#my legacy documentary

[stil-lindigo]

image i made for a powerpoint night with friends

[tarmac-rat]

Hey hey I need to uuh hum fight you at the back of a Denny's or something over those tags on my cyberpunk post lile wtf? That's such a good analysis of his character I love your work a lot in general but this is doing me in I'm gonna cry, you're so fucking right about this dumb broken man 🥺😠

I will not fight you I will bake you a cake and give you a kiss because you're very sweet I appreciate your kindness 😘

I really love your perspective on Johnny's disabilities and addictions impacting how he sees and interacts with the world-- as someone who herself isn't disabled I tend to overlook the way people view the world through that lens and as a result have realized that I haven't touched upon it much in my own analysis of Cyberpunk, and your insight really was spot-on and spoke to me in a way I hadn't considered before.

I talk a lot about the themes and meta of the game but Pondsmith himself came out and said, like, before the game came out that Johnny is not the hero of the story. He THINKS he's the hero of the story but the way people and even himself idolize him and his actions are in many ways his biggest shortcoming. Johnny is addicted to the image of himself, much like he's addicted to his vices and addicted to his cause. He needs his anchors no matter how detrimental they are to him, but in many respects those anchors were never his choice. Now he's stuck in his place, dug in and unable to move, and that's the way he dies. Alone, unmoored, and stuck in his ways.

He's a very tragic and even empathetic character-- I do understand why he does the things he does and feel for him when he suffers tragedies-- but treating him as a hero of this story is wrong, in my opinion. He's a disabled, traumatized war veteran who was set up in life to fail at a very early age. His flaws are of his own making. They are not of his own design.

[the-casbah-way]

when i was a child my absolute DREAM was to be a snooker player it was like my entire personality up until the age of about eight and sometimes i look back and ask myself why i haven't committed to that yet. all the best snooker players used to just do normal everyday jobs and then play snooker on the side and even though most of them started really young they never got proper successful or famous (not that you can get famous playing snooker these days) until they were like thirty or forty. what i'm saying is watch this space

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ just a little bite ✦ park sunghoon

you can't just contain it can you? biting onto something so forbidden ... god fucking dammit forbid your lover has meaty guns for arms holy fuck

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park sunghoon x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, then suddenly suggestive, implied male!reader down bad for sunghoon, cuddles, intentions to fuck but we'll see, you see i wrote this just looking at sunghoon's arms, and y'all wanted it okay !!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — erm the urge to hold this man down because his arms are fucking thick what the fuck

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.2k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!

The low hum of the television is a distant murmur, barely registering beneath the weight of Sunghoon’s presence beside you.

The documentary plays on—some sweeping shot of Arctic tundra, glaciers groaning under their own weight—but the screen might as well be static for all you care.

Because Sunghoon is warm.

Not just warm—radiant, like the sun itself had curled up next to you on the couch instead. He’d come home later than usual, hair still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of that body wash you always tease him for buying.

It’s ridiculous how good it smells on him. Like something expensive and forbidden, clinging to his skin long after he’s stepped out of the steam.

And now here he is, in that tank top—that specific one, the one you know he wears on purpose because it clings to every dip and curve of his shoulders, the fabric thin from too many washes, nearly translucent where it stretches over his chest. His arms are bare, his skin still flushed from the heat of his shower, and when he’d pulled you against him without a word, you hadn’t even pretended to resist.

How could you? This was your lover we’re talking about. Your warmth itself.

His arm is heavy around your own, slowly tracing down with his fingers tracing absent circles into your hip. You can feel the flex of his forearm every time he shifts, the muscle tightening unconsciously as he adjusts his grip.

Your cheek rests against his bicep, and the warmth of his skin seeps into yours, slow and syrupy.

Your body molds to his effortlessly, your head finding its usual spot against his bicep, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh. Sunghoon hums, content, his arm tightening around your waist as the documentary drones on in the background.

You can hear his breathing, steady and deep, but when you glance up, his eyes are already on you—dark, amused, knowing.

He’s not really paying attention either.

Because you—you were staring.

He can feel it—the weight of your gaze, the way your fingers flex against his leg, the quiet, hitched breaths you think he doesn’t notice. Sunghoon smirks to himself, tilting his head just enough to catch the way your eyes linger on the curve of his arm, the way your teeth worry at your bottom lip.

Cute.

"You’re not even watching," Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low, rough at the edges like he’s been laughing too hard at practice. His thumb strokes over your abdomen, deliberate, and you swear he presses just a little harder when your breath catches.

You hum, pretending to consider the screen. "Polar bears," you say, deadpan. "Very educational."

A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest, and you feel it where you’re tucked against him, the vibration of it sinking into your ribs.

"Liar," he accuses, but there’s no heat in it—just that familiar fondness, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I’ll melt if you keep looking at me like that."

You could deny it. You should deny it.

He expects you to deny it, to swat at him, to roll your eyes and call him cocky—but instead, you press your lips to the inner seams of his arm—just a brush, barely there.

A soft, pliant kiss upon his silken complexion.

Sunghoon goes still, his fingers twitching against your side.

Your mouth is warm, soft, and when your teeth graze over his skin—just the barest hint of pressure—his breath catches, his fingers twitching against your side.

"Ticklish?" you tease, your voice muffled against his skin.

His exhale is shaky. "Y-you know I’m not."

But you do know.

You know the way his breath stutters when you touch him like this, the way his pulse jumps under your lips when you linger just a second too long. You know the way his grip tightens when he’s trying not to pull you closer.

So you do it again—this time, letting your teeth graze lightly, just to hear the sharp inhale he tries to stifle.

Sunghoon jolts, his arm flexing instinctively under your mouth. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make your stomach swoop.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, and his eyes are dark, his lips parted, his chest rising just a little too fast.

“I felt your teeth right there …”

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

Sunghoon exhales, slow, his free hand coming up to tangle in your hair, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp. "You’re mean," he mutters, but his voice is thick, rough around the edges.

"First you ignore the documentary, then you come kiss me and bite me—"

You do it again. Harder.

This time, his breath catches, a quiet, punched-out sound escaping him.

Sunghoon flinches, his whole body jerking beneath you—muscles tensing, breath hitching—and before you can even process it, his grip slips. Just barely, just enough to send you both tumbling off the couch in a tangle of limbs, landing in a heap on the floor.

