#at the end of the day it all comes down to the intent

[classyrbf]

um...ugh... um... anal with professor!nanami... teaching you some respect yk... yeah... in his office, scolding you while prepping on his fingers... yeah...

love your works please be happy🫶

PROFESSOR NANAMI #2 — NANAMI KENTO

SYNOPSIS...after unknowingly having sex with your professor before the first day of college, you find yourself avoiding him in attempts to save yourself from embarrassment, but when you fail your first quiz, he’s quick to see you after class

INFO...professor!nanami x fem!reader, anal, first time, nanami is a little mean, rough sex, degradation, clit rubbing, spanking, creampie, no p in v, overstim, panty ripping, fucking in his office, possessiveness (?), not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

read the first part here

it’s been weeks since your first interaction with professor nanami. You were surprised that he hadn’t noticed you or even called you out for being his student. Maybe he just decided to ignore it all together and move on with his life to save both of you from embarrassment. If so, thank god. There’s no way he’s gone a month without grading papers and seeing your name, let alone just seeing you in the crowd of students. It’d be a miracle.

But he does notice, he’s noticed since day one when you tried to sneakily hide your face at the end of class, rushing out the door. Was he shocked? Of course. You never said you were a college student, especially at this college. But what are the odds he’d end up being your professor? He finds it funny. Lately, he’s been finding every excuse to talk to you without making it look suspicious and thankfully for him, you failed your first quiz.

He’s calling down students to his desk to give them their papers, finally landing on yours, a big fat ‘F’ in the corner of it. “Y/n,” he calls out, waving the sheet. Your figure enters his sight, carefully walking down the lecture hall stairs. Slowly, he lifts his head, glasses hanging low on his nose. “See me after class.” He hands you the paper, an expressionless look on his face.

If the ‘F’ in the corner of your paper immediately caught your attention and you felt like you wanted to collapse right then and there. Really? You flunked your first quiz? And your professor, who you accidentally fucked, now sees how dumb you are? Life couldn’t get any more worse. “Okay,” you murmur, walking back to your seat with shaky hands while he calls another student.

An hour passes, and everyone else is gathering their things to head back to their dorms or their next class for the day. Your eyes tread on Nanami carefully, hoping if he’s distracted enough, you can sneak away. He tidies up the papers on his desk, pushing his glasses up. You attempt to blend it with the crowd, leaving, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“Miss y/n,” his voice rings in your ears, making you stop in your tracks. “Please, come here.” He folds arms across his chest, leaning against the front of his desk as he intently watches you walk towards him, barely able to look him in the eye. The last student leaves, the lecture hall completely empty, nothing but silence. “Into my office,” he orders, squinting at you.

You thickly swallow, your mouth dry and your heart pounding against your chest as you follow behind him. He shuts the door behind you, the click of the lock making you even more nervous. The smell of his expensive cologne wafts past you, the same cologne he was wearing the night you two met. “You think I haven’t noticed you hiding away from me?” He steps towards you, making you step away in return. “I’ll admit, I was a little shocked to see your face in my class of students,” he chuckled, trapping you between the wall and him. “I feel like some type of pervert. Fucking one of my students in my car? I should feel horrible, devastated even.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I should’ve told you I was—” You can’t even finish your sentence, your nerves making you stumble over your words. How are you so shy around him now, but you weren’t too shy to fuck him?

“Everytime I look at you in class, all I think about is that night. You know how fucking hard it is to try and not get a hard on in the middle of class?” He grits his teeth. His grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes boring into hours. He takes your hand, allowing you to feel his semi hard cock through his slacks. “You feel that? That’s what you fucking do to me.” The warmth of your hand makes him shudder.

“It was an accident, that night was just supposed to be a one time thing,” you tried to argue, but deep down, you never wanted it to be, not with how hard he made you cum while whispering such dirty things in your ear.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, smiling. “You’ve been a bad fucking girl lately. Ignoring me, failing your quiz, what were you thinking? You need to be taught a lesson,” he huffs. His larger hand yanks you over to his desk, a smell yelp escaping your lips when pushes down, holding you there. He lightly traces his fingertips against your skin, goosebumps appearing. He pushes up your skirt, getting a good view of your ass, and the cute lace thong you’re wearing underneath. “Is this what you wear to class?” He question, pulling back the fabric and letting it snap back onto your skin.

A crack in the air breaks the silence, his hand smacking your ass, making you jolt forward. “Ah!” You whimper, your skin stinging from the contact. He wastes no time to swat his hand over your ass again, hitting the same spot. “Mmmph!” You bite down on your lower lip.

His broad chest presses against your back, his lips ghosting against your ear. “You ready to be a good girl yet?” He spanks you again, the sting making you squirm beneath him. “I’ll take that as a no.” He smack the other cheek three times back ro back, a muffled cry escaping from your lips. His eyes wander down to your pussy, noticing the wet spot on your panties. “Is that what you’re expecting? Expecting me to fuck this pretty little pussy today? You got it all wrong. Bad girls don’t get fucked in their dripping cunt.” With ease, he rips your panties off, discarding the fabric to the floor.

“I’m sorryyy,” you whine, hips wiggling in hold as he spreads your ass to get a good look at your holes. Your pussy is glistening, tempting him, reminding him of how warm and tight you are, but he shouldn’t reward you with what you want. He can’t. You gasp, feel his warm spit drip onto your asshole, a foreign feeling to you. Was he seriously going to fuck you in your ass right now? The pad of his thumb rubbed in his spit, his free hand undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. “Please, Professor Nanami,” you whimper, looking over your shoulder to see he already has his cock out.

He smears his precum against your ass, slapping the head of cock against it, growling at the sensation. He spreads your ass again, prodding his cock against your hole. He lifts one of your legs onto his desk, trying to stretch you as much as possible. You’re a whining, dripping mess. He spits once more on your puckering hole, slowly pushing himself in. “Ahhh, fuckkk,” he groans, his tip pushing inside.

“Nnnghh! Slow! Slow!” You cry out, reaching your hand back in attempts to stop him, but he just keeps stretching you open with his thick cock, letting you feel every inch without stopping. If it’s hurts so bad why does it feel so good? He’s already so deep inside you, his pelvis pressed against your ass, letting you feel his throbbing cock against your walls. “Oh my god, I can feel it,” you moan, bewildered by the fact he was actually inside you.

He pulls his hips back all the way, before fully thrusting back into you. “So fucking tight, hah…shit,” he pants, hooking his arm around yours, and holding them in place as he pounds into you. “Look at the fucking ass,” he grunts, smacking it before groping the burning flesh in his palm.

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull. You never knew getting fucked in the ass would feel this good. Though, it was still torture. Your pussy was still dripping, eager for any ounce of attention. Each thrust has your mind turning into mush by the second. It’s hurts so fucking good, you’re confused whether to moan or be on the verge of tears. “Please, please, I’m sorry!” You cry out. The duality of this man was beyond you. He so easily can go from whispering praises in your ear to treating you like a complete whore.

“Shh, shh, just take my fucking cock. This is what you get when you don’t behave,” he rasps out, pulling you back on his cock, leaving you no room to run away from the intense pleasure.

“Ah! Ah! Fuckkk! I can’t, I can’t!” Tears prick the corner of your eyes, your hand balling into fists, nails digging into your palms. His cock rams into your ass, you poor pussy clenching around nothing. Your brows furrow in pleasure, completely awestruck by the pleasure. Your skin is hot to the touch, that familiar pit forming in your stomach. “Mmph, I’m…I’m gonna cum!” You whimper.

“Don’t you dare cum. You don’t deserve to fucking cum for acting the way you did. Hold it,” he barks in your ear, breath fanning against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. He’s completely unfair, his cock still fucking you so deep, making it harder for you to keep control.

You shake your head, jaw falling slack as the pleasure builds and builds, ready to spill over the edge. “Please! I’m gonna cummm!” You cry out, looking back at him, desperation written all over your face. “Ah! Ah! Please, Professor Nanami,” your eyes flicker down to his lips. “Let me cum, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he has a sliver of mercy. He smirks at your attempts, his hand reaching between your legs while you’re distracted and rubbing your swollen clit just make you break even more. His rubbing in messy circles, putting just enough pressure to make your brain fuzzy. “No, no! Oh my god, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cummmmahhh!” Before you know it, you’re spasming on his cock, body writhing beneath him, your eyes rolling back.

Nanami is completely aware you couldn’t hold back, he knows you had no other choice but to fully let go and feel the intoxicating high of your orgasm. So he keeps rubbing your sensitive clit while fucking your tight little ass, your body falling forward on his desk. Your pussy drips with your cum, creaming around nothing while you drool over his scattered papers. He hold your head down, fingers entangled in your hair watching the way his cock stretches your hole open. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He snarkily says, shaking his head at you.

Incoherent babbling is all that you muster, heavy eyes barely blinking open. You were being fucked stupid in real time. His cock was all that you could feel and think of. So sit there, taking his cock, trying to right your wrongs and be a good girl for him while he uses your ass. You notice his thrusts growing sloppier and harder, hips smacking against your ass and echoing through the room. “Shittt,” he tosses his head back, licking his lips. He halts his movements, slowly sliding his cock out. You whine at the loss of feeling, looking back at him with pleading eyes. He spreads your ass, taking a look at your gaping hole, pulsing for him. “Your ass looks so fucking good stretched from my cock, baby.” He chuckles, smirking to himself like he’s proud of his work.

You lazily smile at him, biting down on your lower lip as you watch him spit on his cock, easily sliding back into your ass. “Ohhhhh,” your eyes roll back when you feel full of him again, his bruising grip on your hips pulling you back on his cock. “Yes, yes,” you huff, whining and whimpering when he starts sloppily thrusting into you again.

He looks down at you, his glasses slipping down his nose in the process, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Be a good girl and take all my cum in your ass, baby,” he moans, his hand now squeezing the plump flesh of your ass. “Shit, I’m so fucking close,” he breathes, chest heaving up and down with every labored breath.

“Cum in me! I’ll be your good girl, Professor! Want you to fill me up so badly,” you mewl. His abs flex, hips jolting when he pushes every inch of his cock deep inside you, settling there as hot spurts of his cock fill your ass. “Ughhh yesss!” You smile, his moans and grunts making your pussy tingle. His cock throbs inside you as he slowly pulls out, some of his cum dripping out and down to your cunt. “Mmm, fuck,” you giggle.

He spanks your ass multiple times, making sure to give each cheek equal treatment. “I think you learned your lesson,” he gruffly said, pulling you up towards him and pressing a slow kiss to your lips. “That pretty ass is gonna remember the shape of my cock forever, you understand? It’s mine.” He grips your jaw, forcing you to face him. You meekly nod your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Good.” He pecks your lips again. His eyes wander down to his watch, looking at the time. “Ten minutes till my next class. I need to freshen up.”

“Um…I have no panties,” you blurt out, reminding him that he had ripped them off of you earlier. “I can’t go to my next class with your cum dripping out my ass, Professor. What would everyone else think?” You smirk, sitting on top of his desk.

“Fuck,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, stay in here until my class is over and don’t make a sound.” He gives you a warning look, raising a brow at you. “I’ll drive you back to your apartment after.”

“Fine.” You smile, pecking his cheek.

“I have to run to the bathroom, okay? Behave,” he orders, glaring at you.

