feelings instead of running from them.

And slowly, piece by piece, you gave him what he deserved.

This time, not in fragments.

But in full.

⸻

One quiet evening, you sat beside him on the floor of his apartment, backs against the couch, fingers intertwined.

The movie played softly in the background, but neither of you were really watching.

“You remember what I said last time?” you asked quietly. “That I wished you’d be the man I couldn’t pursue?”

He looked at you, nodding gently.

“I think I was wrong,” you said. “You weren’t the man I couldn’t pursue. You were the man who waited patiently until I could.”

He leaned in, kissed your forehead with a kind of reverence that only comes from waiting.

“I’d do it all again,” he whispered. “If it still led me here.”

⸻

And maybe some love stories don’t begin at the first meeting.

Maybe they begin when the heart is finally ready to receive the kind of love that never needed fixing—just timing.

Epilogue — “The kind of love that stays.”

The sun filtered through the sheer curtains, warm and golden. You were curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, reading. Sunghoon sat beside you, sketchbook in hand.

“I like this,” you murmured. “Us. Slow mornings. No pressure. Just… being.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

“Do you still think about who we were back then?”

“Sometimes. Not with regret. Just gratitude.”

“You were the first person who made me feel safe.”

“You were the first person I wanted to wait for.”

You reached for his hand. He laced your fingers together.

No grand confessions. Just lived-in love.

In shared breakfasts. In quiet Sundays. In the way he kissed your forehead every night.

You weren’t healing anymore.

You were living.

And Sunghoon?

He was still the man who waited.

But now—he was the man who stayed.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hey 👋 there just wanted to say I really like your art and how you flesh out the characters of the fatui.

Especially pierro

I was wondering if you’re taking requests, if you could make one about how reader is deeply injured to the near point of death and the fatui (separate)

Have different reactions to seeing their beloved almost dying and find the culprit or culprits involved and have them tortured or whatever their reaction is. And they later on stay by their side making sure they return to full health not knowing what they did for them.

(but in way I like seeing their cruelty for their reader getting hurt come to light and how they would feel.)

You don’t have to acknowledge this ask but it’s just something I think about

This request was asked by several anons and @ghost3029 ages ago. Apologies if I can’t tag all the lovelies here

✦ Someone hurt you, and how they take care of the matter

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone, Tartaglia) 

(Slight tw: mention of injuries, blood, violence.) 

To be the enigmatic beloved of a Harbinger means to have eyes on you - some in awe, while others with ill intent. Luckily for you and your dear Harbinger, privacy is paramount no matter what his job entails. However, what happens when you venture too close to harm’s grasp, whether by accident or by someone’s design?

✧ When Pierro saw the dangerous glint in your eyes, he knew two things were happening: you had just been embroiled in a lethal fight, and you would faint in any second due to immense fatigue. He doesn’t call out your name or contort his expression into shock or trepidation. Because in split seconds, he sprints towards you, catching your collapsed form right into his arms. 

Limp and marred with wounds, even your unconscious state looks worn out as The Jester swiftly lifts you in his arms. He was undeterred by the sight of your blood slowly seeping out onto his immaculate white suit. No, the Fatui Director is a calm but unfazed man. 

“You always took matters into your own hands, my divine. Ever so willful, always overexerting yourself.” - Pierro murmured to himself, before turning to face the monstrous culprit who dared to harm you, a remnant of Abyssal Corruption. “However, for someone to raise their hand at you is a sin. My beloved might be merciful when granting death, but I – don't.” 

You didn't hear or register anything; the last thing you remember is Pierro's hand shaking as he held you tightly. When you woke up groggy, wrapped in the ache of healing wounds, you weren't shocked to see yourself clad in clean clothes, resting by a spacious, comfortable bed. Beside you was Pierro; unmoving, sitting. He never once left your room.

“For… How long was I out?”

“For a whole day, dear. Do not fret, the best doctors and healers in Snezhnaya worked swiftly to patch you up.” – his palm gently rested on your forehead, brushing your hair aside as he ensured your temperature was stable. Even his gaze, so often sharp with command, had softened, devotion etched into every touch or glance.

“A-and the Abyssal monster I fought? Is everyone safe…?”

“Hm? You still concern yourself with that? This dread is not yours to bear, my divine. How many times must I remind you that it is not your duty to dirty your hands? Rest easy instead. No filth will tarnish the peace I have built for us.”

✧ Il Capitano is aware you can defend yourself. He respects your might; he doesn't doubt your cunning strength. However, can he stand idle when the clash of steel begins and the threat of violence dares to draw near you? Can his heart bear witness as you endure blow after blow, even in triumph?

No, he cannot, and this is his weakness. His body cries out to quickly shield you whenever an enemy gets too close. Even when you're amidst the roaring chaos of a battle, he intercepts those who venture too close with relentless force. You were expecting that, but you groan in frustration either way:

“Capitano, this is not your battle. I can manage myself!”

“I will not let you barge into danger recklessly,” – he retorted. The Antumbra held steadily in his hands. “You're moving too fast.” 

He refused to move between you and the onslaught of corrupted abyssal monsters. For a man who often reprimanded you about being reckless, your beloved hypocritically used his body as a shield whenever you were in danger. 

“Thrain-!” 

He rarely hears your stern voice. But the call of his true name rendered him motionless for a minute, a tense silence riveting between you. Before either of you could add another word, an abyssal mimic wielding the form of a Ruin Guard aimed straight at Capitano’s back. However, you were quicker in blocking the massive creature, taking the blow instead.

After the waves of monsters dissipated, the battlefield was left in ashes. A few of the Harbinger's soldiers scavenged the aftermath in search of any injured. You, however, clutched your disheveled wounds. Turning to face Capitano, you were met with his eerily silent and pitch-black expression. 

“Listen, Capi,” - you began quietly, voice laced with guilt. “I'm sorry for… raising my voice like that. I only meant t-”

Before you could finish your mumbles, Capitano hoisted you up onto his broad shoulders and started moving away. 

“Hey, hey! Put me back! I was in the middle of an apology,” - you thrashed, wiggling against his back while he kept a very resolute grip on you. Being slung like a sack of potatoes after a harsh battle only doubled your shame. Especially when he gave you a tap on your hip to keep you still. 

“Shush. I've heard enough. I am dragging you to the infirmary myself,” – he added sternly, one hand holding you while the other carrying his sword. “And if it means throwing you over my shoulders and reminding you how to be inert, then so be it. Either your recklessness will kill you, or my heartache will end me instead.” 

✧ For a man like Il Dottore, dissecting near-lifeless forms beneath sterile light was a ritual long devoid of novelty. But when fate laid his beloved upon that same table, the clinical detachment in his gaze curdled into something far more lethal.

