#i know the phrasing on the first one isn't one for one but

[natequarter]

🎉 yourbutchboyfriend Follow

considering changing my url but like what even to. yourbutchboyfriend?

💣 commiedyke Follow

DO ITTT

🎉 yourbutchboyfriend Follow

alright :3 here goes nothing

#anything for you

3 notes

🎉 yourbutchboyfriend Follow

man why does the doctor always act like i don't know what sex is? i'm 17 not 7 lol

🖋️ edwardianadvcnturess  Follow

He does the same with me! It's so utterly infuriating, why does he think just because I'm young I don't know what an orgy is?

🔫 thebrigadier Follow

I do believe he views all humans as deeply immature. I am nearing fifty now and he still patronises me whenever we meet.

❄️ icemaiden Follow

You're FIFTY??? No wonder the Doctor refuses to talk to you about such matters, that's practically cradle snatching. Or grooming.

⚰️ themaster Follow

hey didn't you lie about your age the first time you met the doctor? also you are literally 120. TIME TOT ☝️

❄️ icemaiden Follow

And you are literally a mass murderer. Go away.

⚰️ themaster Follow

you are like a little baby. watch this

*dies in his arms and he cries because he loves me unlike you who he could never love*

🎉 yourbutchboyfriend Follow

are you guys done yet or

#man what the fuck #is this like. time lord flirting

617 notes

🐧 coordinatorsupreme Follow

Tell me why the Rassilon character study I was just reading has an author's note that says "Sorry I haven't updated in decades, I got kidnapped and tortured by Daleks for twenty years!" Are all Mo3 users like this or is it just r*negades

🧶 elizabethtudor-blog Follow

Isn't this what happened to the president of Gallifrey?

🐧 coordinatorsupreme Follow

First of all, get off my post, I specifically have it in my DNI that humans are blocked on sight. Second of all,

WHAT?

👑 fred Follow

well what were YOU doing at the devils sacrament dare i ask

🐧 coordinatorsupreme Follow

None of those words are in the Matrix.

#What in Rassilon's name is a sacrament

132 notes

🗡️ worsthumanongallifrey Follow

it's always the little things in life. for example today i discovered that the writer behind all those doctor/romana fics on mo3 is none other than romana herself

#but does she write anything about me #nooo #no she does not

550 notes

📑 anordinaryjournalist Follow

Having a lovely coffee date with Harry to celebrate twenty years of the Doctor abandoning me! For some reason Harry hates it when I phrase things this way

📑 anordinaryjournalist Follow

Only 3 people died this time, it sounds terrible but I was hoping for something more interesting in all honesty

#the cafe didn't even explode or anything this time round #last time we had to pick up the dismembered bits of several corpses. much more fun #on the other hand Harry had to take his shirt off today (long story) #so that was fun #I mean it wasn't even really necessary but shhh he doesn't need to know that #eternally glad someone else is willing to put up with my nonsense (exploding fish-puma alien hybrids)

12 notes

🚬 fitz-crier Follow

nneed himmto fied merinto a pjper shrrder thrgn eastthe paper until wahts ke and whsts him is indenifinsble

📺 compassion Follow

I think he should not do that. Get help.

1 note

🏏 the--adventurer5 Follow

Repeat after me: your psychosexual obsession with an alien threat that wants to kill you is valid. Cosplaying as intergalactic mass murderers does not make you a bad person.

👑 fred Follow

if you make ONE MORE post glorifying cricket like this i may actually have to report you to the high council

🏏 the--adventurer5 Follow

Wait Romana I didn't mean it I'm sorry. I'll do anything. I'll unexplode Adric please don't report me to the High Council

👑 fred Follow

i'm not angry, i'm just disappointed.

✈️ donewiththisshit573 Follow

I'm angry! Stop fucking bringing up Adric when clearly none of you care about him!

⚰️ themaster Follow

what she said. be psychosexually obsessed with ME please please pretty please. i'll treat you right i won't report you to the high council i won't even kill you a little bit this time

🏏 the--adventurer5 Follow

You are pathetic.

#if you died right now I wouldn't even be sad I would be overjoyed

467,343 notes

[moonsandmobilityaids]

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Content Warnings: Adult content (female masturbation), mostly accurate depictions of being an onlyfans creator (hi, I am one), reader is fem, uses a wheelchair, and has cerebral palsy.

The sun is already high in the sky when you finally stir, blinking against the daylight that spills through the gaps in your blinds. You feel a strange lightness in your limbs, an unfamiliar energy that pulses beneath your skin. It's been a long time since you woke without the familiar ache of exhaustion clinging to your bones.

You sit up, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a soft groan as your muscles protest the movement. Ignoring them, you swing your feet over the edge of the bed, reaching for your laptop on the bedside table. The screen lights up at your touch, and you load up the website, showing the notifications from overnight.

With a sigh, you scroll through the comments and messages from your subscribers. Some are simple—expressions of thanks or admiration, questions about your next post. Others are more personal, sharing intimate details of their own lives or asking for advice. You respond to each one with care, typing out thoughtful replies until your fingers cramp on the keys.

Setting the laptop aside, you stretch again, before transferring to your wheelchair. You wheel to the kitchen, fixing a quick breakfast before returning to your desk, where the screen glows with new notifications, but one name catches your eye—ProngsPlayground_free.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you open his message, expecting the usual mix of charm and flirtation that has become his signature. But as you read, something shifts in your chest, a warmth spreading from the pit of your stomach to the tips of your fingers.

ProngsPlayground_free: Good morning, love. The three of us spent another night watching your videos. Padfoot was all jokes and grins, saying no other creator could hold a candle to you now. 😏 And Moony? I've never seen him pay such close attention to anyone who wasn't me or Padfoot. He's usually the reserved one, but there's something about you that's got him hooked. So, know this—we'll be waiting for your next post, eager to see what else you have in store for us.

The last line lingers, and you find yourself reading it again. There's a playfulness to it that's almost audible, a self-assured tease that doesn't just hope for more content—it expects it. Prongs is confident that you'll perform again, and the thought of them waiting, eager for another glimpse into your world, sends a thrill up your spine.

It isn't the first time a subscriber has alluded to being captivated by your content, but something about the way Prongs phrases it—speaking not just for himself, but for his two boyfriends as well—makes you feel seen in a way you haven't before.

The idea that they're out there, watching you, wanting more... it ignites something within you. A spark of anticipation, perhaps, or the beginnings of an addiction to their attention. And you want to give them what they're waiting for. You want to keep them on the edge of their seats, hungry for more.

The warmth spreads from your stomach, pooling in your chest and reaching for your cheeks. You are acutely aware of the potential reality: three men, their faces hidden but their identities etched into every line of text, dedicating their evening to you. They sit somewhere out there, beyond the screen's glow, watching your videos, discussing you, laughing, perhaps even blushing at your words.

You shake your head, attempting to dismiss this peculiar sensation. It's not real, not in a tangible sense. It's just another fan interaction, albeit a rather intense one. But no matter how much you tell yourself this, the image persists. You picture them sprawled across a couch, shoulders brushing, eyes glued to the screen as it plays back your life. Prongs lounging with an easy smile, teasing the others; Moony, quiet and observant, taking it all in; and Padfoot... he'd be the one to get flustered, wouldn't he? The thought sends another wave of warmth through you.

Your hand drifts down of its own accord, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shorts before they creep beneath, touching skin that's already prickling with anticipation. The shorts feel too tight all of a sudden, constricting, so you kick them off and shift from your wheelchair to the edge of your bed.

Your eyes flutter shut as you let your mind wander, fingertips tracing a familiar path along your inner thigh until they brush against your folds. A soft gasp escapes your lips, and your heart rate quickens.

