#and it's like why are you even comparing them

[basshole-astard]

btw if you don't know how shitty gerrymandering is and why this makes it . so so so unbelievable to assume they voted for this. they didnt! it's just... well,

Gerrymandering, defined in the contexts of representative electoral systems, is the political manipulation of electoral district boundaries to advantage a party, group, or socioeconomic class within the constituency. The manipulation may involve "cracking" or "packing". Gerrymandering can also be used to protect incumbents. Wayne Dawkins, a professor at Morgan State University, describes it as politicians picking their voters instead of voters picking their politicians. The term gerrymandering is a portmanteau of a salamander and Elbridge Gerry, Vice President of the United States at the time of his death, who, as governor of Massachusetts in 1812, signed a bill that created a partisan district in the Boston area that was compared to the shape of a mythological salamander. The term has negative connotations, and gerrymandering is almost always considered a corruption of the democratic process. (Wikipedia)

and these images that show you a visual representation of what's going on - which means "red" wins without actually or accurately representing its voter base.

which you can view the latter yellow and blue one as an annotated chart - with text-reader accessible text! - here, thanks wikipedia

but lets see these in map form, you know.

first, here's a caricature image of the 1812 district that coined the term, imagined as a "dragon" or a "monster":

-

and here's a famous example of "packing", where all like-minded voters are crammed into as few districts as possible, meaning they will never win enough districts to influence the whole state. Congressional District 12 of North Carolina, which was the topic of Shaw v Reno, a Supreme Court Case on racial gerrymandering... District 12 had a "snake-like" appearance that encompassed basically the entirety of NC's black population, who largely voted democratic.

in 2017, they "fixed" it and drew new districts that couldn't be based on racial distribution, but whether or not this is "more" "fair" is not something i feel qualified to say

-

And this real life example in Austin, Texas. From the UCF page:

These maps show examples of gerrymandering in Texas, where the Republican-controlled legislature has redrawn House districts to reduce the number of Democratic seats by combining voters in Austin with those in surrounding counties, sometimes even several hundred miles away. Today, Austin is represented by six different congressional representatives.

which you can also see here on wikipedia:

U.S. congressional districts covering en:Travis County, Texas (outlined in red) in 2002, left, and 2004. In 2003, Republicans in the Texas legislature redistricted the state, diluting the voting power of the heavily Democratic county by parceling its residents out to more Republican districts. The district in orange is the infamous "Fajita strip" district 25 (intended as a Democratic district), while the other two districts (10 and 21) are intended to elect Republicans. District 25 has now been redrawn as a result of the 2006 U.S. Supreme Court decision, and is no longer a "Fajita strip".

- and one last image that really breaks down "cracking", i feel. The urban (and mostly liberal) Columbus, OH, located in Franklin County, is split into thirds, each segment then attached to - and outnumbered by - largely conservative suburbs.

-

finally, CBS News on how Gerrymandering has gotten worse:

"The problem is, politicians don't like to change the rules that got them in power; that's the biggest barrier," said Virginia Commonwealth University political science professor Alex Keena, co-author of two books about gerrymandering.   Pogue asked, "Do Republicans and Democrats gerrymander equally?" "No. We studied 48 states, just the state legislative maps," Keena said. "And we found that there were 44 gerrymanders, and 42 of those were Republican."

[steddieas-shegoes]

the necklace

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'the cutting edge'

rated m | 983 words | cw: implied/referenced drug use, implied sexual content | tags: rock star eddie, famous corroded coffin, figure skater steve, flirting

also on ao3

⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️

Figure skating competitions aren’t exactly their thing. They’re about as out of place as Wayne was when he went to Coachella to watch Corroded Coffin headline the big stage.

But world champion and two time gold medalist Steve Harrington is using their song for his little routine, so obviously they need to be there to support him. That’s what Chrissy said, at least.

“It’ll look good for you to be there,” she’d said when Eddie tried to argue that they would be wasting time and money. “And anything we can do to make you look good is important.”

And he couldn’t argue that because, well. He fucked up.

Got caught doing lines off the back of a toilet at a club with two women sucking him off. Rockstar stuff. Something he really never did and of course one of the few times, he got caught. There were pictures.

Chrissy has been in recovery mode for the entire band ever since.

They’ve been doing anti-drug campaigns for schools as if that’s even an effective way to keep the youths from getting high on whatever they can find. Eddie made an official statement on camera about practicing safe sex and apologizing for taking advantage of the women who most definitely were there willingly. The band issued a statement that Eddie was on a short leash and if another incident occurred, he’d be on his way to rehab.

Which is dumb because he doesn’t have a drug problem, or a sex addiction, or anything the tabloids say. The guys know that. Chrissy knows it. But they have to do whatever will keep them in a positive light so they can book arenas on their next tour.

Apparently, going to this skating competition will help.

It’s not boring, surprisingly. It’s just not how Eddie wants to spend his Friday.

He watched a few of Steve’s routines in preparation.

The guy is hot. Like, really hot. Somehow very muscular and light on his feet at the same time. Eddie can see why he’s so popular.

What shocks him most is that Steve usually dances to pop songs and 80s ballads for his competition routines and suddenly he decides to bring out one of their slower, but still dark songs. It doesn’t make sense.

Until it does.

When Steve takes the ice, the crowd stands, cheers so loud it makes Eddie’s chest vibrate. He doesn’t expect it, and it’s clear Gareth, Frankie, and Jeff don’t either. He’s in all black, only one small piece of color standing out.

A red guitar pick necklace.

Eddie’s head turns to Chrissy, who is conveniently ignoring him.

He turns back to watch as the music starts. He wrote this song with Jeff, fucking around in the back of his van when they were still just trying to book whatever bar would have them. It evolved into something else when they actually got to record it in a real studio, something more haunting and liminal when compared to the rest of their track list.

Steve glides across the ice, jumps and falls perfectly in sync to the crescendo of the guitar and drum solo. Eddie’s fascinated, can’t look away from the masterpiece happening in front of him. He almost can’t believe he gets to see someone make such beautiful art from their song.

When Steve stops, Eddie stands and yells, clapping louder than everyone around him.

“I need to see him,” he says to Chrissy when the announcers have given the scoring that places him in first. “Can you get me down there?”

She smirks and nods, like she’s planned this exact reaction. She couldn’t have.

Could she?

***

The medal ceremony is long, but watching Steve take gold is a memory Eddie will have forever.

Chrissy does manage to bring them all down to congratulate him after he does media. He looks worn out by the time he gets to them, still in his outfit and skates.

Still wearing Eddie’s necklace.

“How did you get that?” Eddie asks instead of saying hello or congratulations.

Steve smirks. “Pulled some strings.”

He starts to take it off, but Eddie stops him. The room goes silent.

“Looks pretty good next to that gold medal. You should keep it,” Eddie doesn’t know what he’s saying. That’s his lucky necklace. He hasn’t gone onstage without it in years. “Maybe it’ll bring you more gold.”

“Ah, well. I’m retiring. These knees aren’t gonna hold out much longer,” Steve half-jokes. “Plus, it’s time to let others shine.”

“But you’re so talented!”

“I’ll coach for a bit. Pass it on. That’s the beauty of the sport,” Steve explains.

He’s so pretty. Eddie wants to stare at him all night.

“Jesus, he’s embarrassing,” Gareth says behind him.

“What?” Eddie turns, glaring at him.

“You said it out loud, dumbass.”

Eddie turns bright red. “Oh.”

Steve steps closer, a solid two inches taller than him in his skates. He smiles down at Eddie.

“Let me get changed and have my coach find us a spot for dinner. Wouldn’t want you to have to stop staring.”

Eddie’s never been charmed like this before. He feels faint.

“Yeah! Okay. The guys can just head back to the hotel or whatever,” Eddie tries to sound nonchalant, fails.

“Oh my god,” Frankie groans. “Please don’t do something stupid.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Steve promises, never taking his eyes off Eddie. “Wouldn’t want him to get distracted before I can get my mouth on him.”

Eddie’s eyes widen and Chrissy claps her hands once.

“Alright! Have fun! Be safe! Save it for a hotel room!”

She ushers the guys away quickly and Eddie’s grateful for it. They shouldn’t see him blundering this.

Steve leans in and kisses his cheek. “You’re gonna be fun. See you in ten.”

Eddie’s left standing there with pink cheeks and a determination to be fucked within an inch of his life later.

[crimsonbubble]

i DESPERATELY need a jinu x reader x mingi. like im feral. i love these two. at the same damn time. in every way 😝

Encore From Hell

cw. nsfw, afab!reader, threesome, f2l, studio sex, mutual pining, worship kink (?), sensory overload, light power play, dry humping, oral, fingering, praise kink, light restraint, hair pulling, overstimulation, slight possessiveness, nipple play, oral fixations, spit kink, she/her pronouns used *not proofread, just pure horny*

[i dont know what happened, i just started typing and this came out 🤷🤷🤷]

taglist (dm to be tagged); @sidusvenari @sugarnspice630 @ravenempress101 @autieofthevalley @linearities @wisejudgedragonhairdo @madiexuberant @mifuelarts @straytiny127 @yun-fangz @huen1ngk41 @juyeonshour @uniq-tastic @hongjng8 @miyaluvvsyou @everyonewooeverywhere @hongjoongtime117 @oddracha @kingbloopter @jay-0n3s @ane1o2 @jelly1117 @aftertherain-atr @k-zuzulibrary @lxnnrobin @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @lezleegerguson-120 @moonlitarcade @koyagifs @les4heeseung

masterlist <3

The low hum of bass rattled through the walls of the studio, but none of it compared to the way your body buzzed with anticipation.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up here — wedged between Jinu and Mingi on the leather couch, late at night, with the lights low and sweat still clinging to your skin from the impromptu dance session the three of you had somehow turned into a flirting competition.

“I swear you did it on purpose,” Jinu murmured beside you, voice silky and low as his fingers brushed against the exposed skin of your thigh, just barely, like an accident that kept happening. “Wearing that and expecting us not to look?” You tilted your head toward him, smirking. “Who says I don’t want you to look?” Mingi laughed — low, deep, and dangerous — from your other side. His arm rested behind you on the couch, fingers casually playing with the ends of your hair. “She’s bold tonight,” he said to Jinu, though his eyes never left your lips. “I like it.”

“I bet you do,” you whispered, leaning into him just enough to feel the heat of his chest.

The air crackled. Mingi’s hand moved from your hair to the back of your neck, drawing slow circles with his thumb. You shivered, involuntarily arching just a little closer to him — and that’s when Jinu’s hand fully landed on your thigh, gripping it, his fingers spreading just a little too high to be innocent.

“You’re playing with fire,” Jinu said, voice velvet-smooth, all teeth behind the smile. “Do you even know what you’re doing to us?”

“I’m not sure,” you said sweetly, “Why don’t you show me?”

That was all it took.

Mingi leaned in first, mouth brushing your neck — not kissing, just ghosting over the skin, making you whimper at the anticipation. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just resting on the warm skin of your waist.

At the same time, Jinu’s lips found your shoulder, soft and warm, his breath teasing your skin as his hand moved slowly up your inner thigh until you gasped — hips shifting, body caught between both of them.

“You like being the center of attention,” Mingi whispered, his voice rough now, eyes darker than before. “We could give you everything, you know that?”

“You already are,” you breathed, heart pounding. Jinu chuckled against your skin. “Then let’s see how much you can take.”

Jinu's hand slipped higher, finally pushing up the fabric of your shorts, his fingers brushing against the damp heat between your legs — over your underwear first, just enough pressure to make your hips twitch.

“God, you’re already soaked,” he groaned, voice rough now, jaw tense as he looked at you like he wanted to ruin you right there. “Is that from us, baby?”

You nodded, breathless, barely able to speak with Mingi now fully behind you, both of his big hands sliding up under your top, palming your breasts through your bra. He was slower, more deliberate — mouth hot against your neck, dragging teeth down your shoulder. “She’s shaking,” he murmured, pressing himself against your back. “So responsive. I bet she’ll come just from us touching her.”

You let out a choked sound as Jinu finally slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, sliding through your folds — slow and easy, teasing, barely dipping in before pulling back and circling your clit with featherlight strokes.

“You want more?” he asked, leaning in, lips brushing yours. “Say it.”

“I want more,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut as Mingi’s thumbs brushed over your nipples, the sudden pressure making you arch into Jinu’s hand. “Please.”

That word did something to them.

Jinu’s mouth crashed into yours, all tongue and heat and frustration. His fingers sped up, slick sounds filling the room as he circled tighter, deeper, hitting just the right rhythm. Mingi groaned behind you, sliding his hands down your stomach, then tugging your shorts and underwear down enough to expose everything.

“I need to taste her,” Mingi muttered, voice hoarse, dropping to his knees behind the couch. “Hold her open, hyung.” Jinu smirked against your lips and pulled away, gently spreading your thighs while Mingi settled between them. Your legs were shaking, the couch leather creaking under the movement, your head falling back with a moan as Mingi dragged his tongue up your slit — slow, hot, filthy. He didn’t rush. He savoured. He worshipped.

“Oh my—Mingi,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as he flattened his tongue against your clit, sucking gently before flicking in tight circles. “That’s it,” Jinu murmured, guiding your chin to look at him. “Eyes on me while he eats you out. Can you do that?” You nodded, barely able to breathe. Jinu kissed you again, softer this time — a slow burn that only made the tension coil tighter and tighter. Your thighs trembled, stomach tightening. Mingi’s pace quickened, fingers joining his mouth now, pumping in and out of you as you gripped the couch, teetering on the edge. “Let go,” Jinu whispered into your ear. “Come for us.”

You shattered.