Your cuts were sutured and your bleeding staunched by the deft encirclement of his bandages. As your shallow breathing mellowed down, teetering on and off your consciousness, you scarcely perceived the taut silence in the lab, or the meek voice of the Fatui soldiers that brought you back: 

“We have delivered them safely, Lord Harbinger. As per orders.” 

“Brought them you did, indeed. But safely…?” – his gloved grip retracted from your bandaged limbs, like a coiled snake slithering back. “Spare me your excuses, this is nothing but a horrendous job done. One command, and you botched it: return them to me unharmed.” 

The Fatui soldier stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, though his head hung low. The Harbinger's eyes remained hidden behind the gleam of his mask, but the venom in his voice alone was enough to conjure the hell that would follow should any wretch dare to utter defiance.

“Tell me, if I shattered one of your bones for every drop of their blood spilled, would that seem just? Or maybe,” – he drawled, each syllable an iron weight, “For every stitch I had to use on their skin, and every roll of bandage used, you compensate by skinning your own limbs-”

The murderous tension was interrupted when your coughing echoed in the room – “... D-dottore?”

A single word, a call of his name, yet one that made The 2nd drop all his threats in an instant, kneeling on the cold stone floor beside your medical cot. “Yes, my dear, yes. Shh, I am here now. You're safe.” 

Your eyes fluttered toward him, the weight of exhaustion rendering your limbs motionless. Yet even then, you smiled faintly, reassuring him to keep his anger at bay, your fingers meekly reaching for his hand. You didn't say much, too drained to squander air that your body so dearly needed for healing. And Dottore didn't mind. Holding your single palm in both hands, he clasped it close and brought it to his lips. 

Like a heretic clutching an unworldly relic, he stayed there and held your wrist close to himself in a reverent prayer. As long as he could feel the quiet thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers, he would call down ruin upon Teyvat itself for every wound carved into you.

✧ Pantalone leaned closer in his seat, hand deftly reaching for the vial of saline as he pressed a dampened cloth to your wounds with deliberate tenderness. The Harbinger, ever composed in his peculiar cheer, wore his usual merry smile, opting to dismiss the servants and tend to your injuries with his own hands.

“Walk me through it again, darling, how ever did you end up with such dreadful scrapes?”

“Well, I'm telling you!” – you began with animated exasperation. “I was on my daily expeditions, doing my usual exploration around Jueyun Karst. A nice farmer on the way pointed me to where to harvest fresh Qingxin flowers. So I went on, but a group of Treasure Hoarder bandits ambushed me.”  

As Pantalone listened patiently, he continued to clean your wounds, ensuring even the smallest cuts were secured underneath a band-aid, his thumbs softly gliding over the bandages to ensure they seal onto your skin tenderly.  

“And- And then…! I went Pow! And then slash! I defended myself because they tried to steal all of my Mora. Thankfully, some local heard the ruckus and came to my aid. So, all in all, I got out of it with barely a scratch, in my humble opinion.”

The Harbinger shook his head, tidying up the bandage wraps before reaching to pat your hair – “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This won't do, you silly. You must be more careful when adventuring in the wild like that. No matter how minor the danger may seem.”

You could only exhale a sigh of reluctant surrender. You knew he had a point, and you did feel the fatigue catching up on you now that you were back home safely. Thus, with a loving embrace and a goodnight kiss, you decided to retire for the night. Pantalone waved a cheerful goodbye, watching your personal servants following dutifully in tow as you left his study room. 

You’d sit and sulk, like a child reminded for the tenth time to be careful when playing outside. Even when you reminded Pantalone of the time you'd bested a Stonehide Lawachurl single-handedly, he'd merely sigh wistfully and kiss your cheek.  

“Oh, I know, I know, my love. But still, take it slow for a couple of days, will you?” - he kept his thumb gently running down your cheek, his smile imbued with quiet reassurance. “I’ve no desire to see you crossing paths with bandits again. Rest easy, darling.”

And the moment you departed? His charming smile immediately vanished. 

Without turning to face the bowing servant, he ordered courtly, his voice lacking the usual innocent warmth he used with you – “Report. Now.” 

“The intel came in from the operatives we stationed on route. The treasure hoarders they spoke of are being tracked as we speak, Lord Harbinger.” 

Pantalone drew in a measured breath, quelling the fire rising in his veins. Before you even made it back home to his arms, he had already received news of the attack. How was he informed so quickly? Simply because he stationed the best spies to blend into the backgrounds and keep track of your safety, so-called invincible bodyguards all bound by oath and coin to the Regrator himself.

The nice farmer you met in Jueyun Karst? The kind local who noticed the commotion when Treasure Hoarders dared to attack you? All Fatui Agents, steeped in stealth, honed in combat, disguised perfectly to serve as his eyes while you kept living the best of your life. Even the personal maids who help you with your usual nightly routines – the best of Fatui Operatives from the House of the Hearth, ordered personally to function as your closest bodyguards by the 9th.

Pantalone was no fool. He would never let his suffocating devotion eclipse your freedom, especially when you sought nothing from the Fatui. You deserved joy, unshackled and luminous, filled with wild adventures and quiet victories of your own making. He would never command the course of your life, instead, he would love you as you are, unperturbed by his status as a Harbinger.

But you don't deserve this worry. He would shoulder this dirty burden on his own.

“The Agents acted sufficiently,” – he noted dully, his ringed fingers intertwined elegantly. “Instruct them to continue tracking the Hoarders. It's clear they tried to use my beloved as leverage to get to me. Ensure each and every single one of them disappears. Make it quick and make it clean.” 

✧ Smash. Tartaglia raised his arms up, the club-like piece of wood was but a crude piece of a fence he grabbed on the go. Smash. He didn't even register when he picked it up instead of his Hydro Riptide swords. No, his set of weaponry would've been much more precise. Too clean for this job. Smash. This club is slow and would deliver a much messier message. Smash.    

When did blood get on his face? 

The Harbinger had already forgotten the face of the person he had just clubbed to the ground, their limbs broken; crimson blooming in grotesque contrast against the pristine white of snow. The cries and pleas went unheard, like a static buzz behind his temples, drowning out everything but the pounding pulse of rage. All he could think about was how warm the vivid red looked against white.

That is until your voice pulled him out of his haze – “Childe… Childe!”

He turned to face you, disoriented as to why you're looking at him in exasperated horror, your eyes widened, and your voice breathless. Ah, he remembered now. Someone called you the 11th’s lapdog, had dared to treat you like a gutter-born wretch, and seized your wrist with rough, presumptuous fingers. That's why he chose a random piece of a wooden log. And that's why he delivered a slow, painful message to this person over a merciful end. 