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[moonstruckme]

Tumblr is pranking me again by hiding the request I want only for the day I want to post it :( but here it is: what do you think of Steve being a total gentleman, like walking closer to the road whenever he’s with reader, making sure reader doesn’t bump their head when they bend over to tie their shoe, holding every door … our chilvarous king

cw: lil bit of gender norms/patriarchal dating norms

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 630 words

For the record, Steve likes to think that he was always nice to you. Not because you’re a girl or anything like that, just because he’s your friend and that’s the kind of guy Steve is trying to be. But ever since last Thursday, when you’d knocked his hand away from his car radio to put your own tape in and looked over at him from the passenger seat with a smile that made his heart thunk frighteningly against his ribcage, Steve has found himself wanting to do things a bit…different. Not nicer, really, just different. 

He does things like letting you have the last slice of pizza from the box, and not giving you as much shit when you pick off all the pepperoni. He finds his hand shooting out on instinct to tug you away from sharp corners before you can bump your hip against them or cover the back of your head to keep it from hitting the bottom of a table when you’ve bent over to retrieve a dropped pen. You watched E.T. together last week, and instead of making fun of you for getting all glossy-eyed at the end Steve had the idiotic urge to kiss you dizzy. 

So, the insanity comes in big and small waves. 

Then there are times like now, when he’s just trying to be basically decent and you won’t let him. 

“I just feel like he’s gonna freak her out,” you’re saying, squinting despite your sunglasses as you walk down the narrow sidewalk to the donut shop near your place. “I mean, she’s probably already freaked out. If you like a girl, you ask her on a date, not loiter around her work like some kind of creep.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “Eddie is kind of a creep.” 

You huff amusedly. “That’s what he wants everyone to think, for sure. I know his intentions are pure and all, but if I were her I would definitely not think—what are you doing?” You turn around as Steve drops behind you, walking backward to keep him in your sights. 

“Nothing,” he says, trying to come up on your other side. But you maneuver to keep him on your right. 

You give Steve a strange look. “We’re not turning here. It’s still a few blocks.” 

“I know where it is.” 

“Then what do you keep turning for?” you laugh. 

Steve fights not to huff. “I’m not turning, I’m just—you’re gonna get hit by a car.” 

You look to the side, at the notably empty neighborhood street. You say, “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, taking your elbow in hand to maneuver you to his other side. 

You let out a little laugh but allow yourself to be pulled. Your shoulder bumps into his teasingly. “Feel better?” 

“Yeah, actually.” 

You give him a sideways look, a smile hidden in the corner of your mouth. Steve feels like there’s a hornet’s nest in his stomach. 

You laugh. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I’m not,” he says, but his voice comes out softer than he intends. “I’m not, Jesus.” 

“Okay, well,” you roll your eyes at him, “I forgot my wallet at home, so can you spot me and I’ll pay you back after?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll just get it.” 

You send him a look like he’s just recited the prologue to Romeo and Juliet from memory. 

“Relax, it’s thirty cents.” 

You keep looking at him like that, though, worse when he pulls open the door to the donut shop and steps aside to let you go first. You actually reel back a little. 

“You are being,” you say, side-eyeing him as you go inside slowly, “so weird.” 

Yeah, Steve is well aware.

[theweirdhybrid]

@where-does-the-heart-lie KICKS OPEN THE DOOR

OKAY I WENT BACK THROUGH AND FOUND ALL THE FORESHADOWING MOMENTS/HINTS I POSSIBLY COULD (i think. i could be reading too much into some of these + might've missed some) OF STELLY AND SALLY'S (AND APPARENTLY MANNY'S!!!!!!) TRUE INTENTIONS IN WITTB HERE WE GO (this was originally an ask but it was too long so I made it into a tumblr post lmao)

(and to anyone seeing this w/o context all art in this post belongs to Whery- the person I mentioned above- and it's from their One Piece fancomic Water is Thicker Than Blood and you should all go read it RIGHT NOW)

First up here we go WAYYY back in chapter 26 (almost two years ago!!! woah!!!!!!) we get the first mention of the letter!!! Stelly tells Sabo to wait until someone comes out, which I know was just him saying that so Sabo wouldn't leave, but imagine if Sabo had Actually waited. Can you imagine how long it could've taken for Sabo to realize Stelly lied?? Definitely would've added to his anger. And Stelly also mentions he wants Sabo to read the letter when he gets home, which means it was meant as an apology for how awful the day would've turned out for him if it had gone according to Stelly's plan, though it still turned out awful for Sabo, just not in the way Stelly intended

And in chapter 27... this moment. When I first saw it I thought Stelly was asking cus he was Afraid, but personally I think this was him hoping Luffy would help Sabo wreck things OR he DIDN'T want him to be there bc he was worried he would help calm Sabo and Stop The Carnage (which he did in fact do at the end. kinda. lmao)

And then again in chapter 28 Stelly says THIS. He might've said this with innocent intentions BUT knowing he was purposefully trying to make Sabo's day Awful it's possible he was just trying to add on to that (especially considering his reaction when Sabo DOESN'T maul him) Idk, this one's up in the air but STILL. EVERYTHING HE SAYS IS SUS NOW. anyways moving on

Next is chapter 39, Manny Does His Thing and psychoanalyzes Ace, thus pissing him off a few moments later. Could this have been innocent on his part, especially considering his embarrassment when Ace shuts him down? Could be, could be... BUT THAT SMIRK.... THAT DAMN SMIRK......... I am CONVINCED this was intentional on some part because if it wasn't, well. Manny needs to learn what boundaries are lmao (i could also just be salty over BJG being a little TRAITOR and dragging his name through the mud but shhhh)

And then here!!! Right here in chapter 42!!!!! The panel that made everyone start to wonder what could've possibly been in the letter that would've made Sabo so mad!!!!!!!! This is one of the more obvious ones but I spent like five hours on this so compiled this for a reason HAHA

Chapter 43! Manny has drawn his Iconic Capricorn!! He acts cagey and hesitant, but I'm onto him [insert suspicious squinting emoji here] I half feel like I'm gaslighting myself here but then I remember That God Damn Smirk Manny makes a few chapters later, and I KNOW he was in on it from the beginning. Why was he riling up Ace??? To make it harder to keep Sabo in check, but JOKES ON MANNY bc Ace has a REMARKABLE level of self control and a WHOLE LOTTA LOVE FOR HIS BROTHERS!!!!!!!! Manny underestimated Ace I fear (or I'm just reading too far into it LOL)

And then, of course, chapter 55, we get This Scene, the evidence that Manny is most DEFINITELY IN ON IT!!!!!!! Sally knows what's coming up, and is giving Manny a heads up. Why? Yet to be seen. Maybe Manny had a hand in how it all went down, but she whispered to him FOR A REASON. And it was about the later scene, where They corner Sabo at dinner!!!!! Ace has a right to be sus, they're tryna make Sabo's day worse!!!!!!!! And they did!!! The fuckers

Next chapter, chapter 56, we see Sally nervous about approaching Sabo with the letter. For good reason! She doesn't give it to him, actually she does something aguably worse but!!! Now we know why she was SO nervous lmao

Lotta hints in a row here. Chapter 57, Sally hides the letter (or at least the name on it) to ask A Super Invasive Question Of Someone She Literally Just Met!!! Girl. I honestly can't tell if Sally was against upsetting Sabo from the start (especially considering this entire chapter) and trying to avoid upsetting him or was just Nervous in general, but either way. She could've said ANYTHING instead of going right for the goddamn THROAT like GEEZ

And chapter 58... That smirk.... that DAMNED smirk.......... he was in on it. There's no way he wasn't. That is an EVIL little smirk he was ABSOLUTELY trying to make things worse, or at least he was looking forward to the chaos. I can just imagine him in the background eating popcorn like "fight fight FIGHT FIGHT FI- oh man he's walking away :( damn"

I really don't think Sally wanted to upset Sabo considering this panel in chapter 59, at least not actually coming face to face with him. Her "this is too far" comment tells me that Stelly hired Jalmack ON PURPOSE (and also that she had NO IDEA. backed up by her initial reaction to learning who the priest was) Like, good grief ANYONE would recognize that as too far, except for Stelly apparently. Rereading I am SHOCKED I didn't put together what was going on considering this one, but it's such a blink and you'll miss it moment because oF WHAT HAPPENS IN THE SAME CHAPTER

That face she makes!!! We all knew she did it on purpose but that face she makes really drives the whole thing home like WOW...... Grim determination with a hint of remorse.. harsh.

Rereading, the panel here in chapter 65 where Stelly and Sally are leaning on each other lowkey reads as them being like "Omg look at him go he's finally going apeshit!! Our hard work has payed off honey :D" but I also know this was likely them leaning on each other for support considering. everything. yeah. But Stelly at least was at LEAST a little relieved Sabo was finally losing it. Sally likely needed the hug. But yeah no this was DEF another hint (also Stelly when did you get here.... we didn't see him sit down I'm just now realizing, but to be fair we were more focused on Sabo than Stelly so it makes sense we didn't see him lol)

Breaking the mold a bit w the format of this post by adding two panels at once here but I feel it's needed to drive the point across. This right here, in chapter 66, was ABSOLUTELY Stelly realizing he went too far. And it was ONLY because he got sent into a flashback too. THIS was Stelly realizing what exactly he was doing to Sabo, because his plan ended up backfiring and hurt him instead of just Sabo. I would LOVE to see what exactly Stelly's reaction was when Sabo ran out. The mix of emotions he was probably feeling here is DELICIOUS to imagine. When I initially saw this I thought he was getting angry on Sabo's behalf, and maybe he was a little but it was mostly him realizing how Badly he fucked up, and also the emotions that come with getting trigged like that. An entire bag worth of emotions and I am so HDAWJDKAJDAHK that I went back after the latest chapter to find moments like this because WOW

This panel here in chapter 67 is a bit of a smaller moment, and I realize this was mostly a reaction to an Angry Man Storming Up To Them, but their combined flinch and Stelly's expression was NOT just because of what just happened. Sally was ABSOLUTELY feeling guiltly and so was Stelly, who didn't appear all that shocked Sabo flipped a table. It feels more like he was startled he went for the table they were sitting at, or like he was startled out of the flashback. But this was def part of it. Or maybe I'm just adding this bc this was the ONE thing Sabo wrecked and I'm proud of him for it LMAO

And then, in one of the recent ones, chapter 82, Sabo is expecting Stelly to snitch on him like Stelly always has and he DOESN'T. And now we know why!! Because THIS was what Stelly wanted!!!! Sabo's finally about to wreck something and Stelly's here for it!!!!!! Even though he's very much still afraid of Sabo as seen in the next panel

Stelly was absolutely returning these because he felt guilty. I thought he'd just felt bad in general, but no, it was guilt. He orchestrated this entire night to make it as Horrible As Possible for Sabo and the ONLY reason he feels bad about it is because IT HURT STELLY TOO. I mean yeah I think his regret is genuine, but he hasn't even APOLOGIZED YET. If he really wants to have Sabo at his REAL WEDDING, because he WANTS TO MAKE AMENDS, he NEEDS to apologize and follow through. THIS ^ IS NOT AN ACTUAL APOLOGY. Fuckin. Little bastard man I love how complicated he is so MUCCHHHHHH but also Stelly. My Man. APOLOGIZE. Urgh I love how you can still see his canon characteristics shine through with this reveal but I also HATE ITTT because WOW. HE'S AN ASSHOLE.