The fall knocks the air from your lungs, but you barely feel it. Not when you’re half on top of him, your chest pressed flush against his, your face burning, your pulse hammering in your throat like it’s trying to escape.

Sunghoon blinks up at you, dazed, his lips slightly parted, his dark hair mussed from the fall.

The dim glow from the TV flickers across his face, catching the curve of his cheekbone, the faint sheen on his lower lip where he’d bitten it earlier.

And then he laughs—soft and breathless, his chest shaking beneath yours, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“You—” He lifts a hand, rubbing at the faint red mark you’ve left on his bicep, his grin lazy, molten. “You marked me.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Liar,” he says again, but there’s no bite to it—just that same rough-edged fondness, the kind that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers trail up your spine, slow and deliberate, sending shivers skittering across your skin. “You’ve been eye-fucking my arms since I came out of the bathroom.”

You could argue.

Instead, you press your lips to the mark again—lingering this time, letting your tongue dart out to soothe the sting, just to feel the way his breath stutters.

And in an unprecedented fashion, you travel your lips damply onto his arms—guiding it thoroughly until your reach collarbone, his jaw, and eventually, his parted lips.

Sunghoon shudders, his fingers tightening in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rougher now, darker. “Do that again.”

So you do—this time with teeth.

He gasps, his hips jerking beneath you, and suddenly his hand is on your waist, flipping you over with barely any effort, pressing you into the floor.

All he had was a dominating form on top of your waist, his chest heaving, and his pupils blown so wide his irises are nearly swallowed by black.

“You,” he breathes, leaning down until his lips brush against yours—close enough that you can taste the mint on his tongue, the sweetness of the energy drink he’d gulped down earlier.

“—are dangerous.”

You grin up at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his arms, the swell of his biceps, the way his muscles tense under your touch. “You love it.”

Sunghoon exhales, shaky, his nose bumping against yours. “Yeah,” he admits, voice rough.

“I do.”

And then he kisses you—deep and passionate, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands gripping your chest down to your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His body presses you into the floor, solid and unyielding, and you pull him down closer without thinking, chasing the heat of his skin, feeling his tantalizing weight gripping you down tightly.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are red, his breathing uneven.

“More …” he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, smudging the wetness there.

“Please…”

And you don’t even argue.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — ASKFJKAJSFKLAE!!! yes im a freak for his arms bro have you seen?! him !? flexing it?! ever since i saw him being all proud of it since paradox i was like … fuck you have GOT to be kidding me WHAT THE HELL!! so yeah, here it is … me just writing how it owuld feel to just .. have this man like be with you so warm like RAAAAA and it won the poll so don't judge me YOU'RE THE SAME !?!

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

[mikaylathenerd5]

Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

The Hurt in His Hands

Pairing: Roman Reigns x Amaris Morel (OC)

Rating: 🔞 Explicit

Content Warnings: Smut, angst, emotional vulnerability, unresolved love, possessive behavior, slight breeding kink tone, heavy emotional aftermath

Summary: They were never good at pretending. But this—this was something else. One year after she walked away, Amaris finds herself face to face with Roman again. He’s colder. Bigger. Louder in silence than he ever was in words. And she can’t stop trembling beneath the weight of everything unsaid. What happens when the person who once held you like home comes back with nothing but hurt in his hands?

Word Count: ~ 4k

🖤 thank you in advance for the likes, reblogs, comments, and asks.

The meeting room was too bright for the kind of tension swimming in the air.

LED panels buzzed overhead, flickering against the glass walls like warning signs, but no one said a word. Not yet. Not since he walked in.

Amaris Morel kept her back straight, her fingers folded over the manila folder in her lap like she was holding a prayer instead of production notes. She hadn’t looked up—not when the door opened, not when the energy shifted, not even when she heard the chair scrape directly across from hers.

She didn’t need to. She felt him before she saw him.

Roman Reigns.

He was wearing just a black Nike tee stretched across his chest, gray joggers riding low on his hips, and a chain sitting heavy against his collarbone. Casual. Comfortable. Dangerous in a way only he could make soft fabric look like armor.

He hadn't seen her in over a year, but that presence? That pressure?

Still sharp. Still sharp enough to make her skin remember what it was like to burn for him.

She could feel his eyes on her like static. That old, careful kind of gaze — slow, deliberate, meant to unsettle.

And yet, she didn’t flinch.

“Let’s start,” said one of the producers at the far end of the table. “We’re concepting the documentary layout for Roman’s legacy run—pre and post Tribal Chief. We brought in Amaris to consult based on her history with brand voice and—”

“History,” Roman said flatly.

Amaris looked up.

The room went still.

Their eyes locked, and it felt like a slap across memory.

That face—familiar, unreadable, beautiful in the way a storm is right before it breaks. The same face that used to press against her stomach in the dark. The same mouth that once whispered mi amor like it was a prayer and a promise.

Now? That same mouth was a weapon. Flat. Cruel. Controlled.

Her voice didn’t waver. “I’m here to do my job.”

“Right.” Roman leaned back in his chair, arms crossing. “Back to do what you do best.”

She blinked once. “Which is?”

“Rewrite history,” he’d said.

And now, here she was—rewriting it with sweat, with silence, with the body he once let walk away..”

There it is, she thought, jaw tight. The bite. The bruise underneath all that gold.

God, he still knew how to aim for the throat.

She didn’t react. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I didn’t write the story,” she said, voice calm. “You did. I just shaped how the world saw it.”

“And then walked away.”

Amaris gave a tight smile. “Not everyone needs to stay in the ring to win, Roman.”

His jaw ticked. A flash of something—wounded pride or old rage—flared behind his eyes.

The rest of the room pretended not to hear the undertow between them.

Someone cleared their throat. “So, uh—about the Hall of Champions transition—Amaris, you had notes?”

She opened the folder slowly. She didn’t look at him again. “Yes. The pacing undercuts the emotional shift in tone. You need to restructure the edit between the IC title and the heel turn. Otherwise, it’s too abrupt.”

The producer nodded. “Right, we were hoping for your insight on that moment. You were working closely with—”

Roman’s chair scraped loudly across the floor as he stood.

Everyone froze.

“You need me for anything else?” he asked, eyes scanning the room but never settling.

“We’re actually moving into the Bloodline formation segment—”

“I’ll review the footage later.”