“... Oh.” – Harbinger stated simply, leaving the club to sink into the snow with a dull thud. “I'm sorry, sweetie. Did I take too long?”

Walking away, as if the whimpers of a bleeding man on the snow did not reach him, Tartaglia smiled at you. The luster in his eyes is still absent. 

“I apologize, sweetheart, you shouldn't have seen most of that. I got too distracted.” 

You remained speechless. Your silence clung to you like frost, your body still trembling not only from what happened, but from the visceral sight of it. Even when your beloved noticed that, trying to soothe you by wrapping his arms around your shoulders, he failed to realize you were probably shaken from the blood around his hands. 

“Come here, let's go home for now. I'm sorry, dearie, I'm sorry.”

Red, he thought again, warm like you against his cool skin. 

[sturniololuvz]

Could you do one where reader had a cryptic pregnancy and she had stomach aches all day like bad so she went to the hospital with Matt/chris and she had a whole baby get creative

okay!!!

“Guess What, It’s a Baby”

⸻

You’d had stomachaches before. Cramps, food poisoning, stress—it wasn’t new. But today felt different. Like your organs were in an argument and your spine was the battlefield.

You curled up on the couch, groaning into a pillow as Chris walked into the apartment holding two smoothies and a bag of chips. He stopped mid-step.

“Uh… babe? You good?”

“I think my stomach’s trying to murder me,” you groaned. “Like not regular cramps. Like call-the-ER-but-don’t-because-it’s-probably-nothing vibes.”

Chris dropped everything and sat beside you, brows furrowed. “Did you eat something weird? You didn’t eat those leftover tacos, right?”

“No, I didn’t eat anything. I swear it feels like something’s ripping inside me. I don’t know, it’s bad, Chris.”

Within minutes, you were in the passenger seat of his car, gripping your stomach, while Chris sped toward the ER.

“I don’t care if it’s gas or the apocalypse,” he said, glancing over at you. “You don’t look okay. I’m not risking this.”

⸻

At the hospital

You were clutching your side, half-sweating, half-shaking, when the nurse asked:

“Any chance you could be pregnant?”

Chris literally laughed out loud. “No, definitely not.”

“I’m on birth control,” you added, breathless. “I get my period.”

But the nurse still gave you that look. “Let’s just do an ultrasound to be safe.”

You and Chris exchanged the most unhinged glance.

“I swear if I’m pregnant right now,” you whispered, “I’m suing someone.”

Five minutes later, the ultrasound tech stared at the screen.

Then she turned it toward you and said calmly:

“Congratulations… you’re in active labor.”

Chris’s eyes bugged out. “WHAT?!”

“I’m WHAT?!” you shrieked. “No—I have no bump! I still fit in my jeans! I thought this was, like, gas or a kidney stone!”

“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “That’s a head. You’re going to have a baby today.”

Chris stood frozen, mouth open. “Bro. What the f—”

“CHRIS! Focus!”

“Right! Okay! Right, I’m focused. There’s a baby. There’s a baby?? There’s a baby!”

⸻

Delivery Room – 30 Minutes Later

“I am so confused,” you cried, gripping the sides of the bed as contractions rolled through you. “I didn’t even get cravings! I didn’t nest! I haven’t even watched one parenting video on TikTok!”

Chris held your hand and kissed your forehead. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. I didn’t know. Apparently no one knew. But we’re here now. And I’m right here with you, okay?”

“Are you gonna pass out?”

“Maybe. But not until you do first.”

You gave a shaky laugh through the pain. “That’s not comforting.”

But Chris didn’t let go of you for a second.

⸻

One push, one scream, one very emotional Chris later…

A cry filled the room. A tiny, real, life-changing cry.

A nurse wrapped the baby and placed them in your arms. You blinked in disbelief.

Chris stared at the tiny bundle like he was seeing a sunrise for the first time. “No way. No way.”

You looked at him, dazed. “I just had a whole-ass baby. Without knowing.”

He wiped tears off his cheeks, laughing through them. “We’re idiots. But you—holy shit, you’re incredible.”

You looked down at the baby. “Hi. Um. Sorry for not knowing you existed for nine months.”

The nurse smiled. “That’s a cryptic pregnancy for you.”

Chris leaned over and whispered, “Guess what… it’s a baby.”

You looked at him, exhausted and in shock. “We’re gonna need diapers.”

⸻

Later That Night

Chris’s Instagram Story:

picture of him holding the baby with the caption:

“Showed up at the hospital thinking she had bad cramps. Left with a daughter. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, she’s perfect.”

⸻

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Four

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd (Formula one AU)

CW: drinking,weed

WC: 4.4k

Notes: I think you guys will like this one 😏 (also possibly another surprise tonight if I’m feeling motivated)

The thing about being home — if you could call it that — was that everything slowed down just enough for Azzi to hear herself think.

New York wasn’t peaceful. The streets below her penthouse buzzed all night, a city on a loop of sirens and car horns and late-night laughter. But the windows were thick, the lights inside low, and the weed — just enough — made everything feel wrapped in velvet.

She lay sideways across her couch, wine glass on her stomach, and her phone in her hand. Her legs dangled off the edge, socks mismatched, half a playlist spilling from her speakers like smoke curling up the walls.

Neither Paige nor Azzi finished in the points in Canada. Just a truly terrible weekend.

Spain had been hot and brutal and fast.

Monaco had been worse — precision hell.

She’d gotten third in Spain and Monaco. Third.

And Paige had stood above her both times.

That fact settled in her chest like a weight she couldn’t quite shake. Not anger, not jealousy. Just… pressure. Paige was pulling ahead. Quietly. Efficiently. And worse than that — she wasn’t being smug about it.

They hadn’t even argued lately. Which somehow made it worse.

She was midway through a half-hearted scroll through her F1 side of TikTok when she saw it. Paige, in a black blazer and dark-wash jeans, standing in front of a logo wall at a brand event somewhere downtown. Probably SoHo. The caption was useless — something about brand activations and “American girl in the city.”

Azzi blinked.

She’s here?

In her defense, she was high. Which didn’t impair her judgment so much as loosen it.

Her thumbs moved before she could second-guess herself.

AF35: come over for a drink

AF35: not like a weird drink. i just have tequila and i’m bored.

AF35: you’re in nyc i saw

PB5: k

She didn’t expect a yes.

But twenty-five minutes later, she was lighting the stupid hotel-scented candle by the front door just as her intercom buzzed.

–

Paige looked… different in the hallway.

Same height, same attitude, same somehow-always-laced sneakers. But her hair was loose and soft and there was something casual about her — black hoodie, gray sweats, the faint shimmer of perfume that Azzi didn’t recognize but knew she’d think about later.