Reaching out, you grab your phone, thumb scrolling through playlists until you find the one you use for filming. It’s an almost subconscious choice, but it speaks volumes about what you're about to do. You can practically feel the camera on you already, capturing every breathless sigh, every shudder, every quiver of delight.

There's something about filming yourself in these moments that heightens the experience. The knowledge that others will see, will watch with bated breath, stokes the fire within you. It's intimate, yes, but also performative—and right now, that thought sends a thrill down your spine that's more powerful than anything else. It always does.

Your camera is set up in its usual spot, angled to capture every movement and expression. You’ve spent time perfecting the soft lighting that reveals just enough, yet leaves room for your viewers’ imaginations to fill in the rest. Adjusting your position on the bed, you ensure you’re within the frame before giving a small nod of satisfaction. A shiver runs through you, not from cold but from the thrill of what you're about to do. The excitement ignites a warmth in your belly, spreading outwards until your skin tingles with anticipation.

You place your favorite toys—a sleek dildo and a powerful vibrator—within easy reach, already envisioning how they’ll be put to use. Your breath hitches as you imagine the pleasure they’ll bring, the way your body will quiver and clench around them. The camera is rolling, capturing this intimate moment for strangers who will only see a sliver of what you truly are. But right now, it’s not about them—it’s about you and the heady rush of being both the performer and the audience.

Leaning back against the plush pillows, you let your hands roam. They slide over your stomach, tracing the curve of your hips before moving upwards to cup your breasts. You close your eyes, letting out a soft sigh as your fingers gently pinch and tug at your nipples. They harden instantly under your touch, sending jolts of pleasure straight down to your core. Imagining those unseen eyes on you, you can almost feel their heat, even though there's no one else in the room.

Your fingers trace a delicate path to your clit, applying just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge. It's tantalising, the slow build of pleasure, but it's not quite enough. You crave more, and you know just how to take it.

You reach for the dildo, its cool surface sending a shiver up your spine as you position it between your thighs. Slowly, oh so slowly, you push it inside. Your body clenches around it instinctively, warmth spreading from your core as you begin to move your hips. The rhythm is languid, each roll of your hips bringing the toy deeper within you.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut as you imagine Prongs' teasing grin, the way his voice would hitch when you touch yourself. What would Moony sound like if he were here, watching? Would he be able to keep quiet, or would soft groans escape his throat? And Padfoot... you can almost hear his breath catch as you slide the dildo in and out.

The thought alone sends a rush of heat through you, stoking the fire that threatens to consume you whole. Your hand trembles as you reach for the vibrator, fumbling slightly before you manage to switch it on. The hum of the device is instantly comforting, promising relief and release.

You press the vibrator against your clit, letting out a soft gasp at the sudden onslaught of sensation. The pressure, coupled with the waves of vibration, is intense but not overwhelming—it's just what you need. You let your head fall back against the pillows, your body arching off the bed as you surrender to the pleasure coursing through your veins.

"Fuck," you breathe out, the word barely audible over the buzz of the vibrator. You start moving the dildo again, slow and deliberate at first, but growing more frantic with each passing moment. The dildo fills you up perfectly, hitting all the right spots as you grind down onto it.

The pleasure is intense, a heat that starts in your belly and radiates outward. You can feel the familiar tension building, coiling tighter with each second. It won't take long now—not with the way you're teasing yourself, not with the thought of being watched. Your hips tilt, seeking more friction from the toys. Your breaths come out in short, ragged gasps, and you let yourself get lost in the sensation, in the fantasy of those boys, in the thrill of knowing this will all be caught on camera.

The buzzing of the vibrator against your sensitive flesh teases you closer to the edge of release. You push your hips into it, gasping as the pleasure intensifies. The stimulation is perfectly focused on your clit, while the dildo hits your g-spot with each movement. It's too much, and yet, not enough.

And then, suddenly, you're there—the build-up shatters into a wave of heat and sensation that sweeps over you in an overwhelming rush. Your body clenches around the dildo, quivering as the orgasm takes hold. It's all-consuming, leaving no room for thought or doubt—only the exquisite release.

A soft moan slips past your lips, your hand finally slowing its pace as the tremors subside. You let yourself bask in the afterglow for just a moment longer before pulling out the dildo and switching off the vibrator.

Your chest heaves with exertion, the flush on your skin a testament to the intensity of your climax. For a few heartbeats, you simply lie there, catching your breath and allowing the tendrils of pleasure to recede. Then, slowly, you sit up and glance towards the camera.

It's still recording, the red light blinking steadily in the dim room. A record of everything you've just shared, every intimate detail laid bare for the audience on the other side of the screen.

A satisfied smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You hadn't planned to do a video today, but sometimes, the most authentic content isn't planned—it's birthed from moments like these when the mood simply takes over. There's a rawness to this video, a vulnerability that can't be scripted, and you know your fans will appreciate it. They always do; they relish the glimpses into your real life, the shared intimacies that make them feel closer to you.

Easing off the bed, you reach for the camera, pressing the button to end the recording. A quick playback confirms what you already knew: the footage is perfect. The angle highlights your body in all the right ways, the lighting casts an inviting glow on your skin, and every movement you made was captured in tantalising detail. There's a sense of pride that swells within you, not just for the quality of the video, but for the authenticity of the pleasure it depicts. Your followers will love this, you're sure of it.

Without wasting another moment, you upload the video onto your OnlyFans page, labeling it simply: A little spontaneous self-love 💋

You set a modest fee—not too high to deter, but enough to hint at the quality within—and send it as a pay-per-view message to all your fans. It's a little pricier than most of your content, but you know it'll pique their curiosity. After all, they've been clamouring for more intimate glimpses into your life like this one.

The upload bar fills slowly, and as it does, a shiver of anticipation dances down your spine. You lean back in your chair, satisfaction curling your lips into a smile. Prongs and his boyfriends will never know they were the muse behind this creation—that will stay your little secret—but you can't help but wonder if they'll purchase it, if they'll sense the connection that thrummed through you as you filmed it.

A part of you hopes they do.

As the last sliver of the progress bar turns blue, you release the breath you've been holding. The message goes out, a beacon calling to your followers, and you sit back, waiting for the first reactions, the first purchases.

Taglist: @alohastitch0626

[crownmemes]

Assorted Media Sentences, Vol. 18

(Sentences from various pieces of media. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You have a lot of love for him, don't you?"

"As tempting as your offer may be, I am a man of principles.... And they bribed me first."

"You're one of them, aren't you?"

"You're going to survive this, and you're going to see the bastards responsible suffer. I promise you that."

"I don't want to get you drunk, but that's a very fine Chardonnay you're not drinking."

"You don't have to live in the past. Just let it go."

"Aren't you the cutest little thing when you're being shy?"

"You look so pretty in that dress!"

"Are you bringing home strays now?"

"I love a rum and coke in the middle of the day! It makes me feel like I'm on a tropical island!"

"You are not as charming as you think you are."

"Apart from feeling like someone stuck knitting needles in my ears, I'm fine!"

"You know that feeling you have that we've met before? It's the same with me."

"Strange how memory can come and go, isn't it?"

"You know what I said the other night about how I admire you? I really meant it."

"I came back to finish you off."

"Exciting? People are dying! I don't think exciting is the word I'd use to describe it!"

"We have existed this way for thousands of years. Who are you to challenge our ways?"

"Oh well. It's not the first time my heart's been broken."

"Tonight's the night I get some answers, one way or another."

"Tonight, the age of man comes to an end."

"Dying in a hail of bullets seems like such a waste, don't you think?"

"Who wears a suit to dispose of a body?"

"Are you rich? How much?"

"We got off to a rough start. It happens."

"That's a bad idea, but you're free to indulge it."