And here's a bonus of Stelly trying to run before Sabo can read the letter and failing LMAO

Anyways yeah that's all I got I'm going to bed now it is. way too late and I am NOT tagging this whatsoever and I apologize for any spelling errors the screen is blurring around the edges hwadhkadja

This is my small love letter to WITTB Whery bc I adore how you wrote everything, from the characters to the pacing to how you draw the faces and convey emotions and just dhwajwjkdak yeah. yeah. I'm not even hyperfixated on One Piece anymore (still keeping up w it tho) but this series STILL holds a special place in my heart and I love it to bits!!! Thank you so much for making this and I personally cannot WAIT to see Sabo's full reaction to Stelly's manipulative little scheme HAHAHAAA okay i'm crashing now goodnight

[lostwysteria]

(Part 16! This one is... Oh i love it! Wreck is so sexy confident. I think I know what I wanna do for episode 4, now.)

Masterlist

Faejay @rockinrobin

Look at him! He’s hokding a Nice plushie! I work at a pop culture store and this was my day off. I wanted to get the newest Lucky Cyan shirt.

*A pic of Homemaker hugging a Nice plushie with a small smile*

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

@rockinrobin

Omg. I love them. That is ridiculously cute. Holy crap.

Faejay @rockinrobin

He bought the plush!

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

@rockinrobin

No! Oh my god i am crying! Aaaaaaa!

…

Nice checked his phone as soon as he got the chance in between photo sets.

He frowned at the fact Moon texted him.

He opened it and started grinning stupidly. It was a pic of Ling hugging a plushie of him. 

‘he bought it, btw.’

…

Puqi @lihui

*A video of Homemaker looking intently at a white scarf with golden flower embroidery in a pricier clothing store. He buys it. Three men enter and rush him. A short fight ensues where Homemaker defends a mother and her child while trying to fight the assailants off. He takes one man down without much trouble.

He ends up getting hit from behind and taken.*

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

WHAT THE FUCK!?

MOON @MoonOfficial

@NiceOfficial @NiceDayToday

NICE! I LEAVE FOR LESS THAN A MONTH AND YOU LET HIM GET KIDNAPPED!? WHAT IN ACTUAL WORLD ARE YOU DOING!?!?

Hop @rosehipandhops

Moon’s crashing out

*A picture set depicting Moon teleporting in to a photoshoot, her approaching Nice, and one of her getting him in a headlock and yanking on his hair*

…

Homemaker couldn't believe these guys were excited to get beat up by Wreck. Apparently kidnapping for Treeman and getting beat up was a very well paid job.

“We get to meet celebs, kinda. I mean. Who else can say, or not say due to NDA’s, that they get beat up by Moon?”

…

Homemaker sighed in relief when he felt Wreck approach. He was bored out of his mind and his head hurt from where he got hit earlier. He could feel the blood drying in his hair. His arms were numb from being tied up as well. 

Wreck was a much better abductor than these guys.

The wall on the other side if the room was glitched out and rearranged. 

“Sorry boys, nothing personal, but you have something that belongs to me.” Wreck said as he sauntered in. Homemaker felt his face heat up at that.

What followed was nothing short of a curb stomp fight. 

“Come on, princess, let's get you back to your shining prince.” Wreck said as he effortlessly lifted him up into a princess cary.

“Would that make you my knight in dark armor?” Homemaker asked, charmed beyond belief. These men were going to be the death of him, really.

“Anytime, anywhere, sweetheart.”

…

Lu Ming was vibrating as he watched Wreck leave with Homemaker.

Lu Ming was an Urban Explorer and had decided to explore the abandoned warehouse district that day for his channel. He never thought he would witness a rescue! And not just any rescue, but Wreck doing it! And the flirting!

He rushed home and uploaded the video. It went viral almost immediately.

…

Nice was coordinating with selected people working for Treeman on the side to do a ‘search’ for where the ‘kidnappers’ took Homemaker. The white haired hero found this all tedious and was impatient for Wreck to get back.

Select ‘civilians’ were filming discreetly along with regular civilians.

He looked up at a bit of commotion and felt his heart swell with live and relief at the sight of Wreck carrying Homemaker so tenderly in his arms. 

“Hey, Princey, this knight in black armor has come to return your lost princess. Make sure he stays in your castle from now on, yeah?”

Wreck set Homemaker down and Nice caught him as he stumbled.

“Are you okay? You're bleeding!” Nice said in alarm. His hand hovered over the wound.

“I’m fine. Just took a hit.” Homemaker reassured him.

“Wreck! Wait!” Nice called out as the villain started walking away. He stopped and turned his head a bit.

“Please. Don't go. Come back with me? You can do good. This proves it. Please. Be by my side like you were always meant to be?” Nice pleaded. He reached out his hand and Homemaker's expression was hopeful as well.

Wreck hesitated before reaching back.

Their hands clasped.

…

Kpop @kpopfanatic

Oh holy crap! Yesterday was WILD! Homemaker got kidnapped, Moon crashed out, and Wreck rescued Homemaker. Called him his, princess, and sweetheart. Oh my gosh. And when he crashed the search for the kidnappers and handed Homemaker off to Nice. And Nice’s reaction. Just… mmmmmmfff.

[angellily920]

Yard Sale Walker (College Hockey AU)

Pairing: John Walker x reader, Bestfriend!Bob x reader (College AU)

Oneshot... John Walker Masterlist

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: none

A/n: Ya'll John Walker is taking over my brain. Hope you enjoy!

"Bob, where are you dragging me out to?" You mumbled as he kept a firm grip on your hoodie sleeve.

"I told you, it's a surprise."

"Well, do you have to hold me like I'm about to run away?" You lifted up your arm, and his grip tightened on your sleeve.

"Yes, because you might run away. Remember when I tried to get you to a party last week? You bolted as soon as I told you. But I paid money for this, so we're going." He attempted to look serious, but he looked more like an upset puppy.

"Alright, alright. But only because you're my best friend."

He smiled and continued to walk until you both got outside a giant building. It looked a lot like an ice hockey building. Wait a minute...you turned to Bob and his smile only grew bigger. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out two hockey jerseys.

"Put this on over your hoodie." He held one out to you and you gently grabbed it.

You looked at the last name on the back. Walker. You shot Bob a look. "Bob...."

Bob shrugged. "I saw you ogling him on campus."

Your cheeks heat slightly. "Was I that obvious?"

"What? No..." You could tell he was lying. "Anyway, come on, I got us good seats. Right up front." He nudges you playfully and drags you into the building.

It was cold as you entered, but not unpleasantly so. You followed Bob like a duckling as he handled tickets and got to your seats. The players were warming up, and your eyes scanned for your tiny crush, John Walker. He was just getting out onto the ice. He glanced your way for a second, and Bob grabbed your arm and waved it in John's direction. You quickly forced your arm down and elbowed Bob, before looking back at John. He smiled in your direction and winked before skating some drills.

Bob looked more excited than you did when he did that. "Did you see that? He's totally into you! I'm definitely giving a speech about this at your wedding."

You shot Bob a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. "He does that to all his fans."

He sank in his chair a bit. "Could you please have a bit of imagination?"

"Okay, fine. He's totally into me." You retorted sarcastically.

That seemed to please him and you both watched the players warm up. Bucky Barnes skated the ice like they were lost lovers. Soft, smooth, but calculated. John, on the other hand, skated like it was his last day on earth. Harsh movements. Split-second turns and hard blades against the ice. Both looked very intense, but they seemed to complement each other in the rink. The whole team did. They skated together like they were a family of chaotic brothers. Unstable at times, but surprisingly got the job done.

When the game started, you and Bob scooted to the edge of your seats. It looked like a tough match. You watched the game intently, and you jumped in your seat as John smashed one of the opposing players against the boards. The opposing player's stick toppled to the ground and so did his gloves. The crowd screamed, "YARD SALE!" and your eyes scanned the huge group of fans. You realized a lot of them held signs that read, Yard Sale Walker. You noticed throughout the game that John had a tendency to smash opposing players against the boards so hard that their equipment would fall off. And maybe watching him do it sent pleasant shivers down your spine, but you weren't going to say anything.

John looked like a man possessed as he played. Deep breaths, hard tackles and shots that had the puck whizzing past the goalie's head and into the net, lighting the red lamp. His team ended up winning, and the crowd screamed. John took off his helmet and shook his head. His damp blonde hair unstuck from against his forehead and when he looked up, his blue eyes looked directly into yours. He stared at you for a moment, his tongue wetting his dry lips. Your body seemed to erupt in heat. He twirled his hockey stick and looked at you one last time before heading to the locker room.

Bob's voice kicked you out of your trance. "Come on! I know the team's manager, Yelena. She said we can meet the team!" Bob was practically pulling you out of your seat and you just nodded and followed him.

After weaving through a crowd of people, you were soon introduced to Yelena. She chatted with you and Bob a bit before the players came out. John was a lot bigger up close. You expected him to ignore you, but he walked right up to you.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" His voice came out in a rough rumble.

"Um, hi. You did great out there." You wanted to smack yourself. You sounded like an idiot.

He just chuckled. "Well, I had a pretty lady cheering me on." His blue eyes scanned over your body briefly before settling on your face. "We have english together, right?"

Your eyebrows shot up. You didn't think he actually noticed you. "Yeah, we do. Professor Beck."

He hummed, the sound rumbling softly from his chest. "I thought so. You gave a nice presentation last week. Flowers For Algernon, right?"

"Yup, that's the one." Your voice came out a bit quiet, still in disbelief he knew who you were.

He smiled, and you swore your knees went weak for a second. "Well, the team's going out for some victory pizza...You wanna join? I could give you a ride."

"I would love to but..." Your eyes drifted over to Bob and he was already giving you a double thumbs up. You looked back up at John. "I mean, that sounds great. I'd love to."

John ran his fingers through his hair. "Perfect. Let's get out of here."

You followed John as he walked out. You would have to remember to give Bob a huge batch of whatever cookies he wanted. You owed him.

[moongirlrhea]

heaven and hell were words to me (no grave can hold my body down)

chapter five in the azriel and his best friend series

series masterlist

word count: 2.2k

azriel x reader

warnings: bricks being thrown at faces (of the readers)

a/n: this is a shorter one than usual, but i hope you guys still enjoy! i wanted to thank all of you for engaging in my writing so much, for all the replies and reblogs, it means so much to me :) and as always, i’m open to feedback, talk to meeeee

The tips of Azriel’s wings were beginning to freeze over with how long he’d been trudging through the snow.

There was nothing of interest in this forest, he was sure of it at this point. He’d already lost half the day to fly to the woods off the coast of the court, where Rhys had detected some strange activity, as he’d called it. An intruder. It was understandable that the High Lord was more agitated than usual, with news of Hybern sending one of their generals as an emissary to Prythian. Amarantha, if he recalled correctly.

And so the shadowsinger didn’t complain when he was asked to go to the other end of the court this morning. Except the sky had turned a darker shade of blue a while ago now, and even though the Illyrian was well accommodated to the cold, it was slowly starting to bother him. Just as he was about to turn around and fly home, he spotted movement in the trees.

Having unsheathed Truth-Teller, he moved. Weaving between the trees, hidden in the shadows, his footsteps made but a sound until he had the person right before his eyes. Until he had them pressed against the trunk of a tree, dagger to the throat.

The person shrieked. And that was the first time he had the chance to take a good look at them.

Trembling before him, eyes wide with fear was a young female. His hand hesitated as he searched her face; a strange sort of quiet song filled his mind all of a sudden. His mouth fell open.

This was the most beautiful fae he’d ever laid eyes on.

And then she sniffled, and it was like he sobered up. Gods, what was he doing? He pressed the dagger tighter against her throat, not trusting the stranger and asking, voice razor-sharp and cold like the forest around them.

“Who are you?” the female bit her lip, blinking quickly as if she was trying to stop herself from crying. Azriel’s eyes narrowed.