“Hi,” Paige said like it was maybe a mistake. Like she’d still bail if Azzi gave her a reason.

“You came,” Azzi replied, stepping back. “Not a trap, I swear.”

“Yet.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and headed for the bar cart. “Still like tequila?”

“I never said I liked tequila.”

“Well. It’s what I have.” She poured two glasses anyway, handed one over, and flopped onto the couch with the weight of a person who lived here.

Paige followed, sitting sideways in the armchair, drink balanced carefully, eyes trailing the skyline for a beat too long. The silence between them was comfortable in the way only people who have screamed at each other on radios could understand.

“How’s the city treating you?” Azzi asked eventually.

“It’s loud,” Paige said. “And weird. But good.”

Azzi smirked. “Welcome to my world.”

Paige shrugged. “I’m just here for the brand thing. Back to Minnesota in like four days.”

“Figures.”

Another sip. Another silence.

Then:

“You’re on a roll,” Azzi said, watching the way Paige tapped her glass once on her knee, thoughtful. “Monaco. Spain. That car is made for you or something.”

Paige grinned — a tiny, quiet one. “It’s not just the car.”

“Ugh.” Azzi threw her head back. “Say that again and I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

But it wasn’t venom. Not really. And Paige knew it.

They talked for a while longer. About the season. About the team. About how both of them still felt like they were fighting ghosts — old legends, old stats, old press narratives. Azzi’s PR boyfriend came up, almost accidentally. Paige raised an eyebrow.

“You know you’ll need one eventually,” Azzi said. “Or at least the media will say you do.”

“I’ll let them pick,” Paige replied dryly.

“Have you ever had a real boyfriend?” The question came too fast, too clean, but Azzi didn’t pull it back. She just watched Paige.

Paige blinked. “Define ‘real.’”

“That’s a no.”

Paige just smiled behind her glass.

And Azzi wasn’t sure if it was the tequila or the candlelight or the scent of that damned perfume — but something shifted.

Because suddenly Paige looked different again.

Not like a driver. Not like a rival.

Just… like Paige.

Azzi’s gaze lingered too long on the shape of her jaw. On the way her collarbones showed just barely beneath the hoodie neckline. On the way Paige tilted her head, asking a question Azzi hadn’t heard.

“Hm?” she said, eyes snapping up.

“I said — you okay?”

Azzi nodded, a little too late.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Paige raised her glass in a quiet toast. “To not crashing into each other.”

Azzi clinked her own glass against it. “Yet.”

And they drank.

Not as teammates.

Not as rivals.

Not yet as anything else.

But it felt like something had changed in the air between them.

And Azzi — tipsy and warm and barefoot in her own apartment — wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The glasses clinked faintly as Azzi set them down. The tequila buzz was warm now — not heavy, just humming under her skin. That soft, fizzy kind of buzz where everything felt slow but sharp, like the city had been dipped in molasses and lit with a thousand little neon flares.

She turned to Paige, lounging half sideways in the chair, one leg kicked out, the other bent beneath her. The hoodie had shifted just enough to show the edge of a tank top strap. Azzi’s eyes lingered for a beat too long. She didn’t look away.

“Do you smoke?” she asked.

Paige didn’t blink. “Why? You got some?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “If you tell the team, I will crash you in Austria.”

Paige laughed — a low, real sound — and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Guess I won’t tell the team then.”

Azzi pulled herself off the couch with a slight sway and disappeared into the bedroom. When she came back, she had a small tin in one hand and a lighter in the other. The joint was already rolled — perfect, tight, clean — the mark of someone who’d done this more than once.

“You roll that yourself?” Paige asked, amused.

Azzi settled next to her on the couch this time. “I’m good with my hands.”

A beat.

Paige’s smile twisted just slightly at the corner. “Noted.”

Azzi lit it.

They passed it back and forth in silence for the first few minutes, the smoke curling in thin ribbons toward the ceiling, lit softly by the candle on the table and the glow from the kitchen lights behind them. The city beyond the window blurred just enough to feel distant, like it couldn’t quite reach them here.

To say it loosened them up would be the understatement of the year.

Azzi leaned back on the couch, her body turned just enough toward Paige to make it obvious. Her laugh came easier now. Her eyes lingered longer. And she didn’t stop herself — not tonight. Not with the liquor in her blood and the smoke in her lungs and the city vibrating beneath them like it was waiting for something to happen.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” she asked, voice low and lazy.

“What?” Paige tilted her head.

“That Saudi podium.” Azzi’s eyes flicked over Paige. “You, top step. Lights all purple. Drenched in champagne and looking like… I don’t know.”

Paige blinked. “Like what?”

Azzi shrugged, but it was the most deliberate shrug in history. “You looked… golden. Or something. Glowing. I was high when I watched the replay, though, so maybe I imagined it.”

Paige’s voice dropped just a bit. “You didn’t imagine it.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet.

But something pulsed between them now. Something thick and slow and impossible to name. The tension wasn’t rivalry. Wasn’t hostility. It was… a question. An inch of space. A dare waiting to be taken.

Azzi handed the joint back. Paige didn’t take it right away. Just looked at her. Then finally reached for it, her fingers brushing Azzi’s — hot, electric, brief.

Azzi felt that touch all the way down her spine.

“You ever think about what happens if we keep trading podiums like this?” Paige asked softly. “Like — if it’s just us the whole season?”

Azzi’s eyes locked on hers. “It’s already just us.”

The joint burned low between them, and Paige exhaled slow.

Azzi leaned her head against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. She didn’t move away when Paige shifted closer, legs brushing now. Not quite on purpose. Not quite by accident.

She didn’t speak again for a while.

She just sat there, drunk and high and golden-warm, listening to Paige breathe beside her.

She wasn’t resisting anything. Not tonight.

And that was the dangerous part.

The joint was just ash now, curled in the tray between them. The city still shimmered on the windows, golden and indifferent, but the room itself had gone quiet. Almost too quiet.

Paige was close. Closer than before. Her leg was still pressed to Azzi’s, and neither of them had moved in a while — not even a twitch. Just this steady, measured breathing that filled the space between them, too soft to be anything but intentional.

Azzi’s voice came a little rough, caught in the stillness like a hand brushing against silk. “You ever had a boyfriend?”

Paige turned her head slightly. Smiled, slow. “You already asked me that.”

It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t teasing — just a quiet reminder.

Azzi’s mouth quirked. “Right,” she murmured. “Guess I did.”

But she didn’t take it back.

And Paige didn’t ask why she’d brought it up again.

Instead, Paige leaned in the smallest amount — not enough to close the space, just enough to acknowledge it. To breathe the same air. “You tryna ask me something else?”