Your moans filled the studio, loud and raw and real, body twitching as waves of pleasure rolled through you — Mingi holding you through it, tongue still lapping lazily, greedily, while Jinu kissed every inch of your face like you were something divine.

And they weren’t done.

Your body was still humming — muscles soft, brain foggy with bliss — when Mingi finally pulled back, lips shiny, face flushed like he’d just had a religious experience.

Jinu was still beside you, his hand stroking slow patterns on your thigh like he was trying to keep you grounded. But then you shifted. Sat up. Turned to face them with a glint in your eyes. 

“My turn.” Mingi blinked. “Wha—”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish. You climbed right into his lap, straddling him, grinding against the hard length pressing into his sweatpants. His hands flew to your hips immediately, grip tightening like he was trying to ground himself now.

“You think I was just gonna let you wreck me and be done?” you purred, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. “Not even close.” Behind you, Jinu chuckled. “Told you she was trouble.”

“And you like trouble,” you shot back, looking over your shoulder with a wink. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your hand down between you and Mingi, palming him through his pants — slow, firm, teasing strokes that made him groan and drop his head to your shoulder. “Fuck, baby—”

“You like that?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his throat as your hand slipped beneath the waistband. “Let me take care of you.” You didn’t wait. You slid off his lap, sinking to your knees on the studio floor, tugging his pants down just enough to free him. He was already hard, already leaking for you. You glanced up through your lashes, smirking as both men watched you with dazed, hungry eyes.

Mingi looked like he was about to fall apart just from the sight of you. You wrapped one hand around him and leaned in — slow lick from base to tip, tasting him, teasing, your lips just barely closing around the head. “Holy shit,” Mingi hissed, hands tangling in your hair.

You took your time. You owned your time. Mouth wet and warm, tongue swirling, hand stroking everything you couldn’t fit. You felt him throb, twitch, fall apart under every flick and suck.

Jinu knelt beside you suddenly, voice rough against your ear. “Look at you, baby. So good with your mouth.” You pulled off with a pop, just long enough to say, “You’re next.” Jinu smirked, and your mouth was back on Mingi — faster now, deeper, spit running down your chin as his thighs tensed under your hands. “I’m not gonna last,” he growled, head falling back. “Fuck—fuck—you’re gonna make me—”

You sucked harder, hands gripping his thighs, moaning around him just to send him over the edge. His hips jerked once, twice, and he came hard, thick, warm, body shaking as you swallowed every drop like it was nothing.

You pulled back, licking your lips, eyes dark with heat.

You’re still kneeling. Mingi’s blissed out and breathless. But Jinu? Oh, Jinu is smiling like the devil just handed him your name. “You ready, pretty boy?”

You didn’t know what you’d just unlocked.

Jinu dropped to his knees in front of you, one hand tilting your chin up so your spit-slick mouth was aimed at him like a weapon. He looked almost…fond. Amused. But dangerous.

“Oh, I’ve been ready,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “But now? I think you need to be reminded who’s really in charge here.”

Before you could even quip back, he kissed you. Deep, filthy, tasting Mingi on your tongue — like he liked it. You whimpered, and his hand cupped your cheek while the other slipped between your thighs again. “You’re still dripping,” he whispered against your mouth. “You like getting off for us that much, baby?”

You nodded. “Want more. Need you.”

“Then lie back,” he said, standing, already pulling off his shirt. “Mingi, help me out.”

And just like that, Mingi — who’d been in a blissed-out haze seconds ago — grinned and moved behind you again. He lifted you like nothing, laying you across the studio couch and crawling up beside you.

“Let’s take care of her properly,” he murmured, hand ghosting over your stomach, sliding back down between your thighs. “Already one ahead of me,” Jinu said with a smirk, pants halfway off. “Let’s even the score.” You were completely bare now, spread open, heat pooling in your stomach all over again as Jinu knelt between your legs. His fingers joined Mingi’s — two sets of hands, slow and skilled, one circling your clit while the other slipped inside. You arched with a strangled moan, hips rolling instinctively toward the overwhelming stimulation. “F-fuck—too much—”

“No, baby,” Mingi cooed, kissing your neck. “You can take it. You’re so wet for us, you’re sucking us in.” Jinu curled his fingers just right, and your whole body snapped. The pressure building inside you unravelled with another wave — a second orgasm flooding through you, thighs trembling, nails digging into the couch.

But they didn’t stop.

Jinu leaned forward, tongue replacing his fingers, licking into you like he had something to prove. Mingi’s lips found your breast, sucking, teeth dragging across your nipple while his hand returned to your clit.

It was too much. It was perfect.

Your cries bounced off the studio walls, incoherent now — just heat, praise, and pleasure crashing into you again and again.

You were drenched. Fucked out. Eyes glazed and mouth open. And Jinu wiped his mouth, stood over you, and stroked himself slowly. “Think you can take one more?”

You nodded weakly, wrecked and desperate.

Mingi chuckled, voice low. “Good girl.”

You don’t know how long you laid there, caught between overstimulated bliss and the warmth of their bodies. Jinu was still pressed between your thighs, his head now resting gently on your stomach, his hair tickling your skin. Mingi’s chest rose and fell beside you, his fingers lazily stroking your arm as his other hand rested on your hip like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you.

“Hey,” Mingi murmured, voice rough with sleep and sex, “You still alive in there?”

You cracked a lazy smile. “Barely.”

Jinu chuckled, lifting his head to look at you. “We didn’t break you, did we?”

“Oh, you definitely did,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering closed. “And I loved every second.”

Mingi grinned and leaned over to kiss your temple. “You were perfect.” Jinu sat up, gently tugging your top back over your chest and grabbing a hoodie off the nearby chair to drape over you. “That’s enough for now. She needs a recharge.”

“Maybe a snack,” Mingi offered. “And water.”

“And a nap,” you added with a soft laugh. “With both of you.” The boys exchanged a look — one of those secret, unspoken things that only people who knew each other too well could pull off — then they both slid in beside you on the couch, sandwiching you between them.

Mingi pulled your legs over his lap while Jinu wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling your head to rest on his chest. The studio had gone quiet, the dim light casting soft shadows on the walls, your shared body heat turning the room into a perfect cocoon.

For a while, none of you spoke. Just soft breathing, the rhythmic beat of Jinu’s heart under your cheek, Mingi’s fingers still tracing mindless shapes on your thigh.

Then Mingi spoke up.

“So... we doing this again?”

You laughed, eyes still closed. “God, yes.”

Jinu pressed a kiss to your hair. “But next time, I want her all to myself for a few minutes.”

“No promises,” Mingi smirked. “She kinda likes sharing.”

“I really do,” you whispered, letting out a content sigh.

And that’s how you fell asleep — tangled between them, hearts still pounding, bodies still tingling, and three dumb smiles worn like promises.

[hamilton-here]

Okay first of, I love all your stories so so much. But I was thinking, Lewis is with a regular girl then she's about 34/35 and she's a doctor. They've been together for about a year and a half privately and its only for his birthday he posted a video where she was singing happy birthday for him. He brings her to a few races before Silverstone and everyone can see how happy he is with her, hes playful, motivated, smiles more, laughs more all in all he looks happy, genuinely happy. She gets along with his friends like Miles and Spinz and his family. But people on the internet have been quite mean saying how they wish he was with a supermodel, actor or someone of his fame then or how his exes were better. She has a private Instagram but one day she was checking her dm requests and saw that a "fan" made an entire pdf of all the women he's ever been seen with and stated all the reasons why they were better than the reader. The reader ignores it but it kinda hits her because sometimes she gets insecure that she's not enough for lewis compared to the women he's been linked with in the past. She downloads the pdf on her phone, one day lewis wanted to use her phone for something and saw the pdf on her phone and asked her about it and asked why she didn't tell him, she told him the truth on how she's been feeling, he reassures her that she's more than enough and that hes never been in love like this or happy like this. Skip to Silverstone he had a custom made t-shirt for her with his name and number on the back. He ended up winning Silverstone, he kisses her passionately as he gets out of the car and then hugs his family and friends. After when they're on the big stage hes up with his family and friends and roscoe, they answer questions and what not and then the interviewer asks about his relationship and he smiles widely, and runs off the the side of the stage where the reader was and drags her on stage and holds her close to him, he continues to answer more questions and then with one question he dropped the bombshell that she's the one, the one he wants to get married to and the one he plans to have children with. He then addressed the hate that he's been seeing online towards the reader and how he won't tolerate bullying towards the reader. In the evening they have dinner with his family and friends and you can end it off with them later in the night in bed just talking about the future and cuddling then he gets up from the bed into the closet and comes back and kneels down on the reader's side of the bed and proposes to her. Lots of fluff and sweet lewis in this story. Sorry if this request is long, I'm so excited you opened your requests. Thank you in advance.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝓃𝑒 𝐻𝑒 𝒞𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒

Authors Note: Hi all! P4, I'm so proud of Lewis. It was a shame no podium, but we keep pushing. Thank you for the lovely request and support. Lots of love xx

Summary: LH44, in a private relationship with a doctor, faces online hate but publicly declares his love and proposes after winning Silverstone.

Warnings: slight angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It had been nearly eighteen months filled with gentle mornings, spontaneous travel, shared laughter and a kind of quiet togetherness that felt like poetry in motion since Lewis Hamilton, seven-time Formula 1 World Champion and perennial headline magnet, had introduced you to the world. Not through flash or spectacle or orchestrated paparazzi moments, but in a way so tender, so heartwarmingly authentic that it made the world collectively pause.

He had posted the video with no caption, no fanfare just a glimpse into the soft, golden pocket of the life you shared. You were in his London kitchen, surrounded by half washed dishes and the lopsided birthday cake you had baked yourself. It was slightly burnt on one edge - you always said baking wasn’t your strong suit but the crooked smile you gave him as you sang “Happy Birthday” off-key told a story far richer than perfection.

You were barefoot, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies that you'd borrowed and never returned and your mismatched socks peeking out like playful secrets. The clip ended with Lewis pulling you close, whispering his thanks against your cheek with a quietness that felt sacred. The video might have been blurry, but the emotion? It was crystalline.

You hadn’t anticipated the tidal wave of attention that followed your relationship becoming public headlines spreading like wildfire, speculation swirling like a storm in comment sections and glossy spreads.

Followed by strangers dissecting your photos, mannerisms and wardrobe pixel by pixel as if they held the key to understanding you. Every glance was interpreted. Every silence debated. But through it all, you stayed grounded like a mountain rooted in soft earth unshaken, composed. You stayed you.

You were a doctor. Not just in title, but in identity one that had taken years of sacrifice, late nights and unrelenting perseverance to earn. Long before red carpets and paddock passes, there had been overnight shifts beneath flickering hospital lights, the scent of antiseptic stitched into your skin, your name etched onto a badge that carried more weight than most people would ever understand.

You had studied with your head down and your heart wide open, fought off sleep with caffeine and sheer determination, stood rock still through codes when everything hung in the balance. You had delivered hard news with impossible grace and held trembling hands during goodbyes whispered through oxygen masks. You didn’t crumble. You didn’t waver.

You were the stillness in storms no one else could calm.

Your brilliance didn’t demand sequins or spotlight. It radiated in the smallest gestures how you remembered a nervous parent’s name, the way your voice softened during a blood draw, how you spoke to children on their level and never made fear feel foolish. You charted meticulously, led with quiet authority, and made space for humanity in the most clinical corners of the world. You carried your patients' stories like pages folded into your ribcage gently and reverently.

The contrast between your world orderly, analytical, rooted in service and Lewis’s universe of roaring engines, champagne showers and camera flashes was dramatic. Staggering, even. But somehow, it wasn’t jarring. It was magnetic. Where others might have drifted apart, the polarity drew you closer.

You weren’t just a guest at race weekends, floating behind him in the shadows of the paddock. You immersed yourself. You listened. You asked questions with that same inquisitive spark that had once led you to colour-code vascular anatomy diagrams on three hours of sleep.

You nodded along during debriefs, flipped through race strategies like they were clinical trial data and memorised tire compound changes with the same rigour you’d applied to pharmacology. You didn’t need to know these things. But you wanted to. Because they mattered to him.

When something didn’t add up, you said so. Tactfully. Directly. "If the car’s not responding after heat buildup, are you sure we’re not looking at microstructure fatigue? You know like recurrent stress fractures under consistent torque pressure?"

The engineers blinked. Then scribbled notes.

Lewis lived for it.

He never stopped smiling when you spoke in paddock meetings not because you had something to prove, but because you didn’t need to. You stood in both worlds without apology, your confidence stitched into every glance, every quiet observation. He fell for you all over again every time your brow furrowed during practice laps, or when your fingers absently mimed ECG rhythms while watching telemetry.

And when you came off a night shift, your body aching from hours spent on your feet, shoes kicked off at the door, the exhaustion settling into your bones like rain, Lewis was there without fail.

He didn’t wait to be asked.

He’d wrap his arms around you before you even made it to the couch, press a kiss to your temple and murmur, “Okay, superhero. Sit. You’re done saving the world for today.”

Sometimes he’d already have the kettle boiling, your favourite mug waiting on the counter. Other nights, he’d light a candle and run a bath, gently helping you untie your scrub top with hands that moved carefully, respectfully like you were the most fragile, sacred thing he’d ever been trusted with.

Once, after a night so long you weren’t sure which day it was, you dozed off on his chest mid-conversation. You’d barely managed to say, “Six kids with RSV, one surgical bleed, and two sets of panicking parents,” before you drifted off, lips still parted, cheek pressed against his collarbone.

He didn’t move for hours. Just held you and murmured, “You’re amazing,” softly, over and over like a psalm.