And just like that, he left.

No goodbye. No glance. Just the slow, heavy walk of someone too used to winning every argument by walking away first.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Amaris exhaled only when the door clicked shut.

Later That Afternoon Private Locker Room

She didn’t mean to end up outside his door.

She hadn’t followed him. She told herself that twice.

She just happened to be walking past with the revised edit notes in hand. Just happened to pause. Just happened to stare at the nameplate like it meant something.

And then the door opened.

Roman didn’t speak.

He didn’t ask what she was doing there. Didn’t demand she leave. Didn’t say her name the way he used to — soft, reverent, almost reverent.

He just looked at her.

And then stepped aside.

She walked in like she wasn’t afraid. Like her feet weren’t trembling in her heels. Like her breath didn’t catch the second she stepped into that familiar scent of him — oud, sweat, hotel soap — like a memory buried under skin.

The same scent she used to bury her face into after long flights. After fights. After love.

The door shut behind her.

He still hadn’t spoken.

Not until she turned and looked at him. Not until the silence between them started breathing on its own.

“Did you come to do your job,” he asked, voice low, “or just remind me how you left?”

Amaris’s grip tightened on the folder.

“I didn’t know you’d be in that meeting.”

“Bullshit.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her like she was unfinished business he hadn’t had time to bury.

“You left,” he said again, slower this time. “You don’t get to act surprised that I didn’t forget.”

Her heart jumped—traitorous and sharp.

Because underneath all that control, there was something raw in his voice now. Not angry. Not even bitter.

Wounded.

“I didn’t forget either,” she said quietly. “But I didn’t survive it the way you think I did.”

She cried in airports. Swallowed her pain for a man who kept choosing gold over softness. And still, she waited for him to choose her back.

For the first time, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak—like he might finally ask why she left, why she let go.

But he didn’t say a word.

He just watched her like she was both the scar and the weapon that caused it.

And for a second, she almost wished he hated her. It would’ve hurt less.

FLASHBACK: One Year Ago

The hotel suite was quiet. Too quiet.

Amaris stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest, staring out at the city lights bleeding through the curtains.

Roman was still in his gear. Chest bare, wrist tape half-peeled, that golden glove glinting faintly on the table where he’d tossed it.

He didn’t look at her. Just sat at the edge of the bed like he had nothing left to say.

“You didn’t even look for me tonight,” she whispered.

“I had a match.”

“You always have a match, Roman. You never come back to me afterward.”

His jaw clenched. Still silent.

“Do you even see me anymore?”

Nothing.

“Or am I just background noise now—part of the set?”

He looked up slowly. Finally.

“This is who I am now.”

“No,” she said, voice cracking. “This is who you had to become. There’s a difference.”

“You want soft?” he snapped. “Go find someone else.”

The silence between them turned brutal.

And that night, when she walked out, he didn’t stop her.

She waited at the door.

Waited for anything. One word. A reach.

But he just sat there, head bowed.

His hand curled into a fist at his side. But he didn’t move. Not even when the door clicked shut.

And let her leave.

The silence between them didn’t dissolve. It thickened.

Roman moved first. Slow, calculated. He didn’t come closer—not yet—but the shift in his weight was enough to press the air out of the room.

Amaris stayed near the door, the folder still clutched to her chest like it could shield her from the things they hadn’t said. Her back grazed the wood. Her heels didn’t dare move.

“I should go,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound like hers.

Roman tilted his head, not in disbelief—in challenge.

“You’re good at that,” he said quietly. “Leaving.”

Her jaw tensed. “You let me.”

“I had to.”

She blinked. “No, Roman. You chose to.”

That did it.

He stepped forward. Just once. Not aggressive, but deliberate. Close enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

Her body betrayed her first. The scent of him, the heat—it all rushed back like a slap. How many nights had she dreamed of him like this, close but unreachable? And now he was inches away, and it still wasn’t close enough.

“You think I wanted you to leave?” he growled. “You think I didn’t feel that every night?”

He stepped closer again, breath hot against her cheek.

“You think I didn’t relive it? The night you walked out?”

His voice dropped further, almost hoarse.

“I could’ve broken every wall down just to reach you. I should’ve. But I didn’t. And now I can’t fucking stop thinking about how I let you go.”

His breath shook like he was on the edge of something—rage, love, regret. Maybe all three.

She didn’t answer with words.

She moaned into his mouth as his hand slid beneath her dress.

The fabric bunched at her waist. Her head tipped back against the lockers with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed.

And when he cursed her name, low and ruined—like a prayer and a punishment—she let herself fall all over again.

The golden glove still sat on the table across the room. Watching. Reminding. Untouched by the mess they made.

And still, somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered—

What would hurt worse: staying or surviving it all over again?

His mouth moved from hers to her jaw, trailing heat down the column of her throat. She gasped when his teeth grazed the spot beneath her ear—the one he used to claim like it meant something.

Roman’s hand gripped her thigh, sliding higher, rough palm skimming her skin as he backed her toward the couch in the corner of the room. The leather was cool beneath her as he guided her down, his body lowering over hers like he had every right to be there.

Amaris’s head hit the cushion with a soft thud. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer like she needed him to hurt her right to forget how he’d hurt her wrong.

“You gonna run again after this?” he asked, voice low, dark.

“Only if you stop touching me,” she snapped back, breathless.

He growled—low and reverent—and shoved her dress higher, dragging her panties down her thighs with one hand while the other gripped the back of her neck, holding her gaze.

“Don’t look away from me,” he said. “You owe me that.”

Her eyes didn’t drop. “Then make it worth it.”

His mouth was on her before she could blink.

Hot, relentless, filthy. Tongue dragging through slick heat like he’d been starved of her, nose pressed firm as he devoured her like worship, like revenge. He licked long and slow, then fast and sharp—switching rhythm until she couldn’t find her breath. He sucked her clit into his mouth, tongue flicking mercilessly.

“F-fuck, Roman—” she whimpered, thighs clamping around his head.

One of her hands slammed against the arm of the couch. The other clutched his hair, tugging hard. He groaned like he liked it, the vibration making her hips jolt.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her. “Give it to me.”

He slipped two fingers inside her—deep, curling just right—while his tongue never stopped moving. She writhed, back arching, voice breaking with every pulse of pleasure.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say who’s making you fall apart.”