Azzi looked at her, and for once, didn’t retreat. “Maybe.”

Paige nodded once, slow and steady, like they weren’t on the edge of something sharp and irreversible. “Then ask.”

And god, maybe it was the weed or the tequila or the glow of the city playing tricks on her, but Azzi suddenly felt fourteen again, like she was back at some middle school sleepover daring herself to admit something she wasn’t ready to name.

But she wasn’t fourteen.

She was twenty-two. A two-time world champion. And she didn’t want to keep pretending she didn’t notice the way Paige looked in candlelight or how her voice always went low when she got serious or how their rivalry had always been a little too electric to be just about racing.

So Azzi asked — not with words, not really.

She just leaned in.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

Paige met her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks or thunder. It was quieter than that. Softer. A confirmation more than a confession. The kind of kiss that didn’t need buildup because everything before had already been foreplay — all the races and podiums and fights and those stupid lingering looks in the paddock.

It was slow. And warm. And easy in a way that made Azzi forget about Monaco or Spain or Austria. For one second, there wasn’t a championship or a car or a headline. Just Paige.

When they pulled apart, Paige’s forehead bumped gently against hers.

Azzi let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “So I take it you like girls.”

Paige smiled again — that same calm, crooked thing that made Azzi want to throw something and kiss her again all at once. “Told you already,” she said quietly. “You just weren’t listening.”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond, but Paige cut her off with a second kiss — surer this time. No maybes left.

When it ended, Azzi’s voice was almost a whisper. “So what now?”

Paige tilted her head, eyes still half-lidded, voice brushing Azzi’s jaw like velvet. “Now we go to Austria… and try not to crash into each other.”

Azzi grinned against her skin. “No promises.”

–

Austria was fast.

And Azzi loved fast.

There was something about the Red Bull Ring that felt like it had been designed by someone who understood her. The uphill sweep into Turn 1. The high-speed descent into the back straight. That perfect balance of aggression and grace. Austria let her show off — not just as a champion, but as someone who knew the edge of control better than anyone else.

It was free practice. The skies were clear, the car felt dialed in, and Azzi was singing through sectors like it was nothing. She liked this track. No, she thrived on this track. And for once, the Ferrari felt like it was really hers again. Like it was working with her, not against her.

Which was good. Because the radios were still a mess.

“Mateo,” she called, breath calm through the corners, “are we actually connected this time or am I talking to god again?”

“God would’ve told you to pit five laps ago,” her race engineer replied dryly. “You’re good, Az. We’ve got full coverage. Mic’s working.”

“Well hallelujah,” she muttered. “That’s already better than Miami.”

“You say that every weekend.”

“Yeah, and I’ll keep saying it until someone gives me a headset that doesn’t cut out the second I’m about to brake.”

There was a pause. Some quiet chatter on the backend of the pit wall. Then Mateo’s voice again. “Data looks good. Sector 2 especially. You’re flying.”

“Told you,” Azzi grinned. “Austria loves me.”

“Don’t get too cocky. It’s only practice.”

“I’m not cocky. I’m fast.” She downshifted into Turn 4 like the corner owed her money. “There’s a difference.”

Another pause. “How’s the balance?”

“Better. Still a little stiff on exit, but—” She stopped, squinting at the digital display flashing on her wheel. “Wait. Is Paige on track?”

There was an audible blink in Mateo’s silence. “…Yeah. She just went out.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

“Why?” he asked slowly.

“No reason.”

More silence.

Then: “Do you want her sector times?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Why would I want her sector times?”

Mateo hesitated. “Because you ask for them literally every practice?”

Azzi rolled her eyes so hard she nearly missed her braking point. “Whatever. I was just wondering if she was on track. Chill.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Azzi could feel the curiosity building on the other end of the radio, but Mateo wasn’t stupid. He didn’t push. Just clicked his mic and moved on.

“Anyway, you’re coming up on a Red Bull. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Azzi exhaled, sharp and focused again. “Copy.”

But the thing was—

She had asked about Paige one too many times.

And Mateo had definitely noticed.

What he hadn’t noticed was that Azzi hadn’t spoken to Paige since New York. Hell, Mateo didn’t know they’d even seen each other in New York.

Not a word. Not a text. Not even a glance on the flight in. Which maybe wouldn’t be weird if they hadn’t made out in Azzi’s living room while the Empire State Building lit the sky outside her windows.

But they had.

And now they were back to cars and silence and championship points.

Azzi braked late, leaned hard into the corner, and caught the tail of a Red Bull just before the turn-in. Easy work. Fast and clean.

Yeah. She was fine.

Totally fine.

And maybe later she’d ask Mateo to show her Paige’s telemetry just for “technical reasons.”

Totally technical.

–

Austria loved her. Azzi knew it in her bones. Qualifying was a perfect display of that.

It was the feeling in her chest when she opened up out of Turn 7, the way the car practically begged her to take more speed into the corners, the way the sky stretched wide and blue above the rolling hills of Spielberg like it had cleared itself just for her. The Red Bull Ring was smooth, brutal, honest. No tricks, no street circuit secrets — just pure speed. And Azzi was fast.

She was so fast.

Her hot lap was clean, relentless, the kind that comes from instinct not calculation. No traffic, no mistakes, no hesitation. Just her and the car and the roar of the track laid out beneath her like a dare.

As she crossed the line, her voice came easy over the radio. Breathless, a little proud. “That was a good one, yeah?”

Mateo’s voice crackled back with something flat but hiding a smile. “Yeah… good lap.”

She let herself exhale as the car eased into the cooldown lap, coasting down through the gears like the whole world was hers again. Not that she needed confirmation from Mateo — she knew that was fast — but it was nice to hear it.

Then, like lightning, something moved in her mirrors.

Or not in her mirrors.

Past her.

Paige.

The red Ferrari blurred by in a flash of speed that made Azzi’s jaw click shut. Paige was flying. Like she’d hit a slipstream only she could see. The engine note was perfect. High, tight, cutting through the air like it wanted blood.

Azzi’s grip on the wheel tightened by half a degree.

The Ferraris were fast on the straights. That much was obvious. But that fast? That wasn’t just the car.

She said nothing.

Mateo said nothing.

They didn’t have to.

The final runs came next. Azzi and Paige lined up in sequence, separated by barely ten seconds. Out laps were quiet, focused. Tyres warmed. Brakes dialed in. The sky over the circuit held a gold hue now, late afternoon light turning everything cinematic. Austria always felt like a movie.

The last lap was a weapon.

Azzi wielded it like one.

It was push-lap aggression and pedal-to-the-floor clarity. She nailed every apex, bled speed in all the right places, trusted the car so fully it was like they shared a pulse. She couldn’t see Paige ahead of her, but she could feel her. Somewhere out there, carving a line just as precise. Two Ferraris. No room for error. The ghost of Red Bull in the data screen.