Sometimes, when the paddock crowds thinned and the chaos mellowed into golden-hour hush, he’d pull you close hand slipping into yours, eyes soft with reverence and say with a crooked smile, “You know, I might be the one getting interviewed but you’re the one everyone remembers.”

You always smiled back, ever warm, ever modest, and replied, “That’s only because I mentioned tire pressure. They weren’t ready for it.”

And he'd lean in, eyes shining. “Maybe. But I think it’s just ‘cause you walk into every room like it already loves you.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Because you did.

And so did he.

But what touched him deepest was how seamlessly, how gently you bonded with the people he held closest. His family adored you. Carmen so elegant, so grounded took you in like a daughter. Tea with her turned into long, soul nourishing talks about legacy and love.

Anthony laughed loud and often around you, especially when you teased him about his barbecue technique or challenged his bold opinions. Linda became your quiet compass, sliding sweet notes under your door and walking with you through the garden when the world felt too loud.

And then there was Nicolas Lewis’s younger brother your partner in crime. Your connection with him was hilariously chaotic and utterly beautiful. Game nights. Impromptu karaoke. Inside jokes no one understood but the two of you. He once looked Lewis dead in the eye and said, “She’s the big sister I didn’t know I needed,” and Lewis had just smiled, knowing it was true.

His sisters wrapped around you like warmth. Nicola, full of creativity and wry humour, cherished your late night talks and shared obsessions with music and mystery. Samantha, loyal to her core, became someone you could sit in silence with and feel completely understood. Whether you were folding laundry or chasing the kids around the garden, they saw you not as Lewis’s partner, but as family.

And the children. Lewis’s niece and nephew. Sweet, chaotic, radiant little beings who made their mark on your heart without even trying. You knew their birthdays. Their snack quirks. You built pirate ships from couch cushions and made up bedtime songs that had them giggling uncontrollably.

You never tried to impress them you simply loved them. And Lewis couldn’t breathe sometimes when he watched you with them. His heart would ache, in the best, most tender way, watching you crouch beside a toddler tying their shoe or listen to a wildly imaginative dinosaur story with unwavering enthusiasm. He’d lean against the doorway and think, This. This is it. This is everything.

His friends saw it too. Miles and Spinz plus other friends were his inner circle, his constants that welcomed you like one of their own. Miles, quick witted and careful, had guarded his approval. But it took just one deep conversation about fashion, photography and dreams bigger than the moment for him to recognise the brilliance in you. You had a rhythm together. Fast. Funny. Electrifying. Lewis would watch and laugh, just a little jealous, in the sweetest way.

Spins had called you “Queen” from the very beginning. It stuck. Not as a joke, but as a truth. He always made sure you had what you needed, always stood by you like a guard with a soft heart. You threw playful sass back at him, matched his energy with full-bodied laughter. He adored you. And Lewis? He adored the way you were with Miles even more.

Through all of it - through fame and family, through opinion and intimacy what held constant was this: you and Lewis, alone in the quiet. The forehead kisses. The documentaries playing while you fell asleep tangled together. The whispered confessions of love between spoonfuls of cereal and sips of tea. You were his calm. His light. His home.

And every time he saw you dancing with a niece, or making Nicolas laugh so hard he cried, or keeping pace with Miles’s brilliant chaos, or bantering with his sister's like you’d grown up next to them he knew, without question.

He’d found something extraordinary. It was fierce, gentle and definitely forever.

But the internet, with all its vastness and reach, isn’t always a kind place. Despite the soft glow that seems to settle over Lewis’s face whenever you’re near his laughter fuller, posture more relaxed, interviews carrying an ease that hadn’t been there before there are voices online that refuse to see what’s so plainly visible to anyone who truly knows him. People are quick to judge, quick to dissect, quick to hold you up like a slide beneath a microscope, examining every pore and every choice as if you auditioned for public approval.

There are memes circulated with careless cruelty, branding you as “just a doctor,” the phrase tossed around like it’s somehow an insult ignoring the sleepless nights you spend comforting families, your ability to make life or death decisions under pressure, your years of dedication to healing.

Others point out that you’re not a model, as if the absence of designer campaigns and catwalk photos makes you less worthy. And then comes the flood of comparisons. Anonymous comments that scrutinise you against Lewis’s former flames women who are tall, statuesque, celebrated by the industry, glamorous in a way that glitters on magazine covers.

Some posts dissect your style, your voice, your body. One particularly stinging comment reads, “Why couldn’t he find someone in the industry?” as if your presence in his life requires justification, as though love must come with a résumé.

You try, with quiet resolve to ignore it. To let it roll off your shoulders like water sliding down the fabric of your scrubs after a twelve-hour shift. You tell yourself that you know who you are. That you are enough. That the people who matter - Lewis, his family, his inner circle see you for everything you are.

But sometimes, in the stillness of night, when the house is quiet and even the stars feel far away, it creeps in. Not the loud, hateful comments but the subtle ones. The ones wrapped in implication. The ones that don’t scream, but whisper. And those are the ones that hurt the most.

A post that says you’re “lucky” to have him. Another that calls you “a sweet placeholder.” And those phrases, however softly spoken, echo through your heart in vulnerable moments making you wonder if the world will ever truly accept someone like you beside someone like him.

You’re not a fixture on red carpets. Your smile hasn’t been trained for cameras. Your world is built on compassion and quiet victories not fame. You don’t sparkle in the ways people have come to expect from the women standing beside stars.

And yet, Lewis knows. He sees it in your silence when you’ve read too much, in the way you curl into yourself a little tighter on nights when the comments hit harder than usual. He places his hand over yours steady, grounding and whispers, “Don’t let strangers rewrite your story.” Because to him, you’re never just anything. You’re the lighthouse that pulls him to shore when the waves get too loud.

And slowly, over time, your voice inside grows louder than theirs. Not because you fight back but because you choose love. And love yours and his is something no screen could ever define.

One quiet evening, tucked beneath a worn fleece blanket that still carries the lingering scent of Lewis’s cologne the smell of amber wood and warmth, something that’s become a kind of sanctuary you find yourself scrolling through your Instagram DMs with mindless detachment.

You don’t do it often; the messages are unpredictable and emotionally exhausting, a swirl of admiration, invasive questions, and unsolicited opinions from strangers who believe they have front row seats to your life. But that night, amid the hum of the television and the soft thud of rain against the windows, your thumb pauses.

There it is. A message from a name you don’t recognise. No verification badge. No familiar connection. Just a username, blank and faceless and a single PDF attachment. At first, it looks harmless probably just another fan theory or someone asking for Lewis’s autograph. But something about the silence of the file, the way it sits there waiting, makes your chest tighten with quiet dread.

You hesitate, eyes scanning the dim glow of the screen, hoping you’ll think better of it and let it go. But curiosity, quiet and cruel, nudges you forward. You tap it open.

And with that one click, everything shifts.

The PDF loads slowly, each second stretching unbearably as the title reveals itself in stark, bold letters: Lewis Hamilton Partner Comparisons. Your breath catches. Just reading those words feels like someone has taken something sacred something personal and soft hadturned it into a math problem.

What follows is colder than you feared.

A professionally formatted report, crafted with eerie precision like a boardroom pitch, lays bare a grotesque evaluation of every woman Lewis has ever dated, been rumoured to date, or even briefly stood beside at public events.

Supermodels with international covers. Singers whose albums have gone platinum. Actresses with awards and carefully sculpted personas. One by one, they’re presented with glossy photographs, curated bios, statistics that measure fame, wealth, beauty social media reach and “brand value.” There are pie charts. Bar graphs. A disturbing level of commitment to the idea that love can be ranked.

And then there’s you.

Slotted at the end, without dignity like a footnote. The writer makes no attempt to hide their disdain. Your photo is grainy clearly pulled from a candid paparazzi shot where you weren’t smiling. Your credentials as a doctor are labeled “respectable but mediocre.” Your looks dismissed as “pedestrian.” Your online presence described as “visibly awkward, lacking polish and influence.”

A side by side chart lines up your follower count with those of Lewis’s exes, highlights your absence from fashion events, and mocks your wardrobe choices as “serviceable but uninspired.”

Then comes the final blow.

One paragraph so casually vicious your hands shake as you read it suggests you’re not with Lewis for love at all. That you’re “a calculated opportunist,” someone “clinging to relevance by proxy,” leveraging your relationship with him to gain access to luxury and status you could never earn on your own. They imply your “humble career” is just temporary cover. That you’re “faking a wholesome image” while quietly chasing a celebrity lifestyle you weren’t born into.

Another line stabs deeper: “Lewis’s kindness makes him blind to what she really is. She’s playing the long game. Fame by proximity. Lifestyle by association. And he’ll eventually realise she was just passing through.”

You stop breathing for a moment.

The phone slips from your hands and lands softly on the blanket. The screen dims as the weight of those words settles over you like wet concrete. Your heart thuds slow, heavy and tired. You don’t cry. Not right away. The sadness doesn’t arrive like thunder it creeps in like fog. A whisper in your mind that asks, What if they’re right?

Not because Lewis has ever made you feel less than extraordinary, he hasn’t. He is tenderness and reassurance and steady belief. He kisses your forehead when you doubt yourself, holds your hand beneath crowded tables, whispers affirmations with the kind of quiet conviction that sticks to your ribs.

But cruel words, even when you try not to believe them, have a way of echoing in the hollows. And sometimes it’s not the shouts that bruise, it’s the whispers.

Your whole life, you’ve built yourself from grit and grace. You’ve held dying hands and stitched hearts in ways no scalpel ever could. But now, standing beside a man who shines like a constellation, your accomplishments feel suddenly paper-thin like the world has decided you don’t belong.

And so you sit there, beneath the blanket that smells like love, in a home filled with laughter and light and wonder, quietly, heartbreakingly:

If Lewis deserves the world, what made you believe you could be part of it?

It was only a few days later when the weight of the PDF still lingered like a bruise beneath the surface of your chest, quiet and persistent that Lewis found it.

You had left your phone on the edge of the kitchen counter, tucked among the soft clutter of a half finished book, a half drunk cup of tea, and the mellow hum of the afternoon. You’d stepped away for just a moment to grab something from the fridge, your thoughts floating between dinner plans and the ache that had been quietly blooming behind your ribs.

When you returned, Lewis was standing in stillness, the phone cradled loosely in his hand, and his brow knit into something you recognised immediately not anger, but concern. That tender, gut stirring kind that always made your chest tighten just a little.

“Why do you have this on your phone?” he asked, voice low, serious in a way he rarely used with you. “Where did it come from?”

You froze in place. The knot in your stomach tightened so quickly it felt like someone had pulled you inward by the core. Your cheeks flushed with heat and guilt as your eyes flicked to the screen, and you knew instantly that he’d seen it.

“It’s nothing,” you offered weakly, with a shaky breath, trying to wave it off as if dismissing it could undo it. As if he hadn’t already absorbed every cruel word carved into that document.

But Lewis didn’t blink. Didn’t back down. Didn’t let you tuck your hurt away.

“No,” he said again, softer this time, stepping toward you with a quiet urgency. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? You’ve been quieter. I’ve felt it in you. We’ve talked about how brutal things can be online, but this feels different. What is this weighing on you?”

Your throat tightened, the words rising like a wave you couldn’t hold back. You looked down, not at him -not at the place that had always felt safe because vulnerability like this scared you. Because the weight of your fear was that he might see you differently.

“I’ve just…I don’t know,” you whispered, voice barely more than air. “I’ve been feeling insecure. Sometimes I wonder if I’m good enough. For you. For your world. I’m not like your past girlfriends, Lewis. I’m not glamorous. I’m just a doctor. Just me. And when people say I don’t belong when they say you deserve someone more remarkable it’s hard not to believe them.”

The silence between you expanded, pressing in with the heaviness of every unsaid thing. You didn’t look up, didn’t breathe fully, waiting for rejection or disbelief or discomfort.

But instead he stepped closer.

He put the phone down, deliberately and carefully, as though setting aside a wound he refused to let fester between you. Then he reached for you. His hands cupped your cheeks with such tenderness it made your eyes sting, and when you finally looked up, his gaze was unwavering. Steady. Filled with something that made your lungs collapse in a different way: devotion.

“You are so much more than enough,” he said, every word slow, weighted, a promise etched into the quiet. “You’re the person I choose every day. The one who makes me feel calm. Safe. Loved. I’ve lived in noise for most of my life but I’ve never felt peace like I feel with you. I’ve never felt this kind of happiness.”

You tried to swallow the tears, but they came anyway warm and aching, soft trails against your skin. He brushed one away with his thumb, leaned in until you could feel the steadiness of his breath against your own, the warmth that always held you together.

“I see you,” he whispered against your forehead. “I see everything that makes you brilliant. The way you comfort people when they’re scared. The way you laugh with your whole heart. The way you show up when it’s hard. You don’t have to compete with anyone, and you don’t owe this world some packaged version of yourself. You’ve already given me more than I ever dreamed I’d have. You’re the one. Always have been.”

And that’s when it happened, the tightness in your chest finally began to unravel, the bruised places inside you softened under the light of his love. You let out the breath you’d been holding for days, leaned into him, into the arms that had always been waiting.

In that moment, you knew. Not because the world had stopped judging, but because his love had never once been part of their metrics.

In his arms, you weren’t lacking. You were treasured. You were home.

The weekend of Silverstone arrived with all the anticipation and electricity that clung to the air like static before a storm only this time, the storm was made of speed, expectation and thousands of pounding hearts. You’d been by Lewis’s side since the early hours of the morning, weaving through the paddock hand in hand, sharing hushed conversations between interviews and technical briefings, your presence quiet but grounding.