"Does a closed door mean nothing to you?"

"We all have our secrets - even me. Especially me."

"Drunk, I'm an open book. Sober, I'm cagey as hell."

"We're not trained in kindness. It's not a prerequisite. In fact, sometimes I think it's trained out of us."

"Can we go? This place is really freaking me out!"

"Wait a minute! You used me as bait?"

"Do you remember when you first felt an emotional attachment?"

"Aren't you getting a little tired of this? Because I know I am."

"You know, I think if you're going to do something stupid, love is probably the best excuse going."

"There's still a war going on, and I have a job to do."

"Never underestimate the female of the species. It won't end well."

"If once is a mistake and twice is unfortunate, what does that make this?"

"I'm not going to take advice from some thief!"

[str4wberrysw4n]

𝓡𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑: 𝐮 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐥˙✧˖°🎀⋆｡˚꩜

if u've been in the manifestation/loa community for like less than a week, u probably already know abt the statement: "ur the creator of ur reality." the meaning of the phrase is exactly how it sounds: u control every single thing abt u and around u. all of ur manifestations/"desires" are possible bcuz u, the creator, have decided that they are possible. stuff like that. however, I feel like some people don't understand what that really means and how much power u actually hold.

when u are the creator, u don't have limitations. everything that happens is ur doing. ur relationships, ur appearance, ur lifestyle -- everything is being controlled by ur subconscious, whether u know it or not.

if u decide "oh, that boy rejected me, so that means he and i aren't meant to be", that thought manifests into the 3d and that boy and u aren't meant to be. that's because u as the creator have decided that this person will feel that way about u.

"if im the creator of my reality, then why can't I manifest my desires?" first of all, I've already said this before: u are constantly manifesting ur desires. in fact, u saying that u can't manifest is not only u putting limiting beliefs on urself, but ur also calling them desires, meaning that ur still trapped in the illusion of the physical world.

second, i think I've also mentioned this before-- we are limitless beings experiencing human life in the physical world. if u want to be wealthy, a bunch of money isn't gonna just drop from the sky. while the 4d is the true reality, ur subconscious will still manifest in a way that doesn't seem weird or straight up bizarre to the average human. that’s why we don't notice/recognize when we've manifested something; because it happens in such a natural way that u can't tell if it was a coincidence or ur actual manifestation (spoiler alert: it's the second option)

knowing this, think abt what it means to truly be a creator. u basically control everyone and everything around u. the creator doesn't fear abt their "desires" never coming to pass bcuz they know that if its not happening, it is not meant for their life in the physical realm. they will see something happen in the 3d that conflicts with what they imagine in the 4d. but instead of wavering, they let themselves process their emotions and then remind themselves that the 3d is an illusion, the old story, and that the 4d is the new one.

this is where anti-loa come in and say "oh so if someone's homeless, then they chose that for themselves?" "if someone's dying of cancer, then they chose that for themselves?" and this has actually been a point that I've agreed with for some time. what abt ppl who go through genuine pain and suffering in the world? are they at fault?? this bugged me for some time and i only just found an answer now. so do i agree?

"yes" and no.

(i have not experienced either of these things. I've seen people manifest illnesses away and money when they needed it, but i have not personally experienced it. so pls take my following words with a grain of salt ^_^)

let's start with the homeless thing as an example: if ur homeless, it is incredibly difficult to remind urself that in the 4d, ur incredibly rich and wealthy. such awful conditions and circumstances make it hard for someone to persist. this ends up in them unfortunately conforming to the 3d and leaving things up to chance instead of taking control.

same thing with illnesses; how can u tell urself that in the 4d, that ur cancer free, when ur possibly confined to a hospital bed? they can still control their realities, but not only is it incredibly difficult to do so, but some people either don't know or don't believe in manifestation, indirectly abdicating their title as creator. so it is "their fault"... but at the same time it isn't. (ppl r obviously entitled to their own beliefs as well)

to sum it up, u are the creator of ur reality and u control everything that happens to u or around u. we r all human beings experiencing life in the physical realm so ur subconscious manifests ur 4d in a way that makes logical sense to u. however, when ur experiencing smth bad, it's not ur fault if u waver or find it hard to persist!! (the 3d can pack a punch sometimes) as long as ur able to remind urself of the power that u hold, u'll be able to get through it!!

happy manifesting!!!! (≧▽≦)ིྀ

[nadas-dirthalen]

I Chose the Wrong Romance in a Game About Regret, and It Made the Game Better

A love letter to BioWare about Dragon Age: the Veilguard.

I don't have the thoughts in me for a formal review of all the aspects of gameplay at this time, nor do I have the brainpower for dissecting my every theory just yet.

But tonight, I want to write to you about the thing that stuck with me the most about Dragon Age: the Veilguard. And that is... I chose the wrong romance for my Rook, and it made the game unforgettable.

Veilguard endgame spoilers below the cut.

(I just liked this tiny screencap, okay. This specific dialogue isn't what I want to talk about.)

For a few days now, I've been trying to think of how to phrase what I want to say. The emotions I felt in the endgame of Veilguard were massive—to the tune I became dehydrated. To convey why that was, I think I have to start at the beginning.

This is the story of Winged Death: the party, the romance, and the headcanons that formed a nightmare combination to break me emotionally.

Meet my Rook: Thenera Sa'renan Aldwir, or Nera for short. A Veil Jumper who lost her mom to blight sickness when she was a teen; who tried to find the Wardens at Skyhold only to learn they'd been exiled; who joined the Veil Jumpers to protect people, but also honor her mother's memory. (Yes, all of this becomes relevant.)

Her name is taken from elven: Thenera from theneras (dream), and Sa'renan from sa (one; one more) and renan (voice). I used the patronymic system outlined in Project Elvhen: Sa'renan was her mother's name. I chose all this in late August, long before I'd really theorized anything substantive about Veilguard.

I did not know how much it would hurt.

All through the game, I got more and more into Nera's head. This was helped out a lot by how much footage I'd seen in September, how I knew Nera would be the "throw a chair while beating up an entire bar" Rook rather than try any attempt at diplomacy. How I knew she'd punch the First Warden without second thought, despite not knowing what the First Warden had done before Weisshaupt. She was always the "hit things with rocks to fix them" Veil Jumper to me, just like Bellara's dialogue references.

It also meant that I felt a lot of her insecurity in the early game: her doubt in her own intellect; her insecurity in her Dalish identity from being kicked out of her clan as a child and living in Wycome as a young adult; her acute awareness of her own trauma and fear around all things blight. To mirror my Inquisitor, who had Dirthamen vallaslin, I gave Nera Falon'Din vallaslin, to signify that she had seen too much death at far too young an age.

I even picked a party for her "default" group: Lucanis and Davrin. Because of Nera's Falon'Din vallaslin, Lucanis' demon wings, and Assan's battlefield presence, I gave my group a name: Winged Death.

And I loved them.

But just like I'd headcanoned a lot of Nera's backstory, I also hypothesized a lot about the Lucanis romance. And, to put it briefly... the game did not match what I expected, and the Lucanis romance was not to my enjoyment, personally. (If you like it, good! I'm glad you do! This post is about Nera, though.)

Right away, Lucanis asked about Nera's favourite drink. When she said tea and he made a disgusted noise and nothing else, I reloaded, choosing the "better" answer of liking the same coffee as him—something that prompted more dialogue. For me, in hindsight, this was the first moment I should have seen that for all Lucanis' charm, he would not fit my gruff, chair-throwing Veil Jumper. But I'd committed, and I was determined to see it through just once.

I didn't want Veilguard to be the story of an elf romancing an elf—for me, that was my Inquisitor's story. I wanted a new flavour.