Finally she half whimpered her name. “I- I came here on a- on a boat. From- from the continent, and there,” she sniffled “there was supposed be a town not far from the port but- I think I got lost”

Azriel stood there, studying her. He could tell she wasn’t lying, and his shadows informed him that a ship had, in fact, arrived at the port a few hours later. But how did she get here? Her clothes were torn in places, and definitely not weather appropriate - she was scarcely wearing a coat. The edges of her clothes were starting to freeze over, and her lips were turning blue. He took a look at her hands - her fingers were red and stiff.

“Please- please don’t hurt me” she squealed out wetly all of a sudden, voice trembling. He needed to get her away from here, before she froze over right before his eyes.

Rhys was going to kill him. But he couldn’t possibly leave her here, and he knew for a fact that she didn’t have bad intentions. He put his dagger away before shrugging his gloves on and wordlessly offering them to her.

She hesitated, eyes switching between his face and the gloves, until he just pressed them into her hands. He turned away, saying “Come with me.” Velaris was a long flight from here and they needed to get to a place where the trees weren’t as dense and packed.

“W- what? Where?” he looked over his shoulder to see her trying to catch up to him. Trying and failing.

“What happened to your leg?” she stopped her attempts to stumble over to him, and raised her shoulders a bit.

“I- um- I was taking the path from the port,” she got the words out quickly, stumbling over them, voice shaking “And, there was an animal or- or something and it scared me and- and I ran but I tripped” she gestured to her ankle with a shaky hand.

Azriel let a moment pass, before fully turning in her direction. She took a step back. Sighing, he decided that explaining everything would be the smartest way to go about this. The only way not to scare her more than she already was. “We’re going to fly to my city where you will see a healer. You’ll be free to go wherever you want then”

“And what if I said no?” she tipped her chin up, but it didn’t add a lot of scary effect to what she said.

Azriel’s eyebrow twitched up. “Then I can leave you here, but night is falling. And that down is half a day’s walk in the other direction”

“O-oh” Azriel kept the distance between them as he studied her once again. She looked exhausted and her breathing was alarmingly rapid. She was standing there, shaking and ready to shrink away. And so, he slowly took a few steps in her direction, as if approaching a trapped doe. He supposed he was. He extended his hand towards her.

A pang of unease shot through him at the realization that he wasn’t wearing his gloves; his scars were there in plain sight. But her eyes only stopped on them for a second before she stammered, voice high-pitched. “And- you’re not going to- to hurt me, or- something?”

“I will not hurt you, or allow anyone else to hurt you. I promise” he told her softly. In that moment, that oath was plactating; it was to coax her to let him take her away from this snow filled tundra, before any of them turned into icicles. Before they run into one of the beats dwelling in these woods. Oh, how wrong was his idea of the meaning of that promise. How he’d give his life not to break it; and how his world would shatter when he realized he did.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court didn’t know that yet, though. It was only relief he felt when she hesitantly put her hand in his and let him take her in his arms, before shooting into the sky.

-

The girl was sitting rigidly on the bed in one of the House’s bedrooms as Madja finished patching her up. The heavy wool blanket he had given her earlier was around her shoulders and clutched tightly between her fingers as her eyes tracked the healer’s every move.

“Alright, dear. You will be just fine but you need to take it easy on that ankle for a few days” the older female said with a warm, calming smile on her face. She didn’t reply.

“Thank you, Madja” he said instead from the corner of the room, where he stood half concealed in his shadows. It took all his strength to keep them off her. They were thoroughly interested in the girl, for a reason Azriel could not decipher yet, but he decided against letting them swarm all over her and scaring her.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m leaving you a tonic in case your leg bothers you” she told the girl as she turned to leave “Keep her close to the fireplace, Shadowsinger” she added as she passed by him. And then she was gone.

An awkward silence fell over the room now that the healer was gone, and Azriel inwardly scolded himself for not knowing what to say. Finally he cleared his throat. “I asked a friend to bring you some clothes, she should be here soon”

She only nodded once, back straight and stiff. A few moments passed of her glancing quickly around the room, studying the view outside the windows with wide eyes. The door to the room suddenly opening had her flinching.

Morrigan came into the chamber like a storm, as she always did, chocolate eyes already sparkling with wonder at the newcomer. Throwing him a greeting over her shoulder, she crossed the room, and walked up to the bed, tight red dress swishing with her every step. Morrigan put the bundle of clothes away and was already talking her ear off, but all Azriel did was study the girl. Eyes wide - that seemed to be their default setting, Azriel concluded - she watched Morrigan, as if strikingly shocked at her mere existence. But the other female didn’t seem to pay it any mind as she fussed over her.

“Oh! It’s so good to have another girl here, you wouldn’t believe it. I mean, there is always Amren, but… nevermind,” she shook her head, turning in Azriel’s direction “Cassian is going to love this! Have you told Rhysand already?” she was practically jumping with amazement at this. And he was almost rolling his eyes.

“No.” he grumbled. Mor only gave a disbelieving, slow shake of her head and brought up a hand to cover her mouth.

“This is huge, Az,” she voiced, but before she could continue the sentence, which he was half sure would send the poor girl into a spiral, with how anxious she already seemed, he stopped her.

“We should let her rest.” he said, which had Morrigan rolling her eyes.

“Oh, fine” she sighed, and pointed in the direction of the girl “But we’re talking tomorrow. I want to get to know you” She winked in Azriel’s direction as she was leaving, and with that, she was gone. Off to pass the gossip onto Cassian, no doubt. This would be a long night.

The visit from the other female seemed to only overwhelm her more. With a furrowed brow and slow steps, Azriel approached her and sat on the other corner of the bed.

“It has been a long day for you, I’m sure” he offered softly “You should sleep”

She only studied him, unsure eyes pausing on his wings and shadows. Although, now that they were alone, her shoulders seemed to drop a bit, curling inwards. She still seemed overwhelmed, maybe more than earlier, but less… scared. Something in Azriel’s chest tightened at the idea that she might feel safe, in any capacity, near him. It was a strange feeling, a notion that was ridiculous given his line of profession. And who he was, in general, but… it moved something in him. Something he hadn’t known was there to be moved at all.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You’re not a prisoner here. My High Lord will probably have some questions to ask you, though” she tensed again “But no one here is going to hurt you. I made you that promise and I intend to keep it”

She nodded and reached over to the clothes Morrigan had brought her earlier. A small, appreciative smile appeared on her face as she looked at him, eyes tearing up a bit. And then she nodded again, as though more to herself, eyes glowing with an emotion he couldn’t recognize, yet.

-

Azriel shot up in bed, breathing heavily.

He ran a hand through his soaked with sweat hair. This was the third time this week that this memory came back to haunt him. He was starting to think it was the Mother herself punishing him for failing his girl so badly.

Instinctively, desperately he looked around the room, as if she would be there somewhere, as she almost always was. But she wasn’t there. He didn’t know where she was; no one knew where she was. They’d been looking for weeks. He could swear he’d already searched every corner of the Night Court, and he was ready to start tearing it apart.

Every single promise made to her, broken. Like that.

He shifted in his bed.

The ugly thought crossed through his mind, that it was too late already. That he’d allowed himself to come close to a light as bright as her, and now it would be forever dimmed. That he would never lay eyes on it again.

He was well aware he shouldn’t think like that. He’d already dedicated every waking moment to looking for her. And he would find her. He had to. But the truth that he’d been trying for so long to defy came soaring into his mind. It was merciless, the knowledge that it was his fault, that he should’ve seen it coming that it would come to this. It was obvious that he would fail her, at some point, inevitably, and it finally happened, and it was only his own foolishness that allowed him to keep that truth at bay for so many years. He had tried to run from it, from that ugliness he’s been carrying with him for the entirety of his life. But it always came for him in the end. It was in his every footstep, every drop of blood he left behind. Multiplying, chasing him, gaining speed with every moment he spent with her, every smile of his she caused.

And it always got him in the end, every time, and every place. He should’ve known.

And so the Shadowsinger wouldn’t stop searching. Not until all that was left of this world was dust.

taglist: @greenmandm @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @dark-night-sky-99 @ly--canthrope @azrielssgirl @topaz125 @azrielsmate @i-am-infinite @stressed-reader @blonde-bansheee @k-homosapien @azysmate @brekkershadowsinger

[harpval002]

College au to get me through finals. (Sae.)

🌿🌸Spring Fair🌼🫧

══════════ ஓ๑🌷๑ஓ ═══════════

The end of the semester is here and you’ve just barely made it. You’re alive, your finals are done, and you feel like you’re thriving.

You catch a glimpse of the auburn haired boy, his back turned to you as he stand beside some of his teammates playing cornhole. A glistening white snow cone in hand. You think maybe it was lemon, but knowing the man it was probably just shaved ice. You recall his hatred of fries.

“Sae,” you call as you approach him. He’s the last of the three boys he’s standing beside to glance over, though you pay the others no mind. It’ll only be fast, and it’s the end of the year. They’re also probably drunk, maybe.

He greets you with a cocked brow, head turned over his shoulder.

“Did you need something?”

“No, but you do. Give me your wrist.” By this point his teammates had turned around, bickering about one of them cheating at the bag game. Sae’s eyes however remained on you.

“Pardon?”

“Sae, give me your wrist.” You motion with your free hand for him to hold out his. Reluctantly his arm is extended towards you, pale skin bright beneath the sun. Before he can pull his hand away you pull a small bracelet out from your bag—made from embroidery floss.

You feel his gorgeous turquoise eyes on you for the duration of the time spent securing the bracelet to his wrist. You’re relieved he doesn’t withdraw his wrist, and a little surprised he allowed you to tie something to his wrist without question. Much less the pretty bracelet you made for him at one of the sorority booths. A similar one—but not identical—also secured safely around your wrist.

The sun beams down on your back, adding fuel to the fire of your flushed cheeks. You hook a finger beneath the bracelet and give it a few gentle tugs for security, a grin finding his way to your lips before you meet his gaze once more. His eyes seeming to have never left you.

“I made it at one of the sorority booths.” You slip your hands into your back pockets, head cocked to the side as you wear your nervous smile with faux pride. You watch as he examines the bracelet, the sun casting light onto the flat of his nose bridge and the height of his cheeks. He looked heavenly, you’d bask in that glow any day.

“They hand this out?” His voice comes out stoic and dry.

“No, I made it.” You clarify a bit too fast. His eyes flicker upward, lashes lifting as he stares at you. Almost picking you apart. You knew he wasn’t mad, you’ve become accustomed to his strange reactions after working with him for the semester.

“Oh,” his breath escapes him as he looks to the piece of jewelry one more time. The colors deliberate, and the design intricate. He says nothing, though he notes every intentional detail.

“I didn’t get you anything.” He meets your gaze again with his head cocked to the side. A small crease in his brow, a small window into a minor frustration. You only smile, shifting your weight between your feet.

“It’s fine, it’s a gift. Wanted to do something nice for my semester partner, yeah?” Your words earn a small huff of air from him, instead of a laugh you can only assume. He nods.

He does in fact get teased by his teammates for the remainder of the day. Any time you wave at him they’re already poking fun at him. He doesn’t take the bracelet off, ever—just claims that he “forgets about it.”

You’re sad you can’t find him anywhere after that—meanwhile he’s already hunting the fair for something to get you. Thinks it’s all distasteful. Gets you a stuffed animal.

It was a piña colada snow cone.