He had been tense laser-focused in that way he only ever got before a race like this, the one that meant the most to him. His home Grand Prix. The track that knew the rhythm of his tires like an old friend. You’d stood back, watching him slip into his zone, admiring the way his mind danced with precision even while his heart carried so much weight.

And then, during a rare pause in the rush, Lewis turned to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He pulled something from the bag resting beside his driver’s seat a sleek, custom-made t-shirt with his name boldly stitched across the back, his number glinting in silver under the summer sun.

But there was more. The shirt wasn’t just merchandise. It had been tailored just for you fitted in a way that still felt effortlessly comfortable, with subtle embroidery along the hem that read “For the one who steadies me.”

You laughed, a little breathless at the sweetness of it. “Lewis,” you murmured, holding the shirt up to your chest, “this is too much.”

But he only smiled, that boyish grin that reached his eyes and softened everything. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your cheek with the warmth of someone who loved you in every language silence could speak, and whispered just above the noise of the paddock, “You deserve everything. And I want everyone to know it.”

Then came the race.

Silverstone roared to life, the sound of engines screaming across tarmac thunderous against the sky. Lewis’s car surged forward from pole, but the tension was immediate and relentless another driver clipped his rear just two laps in, forcing a defensive strategy that had everyone on edge.

You stood with his crew, fingers clenched together, heart echoing the pace of the laps. Overtakes happened in split second bursts, each time your breath catching and your pulse stumbling. The commentators were losing their voices; the fans were losing their minds. And you watching him manoeuvre through chaos with the grace of poetry and the grit of a warrior you were losing track of everything but him.

Final lap. He was second.

Then, as the last sector approached, Lewis found a line no one else had dared to take - tight, risky, brilliant. Tires kissed the edge of track limits. His car soared with defiance and desire. And when he crossed the finish line?

Victory. Silverstone erupted.

The crowd thundered with cheers so loud the air shook, but you only heard your heartbeat the way it leapt in your chest when Lewis stepped out of the car, sweat-slicked and gleaming with adrenaline. He didn’t wave to the cameras. He didn’t wait for his team.

He only looked for you.

And when your eyes met, everything blurred time, sound, space. He ran toward you with that smile, wide and unguarded, and without hesitation, wrapped you in his arms. The kiss he gave you was all fire and softness: strong arms pulling you into his chest, one hand cradling your jaw with a reverence that made your knees weaken, his lips pressing into yours like you were a homecoming.

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for the cameras.

But the cameras found it.

The lens captured the way you melted into him, how his brow rested against yours when the kiss broke, how your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit like you were anchoring him to the moment. And the world felt like it paused. Just for that.

She was “just a doctor,” they said.

But in that kiss, in that embrace, she was everything.

You were everything.

The applause was still echoing across Silverstone, drifting like a melody across the shifting breeze, clashing gently with the distant hum of pit crews dismantling their stations and race engineers exchanging lingering high-fives.

The golden light of late afternoon fell in thick, honeyed ribbons over the track casting halos against stage rails, weaving through the flags that rippled proudly above the grandstands, and glinting off the sheen of Lewis’s fire suit, soaked in both champagne and triumph.

You were tucked just below the edge of the stage, half-hidden in the shade of the structure, yet entirely present in every pulse of the day.

Your breath came unevenly not from the adrenaline of the race, but from something softer and more intimate: the way Lewis’s eyes kept finding you. Again and again. Not just glancing, but searching. Seeing. And every time he turned your way, your heart tripped a little harder.

And then without warning, without ceremony he handed off the microphone mid-question, leaving the interviewer mid-sentence and the crowd murmuring in a collective wave of curiosity. His movements weren’t showy. They were deliberate. Full of warm certainty. And you realised, in an instant, he wasn’t walking toward the fans. He was walking toward you.

There was a breathless shift in the atmosphere as Lewis descended from the stage. The crowd seemed to lean forward in one mass, like a tide surging toward shore, drawn by a magnetic force that none of them could name.

His gaze never wavered. Locked onto yours as if it were tethered by something deeper than time. The click of cameras intensified, becoming a rhythmic heartbeat around you both as he extended his hand. His fingers brushed your own warm, steady, grounding and gently, he pulled you forward.

Onto the stage. Into his orbit.

The world narrowed. You weren’t thinking about the noise or the people or the flashes. You were thinking about the way his hand fit against your waist, the way he tucked you in close like you’d always belonged there, his thumb pressing slow, affectionate circles into your side through the fabric of your jacket. You were thinking about how, despite everything fame, pressure, legacy he only seemed to care that you were there.

That’s when the interviewer chuckled into the mic, raising an eyebrow with playful mischief. “Lewis,” they said, “I think it’s safe to say that was more than just a podium celebration. Can we ask who’s the lucky one, then?”

He turned, catching the full weight of the question with a grin that bloomed impossibly wide. Not coy. Not careful. Just utterly open. The crowd erupted again as he turned to you again eyes sparkling. He pulled you into his space like the missing piece of a puzzle finally clicking into place.

His arm swept around your back, anchoring you against him as the audience roared in approval. You didn’t have time to think. You didn’t have to. You just stood there, wrapped in the gravity of his affection, while cameras flashed and questions resumed.

Lewis returned to the mic, his hand never leaving yours. “Well,” he said, his voice warm with laughter, “she’s been my luck for a long time now. Figured it was time everyone else got to see it too.”

And just like that, the interview carried on engine talk, tire strategies, nods to his team and their unstoppable rhythm but through it all, his arm stayed around you, his thumb still tracing circles, his voice still laced with something softer. Something just for you.

The mic returned to his hand, but this time, something in his voice had shifted. It wasn’t the confident, media trained cadence he reserved for interviews. It cracked. Gently. Unmistakably.

“I want to make something clear,” Lewis said, chest rising with the kind of weight that comes from speaking truth in front of the entire world. “This woman right here is the person I love.”

He paused. Not to catch breath but to hold the emotion. You saw it the flicker in his throat as he swallowed, the glint in his eyes that shimmered like tears held just barely at bay. He reached for your hand again, his fingers curling around yours with reverence.

“She’s not temporary,” he continued, voice thick with feeling. “She’s not someone passing through. I’m going to marry her. I’m going to build a life with her. A family. She’s the woman I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life. She’s my peace in the noise. My quiet in the storm. She’s everything.”

For a moment, Silverstone was silent. Reverent. As if even the wind had paused to listen.

And then applause. Cries. Shouts. A collective unraveling of hearts that had been holding back emotion just to witness this rare, sacred thing: love, laid bare in the spotlight.

Lewis turned, forehead resting briefly against your temple, grounding himself in your presence before facing the cameras again. This time, his voice didn’t crack. It sharpened.

“To anyone who’s been sending hate her way,” he said, his grip tightening protectively around your waist. “Questioning her. Mocking her. Trying to tear her down I want you to hear me clearly.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but the intensity made it feel like thunder.

“That’s not support. That’s not fandom. That’s cruelty. And it’s a betrayal of me. Of everything I stand for. If you think love makes me weaker, then you’ve never understood who I am. This woman is brilliant, compassionate, stronger than most people I’ve ever met. She’s mine. And I love her more deeply than I’ve ever loved anyone. That’s not something I’ll apologise for.”

The microphone lowered. The world, for a breath, went still.

And then, as if on cue, Roscoe made his entrance.

He trotted casually across the stage with that signature lope, tail swaying like he was unimpressed by the fanfare. Lewis bent down beside him, whispering something sweet “C’mon, give ‘em a bark” before nudging him toward the crowd. But Roscoe, ever the dignified old soul, glanced at the fans snorted quietly, turned on his heel and made a slow, dramatic beeline straight for you.

He ignored the spotlight, ignored the cheering and flopped effortlessly between your legs with a sigh so exaggerated it made the photographers chuckle. He tucked one paw over your foot, nestled his snout in the crook of your knee and blinked up at you like nothing in the world mattered more than being close.

As if to say: She’s mine. Ours.

The crowd erupted cheers louder than any victory lap, camera flashes painting the moment in flickering brilliance. Lewis held you close, one arm around your waist, the other cradling your hand against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat. Not from exertion but from love. Real, full, impossibly vast.

And in that breathless instant Lewis, trembling slightly from the weight of everything he’d just said; Roscoe nestled at your feet like a sentry of affection and you, overwhelmed with quiet disbelief and joy something in the air shifted.

Love wasn’t just spoken.

It was declared, protected and absolutely yours.

The city beyond their window pulsed with soft, amber light with cars casting faint reflections across the high rise glass, red taillights drifting like fireflies below, while street lamps blinked and glowed like drowsy stars, stretching their reach across the velvet hush of London twilight.

From this height, the rush of the world sounded far away, more lullaby than chaos, the energy of the city slipping gently beneath them like a tide pulling out to sea. Inside the hotel suite, swaddled in warm light and the faint scent of lavender from the fresh bouquet on the table, everything felt suspended like time had folded in on itself. A snow globe moment. Still, silent, safe.

The air still carried echoes of laughter from earlier in the evening. Not just laughter, but the kind that left your cheeks sore and your heart weightless.

Dinner with Lewis’s family had been its own kind of magic imperfect in the most perfect ways. The food had been slightly too rich, the seating slightly cramped, and there had been too many hands reaching across the table for the same dish at once. But that only added to the feeling of intimacy, of genuine closeness. The Hamiltons were a constellation of personalities orbiting one another with unshakeable affection.

“You should’ve seen Lewis at ten,” Samantha had said with a mischievous grin as she brandished her fork in his direction. “Little man used to race our neighbours dog down the block. On a scooter. In church shoes.”

Lewis groaned, covering his face with both hands. “I’m begging you some stories should remain family classified.”

“Did he win?” you asked sweetly, sipping your wine through a smile that betrayed how badly you wanted the answer.

“He lost every time,” Nico interjected, laughing so hard he almost spilled his drink. “Except for that one glorious afternoon when the dog tripped over a sprinkler head.”

“It slipped,” Lewis argued, dragging his hands down his face. “There was dew on the sidewalk. It was a traction issue.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, champ,” Miles teased, clinking his glass against yours with a wink.

You leaned close and whispered, just for him, “So...this is the legend I fell for?”

Lewis tilted his head, eyes locked onto yours with a heat that made your stomach flutter. “Just wait till you hear about my magic trick phase.”

“Oh no,” you laughed. “There was a phase?”

“A whole two years,” Anthony chimed in from the head of the table, grinning broadly. “He had this top hat he’d wear around the house everywhere. School pickup. Grocery shopping. Even the dentist. Swore he’d make the carrots disappear off his plate.”

Lewis groaned again. “I was eight.”

“Eight and determined,” Anthony said warmly, his voice softening. “He always has been.” Then he paused, his eyes glancing over to you before settling on his son again. “But watching him now…what he’s become…it’s surreal. He’s lived his dreams out loud. Fought for what he believes.

And somehow, he found someone who sees him beyond all that. Sees the kid who wanted to make carrots vanish and the man who wins on the world stage. I’m so proud of you, son. And I’m even prouder that you’ve found the love of your life.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward it was reverent, filled with emotion too dense for quick replies. Lewis’s hand found yours beneath the table, fingers weaving through with the steadiness of someone who knew exactly what he held.

Later, when the meal ended and plates were cleared and goodbyes came with hugs that lingered and promises to do it all again soon, Miles had leaned in from the hallway as the lift doors were closing.

“Go make it a night to remember!” he called, laughing as the doors slid shut.

Lewis turned to you with that familiar gleam in his eyes. “Prophetic or pressure?”

You smiled, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “Both.”

Now, wrapped in that velvet silence, the city lights painting constellations across the glossy floorboards, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just to let the two of you breathe each other in. Here, in the sanctuary of shared stories and slow glances, the love between you didn’t need declarations.

It was written in the way he looked at you.

Now, wrapped together beneath a fortress of plush, cloud soft sheets that smelled faintly of crisp linen, lavender from the pillow mist and the lingering fizz of champagne from the bottle still resting uncorked on the bedside table, you lay cocooned in the steady warmth of Lewis’s arms.

The soft whoosh of the HVAC mingled with the occasional sigh of the city beyond the glass subdued, distant, like a lullaby meant just for the two of you. His hand, calloused and gentle, moved slowly through your hair, not just idly, but with reverence with his fingertips whispering over your scalp in lazy, soothing lines. Every now and then, he’d pause to tuck a wayward strand behind your ear, his thumb brushing the shell of it in a gesture so tender, it melted into your bones.

Your head rested against his chest where his heart beat in a patient, grounding rhythm like an anchor, like a promise. And in that moment, beneath the sanctuary of covers and the soft amber cast of the bedside lamp, it became crystal clear: he wasn’t just holding you. He was holding a future he’d already built quietly in his mind, one heartbeat at a time.

“What’s next for us?” you asked, your voice just above a whisper, barely a tremble in the hush. The words carried no pressure. Only hope. Soft, curious, edged in wonder.

Lewis shifted ever so slightly, arms tightening around you as if pulling you impossibly closer, like he wished to wrap you in layers of himself. He pressed a lingering kiss to the centre of your forehead the kind that was less about passion and more about adoration, something sacred and still.

His voice was low when he spoke, brushed with sleep but strong with quiet certainty. “Everything we want,” he murmured, his lips still pressed against your skin.

ertainty. “Everything we want,” he murmured, his lips still pressed against your skin. “A life that feels soft at the edges. A home built out of laughter and Sunday mornings. Maybe somewhere outside the city a little cottage with creaky floors and windows that catch the golden light just right. A garden where Roscoe can chase butterflies he’ll never catch. We’ll wake up to birdsong and pancakes and I’ll pretend to cook even though we both know you’ll end up doing it right.” He chuckled softly and kissed your hair.