Only... Lucanis' romance, for Nera, did not pick up much from there. Almost the entirety of act 2 was silent—and that was after saving Treviso. Lucanis seemed to care more for Neve and Minrathous than he did for Rook, in my perception. By then, I'd sunk into Nera's headspace, and I could feel her feeling neglected. I could feel her insecurities rearing their ugly heads: was she too blunt? Not intelligent enough? Somehow too elven, even for a Crow, whose organization is made up of so many elves?

You know who she constantly found acceptance in, though? Whose approval triggered almost every time Nera answered a question honestly, in the stern way that she was predisposed to do?

Davrin. The other half of Winged Death. The one who, now, was bickering with Lucanis almost nonstop in party banter, each constantly jabbing the other about how death would come for them, death would claim all they'd known, their choices would bury them.

Lucanis had precious few opportunities to discuss Nera being an elf; an elf Rook facing down their own gods. But Davrin? Davrin talked about it so much, he would know the horror of being called Da'len by Elgar'nan.

Together, they survived the Cauldron. And where did they shelter? In the ribcage of a slain archdemon. But not just any archdemon.

Zazikel. Who has been confirmed now, in a Veilguard codex, as Falon'Din's archdemon.

And where were the griffons allowed to go, at the end? Arlathan.

I could never have foreseen those parallels, and yet? There they were, piling up too late. I'd already made Nera's choices for her, and I'm not someone who would normally attempt a love triangle.

(She's so pleased with their shenanigans. Just look at that totally carefree and happy face.)

Lucanis' content dried up for Nera, but stayed pretty consistent for Neve—to the point that she had begun to feel sincerely cast aside. I began playing her with that mindset: as if she'd been set adrift, even as she locked in Lucanis' romance.

Around 45 hours into my ~60 hour playthrough, I found myself thinking... maybe I try the Davrinmance next game. Maybe I reroll Nera, even as a Veil Jumper again, to see those griffons in Arlathan. To see two Dalish elves haunted by the same ghosts, and see how they grow. I talked to friends about it. I even headcanoned some more, trying to see how Nera's narrative and personality might slot in with Davrin's questline.

In my head, that looked a little like Nera realizing she felt stronger kinship and connection with Davrin, but denying that to herself. She was, after all, locked in with someone else.

I let myself laugh at this, taking more screenshots of Nera and Davrin than of Nera and Lucanis, right up until the beginning of act 3.

And that's how BioWare got me.

If you're here, you know what comes next. I didn't.

I thought I needed Harding to potentially face down Solas, thanks to her line about wanting to look him in the eye after one of Solas' memories. I thought, maybe, some dialogue would unlock by having Harding in the party during any potential final confrontation.

This was the second time I went against Nera's own character: I chose to keep Harding at Nera's side, rather than Davrin. I did it for my Inquisitor.

And at first, I thought Davrin was surviving my choice.

I even felt happy—proud—that I freed him during the Ghilan'nain fight. I thought if I delayed too long, he might die to the fight's mechanics. But he survived that, too.

Then, the worst played out before my eyes: Lucanis going to take the shot at Ghilan'nain. Being caught. Davrin, racing in to defend. Being impaled. Lucanis hitting Ghilan'nain, only to appear suddenly dead—dead, somehow, how could he be dead, I'd just seen him?—seconds later.

Because of Arlathan, I'd thought this was just another Elgar'nan trick. Solas would come to save us soon. He had to. This was just fake-Solas, conjured by Elgar'nan to make Rook lash out or feel lost. Right?

It didn't hit me until I was in the Fade, and Solas was gone. Until Neve's statues were everywhere, because Nera had chosen Neve to risk that dangerous magic. Neve, who was her very antithesis; who was human enough and sophisticated enough and eloquent enough in ways my spellblade had struggled with reconciling since her teen years.

Saying it was my fault, that my Rook chose this for her—and she had. Her decision was motivated by her favour for Bellara.

I think this is when my Rook stopped denying things to herself. Right here.

This was the person she was closest with in her own party. This was the person who shared her feelings on both her culture and the blight. This was the person who brought joy to her days, with more meaningful dialogues (in Nera's opinion!) than Lucanis had had since act 1.

It is hard to put into words how hard this moment hit me. She had chosen wrong—and I had chosen for her. I was reminded of Taash's line from after Memory #2: "There was stuff he wanted to tell her. But he waited too long. And then she was dead."

And then she was dead.

My Rook knew why Fade Jail held her so well, in that moment. Even before the Varric reveal that had my tear ducts begging for mercy.

The game's mechanics had done that to her. Locked her into a romance with Lucanis (my choice, hellbent on seeing it through), didn't let her leave, didn't allow for her to say anything akin to, 'Hey, Davrin, not in this worldstate... but how about the next one?' (and all of those, for the record, are 100% understandable, and just the nature of video games!)

Lucanis continued to have little in the way of content that fit Nera, and was First Talon, to boot. Nothing in the game could change that; games aren't designed that way. He was destined for a life she was never going to enjoy, locked in to that choice—and she, and I, should've figured it out sooner.

We didn't. Varric was dead. Everything had been a lie. We'd been duped; played. We were never smart enough; together, we were doomed all along.

Every insecurity I'd imagined for Nera came crashing down. And all of them, I'd gleaned from hints in Companions Week. From the footage that released on September 19, showing Rook's backstory choices. From the overall tone of the promotional material we saw, and the strong emphasis on companions, and the declaration of the theme of regret.

And it culminated in me crying harder than I have at any piece of media.

Ever.

Ever.

BioWare gave me every hint I needed to make a fitting Rook, and every single choice they showed me I could make was a weapon. That's why I not only accept, but appreciate the 'spoilers' that we got from Bioware beforehand. That's why I am so far from jaded about the Lucanismance. I could not denounce this experience if I tried, and you know why?

Because through Lucanis' continued flirtatious banter with Neve, the way he stays continually animated so close to her, and the way he gives the same mid-combat praise to Neve as to Rook, my Rook felt like a woman scorned. And it made the game BETTER.

I wouldn't have cried so hard, for so long, if Nera was allowed to be happy. I wouldn't have been shaken to my core as a Solavellan, wondering if there really could be a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel.

The game wouldn't have hit me like it did if Lucanis hadn't come to Rook to declare his feelings only after she had spent time mourning Davrin and Assan. It wouldn't have hurt so good if Lucanis' dialogue afterward never mentioned his worry for exclusively Neve, and not the loss of Davrin—who he'd travelled with all game long.

But Solas had done it: he had molded Nera into a creature of pure regret.

And I, through my determination to try a romance that turned out not to fit my Rook, had let him.

The way it was structured, Lucanis' every sweet word rang hollow after Nera was freed from the Fade, and it made Davrin's, Varric's, and (what I thought was) Neve's deaths hurt that much worse.

There was nothing that could fix the pain in Nera's heart, the pain of her wrong choices not just in failing to romance Davrin, but failing to question Solas, failing to notice peculiarities about "Varric" in the Lighthouse. She felt like she failed, and she had. Undeniably. Because no matter where the conclusion of the game would take us, she'd never end up happy. She'd never want the life of a First Talon's spouse.

Every piece of her character lined up with regret, all at once. It all clicked into place, all in two soul-crushing hours.

Her name is Thenera Sa'renan Aldwir—and she was the victim of a dream of just one voice. She wears Falon'Din vallaslin, and was given a moment to spend time alone with the many, many dead.

Falon'Din: friend of the dead. That was what Nera had become, wasn't it? Because her closest party member—and what might have been her truer love—would not be coming back. Because I could feel that a part of her did not want to leave Fade Jail, and that Emmrich really did have to pull her out.

Winged Death destroyed her.