══════════ ஓ๑🌷๑ஓ ═══════════

[chrxsprettygirl]

𝑻𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒄!𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏!𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒙…

CW: poorly detailed smut

At first, it was just late replies — Sorry, studying, or Can’t talk right now. Chris got it. Finals were brutal. He sent her food when she forgot to eat, little reminders to breathe, dumb memes that used to make her laugh. She used to answer with heart emojis and jokes, but now it was just thumbs-up or nothing at all.

By the third day, silence.

He hadn’t seen her . No calls. No “good morning.” Just… nothing. The last time he heard her voice, it was rushed and distant — something about caffeine and cramming. That was days ago.

So that night, he pulled on a hoodie, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked across campus. Her dorm window glowed faintly, shadows moving behind the curtain. She was there — he could feel it.

He knocked softly.

Nothing.

He waited, then knocked again — this time with more weight behind it.

The door creaked open just a few inches. She peeked out, eyes glassy and tired, hair pulled into a half-hearted bun. Like she’d forgotten the world outside even existed.

“Chris,” she mumbled. “It’s late, how’d you get in?”

“Stella let me in,” he said, quiet but firm. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

“I haven’t—” she sighed, leaning into the doorframe like it was holding her up. “I just… finals. Everything’s a mess.”

He stepped closer, voice lower now. “You don’t have to explain. I just need to see you.”

She hesitated for a long second, then stepped aside.

Inside, her room was warm but stale — the air thick with the smell of old coffee, highlighters, and stress. Papers were everywhere: her bed, her desk, even the floor. One of his old hoodies lay crumpled near her pillow, forgotten.

“You’re burning out,” he said gently, watching her shuffle back to her chair.

“I’m fine.” But her voice cracked at the end. She didn’t look at him.

He walked over and turned her chair so she faced him. She looked up, eyes wide and a little lost, and his heart squeezed at the sight.

Chris crouched in front of her, resting his hand softly on her leg. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

She didn’t say anything — just looked down at his hand, like she was scared to let herself feel anything at all.

“I miss you,” he added, his fingers slowly brushing the inside of her thigh, barely touching her, just enough to ground her.

Something in her gave. She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, breathing shallowly. When his lips grazed hers, it wasn’t really a kiss — more like a promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Then she kissed him — slow, hesitant at first, then deeper. Her hands tangled in the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer like she needed to feel all of him at once.

Chris kissed her back with patience, not rushing, just moving with her, meeting her where she was.

Her legs parted slightly, pulling him in closer. His hands slid up under the sweatshirt she wore — his sweatshirt — fingertips skating across her bare skin. She was warm, soft, and trembling just enough to break his heart.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. “Come here.”

He led her to the bed, moving papers aside without care. She followed like she didn’t even think about it, just moved with him, like she’d finally remembered she didn’t have to hold everything together on her own.

On the bed, there was no urgency. No pressure. Just closeness.

Chris kissed her again — slower this time. He traced her lips, her jaw, then down the side of her neck, lingering on the places that made her body react before she could think. His hands slid up her back beneath her sweatshirt, fingers moving in soft, steady lines that left heat in their wake.

There was no rush. Every touch was intentional. Every kiss lasted just a little longer than the last, like he was trying to memorize the way she tasted, the way she responded. He moved with her, not over her — like this was something they were building together, not something he was taking.

Chris’s fingers found the curve of her waist and slid slowly under her sweatshirt — his sweatshirt. His hands were warm, steady, and when they touched her bare skin, she felt her breath catch. Goosebumps rose along her sides, her body waking up in slow waves. She leaned back onto the bed as he knelt between her legs, the mattress dipping under their weight.

He leaned in and kissed her jaw. Then her neck. Then lower. Everything he did was slow, careful, like he was trying to tell her something with his mouth alone. And every time his lips brushed her skin, she felt her body react — her shoulders relaxed, her hands gripped him tighter, her eyes fluttered shut.

She let herself sink into it. Into him.

Chris took his time pulling the sweatshirt over her head, revealing her bit by bit. His eyes didn’t wander — they lingered. He kissed along her collarbone, his hands moving gently across her back and sides, touching her like she was something rare.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice low, just for her.

She reached for him, tugging his hoodie over his head until it joined the rest of the mess on the floor. Her hands explored his skin — warm, familiar — sliding over his chest and down to his hips. She needed him close. Needed him everywhere.

He exhaled softly and pressed his body against hers, their skin meeting in a rush of warmth. Every place they touched sparked something — a gasp from her, a quiet groan from him. He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth moving with hers like they had nowhere else to be.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in closer, grounding him. His hands skimmed down her body, under her thighs, lifting her slightly as they moved together, the space between them charged and thick with need — but not the desperate kind. The kind that simmers. That waits.

She arched into him, her fingers dragging down his back, her breathing growing heavier with every pass of his mouth, every slow grind of his hips. They moved together like they’d done this a hundred times — like they knew exactly what the other needed without saying a word.

Chris kissed the soft spot below her ear, down her neck, then lower. “You okay?” he asked, voice like a whisper against her skin.

She nodded, breath shaky. “Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He touched her like he was learning her all over again — slow, tender, attentive. Their kisses deepened, and their bodies moved in sync, building something warm and steady between them. Not fast. Not wild. Just real.

He took his time. He listened to her breathing, the way her body shifted beneath his, the sounds she made when he found the right place. He paid attention. He always had. It wasn’t about rushing to some finish — it was about being there with her, fully. Being the calm in the chaos she’d been drowning in all week.

When they finally gave in to everything between them, it wasn’t frantic. It was deep. Grounding. Like finally coming up for air after being underwater too long. Her hands gripped his back, her lips at his ear, whispering his name over and over — not begging, just needing.

They moved in sync, slow and steady, learning and remembering at the same time. And when it ended, they didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.

After, they lay tangled up in each other, legs overlapping, her head on his chest. His hand moved up and down her back in lazy lines, like he was still calming her down from the inside out.

She didn’t say anything for a while. Just listened to his heartbeat and breathed with him.

Every touch felt like a reminder: You’re here. I’ve got you. You’re allowed to fall apart with me.

And when it was over, they stayed close, tangled up in each other, skin to skin and heartbeats steadying. Her head rested on his chest, and for the first time in days, she let herself breathe.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I don’t want to think anymore.”

Chris kissed the top of her head, his hand still moving through her hair. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

AN: trying out a new writing style as you can tell (not really one of my Wattpad writing friends helped me out here)

Random tags n taglist: @trevorsgodmother @tezzzzzzzz @weirdothatwritess @dykes4chris @chrepsi @chrissfavhoe @natesfavoritehoe @bamsblooming @chrissleftshoe @chrisslluut @cams-cult @chrissturnioloslvt @starrii-sturns @chriscumslut @chrisshands @chriss-prettyygirll @chrissturnioloswife88 @mattztrip @mattsleftball @mattsslvtzx @mattswrinkleton @mattsturnswife @mattsturnioloismylordandsaviour @mattsturnioloarchive @matthewsturnsgf @matthewswifeyx @matthewsturniolosactualgf @nickssidewitch @jayaluvsyu @nicksbestie @adoreechxmpion @sturnshood @sturnswiftie @sturniolotripletlover @chrissturnfavlilslut @abbystromboli @megameatymatt @zenithsturniolo @chrissweetheart

[cultkinkcoven]

Let's say, if a person is really interested in researching Lucifer, what would be a perfect way to start? What topics to research, in which Gods to look into?

Also, let's say I am the person. I got really interested in Lucifer and His domains, but I don't feel connection with Him himself. I am really into understanding Him, though, in all His faces, angelic, infernal, greek, roman and any other possible way (also, because He is often connected to queer people and coming from conservative country and coming as queer person from there, I look for something to unlearn shame and being more comfortable with myself and others, I was hoping to find it in Him and/or Dionysos-Bacchus). I always got the feeling that to understand Him fully you need to had some kind of connection to Christianity, because I noticed that most of people turn to Him as for better option rather than christian God. I never had experience with Christianity, so I never felt any need to reject it to find something better. Thank you for your answer, you are great person and it feels awesome to read your blog.

Also, art? Holy shit that ones of the most beautiful things I saw. Keep it up. Your colours are pretty and pleasant to look at, anatomy is great and, as far as I can tell, you draw on phone/sensory tablet, not computer/laptop, and amount work you put in this is fascinating. You are great.

English is my second language, forgive any mistakes that were here.

I could literally yap about this all day but I'm going to try to stay pretty locked in and concise with this.

For the sake of simplicity and your own headache, I encourage you to think of Luciferian archetypes as masks that a deity may or may not be using based on context. I say this because 1. there are many different Lucifer, whether or not they are literally the exact same "guy" is unknowable, and you will give yourself a headache trying to concretely answer that question either way; and 2. because Lucifer approaches everyone differently. The Lucifer you interact with will depend highly on your beliefs, disciplines, and desires.

There are multiple ways wee can go about this, there is no perfect way. I would first employ you to ask yourself if:

You are looking to interact with a Lucifer that is aligned with Satan

You are looking to interact with a Lucifer that is pre or post biblical

The aspect of the Lucifer you're looking to interact with- Infernal, angelic, primordial, Venusian, phosphoric etc.

I'll break these down in order.

Is your Lucifer Satan? If yes, you're probably a theistic satanist and I would imagine that your Lucifer is largely based on the Christian archetype of Lucifer. Is this incorrect? Absolutely not, Lucifer most certainly does have a real archetype as the fallen angel described in Christianity. If you approach him with this understanding, you likely will get a response.

You will likely hear that Lucifer isn't actually the Christian devil, that his inclusion in the bible is a translational error. That is technically speaking, correct. The original intention of the biblical text was not in reference to an angel but rather the Babylonian king. HOWEVER,

Lucifer's mythos as a fallen angel, a ruler of hell, an adversary, as it had later gone on to largely influence Christianity is still very much valid in my opinion, and I very much believe that that Lucifer is alive.

If this is the Lucifer you're interested in, I'd recommend researching Lucifer Ha Satan, Lucifer the Dark Initiator, Lucifer the Adversary, Ruler of Thaumiel (if you're into the qliphoth), The anti-God, the Liberator (particularly from religious shackles.) This is in the realm of traditional satanism and inversion of religious authority and rituals. You'll see a lot of these rituals written backwards, end with "Nema" instead of "Amen". I myself am not a Satanist nor do I really worship Lucifer as the devil so I don't have that many book recs, but the works of Michael Ford explores the syncretism of Luciferian and Satanic ideology. I would also highly recommend "Lucifer A Devotional" by Kindra Ravenmoon, one of my favorite books I've ever bought even as a Luciferian. For mythos I highly highly highly cannot highly enough recommend reading "Paradise Lost" by John Milton.

If your Lucifer is not Satan, then move on to the next question, is your Lucifer pre or post biblical?

I would not say that one necessarily has to have any connection to Christianity to engage with Lucifer and Luciferianism. Lucifer’s inclusion in the Bible does not mean that the Bible is the first place we’ve ever seen the Lucifer archetype, you probably already know this.

Our most ancient understanding of a Lucifer archetype and energy is based on the Sumerian Inanna and Akkadian Ishtar. Inanna is the very first place we see a myth about the morning star rising to heaven and then falling to the underworld. Inanna was specifically a deity associated with transformation, resurrection, war, and rebellion hundreds of years before the bible or Abrahamic religion was conceived of. 

Attar (ʿAthtar) – The Canaanite and Arabian Morning Star God Canaanite and South Arabian deity associated with the morning star. He was a warrior god of storms and fertility, often linked to both Baal (Hadad) and Ishtar/Inanna, and is considered an early influence on later depictions of the fallen Morning Star, Lucifer in Judeo-Christian tradition. Attar was the male counterpart of Astarte (Ishtar), the goddess of love, war, and Venus. He was often depicted as a failed usurper of the high god’s throne, much like the later Christian legend of Lucifer’s fall.