“You hear that?” he rasped. “That’s you. Wet for me. Loud for me. Made for me.”

“Y-you, Roman—fuck—it’s you—”

He hummed again, and that tipped her over the edge. Her entire body shook, pleasure ripping through her like a wave she couldn’t outswim. She came loud, messy, breathless.

He didn’t stop. He licked her through it, fingers still moving inside her, tongue teasing sensitive nerves until she sobbed, half-begging, “Too much,” and tried to twist away.

“Yes you can,” he rasped. “You owe me every sound you never made when you walked away.”

He held her thighs open, kissed her overstimulated clit one last time, and rose—mouth glistening, jaw tight, eyes burning.

When he stood, licking his bottom lip like her taste belonged to him, she couldn’t breathe.

He undid his joggers slowly. Deliberately. Let them fall, revealing the ache of how much he still wanted her.

“You sure you can take me after all this time?”

Her voice was wrecked, wrecking. “You think I forgot how to break for you?”

Roman pulled her hips forward. With one hand, he reached behind her and grabbed a throw pillow from the couch, sliding it beneath her waist to tilt her hips up.

She gasped at the shift. He didn’t rush. He just watched the way she reacted—how her thighs trembled, how her eyes fluttered.

He guided himself between her legs, tip nudging her soaked heat.

His hand moved to her chest—not her breast, her heart—and laid flat against it. Her skin burned beneath his palm, her pulse thudding hard.

“Still beats for me,” he whispered, gaze locked on hers.

“Then beg me to finish what I started.”

She didn’t beg.

She reached down and guided him in herself.

Then she rolled her hips—slow and deliberate—drawing a growl from deep in his chest.

“You don’t get to leave me aching and stay silent,” she gasped. “Give me all of it.”

For a second, it felt like they were rewriting everything. With breath. With sweat. With sin.”

The stretch burned beautifully—too much and just right, all at once. He filled her in a way no one ever had, thick and hot and unbearably perfect, the kind of fullness that left her breathless and branded.

She could feel every inch of him, dragging slow through her like a secret only they shared. It wasn’t just good. It was devastating. It was the way he used to make love to her when he meant it.

She cried out, nails digging into the couch cushion.

Roman cursed again, low and hoarse, slamming in to the hilt.

“That’s it,” he gritted. “You think I forgot how to wreck you? I remember every fucking sound you make. I remember how you claw at me when you're close. Let me remind you what it means to be mine.”

His thrusts were slow at first. Deep. Devastating. He kissed her between each one—her mouth, her throat, her shoulder—like he was stitching together every broken thing he’d ever left behind.

“You think I forgot how to love you?” he whispered. “Even when I hated you for leaving?”

“I thought if I stopped needing you, it’d hurt less,” he said through gritted teeth. “But fuck—every time I breathe, it’s still you.”

“Don’t say that,” she breathed.

“Why not?” Another thrust. “It’s true.”

He shifted, angling his hips to drive even deeper. Her head tipped back against the armrest as a strangled moan slipped free.

“Roman—please—”

He growled into her neck, licking a stripe along her collarbone. “Please what, baby?”

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“I hate you,” she sobbed. “I hate that I still love you like this—”

He moved harder. Kissed her throat. “Then love me harder.”

He didn’t.

One hand slid between them, fingers circling her swollen clit as he thrust harder now, pace punishing. Her legs began to shake again.

“You think anyone else gets this from you?” he hissed. “You think I don’t know every way your body begs for me?”

Roman’s hand flattened against her lower belly, pressing down just above where they were joined. The pressure made her eyes roll back.

"Feel that?" he growled. "Feel how deep I am inside you?"

Her body tried to fight it off—hips jerking, breath stuttering—but he didn’t stop. He circled her clit harder, angled his thrusts deeper, pressing exactly where he knew it would destroy her.

The tension coiled, unbearably tight.

She clawed at his back, head falling to the side, voice catching in her throat.

“Roman—”

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And she did.

Her whole body seized and shattered. Her hips jerked, thighs trembling violently, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was too much—too deep, too good, too him. She felt it break through her like a wave too big to ride, a collapse she didn't want to fight.

It hit her like a dam breaking—heat, release, a flood that soaked his hips and ruined the pillow beneath her. Her whole body seized and shattered. Her hips jerked, thighs trembling violently, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was too much—too deep, too good, too him. She felt it break through her like a wave too big to ride, a collapse she didn't want to fight.

She broke on a gasp, back arching as she came undone for a second time, louder this time, messier. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. She didn’t care.

He was close. She could feel it in the way his rhythm started to stutter.

But he didn’t let go.

Not yet.

He clenched his jaw, like he was trying to drag it out, trying to memorize the way her body felt wrapped around him, slick and pulsing and made to fit. Every thrust was rougher now, deeper, like he was punishing himself for needing her this much.

“You feel that?” he grunted. “That’s all the time I didn’t touch you. Every fucking night I wanted this.”

His rhythm faltered, just for a second, a guttural sound breaking free.

“You don’t know what it did to me—seeing you across the table like you hadn’t ruined me.”

Amaris moaned, legs trembling. “Roman—please—”

He leaned in, lips brushing her cheek. “You think I can forget the sound you make when you fall apart for me? You think I don’t hear it in every room I walk into without you?”

He rolled his hips, grinding into the spot that made her entire body jerk. She whimpered, nearly breaking.

“That’s it, baby. Let me feel you one more time.”

“Look at me,” he demanded.

“I never stopped being yours,” he gasped. “Even when you weren’t mine.”

She did. Eyes glazed, mouth open, pupils blown.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, voice breaking. “Even if it kills us. Even if you leave again tomorrow.”

Her name broke from his throat like a prayer. His voice cracked around it—hoarse, desperate, feral—as his control finally snapped. One of his hands flew to the couch, gripping it hard like he needed something to hold onto, the other anchoring her hip in place as his rhythm broke into jagged thrusts.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold back anymore,” he groaned. “You feel too fucking good—”

Amaris arched into him, mouth falling open in a gasp that wasn’t just pleasure—it was surrender.

“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered, trembling. “Even when I hated myself for it. Even when you made me feel like background noise.”

That wrecked him.

He moaned her name again, deeper, and pressed his forehead to hers—his entire body trembling, grip slackening, a soft, broken groan slipping past his lips as he came apart in her.