She rained down fire and lightning all through parts 13 and 14. She became Wrath and Thunder. I let her hit enemies harder than she had to, wasting her mana at every opportunity. Let her vent her every frustration. All I could think of, through the hurt, was this codex.

Elgar'nan, Wrath and Thunder, Give us glory. Give us victory, over the Earth that shakes our cities. Strike the usurpers with your lightning. Burn the ground under your gaze. Bring Winged Death against those who throw down our work.

Nera became all that was left of Winged Death, having let Lucanis fight with the Crows, taking Taash and Harding instead.

Elgar'nan was resistant to all her magic in that final fight. She was weakest at the end, and I didn't want to change her specialization to avoid that fact. She was broken, deep down. Solas' happy ending did not fix what the game had done to Nera's heart.

She, the other half to my Inquisitor, ended up with the opposite fate. Where my Inquisitor's journey on the din'anshiral was ending (or at least, was no longer alone), Nera had thought she had the companionship she wanted, only to wind up on the din'anshiral alone, with no way of recovering Davrin.

Which brings me to her last parallel: Solas' devotion to Mythal. Saying that if he did not tear down the Veil, then "I—she would have died for nothing."

To love someone and say nothing; it twisted them both up inside. Rook and Solas, always intended to be mirrors. One death, enough for each of them to bring the Eldest of the Sun to his knees. To change the elven pantheon forever.

I don't know how I managed to stumble upon this level of pain, but I could not be gladder that I did.

So, at the end of this extremely long post, here is my praise for BioWare. You mad geniuses, if any of you ever, ever see this... you wove regret into this game so well, so deeply, that my own passing thoughts about romance beats and game mechanics wound up stabbing me an additional time in Fade Jail, just as deep as the wound of Varric's death.

So well was this narrative constructed that I found my Rook in every corner of this story, even its tiniest references twining with every headcanon I had made.

Veilguard is so good, so profound, that a romance that did not work for me made the game better. That, to me, is the mark of a kickass narrative: one that fits almost any headcanon while still delivering on a deep, resonant theme.

BioWare couldn't have known that my party would be "Winged Death." Couldn't have known Nera, or her position as a Veil Jumper, or her doubt in her own intellect and her own ability to love. Yet, that is the beauty of Veilguard and of Dragon Age in general: they don't have to know. The writing is brilliant enough that it fits as much as one single story can in terms of possibility, while still hitting home with the same theme for everyone.

So thank you, BioWare. Thank you to every writer, to every animator, to every amazing, talented human whose hands and minds touched this game.

I needed the cry after a hard year, and you all delivered in the best way. I'm doing the Davrinmance now—because I think it's right to try it, and I think Nera deserves it—but this run will always hold the dearest place in my heart. The one where the regret bloomed, in part, because of jokes and headcanons I had made in the middle of a romance I did not enjoy, wishing for a different second playthrough.

The one where it all stabbed me, all at once. You bastards. (affectionate)

[fantasiallamarcia]

things i think about constantly since i finished dark road.

[lgbtlunaverse]

Thinking of the Nie disciple that told Nie Mingjue it was Meng Yao who stayed behind to clean up corpses on the battlefield today.

Nie Mingjue didn't just randomly stumble upon poor lil meowyao eating bread in the novel, he was already looking for him to thank and reward him for his work.

That's what makes it so fun that nieyao's first conflict will end up being about someone else taking credit for Meng Yao's work.

And I'm sure that Nie Mingjue's actual opinions on plagiarism are a lot more nuanced, all we really get from him in this scene is "well you shouldn't kill someone over it!" which leaves a lot of room for what punishments he thinks are appropiate. But I bet that it isn't occuring to him in this moment that the only reason he knows Meng Yao at all, the only reason he got such a capable deputy, is that he noticed someone was taking care of the dead and cared enough to want to know their name. And then the Nie disciples didn't lie to him. The disciple he asked could have said "it was me, Zongzhu" to rise in the ranks himself, but he didn't. He went and asked others, who all also could have taken the credit, but they didn't. Someone saw Meng Yao working and decided to be honest about it and that simple decision is the catalyst for Meng Yao becoming Nie Mingjue's deputy.

Meng Yao can't just work hard to get results, others have to acknowledge that work. If they don't, it's as if he didn't do anything at all.

[watermelinoe]

i think it's kind of offensive to try to make holocaust denial about trans people but idk

[futurewife]

would y'all be mad if i f/o a.drian from p.eacemaker. I think im committing to the bit and watching it. Is anyone going to be mad? I just want him so bad. there are guys that are so dream girl to me

[leatherbookmark]

pretend to be shocked if you wish but i don’t even see mxy’s incestuous harassment of jgy as something like... Bad™, twisted or something that proves how Wrong In The Head he was. it’s just sad. chances are jgy was his first and last love, because -- how incredibly easy it would have been. i don’t think mxy was, hmm, mentally equipped to process “half-brother! off-limits!” -- he’s never seen this man before in his life, that’s a stranger! but what a stranger. he’s kind, respectful, capable and brilliant, hardworking despite the way he’s treated in jinlintai -- and mxy probably isn’t well-liked either, so even if jgy wasn’t also handsome, he would’ve gravitated towards this cool older dude who Understands. and hormones do the rest! and it didn’t even have to be immediate, or particularly sexual in nature, because i assume teens often don’t realize their crush is Obviously Showing. i’m just thinking about mxy who likes jgy so, so much and wants to be around him all the time, asks him about things, looks at him, catches a whiff of the incense on jgy’s robes as he walks past, blushes at the way jgy looks at a particular angle... just this sweet, innocent young love that’s so similar to the way jgy’s wife loved him before she was his wife So Fucking Doomed and mxy can’t even process it because he’s not even aware. :(

[thaliagrayce]

do NOT understand why will was complaining about nico's dark edgy powers. the pro to dating the king of all emo kids is that you get to date the king of all emo kids. whats not clicking

[luetta]

idk if people on tumblr know about this but a cybersecurity software called crowdstrike just did what is probably the single biggest fuck up in any sector in the past 10 years. it's monumentally bad. literally the most horror-inducing nightmare scenario for a tech company.

some info, crowdstrike is essentially an antivirus software for enterprises. which means normal laypeople cant really get it, they're for businesses and organisations and important stuff.

so, on a friday evening (it of course wasnt friday everywhere but it was friday evening in oceania which is where it first started causing damage due to europe and na being asleep), crowdstrike pushed out an update to their windows users that caused a bug.

before i get into what the bug is, know that friday evening is the worst possible time to do this because people are going home. the weekend is starting. offices dont have people in them. this is just one of many perfectly placed failures in the rube goldburg machine of crowdstrike. there's a reason friday is called 'dont push to live friday' or more to the point 'dont fuck it up friday'

so, at 3pm at friday, an update comes rolling into crowdstrike users which is automatically implemented. this update immediately causes the computer to blue screen of death. very very bad. but it's not simply a 'you need to restart' crash, because the computer then gets stuck into a boot loop.

this is the worst possible thing because, in a boot loop state, a computer is never really able to get to a point where it can do anything. like download a fix. so there is nothing crowdstrike can do to remedy this death update anymore. it is now left to the end users.

it was pretty quickly identified what the problem was. you had to boot it in safe mode, and a very small file needed to be deleted. or you could just rename crowdstrike to something else so windows never attempts to use it.

it's a fairly easy fix in the grand scheme of things, but the issue is that it is effecting enterprises. which can have a looooot of computers. in many different locations. so an IT person would need to manually fix hundreds of computers, sometimes in whole other cities and perhaps even other countries if theyre big enough.