One of the most significant myths about Attar describes him attempting to take the throne of Baal after Baal’s death. Attar tries to rule from Mount Zaphon, the cosmic mountain of the gods. However, he is too weak to hold the throne. He is forced to descend and instead rules over the underworld and lower realms. This mirrors the later Biblical story of Lucifer, who:

Tries to exalt himself above God (Isaiah 14:12-15). Is cast down from heaven when he fails. The Isaiah 14 passage ("How you have fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of the Dawn!") likely draws on the older Attar myth and blends it with Canaanite theology to critique the king of Babylon. Interpretations argue on whether Attar chose to leave, or was too inadequate to lead. Attar’s story predates and likely influenced later depictions of Lucifer:

Both are Morning Star figures who attempt to ascend but are cast down. Both are associated with kingship, rebellion, and failure. Both end up ruling lower realms instead of heaven.

Attar, as a Venusian deity, fits into the larger Near Eastern tradition of the Morning Star as an unstable, liminal figure—sometimes divine, sometimes fallen, always in flux. This ambiguity and transformation later shaped the mythos of Lucifer, who inherited Attar’s Venusian identity, failed kingship, and descent. One very important aspect of Attar and Ishtar’s descent is the concept of survival after exile. Both have a catastrophic fall from grace only to emerge stronger than before- a spiritual resurrection. To learn more about this aspect of Lucifer you're going to want to explore Canaanite mythology.

In Greek mythology, Phosphorus (or Eosphoros, "Dawn-Bringer") was the personification of the Morning Star (Venus). His counterpart, Hesperus (Ἕσπερος, "Evening Star"), represented the same celestial body when it appeared at dusk. The cult of Phosphorus was small and fringe, both Eosphoros and Hesperus are very seldom mentioned in any surviving Greek texts.

Hesperus (Ἕσπερος) however is said to be the father of the Hesperides. The Hesperides, the daughters of Hesperus were nymphs who tended the golden apples of immortality in a garden at the western edge of the world- the direct opposite direction of Lucifer’s East. The golden apples guarded by the Hesperides mirror the Tree of Knowledge, with both representing divine wisdom that is forbidden yet desirable. The fruit was a gift from Gaia to Hera. The Hesperides were also guarded themselves by a 100 headed a serpent-like dragon named Ladon, who coiled around the tree, preventing mortals from stealing its golden fruit. In Christian mythology, the Garden of Eden also features a serpent entwined in a tree, tempting humanity with knowledge and self-awareness.

Phosphorus is highly syncretized with the Roman Lucifer, of course, and is distinctly different from a Satan archetype as the god of light bringing and enlightenment in a more literal way. Not demon nor angel, but a God himself, of transformation and resurrection. A sprit of the element of Air. The Gnostics interpret this idea in an interesting way, I highly recommend researching Gnostic Luciferianism for a blend between Christian ideas and older pagan concepts.

Prometheus is also a deeply Luciferian figure in Greek mythology.

To learn about the cult of Phosphorus and Luciferianism as it pertains to him in this aspect, I'd recommend reading "Lucifer Princeps" by Peter Grey, "The Order of Phosphorus" by Michael W. Ford, and the many works of the Temple of the Ascending Flame, and "Awakening Lucifer" by Asenath Mason & Bill Duvendack,

3. Aspect

I think this is the most important thing to consider. The aspect of Lucifer you invoke at any given time may change. You may wish to invoke a pre fall Helel/ Lucifer to bring pure heavenly light, in which case you would be referencing his angelic aspect, using his angelic enn: "Agios Es Lucifer Divum Et Vorsipelle"

If we want Lucifer the red dragon, the draconian fire, the phoenix, the serpent, the tempter, we may use his infernal enn: "Renich Tasa Uberaca Biasa Icar Lucifer

A more primordial or venusian Lucifer may blend into more Aphrodisian methods and manifestations.

Tldr. I recommend just pinpointing which face you're interested in and moving outwards from there. The ones that work work and the ones that don't don't.

Also THANK YOU SM aw omg I'm so happy you guys like my art :))

[xoxoshifts]

「 ☾ 」 ｍｙ ｍｈａ ｓｅｌｆ．．．

I'm Hiyoshi Ryusei, a first year student at U.A. University and a member of class 1-A. After disowning my father and running away from home I applied to U.A. and was almost immediately accepted, partially due to the fact that I come from a very well known pro-hero family. The name Hiyoshi is practically intertwined with the concept of heroes but at this point it's become more of a brand name than anything else. I plan on becoming the best hero in the world, not based on popularity, but on my ability to help others, much to the dismay of my shallow and selfish father, the pro-hero Solaris.

My mother is a rescue hero named Bengal, aka Hiyoshi Yukina. Her quirk, Pocket, allows her to open portals to wherever she can think of and even gives her access to her own small pocket dimension. Even though she isn't that "famous" she is known to leave a mark on everyone she encounters. People who have been saved by her say she is their favorite pro-hero. She used to be a member of the Wild, Wild Pussycats and I consider them to be my relatives. My mother is the kindest person I known but is often abroad saving people from natural disasters. She raised me in the USA, Japan, South Korea, Australia, and Mexico but during a holiday trip to Japan a disastrous tsunami hit and she stayed beyond our original vacation to help. After that we moved to Japan permanently and I lived there for the entirety of my high school career. She wanted me to be closer to my father but that slightly backfired when I found out how horrible he is.

My father is a very famous pro-hero named Solaris, aka Hiyoshi Taiyo. He was never really a part of my life and the last good memories I have of him were probably from kindergarten. His quirk, Sunrush, has been passed down through his family for generations and it allows him to absorb solar energy more efficiently than the average person and turn it into an enzyme called "Flare". When he stockpiles enough Flare it can be used to boost any of his physical capabilities (strength, senses, intelligence, etc.) or create and manipulate solar energy beams as well as give him x-ray vision and the ability to fly. My father's side of the family is filled with pro-heroes and many of my relatives are in the top 100 heros of Japan. Solaris is ranked the No. 3 hero. I have a distaste for my father (and this side of my family as a whole) due to the fact that they are mostly in it for the glory. I've essentially disowned my father ever since he founded his own hero agency with the sole intention of making a profit and obtaining a higher status.

My quirk is a combination of my parents' quirks called Pocket of Sunshine. It allows me to absorb solar energy like my father, with all the abilities that comes with it, with the distinction that I can also use my solar energy to create portals and a pocket dimension separate to my mother's. Thanks to my stockpiles of Flare I am capable of increasing the strength of my portals to create more than my mother could. My pocket dimension is also much bigger than hers and to this day I have not found where my pocket ends. I assume it's limitless. I have been going to prestigious schools and enrolled in "junior hero programs" since I could remember. I tried to hide who I really was from my class to avoid any special treatment but with the last name Hiyoshi and my "flashy" quirk, that was essentially impossible. I try my best to stay out of the spotlight and remove myself from my father's legacy.

[thesilverdiary]

Non Authorized Version

⤷ Summary: She saw his name again. 

Not in a headline. 

Not by accident. 

Poetic, in a cruel sort of way — he once rewrote her silence into absence: neat, forgettable, as if she’d chosen to vanish. 

Five years apart. 

One request. 

And a history that refuses to stay in past tense. 

Fourteen chapters. 

⤷ Author's note: Some ideas started taking shape in my mind a few months ago, and since then I’ve been drafting bits and pieces here and there… maybe I’m finally coming out of that writing block that tends to hover over anyone who loves telling stories — which, honestly, makes me happy. 

I’d been a bit tired of the endless PWP spiral (no shade, truly — important to say!), but I needed something with a little more tension. A bit of plot. A touch of pain. You know — joy. A story split between now and then.

⤷ Special warnings for this first chapter? Oh, hm, no. Just emotional tension, slow-burn energy, unresolved past, implied intimacy, and professional power dynamics. No smut yet. Silence does most of the talking. There’s a 10-year age gap.

Last but not least, if you want to, you can read this on Wattpad and AO3 as well. 

⤷ Words: 3,673. 

Chapter One | Some Roads Have No Exit

📍Vienna, Austria → Brackley, United Kingdom. 2025.  

It’s been five years since I left behind the near-ritualistic routine of attending Grands Prix in person. 

And ever since, I’ve been failing — stubbornly, I’ll admit — to rebuild the kind of sleep the experts call rest hygiene. 

I’ve tried. Really. 

Waking up early. Stretching before sunrise. Joining the 5AM club, with silent yoga and ceramic-mug coffee. 

Coffee only until two in the afternoon. Warm lightning in the evening. No screens after six — or at least, that’s the promise. 

Just not mine. 

My body still runs on the time zone of floodlit paddocks and red-eye flights. 

I belong to the afternoon. 

To the night, if possible. 

The kind of person whose brain only starts working once the rest of the world goes quiet. 

A night owl — the kind that sometimes mistakes being awake for being nostalgic. 

I’m not against healthy routines. Not at all. 

I understand the value of each carefully prescribed step: the afternoon coffee cut-off, the amber lights meant to trick the brain into thinking the day is winding down. 

The slow retreat from screens after six — not out of duty, but as a ritual. A silent agreement with the body: you can rest now. 

Some call it self-care. Others call it discipline. 

I call it trying. 

Because sometimes, it’s not about wanting. It’s about being able. 

You can’t always keep pace with the ideal internal clock imagined by people who sleep through the night and don’t hit snooze. 

There are days — and nights — when the only victory is not falling apart. 

Everyone has their own emotional time zone, their functional mess, their little negotiations. 

The notification came just before seven. An email. Scheduled, maybe. Or sent by someone who starts their day in overdrive. Who knows. Who hasn’t had a boss who confuses urgency with their own anxiety, anyway? 

Of course, there’s that polite trick of scheduling things for office hours — a veneer of normalcy. But sometimes the anxiety is so raw, so impatient, that it bulldozes right through the intent. And then the message just goes — unfiltered, unscheduled. As if handing off the task is enough to lighten the load. 

I got it. I swear I do. 

Outside, Vienna was still breathing in shades of blue. The city looked suspended — like it couldn’t decide whether to rise or ask for five more minutes. In the building across the street, a bathroom light flicked on and off in a hurry — a life waking up by instinct. Someone getting out of bed. Or someone who, like me, never really went to sleep. 

I prefer to believe in the first. It’s too early for other truths. 

I opened the news with no real hope for anything new. I read like someone who already knows the endings — but rereads them anyway. I mentally corrected headlines. Adjusted verb tenses. Swapped adjectives. A leftover habit from the days I believed fixing the sentence could also fix the feeling. 

I know better now. But I still try. 

I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt — oversized, blue, with tiny piling on the cuffs and a stubborn hole in the right sleeve. A kind of social armor. Not just comfort — a signal. A quiet message to the world, in case it asks: today, only gently. 

The dry buzz of my phone broke the silence. 

A notification. That kind of brief, polite vibration — impossible to ignore. The screen lit up. My eyes followed, reluctantly. 

“Confidential Project | Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.” 

I swiped the notification away, like sweeping something under the rug that you know you’ll trip over again. 

Pressed my forehead to the rim of my coffee mug. Closed my eyes. Breathed like I was trying to file away an entire thought in a single pause. Kept my face calm — not out of vanity, but habit. 

I didn’t open it. 

Not yet. 

I may not have figured out how to regulate my sleep, but I have learned — with some effort and a lot of mistakes — how to regulate curiosity. 