“There’ll be arguments about duvet hogging and whose turn it is to do dishes, but we’ll always go to bed choosing each other anyway. Just you and me. Always.”

His words wove around you like a second blanket warm, comforting and infinite. You smiled then, eyes fluttering closed your entire body sinking deeper into the cradle of his embrace, into the safety of a future that suddenly didn’t seem like a dream, but a path already opening in front of you.

But just as your breath slowed lulled by the rhythm of his thumb brushing absentminded shapes along your arm he shifted. Carefully. Deliberately.

He slipped from the bed like a ghost, the duvet rustling softly in his wake. The loss of his body heat made your skin prickle with sudden anticipation. Your eyes fluttered open to watch him pad barefoot across the thick carpet, disappearing silently into the walk-in closet.

You didn’t call out not because you weren’t curious, but because something about the way he moved felt charged. Like he already knew what he was about to do.

He returned only a moment later, but everything had changed. He wasn’t carrying his phone or a sweatshirt or a bottle of water. He wasn’t fiddling with the lights or answering a room service knock. He was kneeling.

Kneeling beside the bed. In front of you.

Still shirtless, curls tousled from sleep, his eyes shimmered with something deeper than just nerves. They brimmed with something unguarded and fiercely vulnerable. And in his hand, cradled like it was fragile and sacred, was a ring. No spotlight sparkle. No flashy flourish. Just elegant simplicity. Understated. Timeless. A reflection of everything he knew you loved.

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your lungs forgetting how to work as you sat up slowly, the sheets pooling at your waist.

“Lewis?” The name came out barely audible, like a prayer more than a question.

He looked up at you, and that one look told you everything. His own eyes were wet, unshed tears catching the warm lamplight and turning into stars. His voice cracked, rich and raw. “I’m not waiting,” he said, with a conviction that made your whole world tilt. “I don’t want to wait another day. I’ve known from the start. From the moment you sang off-key in my kitchen, wearing socks that didn’t match and hair you hadn’t brushed, dancing like the world only existed in that song I knew. I knew you were the one.” He swallowed hard, knuckles tight around the velvet box.

“I want to grow old knowing your laugh better than I know my own. I want to build a home where every wall echoes with your joy. I want the world to look at me and know - I belong to you. I love you. Will you marry me?”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek with trembling fingers. There was no pause. No mental checklist. No breath to catch.

“Yes,” you said, your voice breaking on the word, your whole body trembling with love. “Yes. God yes. A thousand times, yes.”

He surged forward, dropping the ring box onto the sheets with a soft thud, as though even gravity wanted to step aside for what was about to happen. His arms came around you in an instant urgent but careful, cradling you like something precious, irreplaceable.

His fingers trembled as they brushed against your jaw, cupping your face like he was learning it all over again. His eyes, glistening with tears he no longer tried to hide, searched yours for a breathless second seeking not permission, but presence.

And then he kissed you.

Not in the way stories often tell, with crashing waves and desperate mouths. No this was slower. Sweeter. It was layered in meaning, in memory, in the unspoken vow of two people who had already chosen each other in a thousand quiet moments long before this one.

His lips moved against yours with the tenderness of someone savouring not chasing. It was soft, at first a brush, then a bloom. One hand slipped into your hair as the other held you steady, thumbs drawing slow, reverent circles along your cheekbones. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend every second relearning the shape of your mouth. Like he wasn’t afraid of loving you too much only afraid you wouldn’t feel just how much he did.

When you kissed him back, fingers curling into his curls, pulling him closer, he sighed a sound of pure surrender, of everything he’d carried falling away in the certainty of this moment. He deepened the kiss just slightly, not with heat, but with reverence. He wasn’t trying to possess you.

He was saying thank you. I see you. I choose you.

It was the kind of kiss that stitched something eternal into your soul, a kiss that whispered across every nerve ending like a benediction. When he finally pulled back, breathless and forehead pressed to yours, he lingered his nose brushing yours, eyes closed like he didn’t want to open them just yet. Like the world would be too bright compared to this feeling.

And when his voice came, it was no louder than a thread pulled from a dream. “I’ll never stop kissing you like that,” he murmured. “Even when we’re wrinkled and grey, and arguing over whether the cat can sleep on the bed.”

You smiled, your thumbs swiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Forever’s going to be so good,” you whispered back.

Roscoe, who’d been dozing quietly near the foot of the bed, gave a soft, contented huff and stretched before gently padding over. He nudged his nose against your shin and flopped down, his weight pressing gently into your leg as if to say, I approve. I’m staying right here too.

Lewis kissed you again - forehead, cheeks, nose, lips and then pulled back just enough to press the ring onto your finger with hands that shook slightly but never faltered. The metal felt cool and perfect against your skin, like it had been waiting there, just like you had.

And there, in that quiet slice of heaven beneath linen sheets, in the arms of the man who had seen every version of you and loved each one you didn’t just feel loved.

You felt chosen.

[i-am-cybersmith]

@kurganfilledwithbearbones, I think you are making something of a strawman of right-wing arguments.

When we argue for neofeudalism, we aren't calling for an end to antibiotics, running water, and crop rotation.

We want to return to a system of decentralised, hereditary government. We want most matters of criminal justice, civil justice, and civic administration to be handled at a local level by landowning aristocrats who are familiar with the particular circumstances of the people they rule over. We want to be employed by those close to us, not bureacrats and investors who live a hunded miles away and do not know our names.

Let's go through your cited examples.

Grave goods: there's a LOT of speculation there. We don't know if people ate pescetarian diets by choice, or what the exact meaning of decapitated bodies in graves was.

Mutilation: there's even more speculation here! The archeologists flat out admit that they don't know why she was injured like that! Their historical sources note that such punishments were reserved for SERIOUS crimes; for all we know, this was a migration-period Lucy Letby!

Carbon Monoxide: no, we just have microplastics in our blood and a thousand addictive drugs that can ruin our lives, such as fentanyl, which can cause overdoses with quantities so small you can barely see them. Every age has its pollutants.

Judaism: ...are you seriously arguing that Jews wouldn't be BETTER OFFas property of the king? The article you liked explicitly pointed out that this afforded them protection! Compare that to nowadays, when people like Jeremy Corbyn hold political power, and musicians at Glastonbury chant what are sometimes percieved as antisemitic slogans! Jews would probably go back to being royal property in a heartbeat if it were an option for them!

Morlock Holmes and @certifiedsophist are correct. We can restore the good things about the past without undoing the benefits of industrialisation. At the very least, we can try.

girl help they're putting "modern people under capitalism work more than medieval peasants" posts on my dash again

[cece693]

TO LOVE A PETTY MAN (OR TWO)

pairing: hannigram x male reader synopsis: You knew dating one jealous man was a lot. Dating two? Practically a full-time job. Especially when said men are pouting because you wouldn't let them murder a single mother for simply saying you remind her of her ex.

You really hadn’t done anything. That was the frustrating part. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t wink. You didn’t even make lingering eye contact. All you did was help a woman in the grocery store pick up her runaway bag of apples. One of them had rolled dramatically under the organic pasta shelf, and being the decent human being you were, you retrieved it.

Then she had the audacity—the absolute nerve—to say:

"You know, you look just like my ex."

You laughed politely. Politely. Because what else were you supposed to do? Burst into flames? But Hannibal had stopped examining the bottle of balsamic vinegar. Will had paused, mid-scan of the cheese labels. And from that moment on, the rest of the grocery trip turned into a slow, brooding descent into melodrama.

You’d barely made it to the car before Will muttered: “What kind of ex are we talking about? Ex-husband? Ex-lover? Ex-convict?”

You blinked, seatbelt halfway across your chest. “Will—”

“She said it too casually,” Hannibal interjected from the backseat like a passenger in a mafia film. “As if comparing you to her previous romantic entanglement wasn’t deeply offensive to your current ones.”

You turned in your seat. ��Are you seriously mad that she said I looked like someone?”

“She called you handsome,” Will added.

“She said I looked like her ex.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal said, eyes glinting. “Implying she mourns his absence and desires a replacement.”

“She was picking out Lunchables for her kid, not trying to woo me, for God’s sake.”

Will crossed his arms. “Well, you were very charming about it.”

You gaped. “I handed her an apple, Will.”

“Chivalry is not dead,” Hannibal said dryly, “but apparently monogamy is wounded.”

Back home, the pettiness reached new levels.

Will spent the next hour vacuuming aggressively while glancing at you like you’d run off to Cuba with the single mother . Meanwhile, Hannibal cooked a dinner that looked suspiciously like someone’s heart. You didn’t ask questions. You weren’t that brave.

“So,” you said at dinner, tapping your fork against your plate, “are you two gonna tell me why my apple-picking skills are being punished like war crimes?”

Will grumbled into his wine.

Hannibal said, “I simply find it interesting how quickly you engaged with a stranger over produce.”

“Oh my God.” You laughed, almost choked. “Are you two jealous?”

Will’s fork halted in mid-air.

Hannibal blinked slowly, like a cat caught knocking something off a table. “Of a woman with a child and bad taste in exes? Certainly not.”

“She did drive a Subaru,” Will added. “Very judgmental.”

You put your fork down. “Okay. First of all, you're both being insane. Secondly, it’s funny as hell. Third—no, Hannibal, you’re not allowed to kill anyone just because they breathe near me.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “I wasn’t going to kill her.”

“He was going to kill her,” Will said blandly.

“Thank you, Will.”

“You’re welcome.”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “You two are supposed to be grown men. One’s a genius psychiatrist and the other’s a federal consultant, yet both of you are pouting like I kissed her under the mistletoe.”

Will lifted a shoulder. “Wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t have that face.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for being born with symmetrical features,” you deadpanned.

Hannibal, ever elegant, took a slow sip of his wine before offering, “We simply wish to remind you of our exclusivity clause.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean the part where you both get irrational when someone compliments me?”

Will shrugged again. “It’s not irrational. You’re hot.”

Hannibal nodded solemnly. “It’s very inconvenient for us, emotionally.”

You stared at them both in disbelief, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Next time,” Will continued, pointing a fork at you, “just let the apple roll. Let it rot. You don’t need to talk to strangers.”

Hannibal placed a hand over his heart. “Let the apples go, darling. Think of us.”

“You two need therapy.”

“You are our therapy,” they said in unison.

You put your head in your hands.

“Just to clarify,” Will said a minute later, “if she were to fall down a flight of stairs, purely by accident, we’d still be clear, right?”

“No, Will.”

“Right, right. Just checking.”

You fell asleep that night in the middle of the bed, their limbs tangled around you like the world might steal you in your sleep. Which, to be fair, wasn’t impossible with the way they glared at the world for merely existing in your general direction. But honestly? It was kind of cute. In an over-possessive, “might-murder-a-soccer-mom” kind of way. And you suppose, for better or worse, being loved by two dangerous men meant the produce aisle would never be safe again.

[r0-boat]

Fuck fuck fuck No one has done any NSFW alphabet for date everything and I'm sick of this

Mac NSFW Alphabet

Human!Mac x Gn!reader

Cw: cyber stalking, obsessive behavior, hacking into your electronics, voyeurism, panty sniffing, going to be as vague as possible with Mac's genitalia Go fucking wild y'all,

Disclaimer: I am an able-bodied person writing for an ambulatory wheelchair user. If I was disrespectful or unknowledgeable in any way, please let me know. The amount of research can never compare to someone who has actually experienced it. Thank you for your patience.

All right now finally to the sex!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Mac always gets into this haze of, ' Wow... This is really mine...' And it really shows when Mac babbles about how good you look right now. When you notice them, try to get up out of bed to get you some water, your body shoots up, but Mac just puts a hand on your shoulder, talking in a soft voice, giving you those eyes that make you melt. "No, no, it's okay Baby... I got it. Just stay there. I want to take care of you. "

You watch them wheel out of the bedroom. Before coming back with a glass of water.

"Your body needs water. This is hardly an adequate amount... Especially after the... Heh heh~ workout I put you through... But it's better than nothing. Honestly, I would want nothing more than just to hold you. " Their words are smooth, a little bit of a growl at the end as they get up from their wheelchair and move to the bed, handing you the glass of water before wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close...

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

"I don't understand why humans make such a big deal about the flesh on another's body"

Mac says while ravaging your body with their eyes. Forgetting that they are now human. God damn it They thought you were sexy before but now they can physically feel everything. Every part of you drives them mad to no end. Is this what the phrase "hormonal teenager" truly means?

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Yes yes yes yes yes gods yes. In your mouth in their mouth inside you....

Oh God let them come inside you...

But there is nothing and I mean nothing that would drive Mac as crazy as seeing any of your clothing drenched or stained with cum or your juices. The moment they slide your underwear down and see what you are, they shudder, licking their lips. Their mouth salivating for a taste.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Usually, Mac shares everything openly with you, because you have shared everything with them as they used to be your desktop computer and all...

Well except for one thing...

Mac used to know everything about you. Now that they're human, it's hard to adjust to the fact that they can't know everything you're doing like they used to. You used to spend half or more of your day just with them.

They have bugged all devices to continue watching you, and I mean a lot, whether it be accessing your camera, watching your screen, or tracking your location.

It's not that they don't trust you or they think you might be cheating, no, no, no. They could never even dream of thinking about you in that way.

It's a desperate need to know and watch you do everything, especially on specific sites.

Actually, it's Mac's favorite thing to do: watch you from your phone or computer camera, whimper, gasp, and touch yourself.