another fuck up crowdstrike did was they did not stagger the update, so they could catch any mistakes before they wrecked havoc. (and also how how HOW do you not catch this before deploying it. this isn't a code oopsie this is a complete failure of quality ensurance that probably permeates the whole company to not realise their update was an instant kill). they rolled it out to everyone of their clients in the world at the same time.

and this seems pretty hilarious on the surface. i was havin a good chuckle as eftpos went down in the store i was working at, chaos was definitely ensuring lmao. im in aus, and banking was literally down nationwide.

but then you start hearing about the entire country's planes being grounded because the airport's computers are bricked. and hospitals having no computers anymore. emergency call centres crashing. and you realised that, wow. crowdstrike just killed people probably. this is literally the worst thing possible for a company like this to do.

crowdstrike was kinda on the come up too, they were starting to become a big name in the tech world as a new face. but that has definitely vanished now. to fuck up at this many places, is almost extremely impressive. its hard to even think of a comparable fuckup.

a friday evening simultaneous rollout boot loop is a phrase that haunts IT people in their darkest hours. it's the monster that drags people down into the swamp. it's the big bag in the horror movie. it's the end of the road. and for crowdstrike, that reaper of souls just knocked on their doorstep.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

The thing with the Mari Lwyd, though, is that it's being... I don't know, 'appropriated' is the wrong word, but certainly turned into something it isn't.

Thing is, this is a folk tradition in the Welsh language, and that's the most important aspect of it. I feel partly responsible for this, because I accidentally became a bit of an expert on the topic of the Mari Lwyd in a post that escaped Tumblr containment, and I clearly didn't stress it strongly enough there (in my defence, I wrote that post for ten likes and some attention); but this is a Welsh language tradition, conducted in Welsh, using Welsh language poetic forms that are older than the entire English language, and also a very specific sung melody (with a very specific first verse; that's Cân y Fari). It is not actually a 'rap battle'. It's not a recited poem. It is not any old rhyme scheme however you want.

It is not in English.

Given the extensive and frankly ongoing attempts by England to wipe out Welsh, and its attendant cultural traditions, the Mari is being revived across Wales as an act of linguistic-cultural defiance. She's a symbol of Welsh language culture, specifically; an icon to remind that we are a distinct people, with our own culture and traditions, and in spite of everyone and everything, we're still here. Separating her from that by removing the Welsh is, to put it mildly, wildly disrespectful.

...but it IS what I'm increasingly seeing, both online and in real world Mari Lwyd festivals. She's gained enormous pop-culture popularity in recent years, which is fantastic; but she's also been reduced from the tradition to just an aesthetic now.

So many people are talking/drawing about her as though she's a cryptid or a mythological figure, rather than the folk practice of shoving a skull on a stick and pretending to be a naughty horse for cheese and drunken larks. And I get it! It's an intriguing visual! Some of the artwork is great! But this is not what she is. She's not a Krampus equivalent for your Dark Christmas aesthetic.

I see people writing their own version of the pwnco (though never called the pwnco; almost always called some variant on 'Mari Lwyd rap battle'), and as fun as these are, they are never even written in the meter and poetic rules of Cân y Fari, much less in Welsh, and they never conclude with the promise to behave before letting the Mari into the house. The pwnco is the central part to the tradition; this is the Welsh language part, the bit that's important and matters.

Mari Lwyd festivals are increasingly just English wassail festivals with a Mari or two present. The Swansea one last weekend didn't even include a Mari trying to break into a building (insert Shrek meme); there was no pwnco at all. Even in the Chepstow ones, they didn't do actual Cân y Fari; just a couple of recited verses. Instead, the Maris are just an aesthetic, a way to make it look a bit more Welsh, without having to commit to the unfashionable inconvenience of actually including Welsh.

And I don't really know what the answers are to these. I can tell you what I'd like - I'd like art to include the Welsh somewhere, maybe incorporating the first line of Cân y Fari like this one did, to keep it connected to the actual Welsh tradition (or other Welsh, if other phrases are preferred). I'd like people who want to write their version of the pwnco to respect the actual tradition of it by using Cân y Fari's meter and rhyme scheme, finishing with the promise to behave, and actually calling it the pwnco rather than a rap battle (and preferably in Welsh, though I do understand that's not always possible lol). I'd like to see the festivals actually observe the tradition, and include a link on the booking website to an audio clip of Cân y Fari and the words to the first verse, so attendees who want to can learn it ahead of time. I don't know how feasible any of that is, of course! But that's what I'd like to see.

I don't know. This is rambly. But it's something I've been thinking about - and increasingly nettled by - for a while. There's was something so affirming and wonderful at first about seeing the Mari's climb into international recognition, but it's very much turned to dismay by now, because she's important to my endangered culture and yet that's the part that everyone apparently wants to drop for being too awkward and ruining the aesthetic. It's very frustrating.

[inkskinned]

it's been said before and i'm sure said better than i can phrase it. but really, really - if you like making "i'm going to kill myself" jokes, please try switching to being ironically conceited instead.

anytime something goes wrong, say things like "ah well at least i'm beautiful and charming and everyone loves me." when you forget something, try "my big huge brain is so smart and thinking about too many other very big wizardly thoughts you wouldn't even understand." when you're frustrated by one of your symptoms, start talking like you're in My Immortal. "Life has come for me but my eyes are beautiful pools of gorgeous fire and my hair is amazing. I stuck my middle finger up at life and told it to fuck off and it did."

just... try it for a month or two. try saying the most absurdly self-congratulatory shit you can think of.

i know it's tempting to make suicide or self-harm jokes. and for me at least, a decade ago (!) when someone suggested i stop making those kinds of jokes, i was kind of at a loss for what to replace them with. i wanted to make light of these moments, but genuinely (at the time) my first thought really was suicidal ideation. there was a part of me that even felt like ... i was kind of "making light" of that voice. that if i could say i want to die lol, it would help take the sting out of that genuine (albeit passive) desire. like i could turn my illness into a joke.

when i started complimenting myself instead, it felt awkward and stupid. it felt really, really ironic. what i was actually saying was nobody would ever think this stuff about me, that's what makes it so fucking funny.

but. the effect was immediate. first thing i noticed was the people around me. when i dropped a glass and said ah my skin is too beautiful and sleek the glass has swooned and broken for me, other people were suddenly overjoyed to jump in with the joke. rather than making an awkward moment, we'd both start cracking up. ah princess sleek hands, i've heard of you.

i was 19. i hadn't noticed i'd been making others tense when i said i want it all to end. i know now that it's incredibly hard to know how to walk that moment - do you talk to them about your concern? do you potentially make them uncomfortable by asking if they're okay? do you ignore the situation? do you help them pick up the glass, or do they need to do it by themselves? are they genuinely made suicidal over this small moment? and most importantly, how do you - without professional training or supplies - actually help?

most people want to help you pick up the glass in your life, they just have no fucking idea how to do it. they don't want to make anything worse. they don't want to make assumptions about you. they love you, they're scared for you - and being scared makes people kind of freeze up. it's not because they don't love you. it's because they do.

now when something bad happens, my first thought is how can i make a stupid joke about this. it isn't my brain saying you're a dumb fucking bitch. i spend more time laughing. i spend more time being gentle with myself. i spend more time feeling good.

and the thing is - what's kind of funny - is that you'd be surprised by how many people agree with you. the first time i said i'm too pretty to understand that, someone else said to be fair you're the prettiest person in this room. i promise - you really don't know how kindly your friends see you. but they love you for a reason. they sort of reverse-velveteen-rabbit you. your weird and ugly spots fade away and you just become... the love they want to give you.

go love yourself ironically. the worst thing that happens is that you end up tricking your reflection into actually loving you.

[thebreakfastgenie]

It is extremely disturbing how many posts I see claiming that Roe v. Wade was overturned on Biden's watch and blaming him and the Democratic Party for it. It's disturbing on a number of levels.