As she crossed the line again, Mateo’s voice came back, louder this time. “1st. For now.”

Azzi didn’t ask for Paige’s time. She didn’t need to.

But then the live board updated.

1: Azzi Fudd

2: Paige Bueckers (+0.091)

She blinked. Not even a tenth between them. Paige had flown.

Back in the garage, the mood was light but wired. Mechanics bustled, tire blankets hissed, engineers gathered around screens like priests at an altar. Azzi climbed out of the car, yanked off her gloves, and checked her phone while Mateo reviewed telemetry.

And there it was.

Someone had posted a meme. A freeze-frame of Red Bull’s team principal looking like he’d just swallowed battery acid, overlaid with the caption:

“Red Bull Ring? Not anymore. Welcome to Ferrari World.”

Azzi smirked and double-tapped.

This was her track. Always had been.

But Paige… Paige was right there. Nipping at her heels. And if she was this fast here?

Azzi pulled her helmet off and ran a hand through her hair, skin still burning from the heat of the drive. She didn’t know if they’d talk before the race. Didn’t know what she’d say.

But one thing was clear.

Tomorrow, they were going to humiliate Red Bull.

And maybe — just maybe — each other.

–

It was a pretty race.

That was the only word Azzi had for it.

Not brutal. Not technical. Not desperate. Just fast. Smooth. Controlled. A ballet of apexes and throttle curves set to the music of the engines and the glint of the sun off red carbon fiber.

Spielberg gave them blue skies and perfect temperatures. No wind, no chaos, no variables. The kind of race that let you breathe through the straights and think through the corners. The kind that reminded Azzi why she loved it. Why she needed it.

From lights out, the Ferrari twins were untouchable.

Paige got the better launch, slicing into Turn 1 like she was born for it. Azzi stayed close, shadowing her through the first lap, reading every move, every lift, every millimeter of steering angle.

By Lap 7, she made the pass down the straight with DRS — textbook clean — and Paige didn’t fight it. Not yet. Not there.

But a few laps later, Paige took it back. Same corner, different line. She braked later, harder, but still smooth. Always smooth.

Back and forth they went.

No wheel banging. No dirty air tantrums. Just two of the best drivers in the world showing exactly what that looked like.

Red Bull couldn’t catch them. Not even close. Mercedes looked confused. McLaren hung around 5th like they’d forgotten how to climb. Somehow, both Williams drivers ended in the points. But Ferrari? Ferrari was painting lines across Austria like it was theirs.

And maybe it was.

By Lap 50, Azzi took the lead again — and this time, she held it.

The tires were still in a good window. No overheating. The car felt light, eager. She could feel how close Paige was behind, matching every sector, every turn-in, every breath. A second and a half at best. Nothing.

But Azzi didn’t flinch.

Not once.

She crossed the line and exhaled — a sharp, satisfied breath that sounded like relief and pride and ownership all at once.

Mateo’s voice came through her radio, beaming. “P1, Azzi. That’s a win.”

Then came Fred’s voice, warm and crackling but clear. “Beautiful job, both of you. Real racing. Proper Ferrari racing. Great points for the team.”

Azzi smiled into the sweat of her helmet.

And Paige?

Paige crossed a second and a half later, still fast, still right there. If she was annoyed, it didn’t show. She pulled alongside Azzi on the cool-down lap, gave the smallest nod. Respect. Approval. A quiet yeah, you got me.

After they parked the cars, when the helmets came off and the engineers swarmed, Azzi turned, expecting a pause. A beat. Maybe even another day of silence.

But Paige stepped forward and stuck out her hand.

They met in the middle with one of those classic teammate dap-hug combos — just a beat longer than strictly professional. Their first time doing it. No words, just shared breath and hot skin and adrenaline still buzzing in both their veins.

Fred came over, clapped them both on the shoulder, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Because maybe he had.

They’d gone 1–2 in Austria. On Red Bull’s turf.

Clean. Fast. Beautiful.

And for the first time in this increasingly tangled championship fight, Azzi wasn’t just racing against Paige.

She was racing with her.

–

The post-race debrief room was too bright, too cold, and way too full of old men who hadn’t touched a steering wheel in years.

Azzi slouched a little in her seat, arms crossed, still in her race suit with the sleeves tied around her waist. Paige sat a few chairs down, sipping water and tapping her foot against the tile floor. The high from the Austria win hadn’t worn off, not really — but it was already being buried under media directives, sponsor guidelines, and the endless grind of image control.

Fred Vasseur stood near the door, not speaking. Just watching.

It was the PR team that ran this show.

“We want to build a dual narrative,” one of them said, gesturing toward a sleek slideshow that none of the drivers were actually watching. “Two champions, one team. The key is in balance. Equal exposure. Shared press. Cohesion.”

Azzi blinked. That last word sounded like a threat.

“We also think less ambiguity between you two would be good for the public,” another PR rep chimed in, glancing toward Paige. “You’ve both been… intense. In interviews. Online.”

Paige didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow like she was waiting for them to get to the point.

“We’re not saying don’t compete,” the woman clarified. “We’re saying show unity. Respect. Mutual support. The fans love a duo dynamic. We want to lean into that.”

Azzi felt her jaw tighten. “So we’re supposed to be a brand now.”

The room went quiet for half a second too long.

“Well—” a third person finally said, smiling too much, “—you are Ferrari.”

Fred didn’t stop them. He just kept watching.

There were notes about what to wear in certain press appearances. How many mentions of each other were “ideal” for interviews. Even brand-approved phrases: It’s always about the team. We push each other. We race hard but fair.

Azzi tuned most of it out.

By the time the meeting ended, she had half a headache and a full tank of irritation. The PR team filed out quickly, chatting about logistics and fan events and Monaco footage still trending. Paige lingered in her seat a beat longer, arms on her knees, staring at the floor.

Azzi stood. “You good?”

Paige looked up. “Yeah.”

The room was emptying. Fred had already disappeared somewhere, probably to make peace with a sponsor or shut down another Red Bull rumor.

Azzi walked over, thumb hooked into her waistband. “Wanna get some air?”

Paige nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

They didn’t talk until they were out in the hallway, walking side by side past team offices and winding corridors. Eventually, they found a spot near the back lot — quiet, shaded, warm from the summer heat still lingering in the concrete.

For a minute, neither of them said anything.

Then Paige broke the silence. “That meeting was bullshit.”

Azzi snorted. “Total bullshit.”

“They want us to be a duo, but only if it looks how they want it to.”

“Like a tag team with no heat,” Azzi said. “No edge. Just smiles and synergy.”