And they'll touch themselves, yeah, sure, they could just call you or initiate sex. But there's something about watching you when you don't know you're being watched that is insanely hot.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Well yes. They have. But that was before they became human And they'll never do it again. Because now they know all they want is you.

Yes, Mac knows that they won't be absolutely perfect in bed. But they assure you that they are a very quick learner.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

During sex Mac prefers to be in control; more on the dominant side whether it top or bottom.

However, if you're a service top, they will just melt like butter on a hot knife in your hands. If you're any other top they will just be a brat and try to take control.

Anywhere where they can see your face is preferred. Watching your face twist in the reactions they drive out of you. Of course how could they say no to a good cowgirl.

Mac loves loves doggy style They don't do it often, since after a while it becomes painful, But oh boy that's the pleasure and your cute little screams are worth it.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

They don't mind being goofy, and they of course don't mind when you're goofy. But they're just more serious. More focused on wanting you just scream their name. More focused on how ragingly horny they are for you.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Mac usually shaves everything and then lets it grow over time rinses, repeat. Probably once or twice a month, depending on how busy.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Oh, Mac cannot keep their hands and lips off you. Kissing every part of your body, their hands roaming, feeling every inch. They've known you for so long and so well, now they get to know you in other ways, and they're not letting this opportunity pass up. Mac will explain in detail what part of you is and why it's so attractive. Mac will put it into words explaining the times you've made them so hard and when they wanted to bend you over and fuck you. If you're shy when it comes to sexy or not going to survive a night with them.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Mac for the first half a year of being a human They have never touched themselves... They never needed to in the past I mean it's really hard to pleasure yourself when you're a computer. But now that they're a human the thought of touching themselves slip their mind because... they have you now.

And now (around the same time they bugged your electronics), Mac opened their tablet to check up on you as you're on a work trip. They turned on an app, and their eyes widened. You're cute little moans and your hands between your legs, and that's a sweet, sweet sound that Mac knows very well. Their breath shook. They watched for a while until the tightness in their core became too great, their hand slid into their pants, and the rest was history.

They don't touch themselves until they somehow cannot get to you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Marking (biting, hickies)

Voyeurism

Watching porn together IDK

Praise

Rough sex

Mutual masturbation

Lingerie

Body worship

Bratting

Overstimulation

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

They much rather do it at home. You can get away with initiating private places in public. But Mac really much rather do it at home.

But at home however... Every piece of furniture ❤️

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

If you want Mac to fuck you till two of You need a second wheelchair. Lingerie. Lingerie or any piece of clothing that hugs your body just right.

Thigh high stockings? Fuck yes!

Chokers or collars? So hot!

Pretty lace wrapped around your body? Take it off before They ripped that shit off.

A nice outfit You are about to wear for their date? their eyes will be on you all night thinking about what they're going to do to you.

Nothing except in apron? Mac will not keep their hands off you to let you cook.

If you wear their oversized t-shirt it would do some things to them...

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Mac fooled around with some people and safe to say you are the only one they want. That being said. Mac is a little territorial about the time you spend with them. They've had your attention And they are used to having that attention for hours on end. Mac will not do a threesome...

Mac will not do anything dangerous.

Mac will not also do anything illegal... (Except for the stalking but shh) fucking in public is a maybe... Very big maybe. I'm sure if you tease them enough they will fuck you good.

Mac will never not a million years do anything unhygienic

Not necessarily a turn off but it's something they can't do... And that's degrade. They cannot degrade you for the life of them they're just terrible at it. They can only and only ever say nice things to you!

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Yes, yes, yes, Mac gives like they are starving. They have a huge oral fixation, a thirst they cannot quench. No matter how many hours they spend between your legs.

And of course that goes receiving but not surprising They will run their fingers through your hair and pat your head while you put your mouth around them licking and sucking and they will talk you through at the whole time.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Hahaha Mac kept some of that restless stamina they had as a computer. They start off slow and sensual but slowly they devolve into fast and hard occasionally switching between the two. They just can't control themselves around you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Mac loves quickies in theory, but every time they do one, they just want more. And then suddenly, something that was supposed to be quick sex before the grocery store ended up being. Go to the grocery store tomorrow because they're too busy being deep inside you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Mac is still trying to get a risky side to them. Before they kind of couldn't afford to be risky since they had your most important data and personal stuff.

However experimentation? Yes, yes, yes, Mac is researching all sorts of stuff to make your sex life more exciting. So many positions to try with you... So many toys to test. So many kinks to explore.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

One thing that Mac kept when becoming realized Is there ungodly stamina. Mac can fuck you for hours with multiple rounds and still Have enough energy to take a stroll with you around town. Despite your limping body.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I hope you prepared to be a little test subject for sex toys You will always be the first to test out a toy before they do it themselves. And they will watch and enjoy, every second.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Since becoming a human Mac has been obsessed with the anatomy of a human. But instead of looking at diagrams of books They rather just lay on the bed and play in poke and prod between your legs. Fingering and stroking their eyes starting back up to see how you react.

With a mischievous smirk on their face they will lick and suck. Watching you is their favorite activity.

And in turn Mac Will happily endure and enjoy any teasing you give them back. Then you'll come to find out that Mac is far more vocal being teased.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Mac is on the quieter side, with grunts moans and whimpers. Though they do have a tendency to talk you through it.

"come on baby You're so close I can feel you squeezing me come on I know you can do it... You're so cute when you cum, come on give it to me... "

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Mac is a notorious panty thief. If the two of you fuck in public I'm 99% sure they are pocketing your panties and you're going to have to go command over the rest of the day.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Dick: circumcised, large and veiny, bigger than average (and is very proud of that)

Vagina: small closed outer lip! With a clit bigger than most AFAB people. And that glit it's extremely sensitive. Double click it and see how much they squirm ;)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

HIGH! HIGH! THROUGH THE ROOF.

They need your body so bad.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Nope, after care and cuddles first. They ensure you have everything you need, and you sleep before they sleep. Sometimes they even want more, but wait to see if you feel the same way.

[sadboyeddie]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐨𝐛: 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐀 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐰

Summary: Bob has a little fun and things escalate

Warnings: (MDNI 18+) Fem!Reader, No Use Of Y/N, CNC, Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Masturbation, Come Play, Somno

A/N: This is from Bobby Boys POV and it gets darkish. Pretty tame compared to how I want this to go but still. This isn’t as long as the other chapters. I was having a tough time with this one so I hope it’s worth it. I did enjoy writing from Bob’s pov but let me know what you think.

WC: 2.5k

When Bob arrives back at the Tower he's greeted with silence. 

It's not too late but everyone has retired to their own rooms for the evening. 

If he's lucky he probably has about half an hour until you make it back, so while he waits he heads back to his room to grab some clothes and place your torn panties under his pillow.

But before he deposits them he takes a strong whiff of the material, groaning at your scent as he feels his cock starting to grow hard in his jeans. He presses down on the growing bulge before getting back to what he was previously doing; grabbing his clothes and heading to your room. 

As much as he wants for you to come back and catch him in your shower, again , he decides to make it quick this time. Plenty of time to fool around later. 

When you enter your room it's with a warm blissed expression; you're practically glowing, and Bob feels a sense of pride knowing that it was him who done that.

It takes you a second to realise he's sitting on your bed, back against the headboard with his knees to his chest watching you intensely with a small smile.

You slightly jump and let out an adorable squeak, a deep crimson covering your face as Bob clears his throat. He was tossing up whether or not to let you go about your business unaware of him but he loves to see you squirm. 

"Bob!" Your voice is loud and unsure, eyes not able to make contact as you try to scold him. "What are you doing here?"

He can't help how amused he sounds when he responds, "why wouldn't I be here?"

You stare at him in disbelief before averting your gaze once again. "Because it's my room?" You emphasise, "yours is down the hall."

He does his best to pretend like he doesn't notice your uncomfortable squirming, the scent of both of you slowly starting to dribble down your thighs. Thankfully he's wearing his comfy sweats and they hide his erection pretty good. 

"You've never complained before," he pouts and puts on his best sad voice. "I c-can go."

In an instant he sees your stance falter as you look to him slightly apologetically. Works like a charm.

He does feel a little bad manipulating you but you didn't have to make it so easy. And besides, he knows what's best for you, even if you don't. 

"I'm," you take a breath before continuing, "I'm sorry, sweetheart." 

He perks up in his spot, smile gracing his face, you let out a small smile of your own while watching him. 

"You can stay," you speak softy, moving over to your drawers. "But I'm going to have a shower."

"Don't be too long," he grins as you huff out a small laugh. 

While you're in the shower, Bob lies back against the pillow; getting comfy under the blankets, making sure to give you the pillow he was grinding against last night, the one he made sure to smear his pre come on. A sigh leaves his lips as he gets comfortable before slipping his hand under the covers and palming his prominent bulge. 

He bites back a groan as he presses more firmly against his cock, thumbing over the head as he feels the wet patch staining his sweats. As much as he wants to come he decides to wait for you to return. He has something special planned. 

Thankfully he doesn't have to wait long before you're stepping out of the shower, skin still red and slightly damp. The urge to lick the remaining droplets of water sliding down your face is overwhelming but he's surprisingly able to hold himself back. For now.

"Feel better?" His question is full of innocence but he relishes in the way you swallow around nothing, looking a little nervous as your eyes look anywhere but at him. 

"Yep," you nod and slide into bed beside him, but far too close to the edge. 

He lets out a small whine and a deep frown, not hiding his displeasure. This wont do at all. 

"C'mere," He turns to his side and reaches over to grab your arm, you let out a weak protest but he is far too strong for you to fight against. 

He manhandles you until your back is pressed against his chest, barely any space left between you. He knows, judging by your small gasp, you can feel his hard cock digging into your hip but he pays it no mind as he wraps his arm around your stomach, hand coming under the material of your shirt to rest on your soft skin, grip tight so you can’t move away.

"Bob-" your alarmed and confused voice starts to protest but he cuts you off with a soft hush. 

"Shh," he presses a gently kiss to the back of your head, "jus' go to sleep."

Thanks to his enhanced senses he can hear your heart going a mile a minute, can practically feel the gears turning in your head trying to think and overthink everything that is currently happening. But he can also smell you. Smell the instant you started dripping into your panties. 

"I said go to sleep, honey," his voice is sleepy but there is a tone behind it that has you forcing your body to relax, within a minute you’re soft and pliant in his hold, a pleased groan vibrating from his chest against your back. "Good girl."

The praise is whispered against your hair, quiet and barely there but you hear. 

30 minutes pass and he is pleased with how quickly you fell asleep, your body always responds so well to him. Almost like he's been training it.

With practised ease he slowly retracts his hand from your stomach, enjoying the small sounds you let out in your sleep. He places his hand on your hip, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles, taking his time to make sure you don’t wake up.

He’s noticed that when you sleep beside him you often sleep a lot heavier, not needing to be so on guard all the time. A warm feeling of adoration and something else, fills his chest, thrilled knowing that you feel safe with him. As you should. He’ll always protect you.

He slowly presses his hips forward, biting back a groan at the delicious pressure of your body against his cock, hard and leaking in his sweats.

He sits up on his elbow and as gently as he can grips the waistband of your shorts before slowly starting to ease them down your legs.

Once again he has to manhandle your pliant body; much easier to do when you’re unconscious, being careful not to jostle you too much. He doesn’t need you to wake up right now and spoil the fun.

Once your shorts are by the foot of the bed he leans down and places a soft kiss to your exposed shoulder, he rests his lips against your skin and closes his eyes as he takes in a deep breath, letting the smell of your body wash ground him.

Your body moving against his and rubbing against his cock snaps him out of his trance, a small whine tumbling from his mouth.

“Tease,” he mumbles as he lays back down behind you, bringing his hand to hold firmly against your stomach.

With slow cautious movements he begins to grind his hips forward, pressing his cock against the back of your thighs.

He thrusts his hips a few more times, allowing himself to get lost in the pleasure, before he slides his hand down your stomach; fingers briefly running across the waistband of your panties before dipping them inside.

You let out a soft sigh at the feeling but show no indication of being awake. He wastes no time pressing his finger against your clit, you subconsciously buck your hips forward, seeking out more of his touch.

He smiles into your hair as he slides his other hand between your neck and the pillow, moving it so it rests warm against your chest.

You subconsciously nuzzle against his arm and his heart swells in his chest at the action. You’re so cute.

As he continues his lazy pace grinding against you he slides his fingers further down, spreading your folds and teasing over your slick entrance.

His nostrils flare as he takes in your scent, sweet but with a hint of him. Even after your shower you couldn’t remove him completely from inside you. Good .

He rubs his digits through your slick; spreading it around, he lets out a grunt at the wet sounds he’s making between your legs. Sliding his hand upwards he spreads your slick over your clit, thumbing against the swollen bundle as you let out a needy whine.

His patience is starting to run thin the closer he gets to his climax, he begins to speed up his pace a little while increasing the pressure of his thrusts.

Your sounds of pleasure are becoming more frequent, the soft whimpers falling from your lips spurring him closer to his own release. He slides his soaked fingers back down between your folds before pushing a finger into your tight hole.

You let out a gasp followed by a whine at the intrusion, he stills his movements completely and uses his senses to check if you’re awake; after a breath he thankfully realises that you’re still dead asleep. Something inside him snaps with that information.

He wonders if he could fuck you while you sleep, never waking as he empties himself deep inside you.

Unfortunately that will have to wait for another time.

He resumes his movements, plunging his finger inside you until you’ve taken him right down to the knuckle, he starts to build up the thrust of his hips as he slowly pulls his finger out before pushing it back in; beginning a gentle rhythm.

With the hand that is on your chest he moves it down slowly and dips it into your tank top; he takes a handful of the soft tissue of your breast before thumbing over your hardening nipple.