First, it was Trump and Bush-appointed justices who handed down the Dobbs decision. This is a flagrant example of blaming Democrats for things Republicans did, and not coincidentally is one of the the most widely felt differences between the two parties. As a result, it's usually the first example Democrats and their allies point to; this misappropriation suggests a deliberate attempt to undercut that fact.

Secondly, and related to the first point, it obfuscates who the real enemy is, and I am comfortable using word "enemy" to describe the Republican Party because of the policies they advocate and enact. The truth is that states controlled by the Republican Party were where the effects of Dobbs are most severely felt, while states controlled by the Democratic Party are passing laws to protect abortion. It is important to know which party opposes abortion and which party supports it. If the Republicans gain control of the House, Senate, and White House, they will pass a national abortion ban, as they have done at the state level in several places.

Thirdly, blaming Biden for Dobbs demonstrates a very concerning lack of understanding of how the government functions. The judiciary is its own branch of government; judges are appointed by the president and confirmed by the senate. It doesn't matter who is president when a decision is handed down, it matters who was president when the justices were appointed. People sometimes react to this by moving the goalposts and claiming the real issue was a failure by Democrats to "codify" Roe v. Wade. I am not sure what "codify" means in this context, and I'm not sure they are either. One thing it does not mean is that congress can pass a law saying "abortion is legal forever." Republicans could easily repeal such a law and it the federal government cannot necessarily prevent states from restricting abortion at the state level. Roe v. Wade was a ruling stating that the constitution guaranteed a right to privacy, which included the right to have an abortion. This prevented abortion restrictions in a way federal law cannot. That doesn't mean passing federal law protecting abortion is a bad idea, but it isn't a foolproof protection. It's fair to argue that the Democratic Party and the left of center generally were complacent about abortion. The form of this complacency was not taking the courts seriously, while the right spent fifty years openly filling the courts with anti-abortion judges.

The last thing that worries me is that this is popping up phrased almost the exact same way all over the place. I am afraid that it is not merely incompetence, but intentional misinformation, that is then repeated by the incompetent who believe it.

I know some will probably dismiss this post as being from a "vote harder" liberal Biden supporter, but whatever your feelings about Biden, the Democratic Party, or the democratic process in the U.S., you should care about the truth. The truth is that Roe v. Wade was overturned by Republican-appointed judges and abortion bans are being enacted by Republican elected officials, and Joe Biden opposes these things. You can do with that information whatever you wish, but you denying it is dishonest.

[yazmarina]

walk me through it

for the love circuit series

—you're used to being flirted with in front of the camera. but something about franco is really doing you in.

franco colapinto (f1) x fem!reporter reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex (no condom, yes birth control), guided masturbation, lewd photography, lots of flirting, franco is shameless (naturally), some Spanish sentences and phrases

a/n: will resume hit play for a bit after this one! enjoy franco girlies mwa

Your job was simple enough. Well, for today, at least.

Stand in the media pen, gather statements, and piece together a couple of stories later that evening for publishing first thing tomorrow morning. All in a day's work, like all the other days before.

You've grown immune to the charms of rich, adrenaline-seeking men. Didn't take you too long, the illusion breaking as soon as any one of them opened their mouths. Some you tolerate more than others, but some you'd rather steer clear of completely.

This isn't to say that you've brushed all of them off. You might have agreed to a date here and there but nothing ever stuck, the nature of your jobs a bit too similar and all too different at the same time. You've given up on the prospect that you'll somehow end up with one of the many Formula 1 drivers you've interviewed and spoken to. And you've spoken to a lot. You've had this gig since you were shipped off fresh from uni and one too many 'What happened there?'s and 'Tell me about qualifying's can put a damper on the romantic side of things.

But someone new's in town. Well, er, new in the paddock. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't even a little bit excited.

He's charming, that much you can already tell. He walks into the media pen like he's done it thousands of times before and you have to actively suppress a smile as he walks over. Confidence is always a plus. For the interview, of course.

"Hola, Franco. Antes que nada, enhorabuena," you greet warmly, extending your arm over the barrier to place the microphone nearer to him. Hi, Franco. First of all, congratulations.

Franc's eyebrows shoot up, a wolfish grin settling on his face. "Oh. I thought this was an English interview?"

You smile back. "It is, but I know my way around Spanish, as well."

"Ah," Franco nods. "Gracias, _______."

"You know my name?" You ask, momentarily forgetting that you're being taped and recorded. You clear your throat, ignoring the quiet snicker from your cameraman.

"Yeah, I've seen you around and watched some of your other interviews," Franco confirms, a hand settling on his hip as he leans against the barrier, closer to you.

You can smell his perfume from where you stand.

"Thank you, I've heard and seen a lot about you as well," you respond, trying to return to your original train of thought.

"Which is why I want to ask you how it feels on your first day as a Formula 1 driver," you quickly follow. "Have you done anything special to prepare for this weekend? Other than the obvious, of course."

Another easy smile spreads across Franco's lips. "I've definitely added to my training and done some new things to prepare. I haven't done a full F1 weekend before so everything will be new."

"We definitely don't have reporters like you in the lower Formulas," he adds.

You feel a violent blush rip up through your neck all the way to your cheeks. As if the Monza heat wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me here," you manage to get out.

The thing is, Franco isn't even the most attractive driver you've met. He's definitely up there, but not the most.

That's a discussion you have with yourself semi-weekly: ranking the drivers in terms of attractiveness, factoring in personalities and general attitudes towards the people around them, specifically the media.

Look, people love to shit on the media and press, calling journalism all sorts of derogatory words, but you're just here to do your job, like anyone else. And it gets pretty fucking hard when your boss is ringing your phone every five minutes demanding four stories by tomorrow and drivers are sassing you out as if you asked them if they've murdered their whole family.

So, naturally, the way they treat you determines a big chunk of how you think your day is going to pan out.

And right now, Franco seems to be lifting your spirits just fine.

"What are your goals for this weekend? Are points on the horizon for you at your first F1 race?" You continue, trying not to stare at the way Franco starts to rub at the back of his neck, bashful all of a sudden.

"We'll try," Franco begins. He plants both his hands on the barrier and leans even closer. You have to physically take a step back.

You gulp. Franco smiles.

"Anything is possible this weekend."

-

"You broke the internet last night."

You scoff, sending your cameraman a vicious side-eye. It's crowded in the paddock today, everyone wanting to get a glimpse of the new rookie, it seems. Such is the eagerness for this young driver that even that 30-second clip of your interview with him blew right up in your face. Your inboxes at capacity, your own voice speaking back to you with every other swipe on your TikTok.

It's not all bad, though. A tweet with one of your Instagram photos attached to it captioned 'TE ENTIENDO MUCHO FRANCO ES MUY LINDA PERIODISTA' did weasel out a chuckle from you.

Your cameraman shrugs, gesturing with a jerk of his head in front of you.

"There he is. I'm sure he knows all about it."

You look over to where he's pointing and lo and behold, Franco is right there, chatting with a few Williams team members, his race suit hanging undone around his waist. He turns to you even before you can fully register that it's him you're looking at.

But your training kicks in even faster. A megawatt smile appears on your lips and you wave enthusiastically at Franco.

"Hi."

"_______," Franco says, face lighting up at the sight of you. Your name seems to fall even more effortlessly off his lips.

You reach over and pull him into a half-hug with one arm, but both his arms wind around you and you have no choice but to squeeze back.

"You saw?" Franco asks, a gleam in his eye as he pulls away. His hand remains casually on the small of your back.

"Saw what?" You know what it is he's asking but you'd like to hear it from him.

"We went viral, no?" Franco says with a laugh, reaching further around you and squeezing your waist. You lean into his touch, heart jumping as his fingers graze just underneath your cropped top.