Paige leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “You think they know what happened in New York?”

Azzi looked at her. “Do you?”

That got a real smile out of Paige — lopsided, dangerous. “Nope.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Azzi chewed on the edge of her thumbnail. “You were good today. Clean. Fast.”

“You too,” Paige said. “Didn’t miss a beat.”

Azzi looked at her for a second longer than she should have, then dropped her eyes. “Cool.”

Paige shifted on her feet. “So… are we good?”

Azzi hesitated. The weight of that question wasn’t just about the race. Or the meeting. Or even New York.

But she nodded. “We’re good.”

There was a pause.

Then Paige reached over, just briefly, and tapped her knuckles against Azzi’s wrist and walked away.

Not a handshake. Not a hug. Just something in between.

A little contact. A little understanding. A little we’ll figure it out

[baepsays]

cw: incubus Gojo, dub-con, borderline non-con, gloomy loner reader, exhibitionism, groping.

a/n: full length work is in the progress, please leave a comment to be added to the tag list. this will be out next month so i will let this marinate.

INCUBUS!GOJO Who latches onto gloomy and loner reader. And for the first few days he just floats around you without trying anything.

INCUBUS!GOJO just moves around you, nuzzles in your cheeks, sniffs your hair, sits beside you and twirls a strand of hair while you work. Or comes up from behind and places his head on your shoulder and stares at your face.

Until one day INCUBUS!GOJO catches you off guard by poking you in the eye, out of curiosity, because he really liked the color of your eyes, and realizes this entire time you could see him. You shriek in pain and start cursing him out. And he takes full advantage of that.

INCUBUS!GOJO Starts with just caressing you here and there. Building things up. Talking your ear off. Mostly with dirty talk.

“Ughhh I wish I was inside you right now.”

“I bet I can fit my entire cock in one go.”

“I want to eat you out and have you watch me. I bet you'll like that.”

And it takes you everything to ignore INCUBUS!GOJO 's words. While you silently sit and get more agitated and flustered with each word. As he simply leaves you tightening and rubbing your thighs together.

And god forbid INCUBUS!GOJO catches a whiff of it. “Oh shit! Did you get wet already!??? Ahhh, see I knew you were special! So sweet and sloppy, ice cream sundae has nothing on you. I would rather eat a hundred of you.” Is what he will say while he groped your thighs over your pants and runs his hands under your shirt.

INCUBUS!GOJO is a hazard to have around. From every waking moment to until you sleep. He makes you cum at least six times a day. And it is getting more annoying with the limited amount of underwear you have left to wear. But he would rather prefer you did not wear one. Better access. And takes the initiative to make you realize how much better it is to just go commando, by stealing and hiding your clean underwear as well.

INCUBUS!GOJO will sit in a seat that you're about to sit down in, then flash a big grin while patting his thighs. If you are in no position to opt for a different seat, count it as his lucky day. Once you were in a meeting, and he sat down in your designated seat at the table before you could take it. And left you no option but to sit through the entire thing on his lap.

And he made the most of it.

Roamed his hands all over your body, opened up your shirt and pulled your bra down to put your tits out on a show. And bunched up your skirt to push aside your panties and ram his cock into your hole, which is still wet and stretched out from him waking you up in the morning by eating you out and fingering you.

At that moment you were first confused why no one gave any reaction, only to later get so engrossed into the whole thing that it took your coworkers at least four times to call you out of it .

Thankfully INCUBUS!GOJO later told you that anything he does to you isn't noticeable by the ordinary eyes, except for your own reactions to him. That he told you reluctantly, because he finds it more fun to have you melt and become a nervous wreck in his arms, thinking that everyone can see you doing these obscene things. Only because you got really angry and threw salt at him thinking you might be losing your job, which made him unable to pester you for a few hours. 

INCUBUS!GOJO is the worst in public, crowded spaces. Because on your way to work, he is pressing himself against you in an already crowded train. 

“Ah, let me have my fill, sweets. Didn't even get to have my breakfast since you woke up late.” And his chest is pressed up to your tits, his one hand is holding up your leg, while the other rubs your pussy through your underwear. Which is already wet enough. So he further ruins them.

INCUBUS!GOJO will shove one finger in at first and rub it around. Watching you trying your best to not contort your face in a way that deems you as a criminal charged with public indecency.

“Aw. come on sweets. You can scream right? It's not like anyone will notice.” He will say as he shoves two more fingers inside, while his thumb rubs on your clit. And he will finger you until your station comes and you cum as well.

FULL FIC>>soon!

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

a/n: dividers by @/cafekitsune

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @gojao @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @soupicidesquad @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi @emochosoluvr

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[2:59 pm]

(cw: f!reader, alcohol mentioned but not consumed)

a/n: thoughts on the header??? I need validation or I die like tinkerbell

Could there have been a worse store to experience than a Costco on the weekend in the afternoon? Or really, any time of day. You weren't sure how you'd gotten roped into coming to Costco with your boyfriend, fratboy!Johnny. You'd been given a list to stick to and that would have been easy enough if you hadn't also brought Mark and Haechan along.

It was overwhelming enough to get through the doors, but you were sticking right to Johnny's side. There was no way you were losing hold on him with just how crowded it was.

"Alright, we're sticking to the list. Everybody stay close and nothing that's not on the list, got it you two?" Johnny states with a pointed look thrown in Mark and Haechan's direction.

"Fine," they groan in unison as you all make your way down the aisles.

Johnny thankfully keeps a tight hold on your hand, refusing to lose you to the Saturday Costco madness. It's a reassuring hold that helps you stay calm and keeps your anxiety at bay.

The cart starts to fill up soon enough, cleaning products, light bulbs, batteries- "yooooo! Bro, this big ass bottle of vodka is only 15 bucks!"

"We're not getting that Mark, put it back," you sigh, grabbing a few bunches of bananas to set in the cart.

"No, but if you do the math, it's only..." Haechan adds, resting his finger on his chin while he tries to do the math, "whatever, it's cheap!"

Johnny exits the refrigerated section with his arms full of different products. Do his arms always look this good at Costco? You may have to come with him more often.

He doesn't seem to notice your lingering gaze, "we have a list to stick to and alcohol isn't on the list. I say no and Bee says no, so but put it back."

Moving your way through the store, the cart fills up steadily. Finally, you make your way to the opposite side of the store where you can top up the cart with frozen goods and snacks. Johnny tosses a few boxes of ice cream bars, a few bags of frozen chicken, a few bags of coffee among other items that join the mass.

You sigh as you attempt to rearrange the nearly overflowing cart, "I think we should have gotten two carts."

"I'll go get one, Honeybee. Stay right here, alright?" Johnny offers with a soft smile, "Mark and Haechan can stay with you."