As he feels his climax approaching he pulls his finger from your pussy and underwear in one swift movement before reaching for his sweats and shoving them down his thighs, he strokes his cock once, twice, three times, making sure to spread your slick over his hardened member.

He runs the tip of his cock against the back of your thighs, smearing his pre come before pushing forward and sandwiching his cock between your legs.

His head falls forward against your shoulder and he lets out a choked moan at the snug fit. The sensation of your damp panties against him mixed with the tight squeeze of your thighs has him forcing back his orgasm, not wanting this to end just yet.

You’re still blissfully unaware of what’s happening, at least your mind is; your body is responding entirely to his actions.

You start to subconsciously grind and clench against his cock, small whimpers falling from your lips as you seek out your own pleasure.

The warm clenching of your thighs is what snaps him back into action; he slides his fingers back into your panties but this time he plunges two digits inside before starting a quick pace.

He pinches your nipple between his fingers as he starts to thrust his hips, his pre come leaks against your thighs helping his actions to become more smooth. His pelvis hits against your back as he thrusts deep and hard against you, the bed starting to rock with his movements.

Every time he pulls his fingers out the head of his cock rubs against them, if he move your panties to the side he could probably run his tip through your folds.

He saves that idea for next time as he continues his harsh pace, matching his hands to his hips movements as he snaps forward. You let out a breathless whine every time his palm slaps down against your clit, the sensation driving you closer to the edge.

You cry out in your sleep, back arching and thighs squeezing tight as you reach your peak. You clench around his fingers making it slightly more difficult for him to continue fucking you. Not impossible though.

His cock starts to throb as his balls tighten, the sounds you’re making tied with the grip your pussy has on his fingers push him towards his release.

With a small struggle he pulls his hand free from your panties and pulls his cock from where it’s wedged snuggly between your thighs, a small disappointed sigh leaving his lips, but with a few quick strokes he lets out his own debauched moan, eyes flickering gold as he spills his seed over your thigh, painting you in his come.

Small whines fall from his lips as he continues to stroke his sensitive cock, milking it of all his come. Once he’s sure there’s nothing left to give he lets go of his softening member and places his hand on your hip, fingers trailing through his mess.

Your whining has quietened down but you’re still panting for breath, he can feel your heart beating madly against your chest where his hand still has a tight grip on your breast.

Once your breathing has evened out he scoops some of his come onto his fingers before lowering his hand back between your legs, he nudges the material of you panties to the side before fucking his come into your fluttering, overused hole.

You let out a high pitched whimper at the intrusion, subconsciously trying to move your hips away from the oversensitivity, but with him against your back and hand holding your chest there’s nowhere for you to squirm.

He ignores your slightly pained whines, he knows what you can handle , as he continues to push his seed deep inside you. He gathers some more before repeating the process.

A small almost soundless sob leaves your lips, the uncomfortable feeling getting too much and he reluctantly pulls back. He presses a few kisses to your shoulder in a form of apology as he rests his hand back on your hip.

“S-Sorry, honey,” he nuzzles his damp forehead against your shoulder. “Can’t help myself.”

You seem to relax at the sound of his voice, making him let out a pleased hum.

He pulls his sweats back up as he tucks himself away, deciding against putting your shorts back on; it’ll be more fun that way. He drags his fingers through the left over come on your hip before a sick idea passes through his head. He gathers up the rest of the slick and brings his fingers to your mouth, it doesn’t take much for him to push his stained digits past your lips and onto your tongue.

You let out a muffled sound and swallow around his fingers, he pushes down against your tongue, using it to clean himself before you sleepily take the hint and start sucking.

He buries his face against the back of your head, inhaling the smell of your conditioner as you lick between his fingers. Even while asleep you’re so receptive of his touch.

You were made for him.

You let out a soft muffled sigh around his fingers and the gentle action lulls him into a deep sleep.

He’s eager to see where things go tomorrow.

Tag List Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list @stars4birdie @gabrielchanel5 @alltimelowsuckedmydick @msfirth @deadpoolgirl23 @horrorbloodhound @dandydilfdiddler @ryswritingrecord @my-name-is-baby @magicwithaknife @lewispullsman @silvershadow1711 @chimchoom @cherrycola27 @mommymilkers0526 @articel1967 @dark-silhoutte @colonyofpotatoes @daddyrafeslittleslut @hellfirehopeless

[nyxaffixed]

Jumping on this because WOW THE DISCOURSE

I do not agree with the anon, just saying, but comparing your works to others is just a recipe for your own downfall. As someone who is a small artist, the best thing to do for yourself if you feel this way is to log off. I’m serious. Stressing about numbers to the point of blaming bigger artists for your lack of attention is not the way to go.

I am a seriously envious person, I will admit, so so an extent I understand where they are coming from, but this is a seriously unhealthy way to view your art.

It’s hard getting little attention for stuff you work really hard at, yeah, but what’s helped me is drawing and creating for ME FIRST and treating my art as something I’m making for myself and THEN putting on here if anyone else might like it.

And another thing! There are soooooo many fics in fandom spaces that don’t have art. I’m thinking of Nebrasska from the sonic fandom specifically here, great fics, but I don’t recall seeing them draw anything. But if you want art for your fic for traction why not commission small artists to do so? Even if you can’t afford it, there are some artists, like myself, that may draw something if you ask nicely. (I cannot speak for many artists there, just on the fact that I don’t do commissions and only take suggestions atm)

Before I start this, I love TROD. Fantastic fanfiction, beautiful art, wonderful story. Absolutely no hate to the AU or the creator because I love both.

This fandom also loves TROD… and nothing but TROD. The favoritism is getting really annoying. I’m sick of looking for fic recs just to see TROD every other comment. It’s like being recommended Percy Jackson over and over. Everyone’s read it, everyone loves it. PLEASE recommend something else.

Tied with that: please share fics that don’t have art. This fandom (and every fandom but especially this one) has such a suffocating preference for fanart and I’m sick of it. You can be a wonderful artist but a learning writer and gets loads of attention, but if it’s the opposite? If you’re an incredible writer who can just sorta draw? Good luck getting noticed for your talents. Doesn’t help that Ao3 doesn’t have an algorithm but art-based platforms do and will, by default, flush out all the pure writing content/creators.

All art is art. Please show it the love it deserves, and don’t toss aside a story just because there aren’t visuals accompany it.

.

[prometheus-rewound]

The theme for Cloudward Ho is already so good: The innocence of nature vs the haunted wisdom of man.

Like, it’s EVERYWHERE. Literally the first few lines after the intro flashback include “the Human Project.”

I mean obviously the mushrooms are a huge clue. Brennan literally says they are there to punish people’s hubris for trying to overpower nature.

But there are so many other good parts of this:

Montgomery— who fits the genre of a poacher, Teddy Roosevelt figure, is fighting to save nature. He sees the hearts of animals.

Even the bits— the Brontosaurus in the fighting ring gets compared to a bear frightened by stage lights, two animals being exploited by humans, who don’t have the capacity to understand what they are being made to do. “Chip, the bear doesn’t know it’s in a competition” was both funny and hit me like a truck.

None of the dinosaurs are Jurassic Park monsters. They are animals— intelligent, emotional, but still innocent because they aren’t plotting some larger goal.

I mean the real stand out moment was the Legio Rex bit. Like, it makes you think about that yea, humans at the end of the day are just animals too, but we have the capacity to understand the horrors happening to them. While the velociraptor-mind-people were just confused and frightened, the Legio Rex were forced to understand more than they could bare and little ate themselves to stay sane.

Human curiosity, progress, and wisdom is the villain this season I have my money on it. Like even Comfrey’s work is going to have some twist to it. Like she has the hubris to try and control nature, which is why she is able to be somewhat aligned with Mordershire— they both have the same hubris. Because as humans we have the insane ability to deconstruct how the universe functions and they is a blessing and curse to every other creature we share the planet with.

[autisticblitz]

Thoughts on the beasts: are they redeemable?

A long post where I ramble about this topic cause yes

I personally find that people treat this topic as too black or white. Namely, Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar are hot topics in the fandom for being the easiest beasts to sympathise with. Some people take this too far to justify all of their actions while others act like they are PURE IRREDEEMABLE EVIL to the point even their genuine emotions and feelings are taken as manipulation or lies.

The beasts ARE villains in the story, as of right now. But they are more complex than simply being evil or good. It is also hard to juge them fully when we actually know so very little about them. We have vague backstories, and their two beast yeast chapters to go off of, and thats it. (unless you're shadow milk then we have a little more to go off of but you get it.)

My personal belief is that all the beasts will be redeemed in one way or another. I truly believe they ALL have potential for growth and to become better people once again (Yes. Including Burning Spice since I know people will try to exclude him)

I understand the sentiment that some people have where they WANT them to be just pure evil with no redeemable traits, but I honestly feel that would be rather boring. They are incredibly fun, popular characters, with so much potential for more story and growth, that making their ending death or being sealed away again feels... lacking.

What I want to see is an "awakening" for the beasts when they redeem, an opposite to their other halves, where through the kindess and generosity the ancients show them, they are able to be healed. It would be a much more meaningful direction for them to go, and would show just how amazing the Ancients are, being able to overcome their corrupted other halves and bring them out of the dark as well.

I can't personally see the beasts going any other way but redemption, considering the fact Dark Enchantress plans on betraying them, I feel it is ineveitable that they will side with the Ancients and fight alongside them.

I feel that most people who believe them all to be irredeemable struggle with the idea that a person can do a bad thing and not be a bad person. When it comes to all of the beasts, they are hurt, traumatized, pushed to a brink, and overwhelmed with power. Feeling betrayed by their own people, and their creators.

This isn't a justification for their actions, it's not that simple, they all did bad things, but are they inherently evil? I don't believe they are. There was a time they wished and fought for peace and happiness for everyone, and their corruptions were a corruption of their wills brought on by the pressures of their virtues.

When we compare this to characters who are irredeemable evil, I just don't see WHY people believe they are incapable of redemption. I think of characters like Frolo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame or Belos from The Owl House. These are characters who acted purely out of hatred and control. And they are GOOD villains! But the Beasts are NOTHING like them.

People may have a hard time viewing them as redeemable because they aren't manipulated or decieved into acting on the side they do. Yes, Dark Enchantress promised them new bodies and that they could be whole again, but they were evil before that. Characters like Zuko from ATLA, Hunter from toh, or Catra from She-ra are easier for people to digest as redeemable characters despite doing some pretty heinous things, because there was a power imbalance with someone manipulating them or society that follows a certain ideology that they happened to be born into, indoctrinated from a young age to believe the things they did were right and justified.

As I mentioned, the beasts evil comes from a corruption of their will, their virtue. They believe their old way of thinking was wrong and the new way is correct and justified. It’s not about control, power, or hatred. It’s about their view of the world shifting to a corrupted version.

Knowledge > Deceit

Volition > Apathy

Happiness > Sloth

Change > Destruction

Solidarity > Silence

I personally believe this is what makes the beasts interesting especially if they are redeemed. The concept of being bad then changing and being good is the basis for most every redemption arc in media, it’s rare to see a story where someone starts good, becomes bad, and changes for the better again.

Point being, I think the topic is more complex than whether the beasts are wholly justified for their actions or not. Especially when we still have very limited information on them. Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar especially have the groundwork already laid out for them to be redeemed. Having other halves who believe in their capacity for goodness.

And before anyone comments saying that Shadow Milk rejected Pure Vanilla and thus is evil and wants to continue to be that way please watch that ending scene again. He hesitates. And also. He is the beast of deceit. Why are you believing anything he says or taking it at face value.

Anyway, thanks for reading my random thoughts on this topic!! Excited to see where the main story will be going from here ❤️

[karimationkat]

SPOILERS FOR "Beta - Animation vs. Minecraft Short Ep 0"

Random opinion, observations and interpretations of tco and tdl

The first random thing I like is how tdl immediately starts with violence. Just kicking the block without observing or trying to study it while tco observes the surrounding first.

After a little session of destruction, tdl shows a happy body language while for tco is just dusting himself off.

In comparisons to tdl who kicked away the block, tco is immediately trying to learn the new things.

It's so cute how tco is just showing his little creation to his only friend. Tdl definitely shows a bit of curiosity or at least is ready to slow down a second for tco before going back to violence.

Tco seems protective of his creation, perhaps he is proud/has an attachment to it. Meanwhile tdl seems disappointed- like he is groaning with his head thrown back- that tco doesn't let him destroy it.

However tco gives in and lets his friend destroy his creation. Because it makes tdl happy. It's like a kid who wants to knock over the block tower another kid built.

The was tdl is laughing here. He found his perfect playground.

Just violence, violence and more violence. The way tdl is touching the lava. It's interesting. Maybe because it's just as destructive as he is?

Same with tco. He built a house. A simple cute and cozy house. Does he perchance crave a simple and calm life?

Tco is quick to act with violence/his power when there is perceptible threat. Considering that the Animator used to torment him for three years, maybe he is very sensitive to unexpected things.

The obvious contrast in how tdl vs tco interact with minecraft. Tco is just enjoying his freedom. Even peaceful and relaxed.

Tdl bringing the swords of the zombie pigman. Like trophies of his victory. Or maybe like a cat trying to show affection by bringing dead birds. Or perhaps it was a competition to tdl. He has destroyed so much while tco didn't have any proof.

And tdl is done. He lost interest already. While he seems to be excited/happy by all the destruction he did, that's all what tdl cared about.

Tco on the other hand does need a moment to say goodbye to Minecraft. Even takes a block with him as a keepsake. Tco has the capability of growing attached to thing compared to tdl.