Before he could speak, he ducked down and bit the soft skin beneath her jaw—not enough to hurt, but enough to stay. A mark. A memory.

“Mine,” he rasped, licking over it afterward, voice still shaking.

His thumb traced her jaw next, slow and reverent, like he didn’t know how to let go.

They stayed like that, locked together, chests rising and falling like they’d just survived a storm neither of them saw coming.

He wasn’t just fucking her. He was trying to carve his name into her skin. Trying to make her remember. Trying to keep her here.

She realized some pain, you crave just to remember you survived it.

And some pleasure, you take just to remember you’re alive.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Roman stayed inside her, forehead still against hers, their bodies locked in the quiet aftermath. His breath was hot on her lips. Not kissing. Just... there. Sharing the same air like they didn’t know how to exist without it.

Amaris blinked slowly, her lashes damp, body humming with overstimulation and something far more dangerous—recognition.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter than anything that had come before.

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Because how could she explain what it felt like to be held by the same man who’d once let her go?

Roman began to pull back, but she stopped him. Hand against his chest. Just enough pressure to keep him close.

“Don’t,” she said. It came out small.

He froze.

“Don’t leave,” she clarified, softer now.

He let out a shaky breath. Brushed a curl from her damp temple.

He should say something. Anything. But every word he never said back then was sitting in his throat like gravel, and he was afraid if he opened his mouth, all of them would come out at once—too late.

“Not unless you ask me to.”

She didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

So they stayed there.

“Don’t leave me again,” she whispered. Not a demand. A memory.

He didn’t answer. But his grip tightened.

She’d come here to reclaim her control. But she’d never felt more undone.

No apologies. No promises.

Just the sound of their breath. Her fingers stayed tangled in his, their limbs still pressed together—warm, shaky, like they didn’t know how to separate yet.

Then, softly—

“You could’ve fought for me,” she whispered, eyes still closed. “I waited for you to. Every night.”

Roman didn’t speak right away. His hand moved—gentle, reverent—and rested just above her hip.

“I didn’t know how to keep you,” he murmured. “Not without ruining you.”

Amaris blinked up at the ceiling, a single tear slipping down her temple.

Her thighs ached. Her hips were sore. Every inch of her felt marked in ways that wouldn’t show. Her breath stalled, fingers twitching slightly against the couch like her body hadn’t fully returned to her yet. And still, part of her didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to forget what it felt like to be wanted like that again.

Roman noticed. Brushed it away with the back of his fingers.

His other hand grazed the edge of the pillow still tucked beneath her.

Slowly, he reached down and pulled it out, replaced it with his thigh beneath her instead. More grounding than softness. More intimate than apology.

Still evidence of how they’d fallen apart just to find each other again.

She was still both—scar and weapon. Softness and consequence.

He used to call her "baby" when no one was listening. Back then, it felt like a vow. Now, it echoed more like a habit he hadn’t broken yet—and maybe never meant to keep.

“If this is the last time,” she said, voice barely above a breath, “I want to remember it with your hands on me.”

He leaned down. Pressed his lips to her shoulder. Said nothing more.

Their foreheads touched again. One shared breath, shallow and terrified. A pause so full of everything it could’ve meant that neither of them dared break it.

There it was again—the hurt in his hands. Not rage. Not lust. Just ache.

He held her like she was still breakable—like the hurt in his hands was all he had left to offer.

But his hands didn’t leave her.

And that silence? It said everything.

Until it didn’t.

A knock at the door.

Three short raps—sharp, impatient.

Roman tensed.

His body went still. Every instinct in him screamed to shield her—even now.

His jaw clenched. Just once. But enough for her to feel it against her cheek.

He knew that knock. Too sharp to be accidental. Too familiar to ignore.

Amaris didn’t move.

She didn’t know if she wanted the door to open—or never stop knocking.

Her mind was still somewhere beneath him. Her body couldn’t tell if it had just been claimed or abandoned all over again.

Because outside that door, someone else knew they were no longer pretending.

And just like that, the weight of the world they’d tried to forget was standing on the other side.

And this time, she wasn’t sure they could close the door fast enough.

Authors Note ✍🏽:

so i found another one on that old college hard drive and… yeah. it turned into a storm of everything i didn’t say out loud.

roman is unhinged. amaris is trying to hold herself together. they love each other in all the wrong ways and still can’t let go.

if a line hit you, scream in the tags. if you felt it in your chest, tell me which one broke you. i love connecting with readers — comments, asks, reblogs, tags, all of it. thank you for reading 🤍

💭 questions for you, mi gente:

who do you think was at the door? 👀

do you think this was the last time… or the beginning of something new?

what line cracked your chest open?

did roman wreck you more with his mouth or his silence?

would you have stayed?

[delicate-sketch]

Things I think happened in the chb’s infirmary No Order my references are prophetic dreams and war memories from when i was a health student

- they have like this huge old whiteboard glued god knows how with a little cartoon caterpillar sticker saying “get well soon?” where they (Will and any other poor souls that are in infirmary duty) put everything they need to remember but they can’t make themselves write complete sentences so is just “JuYCE” and “neomicinabacitracinanitrofural” and “CLARISSE = OUT”

- there is this hole on the floor that they always forget to ask a Hephaestus kid to fix so its like a rite of passage to not notice it and end up falling

- They are in a camp. Sharing cabins. Bathrooms. ADHD kids who love to run and procrastinate everything including hygiene. THE INFECTIONS GET SPREAD INSANELY FAST. They have to WEEKLY go renovating the “PLEASE WASH YOUR HAIR WE NEED TO ERRATIC THE COOTIES” ads around the camp.

- we need to rip off the band aid. where there is teenagers there is sex. Michael Yew was pioneer on the sex education topic and his legacy isn’t going to die on Will Solace reign. One thing is cooties another one is herpes. There will be informative and traumatizing videos and awful teen pregnancy documentaries. They are all gonna watch.

- And since they are already here there will be having safe drug use convos too and dionysus is the one sponsoring them there is a rap battle at some point i think

- kids will be kids and most part of the time they are taking care of spread ankles, stomach aches, allergies and flu season at this point Will doesn’t even need to touch them to know when its a flu case

- since they (the infirmary squad) are spending a lot of time walking around they need to wear comfy shoes. At some point Kayla shows up wearing a neon monsters inc slippers. So Austin decides to wear his clown shoes. Now they only accept sandals and crocs. Rules are rules. The weird socks keep going tho.