You pull a bag of mini chocolate bars out with your brows furrowed with confusion as you set the bag back on one of the shelves, "Mark and Haechan haven't been with us for almost 15 minutes now, lovie."

"They haven't?" Johnny asks with raised brows.

You laugh softly, "yeah, my love. They ran off right after you got the coffee."

"Mother-" Johnny growls, as he pulls out his phone and taps angrily. "Listen here, little shit, we're not here so you can play around. Both of you go get us another cart from outside and meet us in one of the aisles near the pharmacy."

You can barely make out Mark arguing through the speaker, before Johnny cuts him off, "but nothing Mark. You don't listen and now you need to make it up. You guys have four minutes to get back to us or I'm making both of you walk back."

"Be careful!" You call out, leaning up on your toes to be closer to the speaker.

Johnny sighs, tugging you into his arms. He rubs one hand down your back while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, "they stress me the hell out."

"Tell me about it," you laugh, placing a kiss on the left side of the worn t-shirt that covers his chest.

It's only an aisle later and three minutes later when there's a ruckus not too far away. When you look up, you feel like you should be surprised to two guys running toward you, but you don't. Your cheeks heat with embarrassment from everyone looking in your direction as Mark and Haechan come to a stop in front of you and Johnny.

"How long did we take?" Mark pants.

Johnny roughly grabs the cart and tugs it toward you with glare sent in their direction. Haechan smiles brightly, "yeah, what was our time?"

"I wasn't actually timing you idiots!" Johnny scoffs as he transfers some of the items into the empty cart.

"Dude! You suck," Mark groans, "yo, we still get pizza after this right?"

[voidofthevoidmv]

TAKING SHIFTS- A classic Stanley Pines adopts the shapeshifter AU-> Little info dump

Basic gist of it is that post portal accident, Stanley is trying his damndest to get his brother back by fixing the portal- Which logically requires that Stanley get all the journals so that he actually has a full blueprint to look at.

However, in his search for any of the journals, he discovers some kind of top secret tree bunker- Classic Ford antics. He investigates the bunker, only to find some kind of kid monster, who is under the impression that Stan is his own brother and tries to kill him. The only thing that convinces the creature that Stan is NOT Ford, is the fact that Stan has a mullet and his brother does not. Would you be surprised to discover that the mullet would play a deeper role in things than at first glance? Not me, but I think it’s very funny anyways.

The monster kid is revealed to be some kind of alien shapeshifter thing, and upon realizing that Stanley is some kind of Ford doppleganger, the shapeshifter suddenly becomes the most clingy kid ever, following Stan around throughout the bunker like a lost duckling. Stanley tries to be chill about it, but the memories of being attacked are still pretty fresh in his brain.

After a bit the two will leave the bunker, yadda yadda yadda dialogue, and Stanley will be concerned to find that this kid hasn’t had the best upbringing in the world so far- If the limited English and big eyed staring at the sky was anything to go by. While Stan has half a mind to leave this monster kid to the wild, he apparently has these weird issues with abandonment. Something about seeing himself in the little monster kid. So he takes him back to the shack, helping the shapeshifter pick a name that isn’t a weird number. They eventually land on Simon, which is a play on Simon Says, because of course any name idea Stanley has it just HAS to be a pun.

And of course, taking in this shapeshifter will trigger changes to the timeline that will affect how things will go from here on out. A lot of wholesome, father kid bonding and found family stuff.

Other unmentioned information and idea snippets:

-The journals are found much sooner than in canon, which means Ford is brought back sooner than in canon. Journal 2 is found first, due to the fact that Stanley has Simon (Shifty) enrolled in elementary school, which just so happens to be were one of the journals are hidden. Simon finds it and recognizes it- And Stan is so proud. Meanwhile, later on journal 3 is found by Soos in a situation similar to canon, but like- Soosified.

-Stanley is constantly wracked with guilt as time goes on, because he will hear about of make a realization about the poor treatment of Simon by Ford and his assistant in the past- All while Stanley is still actively working to bring him back. Simon doesn’t know that it’s FORD that Stan is trying to bring back, which will only result in some betrayal later on when Ford inevitably returns.

-Simon, Tate, and Soos act almost as siblings, due to circumstances that bring them together at different points in time. Tate is Simon’s best friend, a friendship which had blossomed when Emma-May showed up to the Pines cabin door, demanding that she see her ex husband and that she has some WORDS to say to the homewrecking scientist who ruined everything. Stanley had never been more confused about anything- But while Stanley is trying his best to save the situation, Tate and Simon hit it off quickly despite the broken language barrier. Meanwhile, Soos come in later when both Simon and Stan are a bit older. Stan and Soos’s relationship is similar to how it played out in canon, but Simon gets really jealous. May or may not try to kill Soos because of it- But it’s ok cuz once Soos’s natural charm infects Simon, the big brother little brother dynamic is born.

-Simon practically idolizes Stan, and makes it a point to have his human form reflect that. He has a mullet, and it reminds him that Stan is Stan- Even after Stan cuts the mullet off so he could be a bit more business appropriate. Simon also has little freckles cuz he saw the little baby Boyish Dan and just immediately was like- Oh I want those too-

-The shapeshifter will also have his own little book of “forms” he could take. He has photos and information of various creatures, things, and people- I want you to envision how this book looks and is treated like a Pokémon card collection binder. The shapeshifter may get into photography. By the time the little twins Dipper and Mable show up, it’s not the journals that they find- But Simon’s shifting scrapbook. Which is how they find themselves getting involved in the spooky stuff in the first place.

-Because of Simon and Fords earlier arrival, the younger Pines twins adventures in Gravity Falls are a tad bit tweaked. Simon is a very powerful shapeshifter who is plenty protective of his little niblings- The Mcguckets are somewhat healthy with the whole divorced situation, and Bill is not an issue alongside Gideon… Everything else is free game though. Pretty silly.

- The way that Fiddleford is introduced to the duo is that at some point, Stan gets his memories of Simon wiped causing severe emotional distress- And it’s lowkey kinda heartbreaking. (The blind eye sees Simon shifting in front of Stan and assumes the worst.) Once Stan gets his memories back, it’s the beginning of a warpath. (And also the end of Fiddlefords crazy cultist arc- Which is good for Tate who really likes hanging around his bestie.)

-Hijinks WILL ensue, especially after Ford comes back. Probably some other tidbits I’m missing, but that’s a problem for another day- If this interest you folks anyways- Lemmy know if this is interesting or anything and feel free to ask questions. I haven’t thought so much as to how Bill gets defeated earlier and everything- But if anyone has any cool ideas I’d be open to it. Unsure if I’ll ever get to writing this one 😂