Also known as: anxiety. 

At least when it comes to certain things. 

And this… 

This was one of them. 

...

I got to the newsroom a little before nine, coat still zipped to my neck and eyes too dry to look just tired. The coffee in my hand was more about protocol than need — like holding it might help keep some structure intact. A scene worthy of those behind-the-scenes journalism films, except without the flawless wardrobe, without the soundtrack, and without the performative charm of the lead. 

Pre-season buzz had taken over everything: the screens, the fragmented conversations between coffee breaks, the story pitch spreadsheets. 

McLaren was starting strong. Mercedes promised consistency. And Red Bull — for the first time in years — seemed unsure of its own script. That alone was enough to spark every theory imaginable. 

I greeted people with a chin-nod here, a half-smile there. The mug in my hands was a shield — the perfect excuse not to linger in conversation. It was still early, but inside me it felt like noon. A whole day was already lived in silence — or maybe in delay. Like some part of me was spinning in a different clock. An older one. Louder. 

At my desk, I opened the team’s email, aligned three files on the screen, and took a deep breath. But the draft stared back at me like an impatient version of myself. The feature article was still raw, headlines unfinished, the opinion section waiting for edits. I tried to focus. Tried to write. 

Another Christian Horner interview was taking up too much space in the news cycle: 

"Full confidence in the RB21." 

"We're learning from early challenges." 

"Absolute focus on recovery." 

Words lined up like PR notes. Crisis script, recycled. 

McLaren was leading. Mercedes was threatening. And for the first time in years, Red Bull seemed lost inside its own narrative. 

No one in Formula 1 knows how to lose. 

They only know how to change the story. 

That’s when Maren appeared at the door. No knock. With the kind of subtlety only someone with big news and no intention of softening the blow can pull off. 

“You haven’t seen it yet?” she asked, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She wore that half-smile — part warning, part tease. 

“Seen what?” I asked, fingers still on the keyboard. 

She stepped closer, leaning against the doorframe like she had no plans to leave. 

“Wolff. He asked for you.” 

I turned my head slowly. 

“Asked how?” 

“Ghostwriter. Authorized biography. Set to release next year. There’s already a contract, a timeline, an international publisher. And he was specific: he wants you on the project.” 

I went still. Picked up my now-cold coffee again. My body quiet. 

Only my stomach reacted — that dry twist that comes when something brushes the past without asking permission. 

“He knows I was the one who approved that behind-the-scenes series on Mercedes?” I asked. “The column that ran when Hamilton announced he was leaving?” 

“He knows. It was translated, actually. And he still asked for you.” 

She didn’t smile. Just looked at me — like someone who already knew I’d say yes, even if I really wanted to say no. 

...

The email was still unopened, but it lingered — insistent. Hovering. As if it carried more than just text — like it was, in itself, a question. 

I kept telling myself it was just work. 

A professional offer. 

A chance to tell a relevant, respected story. 

But the truth was simpler. 

And harder to admit: 

If it had been anyone else’s name, I wouldn’t have hesitated. 

But with him… 

With him, the hesitation was already an answer. 

Someone once told me that if your “yes” isn’t immediate, it’s because deep down, you’re already leaning toward “no.” 

You just haven’t figured out how to say it yet. 

But there are exceptions to every rule. There always are. 

Dear Anneliese,  The Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team is pleased to invite you to collaborate, as ghostwriter, on the official biography of Toto Wolff.  This project is more than a record of professional milestones. It is, above all, an attempt to understand the turning points, the quiet decisions, and the untold versions of a life lived under constant pressure — both on and off the track.  Your precise listening, contextual insight, and ability to name what so often goes unnoticed make you the natural choice to take on this mission. There’s something in your editorial perspective — in the way you organize the non-obvious — that we consider essential here.  We’re aware that projects of this magnitude require time, commitment, and a rare level of trust. That’s exactly why this invitation comes with the freedom to say no — but also with the hope that you’ll say yes.  The attached proposal outlines the preliminary details regarding schedule, confidentiality terms, and suggested editorial structure. We remain at your disposal for any questions.  Kind regards,  Special Projects Team  Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team 

I closed the laptop. 

Then opened it again. 

Then shut it once more. 

Several good years in journalism. 

Five covering motorsport. 

I’d covered everything from Sauber’s chaos to Red Bull’s golden years, from Grosjean’s crash to Vettel’s tearful farewell. I’m hereby announce my... It was a hell of a day this one. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to write from behind the curtain. 

I’d been there before — the voice arranging other people’s truths. 

The presence who caught what the subject was trying to forget. 

I’d built narratives with more delicacy than the truth deserved. 

Protected reputations between commas. 

Edited out the emotional excess of those desperate to seem untouchable. 

But this invitation was different. 

Because he wasn’t just another name. 

He was the name. 

The only one who, even after all this time, could still make my body hesitate. 

He’d always been good with words. 

Never hid in silence. 

Said what he thought — with conviction, without filter. Sometimes with precision. Sometimes with urgency. 

There was something raw in the way he shaped his sentences. 

As if feeling deeply was, in itself, proof of being right. 

Back then, I thought it was beautiful. 

But later, I learned: 

Intensity isn’t listening. 

And those who talk too much often hear no one. 

Not even Mercedes — with all their media machinery — could filter what he let slip. Sometimes it seemed like he used the truth as a tool — revealed just enough to appear transparent, never enough to be vulnerable. He wielded language like a thermometer: said what needed to be heard, even when it sounded spontaneous. And that’s when it got hardest to tell. 

Yes. 

No. 

Yes? 

Meanwhile, the old phrase pounded in my head: 

The stopwatch never lies. 

The stopwatch never lies. 

The stopwatch never lies. 

And right now, the stopwatch was screaming. 

...

The newsroom was still murmuring the end of one of the last meetings when Adrian approached my door, his body slightly leaning forward, like someone who wants to come in without crossing a line.  

"Did you see the new piece about Ferrari's testing in Maranello?"  

His voice carried that spark only recent graduates still have — as if every new bit of information might rewrite the whole season.  

"They’re saying the car’s lighter, with much cleaner cornering response. It might just be hype... but it sounds promising."  

I nodded without taking my eyes off the screen.  

"Ferrari always sounds promising."  

"But this time..."  

He paused. Wanted to convince me. Hoped for some sign of validation — a look, a question, anything.  

"Leclerc said he’s never felt this much stability in the sims."  

I took a deep breath, removed my glasses, and let the silence stretch—just long enough to become heavy.  

"What's new isn’t always what matters, Adrian. Sometimes, it's what repeats that reveals the most."  

He frowned, like he couldn’t decide if that was criticism or café-philosophy.  

"I just wanted to know your bet," he said, with a smile that tried to stay light. "You’re usually right."  

"Bets are for people who still want to be surprised."  

I turned back to the draft. He didn’t push. Left slowly, almost disappointed.  

From across the newsroom, Jonas muttered without looking up:  

"She still bets. Just not out loud. Not anymore."  

I pretended I hadn’t heard.  

But I had.  

Later, in the hallway, Maren caught up with quick steps. She was holding her phone, brow slightly furrowed, like she’d read something she hadn’t yet decided was ridiculous or inevitable.  

"How many times did you open the email before you actually read it?"  

I gave a half-smile. Didn’t bother denying it.  

"A few."  

"I thought you’d ignore it."  

"So did I."  

She took a slow sip of her coffee.  

"Are you going to accept?"  

I nodded.  

"Even knowing how it ends?"  

"I don’t know how it ends."  

Not yet.  

She looked at me sideways — the kind of look that doesn’t judge. Just understands.  

"And you’ll be able to write it like nothing was left behind?"  

"I’ve never known how to write like that."  

She nodded once.  

"Then maybe it’ll work."  

We stood there in silence for a few more seconds. Lukewarm coffee, white walls, the kind of moment no one would remember.  

Except us.  

"Brave," she said.  

"Or stupid."  

"Sometimes, the only difference is who's watching."  

...

I looked out the window. Not even my late-night neighbor was awake.  

I packed around two a.m., when the city was already asleep and even the building’s usual noises had quieted. Everything felt suspended — a kind of pause I hesitated to disturb.  

I folded clothes like someone closing a book whose ending they already knew.  

Each fold was more about control than preparation.  

I chose neutral pieces, discreet. Tailored pants, three blouses that matched each other. No patterns, no textures that carried memories. Nothing he could recognize from afar. No scent that might suggest repetition.  

It was automatic. But not accidental.  

There was intention in every choice.  

As if clothing could serve as armor.  

As if the right fabric might stop something from returning — or escaping.  

I replied to the email before two-thirty. Few words. The right tone: formal, technical, politely receptive. Every punctuation mark measured. But the real answer had already come — in that moment when I opened the message and my body, without asking me first, reacted like something had finally clicked back into place.  

Or like I had never really left that place at all.  

At the bottom of my backpack, the old notebook.  

Black cover, frayed edges, loose elastic.  

The pages were full of loose phrases, bits of interviews, notes that never made it into any article.  

Things he said — not the official ones. The others.  

The ones that slipped out when he thought no one was listening.  

Words that never made the headlines, but never left me either.  

Some things we don’t publish. But we don’t erase them either.  

Along with the notebook, I packed the bracelet.  

Simple. No visible value. No shine. No signature.  

It didn’t stay out of sentiment or longing.  

It stayed because, out of everything I chose not to keep, it was the only thing that never asked to stay.  

And maybe that’s why it did.  

The airport was quiet, but not calm.  

People too sleepy to truly be there.  

A woman slept with her head on her suitcase. A teenager watched a video without headphones. Two executives debated franchise numbers like someone around them might care.  

No one did.  

Neither did I.  

At the gate, I felt that familiar pull in my stomach.  

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.  

Like I was going back to a place where I’d left a version of myself I hadn’t had the courage to retrieve — but that was now waiting for me.  

Right where I’d left her.  

The flight was silent. I chose the window seat.  

Refused the snack. Accepted the wine.  

The first questions started forming in my head. Structures, tones, narrative routes. But each one crumbled before it took shape.  

I typed notes into my phone. Deleted them before landing.  

I tried to remember what the book was supposed to be.  

Deleted that too.  

What remained, as always, was memory.  

Vienna, 2016.   The way he ran his fingers along my ribs, slowly, like retracing a familiar landscape that still knew how to give chills.   And for one full second — a second that still hasn’t ended —   he seemed to recognize me with a precision no one else ever had.  

Suzuka, 2019.   He spoke for twenty minutes without saying what actually mattered.   The abrupt exit. The way he turned away, like he’d forgotten something — but wouldn’t go back for it.  

It wasn’t about romance.  

Not passion either.  

It was about understanding.  

Like when he touched me, he grasped something I didn’t yet have a name for.  

And somehow, that alone was enough to throw me off balance.  

There were others.  

Men who tried. Who were kind. Present. Gentle.  

Some even made me laugh like that might be enough.  

But the body remembers.  

And memory doesn’t compare — it recognizes.  

There was something in his eyes — direct, unwavering — that no one else could replicate.  

And maybe a part of me never truly left either.  

That’s it: he’s an old language I still understand without needing translation.  

Even though I should’ve forgotten how to pronounce it by now.  

I landed in London shortly after nine.  

Took the train to Oxfordshire without saying a word.  

The team’s driver was waiting at the station.  

“Comfortable trip?” he asked.  

I nodded, like someone still arriving from a place they never actually left.  

And I watched the rest of the ride through the window.  

Brackley appeared just as I remembered: clean, efficient, gray. The kind of town built so that nothing stays out of place for too long.  