- on the topic there is a lot of unspoken rules. One of them is that the communal and personal things limits are very rigid. Everyone gets to drink the coffee. No one is going to use Austin personal “Grammy Winner” mug. No one is going to use Kayla’s special glitter rainbow hairbrush. And, mostly important, no one is going to give their bureaucratic work for Nico to help. That is Will’s personal secretary.

- on the communal help tho, sometimes they will use Drew’s charmspeaker as an anesthesia. The Stolls are always there to get a couple of stuff outside their monthly rides to get things. Clarisse is amazing to held people when they need to put their bones back into place. They make it work.

- the communal work have one problem unfortunately. They are neck deep into drama. And into a complex cobweb of they likes them and they kissed them and they hate them. And. Worse of all. They cheat them. Thats when there is screaming. And chairs floating into peoples neck.

- the smaller kids don’t get the drama on its fully complexion. But they still gossip. At least five of them have called Will “Dad”, at least three of them have called Kayla “Mom” and all of them have said “Thats embarrassing, dude.” For everyone around there.

[thefugitivesaint]

Someone whose work I greatly appreciated and would suggest you (oh dear reader) seek out and read. In simplest terms, Scott explored the avenues in which people resisted and evaded authority and hierarchical systems of control. A good part of his scholarship involved trying to understand peasantry, one the largest "classes" in the world. Coupled to that was the study of subsistence economies and how people involved in those economies work around impositions made by State actors (and non-state actors). This led to a larger exploration of the above mentioned resistance and the various forms that this resistance took around the world. He also explored the relationship between State and non-state peoples. "What I learned is that centralised revolutionary movements have almost always resulted in a State that was more oppressive then the ones they aimed to replace. In other words, when the revolution becomes the State, it becomes my enemy again. That is why it matters greatly which methods are used in order to achieve power. .... "I am the enemy of hierarchical movements of opposition because I think they replicate State structures in their own organisation."

If you would like some suggestions that offer a peak into Scott's scholarship interests (which are similar to my own), here's some videos for you to peruse (if you have the time): 1. A Short Account of the Deep History of State Evasion 2. Beyond the Pale: The Earliest Agrarian States and “their Barbarians” 3. The Art of Not Being Governed 4. The Domestication of Fire, Animals, Grains and…….Us (Later) Edit: Some revelations concerning Scott's involvement with the CIA in the early 1960s in their anti-Communist activities has come out after his recent death that complicates his legacy as a "radical scholar". Take that for what you will. I haven't been able to find a great deal of detail about that involvement and the revelations here aren't exactly new but people have decided to highlight that relationship in the wake of Scott's passing as a way to discredit or cast a shadow over his later anti-statist research. I just wanted to note this. (Even Later) Edit: The Oral History Center at UC Berkeley released a documentary on Scott called In A Field All His Own: The Life and Career of James C. Scott. Just in case you wanted more Scott related material.

[reality-detective]

Things that are not in the news anymore… 👇

-Maui wildfires.

-East Palestine, Ohio

-Joe Biden classified documents as a Senator.

-Fauci working with China to create a bioweapon.

-Pete Buttigieg’s best friend in prison for child porn.

-Cocaine in the White House. (TWICE NOW)

-The BLM and Antifa riots during 2020 causing BILLIONS of dollars of damage. And yes I brought this up on Juneteenth.

-The data collected from the Chinese spy balloons.

-Ukraine intelligence documents released that showed they were suffering massive losses and the American taxpayer was being lied to.

-Nancy Pelosi’s “documentary” film crew on J6.

-Veterans being kicked out of shelters to make room for illegals.

-Pizzagate “debunker” jailed for possession of child pornography.

-Gay porn film in Senate hearing room.

-Veterans Affairs prioritizing healthcare of illegals over Veterans.

-THE SOUTHERN BORDER CRISIS.

-Afghanistan drawdown and 13 service members killed in an attack on Kabul International Airport, that they hid the severity of it.

-Obama droning an American citizen in the Middle East.

-George Bush’s false WMDs.

-3 service members killed in Jordan.

-Hunter Biden making over $1M for “paintings”.

-J6 political prisoners that are still in jail.

-85,000 missing children at the southern border.

-Epstein’s clients.

-Obama coordinating with John Brennan and 4 other countries (5 eyes) to spy on the 2016 Trump campaign.

-Mail-in ballots were the cause of the stolen 2020 election.

-Jeffrey Epstein mentioning that Bill Clinton liked his girls “really young”.

-The (NOW TWO) airline whistleblowers that mysteriously died.

-Benghazi (I won’t mention anything more about this because I care about my life.)

-Nancy Pelosi’s daughter stating that January 6th wasn’t an insurrection.

-The January 6th committee destroying encrypted evidence before the GOP took over the House.

-Nancy Pelosi admitting that J6 was “her responsibility”.

-House Speaker Mike Johnson claiming there wouldn’t be foreign aid without border security in the bill, which was a lie.

-The recent riots from illegal criminal aliens at the southern border and the border in general.

-Hunter Biden not complying with a Congressional subpoena and deemed untouchable. Democrat privilege.

-Vaccine side effects.

-“Lab leak” out of China.

-The Secret Service having to basically guide Joe Biden everywhere he goes.

-Who leaked (Sotomayor) the SCOTUS Alito decision.

-Federal instigators inside the Capitol including pipe bomb evidence against them.

-Obama’s chef “passing away”.

-HRC’s chef “passing away”.

-The Sheriff that happened to be in Las Vegas (during the mass shooting) AND the wildfires in Hawaii.

-P Diddy sex-trafficking allegations. Where’s Diddy?

-Gonzalo Lira (an American journalist) that was killed in Ukraine

-Congress approving warrantless spying violating American’s 4th amendment rights while they are exempt.

-Americans that were left in foreign countries (Haiti, Palestine, Afghanistan).

-The billions of dollars of weaponry left in Afghanistan and the Taliban receiving $40M a week in “humanitarian assistance”.

-Biolabs found in California.

-Joe Biden’s impeachment.

-The scum in the UNITED STATES HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES waving the Ukrainian flag.

-The over 300k ballot images that could not be found in Fulton County, Georgia; the same county Donald Trump on trial for “election interference”.