"That's all because of you," you reason, pointing an accusatory finger at Franco. "I bet you say that to all the other reporters."

The Williams team members standing nearby burst out laughing and even your cameraman affords a snicker. A deep blush spreads across Franco's face as he rubs your side reassuringly.

"No, no, I don't. Just you," Franco admits with another lighthearted laugh.

"Sure," you say with exaggerated skepticism. You pull away from his touch, catching his hand before he slips it fully off of you.

"I'll talk to you later," you say. And it's fully intentional, the words you choose to say. I'll talk to you later. Not 'I'll catch you later' or 'I'll see you later'.

I will talk to you later.

Franco understands, giving your hand a squeeze.

-

Later that day, you pray that no one catches you grinning behind your hand as Franco takes the chequered flag at qualifying.

P11.

Almost there.

-

"Hi. Come in."

Franco beams at you from across the threshold, stepping into your room with slow, measured steps.

"Great qualifying," you compliment, eyes traveling down Franco's body, noting the way his team kit hugs his frame just right, his hands shoved into his pockets, exposing just his arms, veins and all.

Your eyes snap back up to his face when you hear the door shut in place.

"Q2 on your debut. Not bad," you go on, taking a step back. Franco takes one toward you.

"You're just repeating what you said at the media pen earlier," Franco points out. He reaches out and gently circles an arm around your waist.

Always straight to the point.

Like this morning.

You tried not to make it so obvious when you ran into Franco earlier, but all you could think about was The Message.

You were doing your cursory social media checks a few minutes after you had woken up, still snug in your bed and unwilling to get up just yet. A message in your Instagram inbox caught your attention, sitting at the very top of your 'verified followers' tab.

Franco Colapinto: hola, hermosa 😉

It took a minute for your motor functions to return, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you pored over what to reply. You settled on a nonchalant greeting, asking if Franco needed anything.

You realized rather belatedly that this was looking a little familiar. You wished he wouldn't say the dreaded answer, the more-than-predictable response that every man liked to use.

Franco Colapinto: you, maybe?

You groaned into your pillow, not because you were repulsed by his answer, but because you liked it. If you were easy, then so was he.

You: i finish work at 9 pm tonight...? 👀

It's 9 PM now. Franco's in the room and your hand is running up his chest.

Easy.

"It's such an honor," Franco teases, backing you up further into the room. His hands feel heavy on your waist and your heart hammers against your chest.

"I get to work with people like you now," Franco continues, stopping right in front of the bed.

The kiss comes as a shock more so because of how good Franco kisses. One of his hands is now cradling the back of your head, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth, groaning with every pucker of your lips.

You pull away for barely a second to get both of your tops off before you dive back in, seemingly too desperate and too starved for each other's mouths. Franco's hands are everywhere; they run down your arms, paw at your waist, tugging at the belt loops of your jeans.

You giggle as he pulls you even closer, your bare chests pressed against each other. Franco pulls back and peers down at you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. You let it fall, already guiding one of his hands to your tits.

"Couldn't stop staring at them?" You ask, your voice rising with an innocent lilt.

Franco kneads at the mound beneath his hand, eliciting a moan from you. He grins.

"I wanted you to notice," Franco admits simply, kissing you again.

"Perv," you mumble against his lips. Franco laughs, already undoing his trousers.

You wiggle your own way out of your jeans, letting Franco get the shortest of glimpses at your baby pink underwear before you discard them off to the side.

"Mierda, you're so sexy," Franco compliments as you crawl backward onto the bed, laying back and letting your hair splay out beneath you.

Franco pounces on you like a man starved, bare atop your own naked body, his arms caging you in.

"Big moves from somebody so new," you whisper, carding your fingers through Franco's soft locks.

"I like to make a statement," Franco says with a shrug. He glances up momentarily, something piquing his interest off to the side.

"Is that your camera?"

You crane your neck to see where he's looking and sure enough, your personal DSLR is right there on the bedside drawer. You look back at Franco, an eyebrow raised.

"You wanna use it?" You ask, not expecting him to actually say yes. But a mischievous grin settles on Franco's face and you feel your heart skip several beats.

"Knock yourself out," you say.

Franco reaches for the camera and fiddles with it for a few seconds. His eyes scan over your body and you suddenly feel the urge to hide away with how hard he's looking.

"May I?" Franco asks, brandishing the camera. Your mouth falls open as you realize what he's asking.

"You can keep them for yourself. For your eyes only," Franco hurriedly adds, planting his knees firmly on either side of you.

You stare up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind.

"Just...touch yourself."

You gasp, stunned at his proposal. Franco watches through the LCD monitor, glancing up at you through his lashes. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth, and as if on instinct, your hand inches down slowly between your legs.

"You're in front of cameras all the time," Franco reminds with a smirk. "This should be easy for you."

You suppress a whimper at his words, your fingertips swiping through your slick folds. You're already soaked and you start to wonder if it started even before Franco got here.

The shutter clicks and the lens whirs, sharp against the soft breaths you're letting out. Franco is concentrated, snapping photo after photo as you rub yourself closer to release. But it's not enough. You need more.

"Franco...," you implore, peering up with bright, begging eyes.

"Slowly, mi amor," Franco coos. "Just where you like it. Right there."

Click.

"Harder now, but still slow. Yes? Feels good?"

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as your pleasure picks up again. Several clicks. You're panting now, the tendrils of release wrapping themselves around you.

"Faster, yes, like that," Franco eggs on. Your fingers speed up against your sensitive clit and a litany of Franco's name spills from your lips. Before you know it, he's putting the camera away. You reach for him, gripping the back of his neck as he smashes his lips into yours.

Franco bites down on your lip and you cry out, your orgasm washing over you like a tide. You arch against Franco, feeling his own stiffness heavy on your thigh.

You blink, Franco's face coming into focus, barely an inch from yours. He watches you closely, pupils blown wide and plump lips even redder. You hook your legs around his waist, letting him know that you're not done yet.

Franco is quick to pick up, smiling as lines himself up with you. The groan that escapes him is nothing short of delicious as he pushes himself in. You gasp along, the stretch a welcome sensation.

Franco wastes no time and pounds right into you, catching you by surprise. You let your head fall back against the mattress, a long, drawn-out whine erupting from deep within your chest as Franco licks a stripe up your neck.

Your whole body quakes with how hard he's thrusting into you but you're clearly enjoying it if your wanton moans are anything to go by. Franco meets your eyes and you pull him down, wanting nothing more than to drown in those lips of his.

It's feral and it's unrestrained, spurred on by the knowledge that this is more than unprofessional in your line of work. Not illegal by any means, but risky enough to warrant warnings from your coworkers. Never sleep with a driver unless you're committed.

Oh, well.

Franco groans loudly in your ear, movements losing their rhythm as he speeds up. You're clinging to him as if he'd disappear if you let go, your own belly tightening once more with that familiar feeling.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

He kisses you just as he finishes. Passionate, eager, heady. You feel him inside you, a different kind of elation filling you as you release all over him.

Franco pulls away to allow yourselves to breathe. He pulls out, rolling over to your side. You hug your folded knees to your chest, too lazy to get up and find something to deal with the mess.

"No hagas eso. Eso es demasiado doméstico," Franco jokes, moving closer and planting a kiss to your shoulder. Don't do that. That's too domestic.

"Relájate, estoy usando anticonceptiva," you reassure with a lighthearted roll of your eyes. Relax, I'm on birth control.

Franco hums, laying an arm over you. He pulls you close and you face him, reaching up to brush away some of his unruly hair.

He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Happy that you're a Formula 1 driver?" You ask, grinning.

Franco chuckles. "Very."