Personal opinion/interpretation:

This entire short just shows how tco is ready to learn, explore new things and capable to grow attached to things. He can form bonds with things and people. On the contrary tdl has no attachment to anything and one- the only thing that he cares about is satisfying his destructive urges- even disregarding his only friend/partners feelings and insisting on destroying something tco was proud and happy about. Tdl definitely likes tco and wants him around but despite that actually barely has an emotional attachment to him. Tco was his partner in crime, to have fun with, someone to show his destruction to. But not his own person with interests and thoughts. The irony being that tdl was the one made FOR tco, not the other way around.

My general opinion/idea is that due to how tco was treated by alan for the 3 years as an ad blocker- his feelings neglected/dismissed- even though he was free now, he is very complacent with tdl, he still expects his feelings and opinions to be ignored. Which is why he enables tdl so much. Maybe because it was "his choice" to reach out to tdl/not finish him, he believes that he was to deal with it because it's freedom that lead him here. He doesn't know about boundaries and how to set them, this may be why he just kidnapped tsc to fight the mercenaries with him.

In short: Oh the toxic doomed queer platonic yaouri that you are chodark.

[majiq]

if i told you that most of my wifes are gods and sometype of angels..

and above the gods there is infinity ampunt of levels which will be never known to the human mind...the max we know is gods..

its impossbile by any means to describe there beauty, taste, natural smell of their body..just impossbile by any means and its real..

the beauty is natural like the tree is natural..compare to plastica and general image how woman need to look like..

above the human there is aliens, above them is another live thing called angels and above them is gods..and above the gods there is infinty amount of levels up to the source,

yes..there is a source to everything..and gods is something different...

in the begining

they didnt believe you can generate electricty forever for free..or to open dimension which is real...

and other real stuff...or bring information..secret knowledge that worth hundred trillions...its proved..not theory..far away...

i can close in phone call the debt of USA which is 40 trillions...not only close to move them to + hundred if trillions...

i can explain to facebook how to make more 50 billions a day without investing single cent...its in front of their face...

50 billion a day...

i know things..ir call its secrets..which no amount of money can buy them...hundred of gazzilions its nothing compare to this...

the mirror people see every day is a smart hard disk that contains information and beyond the word magic...

did you hear about solar hologram..hell ..its beyond words

its even not 0.000000000000000001%..

of what i know...

i explained how electric car charge it self in a second..and you dont need to charge it..if tesla was today ..was put his hat down...

generations and they didnt get to it...such secrets worth hundred trillions...you dont need affiliate such things..its different here..

all the start ups you know is bullshit and we can check them one by one..

i know people that you cannot imagine how powerful they are and who they are..

did you know that there is global hidden police..

G.H.P

which did the most bizarre assinations in the entire history..and i explained one of them.

they did spy after sometype of aliens on earth..the real real man in black...compare to fake stories or the russians capture alien and know there technology and in real time the results are different..stay true i say

i know the man who control all the armies of Europe...and explain him how to generate electricty very is and alot..to not be depended on russia gas

i know the biggest man in usa which is my family...

littel bit about me..

and yes most of my wifes are angels and gods which appear as woman...and the beauty, taste, everything is beyond any words ever will be, if man or woman see them...they will cum forever and its far away from joke... because the body tasted high voltage energy...

above gods there is inifinty amount of levels which i cannot describe their name, abilities in nature and much more compare to the last level known for us which called gods...

all real real...they beauty is natural...and very dangerous to see...

this infinity is seen everywhere in nature...the see, space, air...

and all our reality with whatever inside there from dimensions and other stuff is a littel dot in a mystical card...and we will never know what go in other dot...

when you move dimension..you still inside your reality..its have infinty deepness...

now why its like this...the answer is simple...

from dinosaur burn something big compare to butterfly..the genetics DNA is different..

so why this reality is big and only dot in the end in a mystical card...is because the source..what ** burn from

ABA

mean dad is from Kabbalah..and its impossible to explain it deeply its so far away for the human mind...

its called the desret that burn from dad and why its so big...in the real Kabbalah there is explanations about the dna..of

ABA...

real science, not theory..or philosophical empaty talk which lead to depression..

we are one sand from the desret which is infinty... imagine for a second that the reality/sand we are in...is infinty...from dimensions to wormhole..gods..aliens..

and way more beyond our imaginations..and in the end is just one sand from the infinty desret which called the card..we will never ever know what goes in different sands..

yet the reality/sand we are in is beyond any imagination from infinty to other things...

[hood-ex]

Petition to end Dick and Damian as close because Damian is, “His Robin.” Why is everyone and their mom saying Dick and Damian are super close because they were batman and robin when Tim was “his Robin” as Batman first in Prodigal. With that in their history and being the closest thing to brothers first that makes them closer than some one forcefully dropped in Dick’s lap and they didn’t like each other.

When it’s explained why their favourite pair are Damian and Dick they may as well explain it’s Tim and Dick they’re looking for. Brothers-of-all-time. Father figure and son. Supported in tough cases. Batman and Robin.

Are you a Tim stan perchance? Because I hate to say it buuut... this reeks of jealousy. And like I get it, especially as someone who adores sibling characters, I get it. I understand why Tim stans in particular would be bitter about Damian coming in and being someone Dick ends up really caring about. It feels like Tim and Dick's relationship gets left in the dark to some extent, or it feels like it's overlooked, yada yada. I get it.

But. You're diminishing one relationship in favor of another when both relationships can be celebrated instead. Probably easier for a Dick stan because Dick stans are fed either way. Again, I get it.

You say Damian was forcefully dropped in Dick's lap (even though Dick ended up choosing to stay and take responsibility for Damian), but Tim also forced his way into Dick's life. I also don't know what scenes or stories you may be thinking of to compare Dick and Tim to a father and son. Even with the YJ issue where Dick shows up at the parent-teacher conference, it's more akin to Dick being like, "Bruce couldn't make it so I'm here." AKA dad couldn't come so big brother is here to fill in.

Also, Tim originally came on the scene to be Batman's partner. I mean, he wanted Dick to take Robin back after Jason's death, but circumstances led to him being Robin instead. Not Robin to Dick's Nightwing, but Robin to Bruce's Batman. That's why Tim is always going to be strongly associated as Bruce's Robin instead of Dick's Robin (well and because of Bruce and Tim's lengthy time as partners, obviously).

Damian didn't have Bruce to partner with when he became Robin, he had Dick. Their partnership took place across multiple titles with multiple stories. That's why people are going to associate Damian as Dick's Robin. Sure, you can say Tim was Dick's Robin as well, because he was, but let's be real, he's always going to be more of Bruce's Robin than anyone's. When people hear "Batman and Robin" in relation to Tim, they're going to immediately think of Bruce and Tim. When people hear "Batman and Robin" in relation to Damian, they're most likely going to think of Dick and Damian and then think of Damian and Bruce.

It's okay to say you favor Dick and Tim's relationship over Dick and Damian's relationship, but let's not act like Dick and Damian's relationship isn't distinct from Dick and Tim's. And let's not act like Dick and Damian can't or shouldn't be considered close because of their time as partners.

The issue you seem to have is Damian being perceived as having a better or closer relationship to Dick than Tim. Again, we can celebrate both relationships. Dick and Tim are close in their own way. Dick and Damian are close in their own way. It doesn't have to be one or the other, it can be and is both.

[cindol]

࿐ ｡˚ 𖦹 my mind rubbed two sticks together to think of the idea of popboy!armin and video vixen!black fem reader .

cw — fluff, slight suggestive-ness, not mentioned or described but afab reader, cliff hanger kinda

a/n — this been in the draftz for tew long so, call it spring cleaning !! might make a part 2 who knows !

popboy!armin always wanted you to star in one of his music videos even before he gained popularity from the general public. You just attracted him and in every music video you were in, despite being there for eye candy you just commended attention in the room.

it didn’t matter the music video was about the man in the video that was singing or rapping. You looked sexy so the youtube comments were always about you.

instead of having his team reach out to you popboy!armin reached out to you himself in instagram dms. Sending you a text that said, “hey! I love seeing you around in videos. Would you be down for some work with me?

to popboy!armin’s surpise you replied back with a definite yes because hell, why not! Plus he’s a popstar on the come up and it would be good work for you.

popboy!armin didn’t realize just how fine you truly were until you entered the set of this music video. Your pictures on instagram really didn’t compare to seeing you walk in with a black bikini top and low rise blue jeans and a silver white laced wig on your head.

popboy!armin found everything about you just alluring. How you giggled at someone’s joke on set, even how you asked pointers on how to lay on this mattress.

even after filming the music video popboy!armin didn’t wanna let you go without at least getting your number. As you were leaving the set you felt armin’s hand on your arm making you turn your head with a small shocked look.

armin nervously chuckled, taking his hand off your arm to make you look less shocked. “sorry about that i just..”, he scatched the back of his head, trying to jut the words he had in his throat out.”, “ i like your work, well uh how you look pretty on set. I wouldn’t mind seeing you on another one of my videos again.”

his nervousness made you giggle and in return made him smile, he really liked hearing your giggle. Armin’s cheeky nerdy boy charm was something that was nice to see from a popstar, usually you’d expect artists like him to have a very sexually confident personality but he obviously broke that stereotype.

“sure, why not!” is what you said to him while pulling your phone out your pocket. The entire exchange surprised armin really, but hey, he got your number.

popboy!armin didn’t realize how… suggestive this music video was with you until it was uploaded and he watched it himself. It was so goofy of him but he was so enamored with your beauty he didn’t realize how sexual the soft ear biting and touches you gave his shoulders came off as until he watched this video and read the comment section.

popboy!armin didn’t realize it but he stole you away from a lot of artists that wanted you in their videos. Some artists even being his own colleagues. The music videos he filmed with you, videos that would never even be seen but he enjoyed them being filmed to look back at.

popboy!armin who’s always being told to just make the first move already by mikasa and eren. They’ve been around you and armin to notice there’s some unspoken chemistry between you both that armin’s too shy about to speak about.

eren never shuts up about it. Even when he’s catching up with the two in eren’s living room the topic get’s brought up.

“the worst she can say is no. Just make a move.” eren shrugged his shoudlers saying it as he chucked a handful of popcorn into his mouth, like the task was easy

armin groaned at that. “you say it like that’s easy. Have you seen the woman? She’s not approachable.”

eren scoffed at that with a chuckle. “if anything she should be the most approachable person to you. You should see how she treats jean. She’s a damn sweetheart to you.” eren half joked.

armin to that was to suck his teeth and sigh. He knew eren was right. You were an actually easy going girl if people got to know you. He really just feared for the worse case scenario to happen if he asked you out.

with eren grilling on him mikasa had no choice but to chime in too as she bonked eren on the head and tsked. “don’t listen to eren, armin. I’m sure y/n feels the same, just give it time.

popboy!armin who instead of asking you out get’s liquor courage at a party and just kisses you in the kitchen.

you weren’t complaining about, you actually enjoyed the peck by how armin could see the smile on your lips.

“first kiss without a date? We’re moving fast.” you joked.

armin’s cheeks were flustered both from the beer he drunk and from kissing you.

He scratching the back of his head, trying to find some kind of answer for why. “ ‘m sorry i just… wanted to i guess?” he says with his words obviously slurred.

in response you just chuckled at that. “well, since we’re doing things we want… How ‘bout a date?”

[luckiestfawn]

there are a lot of sounds Boothill likes.

the crack of a well-aimed shot. the familiar rumble of his ship's engine roaring to life. the soft glug-glug of whiskey spilling into a dented cup after a long, hard mission. 

but none of them (NONE) compare to the noise you make when he catches you off guard, hand snapping to your ass with a wicked little slap that makes you yelp, high and sweet.

"Boothill!"

it's like clockwerk. always the same pitch, the same scandalized edge, and god, how it thrills him. his grin breaks wide, threatening to split his face in half, and it only widens when you turn to shoot him that familiar, half-hearted glare. the one he adores. the one where your brows furrow together like you're actually mad. and you're trying (he knows you are) to look menacing, but honestly... all he sees is the softest, cutest little thing. like a kitten trying to bare its claws.

he's a bastard, your Boothill. a smug, insufferable bastard. especially when he tilts his head and gives you that innocent, drawn out "what?" like he genuinely doesn't know why you're glaring daggers at him. 

"don't 'what' me," you snap, but your voice comes out more flustered than fierce. and damn it, he hears it, too. if he wasn't already halfway to laughter before, that just about does it. 

"i'd never 'what' you, darlin'," he says, mock-serious, one hand pressed over his mechanical heart. "i got too much respect for you to do somethin' that low."

it's the worst performance of innocence you've ever seen, and somehow, it's almost convincing. except you know he's already planning to do it again.

(secretly, though, you don't mind. sure, you could live without the sting, but not the smile he gives afterward. soft, boyish, reaching his eyes. it's almost disarming, the way he lights up, and if only for a second, you catch a glimpse of the man he used to be before regret stole his softness and revenge sharpened what was left.)

but even so, as much as he loves that startled little squeak of yours, there's another sound he loves more. one that no one else gets to hear but him. 

your moans.

soft, breathy, and unguarded. the kind of sound that slips past your lips when you forget to be shy. when he touches you just right, or murmurs something filthy in your ear, and then rolls his hips against yours. the moment your breath catches and spills out in a helpless little moan... fuck, that's what undoes him.

and it's every single time.

he swears something inside him shifted the first time he made you let go like that. as if something suddenly clicked into place, right there, between his heart and ribs, nestled among the cogs and wires that hold him together. and it's yours now, that place. but that sound? that's his.

and he'd trade a thousand gunshots, engines, and whiskey pours just to hear it again.