-Democrats defunding the police causing massive rises in crime.

-Kamala Harris’s record as DA in California.

-The Transifesto from the school shooting.

-Many U.S. Representatives and Congress receiving FTX funds.

-They’re already working hard to bury Donald Trump’s àssassination attempt but we won’t let them bury that story. July 13th is never going away.

The distractions are out of control.

Share to show that legacy media is dead and that WE are the media now. 🤔

[scramratz]

Hey so if you dont feel like answering this it's fine & chill and all, you're just a stranger who's comics I like after all. But I've seen you get a few more personal asks & the way you answered them always seemed very nice so. Uh. Here I go. Because I've been rotating this in my mind for the last month or so like it's a shitty fish png

So like. I've been on HRT for a good 4 years now, and I love everything about it. I pass more often as a guy now, though it's hard to say how frequently exactly. But It made me feel comfortable enough to become more gnc again, which is something I heavily suppressed before and early into hrt, because it just was a fast lane to misgendering town which destroyed me emotionally back then. It still hurts a lot sometimes now, but im less likely to get me misgendered these days even with make up and a skirt and all that. Which, sounds great in theory! But now it just makes people yell slurs at me in public instead and shit. It feels like my options in society are either

- put on a gender conforming act that feels like I'm a clown performing for the circus just to get gendered correctly without all the abuse (bad, not fun, hate it, love clowns but hate this)

- keep doing what I'm doing, actually maybe fag it up more! It's fun! (Great now the men are spitting at me again in public. And not in a fun kinky way)

Like I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place man. And I love my friends and they support me and make me happy, and my family (at least the ones I care about) just let me dress like a little freak and dont mind, .... so I feel I should just be able to move on. And I dont have much like internal gender problems tm. Like I haven't figured it out beyond vague I'm a transsexual queer thing dude girl sometimes. But I'm fine with that. That's chill. I know what I wanna look like and be called blabla. What isnt chill is what happens when others perceive me, and that's sorta intrinsically tied to the whole transsexual gnc (?) Thing. So it makes me think about it all the time. I'm just so tired of it. I'm gonna have to keep going I guess because what else is there to do. But some days I just wanna teleport to an alternate dimension where cishet people tm at large finally stopped being the gender obsessed freaks they claim 'we' are

I wish this ask couldve just been like.... peace and love on planet trans... life is great, no notes, let's all hold hands and have a cookie w our HRT... but I just needed to get this out someplace that wasnt my diary or irl contacts

Yea I get where you're coming from. It sounds silly but something that helps me is remembering all the trans folks that came before me. I'll watch documentaries from the 60's-90's about these fabulous transsexuals who lived despite the hate, if even for a short time. A lot of them coped by expressing themselves underground, at balls and bookclubs, and bars. Somewhere cis people dared not go. Those places still exist you just gotta look for em. Besides, I take great pride in carrying on a long legacy of being hated!

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀sweet like home ୨ৎ ( bangtan )

・summary in which they fall for someone short, soft, and full of fire—an american girl with trinidad & tobago roots who teaches them joy, rhythm, and the kind of love that feels like celebration.・genre fluff / slice of life / domestic daydreams

✸⠀⠀REQUEST⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ Hello my friend, I hope that you are having a good day! 😊 Well, For my first request, I wanted to see if you could do a headcanon with BTS x short black!reader (Short meaning like 5’2 in height and who’s from America with Trinidad and Tobago Caribbean roots/culture which includes the accent,food and of course Soca Carnival) who they date, want to marry and have children with in the future? ( You can choose how many kids each of them should have!)🐦‍🔥🌺🏝️🍹

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he noticed her before she noticed him. not because of her height—though the contrast between their sizes was comically cute—but because of her presence. she had that thing he could never quite describe. she’d walk into a room and hold it without effort, confidence in her step, fire in her eyes, that Caribbean lilt in her voice like a verse he wanted to memorize. she said his name once—“namjoon”—drawn out, playful, a little teasing, and he thought about it for days. he didn’t know it yet, but his whole soul had already leaned in.

៹⠀he respected her roots with quiet devotion. he asked questions, but only after listening. he read about Carnival, watched documentaries on Trinidadian independence, tried to understand the complex legacy behind her joy. when she cooked for him—callaloo, pelau, or her family's version of mac pie—he ate like it was sacred. he loved watching her cook, music playing, hips swaying, voice humming along to soca. he’d press kisses to her shoulder while asking, “can you teach me that one?” Not just the recipes—the meanings.

៹⠀he was weak for how small she was next to him. he’d wrap his arms around her and cover her completely, chin on top of her head, hands always moving—stroking her curls, tracing patterns on her back, gripping her waist when she teased him for being too soft. she’d pull him onto the couch during storms and narrate her favorite Carnival memories, eyes sparkling, voice animated, feet in his lap. he loved that she was fire and comfort all at once. he once called her his “favorite contradiction.” she rolled her eyes but kissed him anyway.

៹⠀he brought up marriage like it was a mutual idea they’d always had but hadn’t said out loud yet. “if we got married, would you want to do it here or back home?” he asked one night while folding laundry, and when she said “home, always,” he just nodded. he wanted the whole thing—the music, the steelpan, the feathers, the street dancing, the sweat and the color and the soul. he said they could write their own vows in a mix of patois and Korean, and she laughed, teasing, “you better pronounce mine right.” he promised to practice.

៹⠀he wanted two kids. maybe three, if they had her energy. he said he wanted his kids to feel anchored—to their culture, their language, their rhythm. he wanted them to grow up with loud music, loud laughter, and two parents who danced in the kitchen like no one was watching. sometimes he’d watch her braid her niece’s hair, fingers quick and gentle, and he’d imagine a daughter with her eyes asking him about poetry. “i’d be useless,” he joked. “she’d have me wrapped around her finger.” she already had him wrapped, if he was honest.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he fell fast. like, embarrassingly fast. she was tiny, bold, all cheekbones and heat, her accent smooth as honey and twice as addictive. she called him “sweet face” in passing once, and he short-circuited. from that day on, he was hopeless—following her around with that wide, dopey smile and throwing his worst pick-up lines just to hear her laugh. he’d bend down dramatically to match her height, hand over his heart, saying, “how does someone so small take up so much of my brain?”