The Mercedes building looked almost exactly the same.  

The sleek facade reflected a dull sky across mirrored panels. The halls felt quieter than necessary — as if even sound had to be carefully engineered not to interfere.  

It was the architecture of precision: made to think fast, decide right, and fail as little as possible.  

A place where the past wasn’t welcome — only data.  

I walked in.  

I was greeted by a new staffer. Too young to have lived through any real comms crisis, with perfectly trimmed hair and that polite smile that never goes beneath the surface.  

He looked proud to deliver the message: “Mr. Wolff requested you personally, Miss Weiss. Directly.”  

It landed like an award announcement.  

I smiled back. Short. Just enough to end the moment before it lasted longer than it should’ve.  

The silence in the halls was as deliberate as everything else.  

White. Untouched. People-less. Even the doors opened with excessive care, like asking permission was part of the protocol.  

Boring.  

On the wall, a photo of Niki Lauda.  

Captured mid-track, mid-drive — no posing, no flair.  

His expression was restrained, his body leaning forward like the only thing that mattered was the next two seconds.  

No heroism. Just focus.  

The image of someone who survived his own story and kept moving like it didn’t cost him anything.  

I sat down and crossed my legs. Checked my phone.  

Maren had messaged:  

“If you disappear for more than 72 hours, I’m assuming you’ve been kidnapped. Want me to go over the contract?”  

I replied: “Yes. And if I vanish for more than 96, publish everything.”  

She answered with a bomb emoji.  

I smiled. Alone.  

Thank God for her. Thank God she exists in my life. 

I touched the bracelet on my wrist. The metal was cold.  

I looked at my reflection in the door glass. My eyes looked darker than yesterday. Or maybe just more awake.  

Then I realized:  

He doesn’t know.  

He doesn’t know I never stopped watching.  

Even from a distance. Even in silence.  

I saw everything.  

The pressers. The interviews.  

The way his voice dropped when he wanted to end a subject. The pause before denying something.  

The way he crossed his arms when he felt control slipping.  

The smiles that died before reaching his eyes.  

I didn’t speak.  

Didn’t send a message.  

Didn’t come back.  

But I saw.  

The silence between us wasn’t one-sided.  

It was a choice. A shared one.  

The door clicked open.  

Torger.  

He appeared in the doorway like someone who knows exactly the effect he has, even if he didn’t plan it.  

The same posture as always: grounded, unhurried, like every inch of him was aware of its own space.  

Dark suit perfectly tailored, tie centered, expression controlled.  

But the eyes... the eyes betrayed him before his voice did.  

It was in the details that everything slipped through.  

The quick wrinkle of his nose.  

The slight raise of his left eyebrow — the one he pretended wasn’t a tell.  

The way he tugged at his shirt sleeve unnecessarily — small, but visible. Especially to me.  

He always did that when he was trying too hard to seem calm.  

The face was the same.  

But the eyes… had that old thing.   

Not tenderness. Not anger.

Familiarity.

And with it, a hint of something else — a flash of mischief, almost boyish, from someone who remembers more than he lets on. 

He looked at me like he was checking if a ghost still had a shadow.  

He stepped back half a pace, leaving space for me to enter. The gesture was reserved.  

But the look couldn’t hold the same control: there was a trace — almost imperceptible — of someone who’d waited too long for this moment to pretend it was just business.  

“Come in.”  

His voice was lower than I remembered.  

But still steady. Still his.  

And at that moment, it felt like everything after him had just been noise.  

And so, I went.  

Some roads have no exits.  

And others, we walk down knowing exactly where they end — but we go anyway.  

Because part of growing is learning that some pain isn’t meant to be avoided.  

It’s meant to be faced.  

Some roads we take knowing exactly how they end.  

And still, we go. 

Not out of hope.  

But because some things deserve a final sentence — whatever that may mean.  

[girl4music]

For example this scene from ‘A Tale Of Two Muses’:

Every single frame of this scene was improvised and by the end it wasn’t even acting. Lucy pulled on Renee’s hair a little too tight and she’s saying sorry to her. But how it comes across in the scene is Xena apologizing for not treating Gabrielle well earlier in the narrative.

It’s really natural moments like that between the actresses that sell the relationship between the characters. But what floors me it’s not intended.

Some people might think that’s a bad thing. That they weren’t being thoughtful because it wasn’t intentional.

But actually no - it’s the opposite. It’s a very good thing.

And it comes down to how much of a family they were on that set. How the whole production was a well-oiled machine because of how much the creators/cast/crew genuinely loved and supported and helped each other.

And by the gods I love seeing it and I really miss it.

I miss when you could actually SEE them have fun.

I’m not saying some days on set weren’t stressful or even miserable. But the point is they had each other.

So it was never really that much of an issue. I think I’ve mentioned this before about the characters themselves when Gabrielle refers to Xena as being her true “home”.

Regardless of what happens or what one has to do…

As long as they were together it didn’t matter at all.

And that’s what a “home” is fundamentally. Feeling safe. secure, comfortable even when things aren’t so good otherwise. Families full of love pull each other through the storm and then right back out of it again.

And that was the case with Xena. Both for the characters and for the actors. It was… home.

And you could really see it in the show itself.

You could see the immense love and support.

You could see the happiness and the fun.

And there really is nothing like that now.

The industry is so fucked up that there can’t be. 🥺😩

Xena is the kind of show where they would give you these random episodes that you weren’t 100% on.

But the answer to that is because they weren’t for you.

They were for THEM. And therefore… I still love them.

They could have been the silliest, wackiest most ridiculous thing on the planet. It didn’t matter.

THEY were having fun and THEY were happy.

And therefore THEY were loved regardless.

You don’t get that now. On the one hand - great. More substantial and consistent TV art/entertainment.

On the other… is the cast/crew happy? Are they safe?

What matters more? I know the answer. Do you?

I would take 100 Married With Fishsticks, Lyre Lyre’s, If The Shoe Fits or god forbid fucking You Are There’s…To see those amazingly talented people be happy at work.

I would always take something I don’t particularly like to see the people that I like thoroughly unconditionally enjoy themselves. That is love, support and respect. 👌

Watching ‘Been There, Done That’. Mad how you can call this “subtext” when the text itself admits to them fooling around with one another. Who else would it be?She can’t give herself love bites on the neck. Gabrielle’s had a fetish for Xena’s neck ever since the episode ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ where she got to bite Xena on it.

I know Lucy added that line as well as “Yes, both ways” but a lot of it is just spur of the moment improvisation. It’s not something they actually plan or intend to do in the same way Renee’s ‘She likes what I do’ was just a slip of the tongue. She actually meant to say “She likes what she does” but they kept it because it was funnier.

It’s something I don’t talk about enough about the making of Xena. That, sure, they had scripts but so much of their dialogue was either freestyle or just complete cock ups left in the Final Cut of the episode.

If anything - the “subtext” wrote itself. Or if we’re going to say it was divine intervention: God wanted it queer. It wasn’t just the natural organic progression. It was fate. There are so many moments where it was just perfect timing in capturing what is a fun homoerotic moment.

Odds are Lucy and Renee never saw the gay initially because they didn’t realize how much of it is just them.

Lucy does a bit of improv, Renee bounces off it automatically and they just have this very authentic chemistry that almost certainly will translate as romantic/sexual tension between their characters.

They don’t intend any of it. And it’s the best thing ever.

[franollie]

do you personally think that fandom brings up misogyny unnecessarily and even when it has nothing to do with the issue at hand?

like some people get up and arms if you don’t ship batcat or brutalia (you’re not obligated to like anything for any reason) or if you ship bruce with someone else this topic will come up for whatever reason even though when there are actual instances of blatant misogyny in fandom and it’ll go fully ignored by these same people.

a point of bruce’s romance is to establish that he can’t really be endgame with any one person so i personally ship him freely. i don’t know why fandom is so obsessed with tokenizing certain shippers as certain prejudices when i’m sure that they genuinely have never interacted with said shipper one on one in their entire life

sorry for taking so long on this i have a LOT of thoughts on the topic

ok so in short: yes, i do think fandom loves to cry misogyny.

that being said, fandom operates in a blatantly misogynistic way (see how in large fandom favors men over women regardless of whether or not that man had more or less screen time than the woman). misogyny in fandom is a very real thing, but it is more a fandom as a whole problem than an individual problem. the only way the problem of misogyny in fandom can be solved is by actually engaging with the women in whatever franchise you're enjoying (writing for them, making art, reblogging art, writing metas, etc). show them the same amount of love that you show other characters

with that in mind, it is also important to note that sometimes you just don't gel with a ship or a character. i agree that people are drawn to certain dynamics and relationships, and you are allowed to ship what you ship. let's take the brutalia/batcat v bruharvey/batjokes because they are similar in dynamic (batman and one of his rogues). it wouldn't be fair to call a bruharvey or batjokes shipper a misogynist just because they don't ship brutalia or batcat. now, if they ship batjokes but hate talia for killing, then you could play the misogyny card. really it's just a matter of how you specific people interact with characters. i think a better example of this is superbat v clois.

i'm gonna try and stay as unbiased and objective as possible because superbat fans scare me lmao but a lot of the criticisms for superbat are about how it ships these characters at the expense of their relationships specifically with the women in their lives. to be even more specific, clark's relationship with lois. it isn't fair to say that "all superbat shippers are misogynist because they ignore lois" because i don't know why every superbat shipper ships superbat. maybe superbat is nostalgic to someone because they grew up reading justice league comics or the world's finest comics, maybe they haven't read or watched that much stuff with lois/clois in it, maybe they just think the idea of superbat is fun, who knows what the reasoning is. the problems really arise when they begin to change lois's personality and character to fit their ship whether it's by writing her as some bitchy ex of clarks or as a "girlboss who doesn't need a man and is superbat's biggest shipper uwu".

i do think when it comes to comic book fandoms in particualr there is another added layer of fandom superiority when it comes to shipping where there are the "correct" ships and the "incorrect" ships. but that's a whole other topic for another day

just to reiterate: fandom misogyny is a very real problem (look at the top 10 ships on ao3 for the past 5 years and that becomes abundantly clear) but the only way to combat it is by actually creating and sharing works positively featuring the women you like.

[designernishiki]

it’s kinda funny to me how that dumb scene in kiwami 1 of majima getting shot and left for dead in the harbor was basically just added as a half-assed way to explain majima not being around for a bit of the plot, but they accidentally(?) just made it seem like start of a chain reaction where majima ended up feeling slighted and heartbroken after being abandoned like that and then lashed out about it via smashing a big truck into the building kiryu was in. and yeah that isn’t inherently a romantic thing as-is but then they go and add the part where majima grabs a hostess and performatively hits on her as in-kiryu’s-face as possible, she says she’s already in love with someone, and majima lets her go immediately, no questions asked, making a big fucking point of it just to say see THAT kiryu? I appreciate when people are HONEST about their FEELINGS. people who won’t just BACKSTAB someone who CARES about them to save themselves. is that so crazy kiryu?? huh??? anyway make it up to me get down here and fight me right fucking now

[longagoitwastuesday]

I actually like the last chapter. I think the ideas are very good. I have my qualms on how some things were managed, as I always do, but I think shonen authors get tangled in the expectations of a shonen to the point it jeopardises their writing, often even when they're not lacking in skills

[loadsofcats]

Hate hate hate digitalisation hate only being able to pay with credit cards hate touchscreens instead of people hate cashierless shops hate how ai is causing less jobs and less privacy and hate generated art and generated stories and aaaaaaaaagggghhhhhhhh