៹⠀he was obsessed with her culture. he took doubles so seriously, he made a whole rating system in the Notes app. he'd beg her to cook bake and shark like it was a national emergency. she made fun of him for crying over pepper sauce, but he insisted it was “emotional tears.” he loved watching her talk about Trinidad—voice animated, hands moving, stories flowing. he swore that watching her dance to soca was better than any concert he’d ever performed in. she teased him for being too stiff, but he got better with time. (he practiced in secret.)

៹⠀he couldn’t get over how perfectly she fit under his chin. he made it a thing—hugging her from behind when she cooked, tucking her under his arm on the couch, insisting she sit in his lap in crowded spaces. he was annoyingly in love with her attitude, her snark, the way she’d pop off at him in patois when he got on her nerves. she’d mutter “this tall man really playing games today” under her breath and he’d be delighted. he said being yelled at by her was an honor.

៹⠀he proposed on a beach in Tobago after Carnival. not during the event—after, when the crowds were gone and the air was still heavy with music. it was private, just the two of them, feet in the sand, leftover glitter in her hair. he pulled out the ring without a speech, just a soft, “I don’t want a life without you.” he insisted on a wedding that was half traditional, half vibes. he wanted a big party. he wanted music that made people cry. he wanted to wear pink. she said he was insane. she still said yes.

៹⠀he wanted two kids. a boy and a girl. “you name the first one, I name the second,” he said like it was a fair deal. he imagined family trips to Trinidad for Carnival, his daughter in sparkly wings, his son banging on steel drums. he wanted to raise them loud and confident, like their mother. sometimes he stared at her while she braided her hair, tiny gold hoops catching the light, and thought: this is the kind of beauty that deserves to be passed down. and god, he wanted to help her do it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he didn’t fall for her all at once. it happened slowly—first in the way her laugh rang out across a room, unfiltered and magnetic, then in the way she moved through the world like she belonged to every space she entered. she was small, barely reaching his shoulder, but she had presence. power. she’d look up at him with that knowing smirk and call him “sweet boy,” and it made something tighten in his chest every time. he’d pretend it didn’t get to him. it always did.

៹⠀he couldn’t get enough of the way she sounded. her accent made the most ordinary words feel charged, wrapped in a warmth he hadn’t known he needed. she’d talk about home while stirring a pot of pelau or prepping saltfish buljol, and he’d listen with his chin in his hand, nodding like he understood even when he didn’t. he’d hover near her in the kitchen, stealing tastes with his fingers, letting her scold him in Trini lingo he made her repeat so he could memorize it. he started carrying pepper sauce in his bag like it was nothing.

៹⠀he wasn’t big on public affection, but he’d always have a hand on her—pressed to her lower back, fingers hooked through hers, brushing over her thigh while she scrolled on her phone. he loved watching her dance when she thought he wasn’t looking—hips rolling to soca in the living room, oversized tee sliding off one shoulder, curls bouncing with every sway. she once taught him how to wine, laughing breathlessly when he got it all wrong, and he’d never been so in love with another human being in his life.

៹⠀he brought up marriage quietly. no fanfare, no big moment. just a soft “you ever think about getting married?” while they lay in bed one night, her ankle hooked over his thigh and his arm wrapped around her middle. he didn’t want a huge wedding. he wanted something that felt like them. he said he’d follow her to Trinidad in a heartbeat if she wanted to get married on the island, barefoot on the sand or lost in the crowd on Carnival Monday. he wanted to feel her joy like sunlight on his skin.

៹⠀he only wanted one kid, maybe two. something about the idea of being a dad scared him a little—but when he imagined them with her eyes and her laugh and her sharp tongue, it stopped being scary. he said he wanted a daughter first. someone small and fearless like her mother. he already knew what songs he’d play when rocking her to sleep, what camera he’d use to take her first photos. sometimes he watched his girl holding a baby at a family party, cheeks flushed, gold hoops catching the light, and he just knew. this was it. this was his whole future.

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he fell in love with her energy first. she was short, yes—barely reaching his shoulder—but she moved like a giant. loud, warm, expressive, always talking with her hands, always pulling people in like gravity. he watched her light up a room the way most people dream of doing. and when she looked up at him, all teasing and gold hoops and mischief, and called him “pretty boy,” he knew he was in trouble. in the best, most irreversible way.

៹⠀he threw himself into her culture the way he did everything—with full heart, full joy, full curiosity. he memorized the names of dishes after one bite: pelau, macaroni pie, bake and shark, corn soup after a long night out. he started adding hot sauce to things he definitely shouldn’t. he let her guide his hips at parties, taught himself to wine properly, even if it took a while. “i’m a dancer, but this is different,” he’d say, flushed and laughing, and she’d shake her head like he didn’t even know how good he looked moving with her.

៹⠀he teased her about her height constantly—picking her up just because he could, using her as his personal armrest, calling her “fun-sized” in the most loving voice imaginable. but he also treated her like royalty. opened every jar, kissed every inch of exposed thigh, pulled her into his lap in public like she belonged there. and she did. she’d fall asleep in the car and wake up with his jacket around her and her favorite soca song playing quietly through the speakers. he noticed everything.

៹⠀he talked about marriage like it was a given. not if, but when. he wanted the ceremony to be true to her—rooted, beautiful, full of soul. he said he’d wear whatever she wanted. “let it be yours,” he told her. and after? after, he wanted to follow her through the streets of Port of Spain, jumping up with her during Carnival, both of them glittered and laughing, dancing for no one but each other. it wasn’t the wedding—it was the after-party of their lives.

៹⠀he wanted four kids. loud ones. wild ones. kids that danced in the grocery store aisles and sang off-key and talked over each other at dinner. he wanted them to have her laugh, her fire, her sense of rhythm. he wanted them to grow up with soca in their blood and Korean lullabies in their ears. he practiced baby talk with strangers’ toddlers in public just to make her laugh. and when she caught him staring at a little girl once with soft eyes and a full smile, he just shrugged. “i want all of it. with you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he fell for her the way most people fall into rhythm—naturally, instinctively, before he even realized it. she was tiny, just a little thing, 5’2” on a good day, but she had energy that made her feel larger than life. he couldn’t stop staring the first time they met—her skin glowing under the sun, her voice all lilting vowels and playful edge. the way she moved when she laughed, the way she’d say “boy, behave yourself” when he flirted too hard. it undid him every time.

៹⠀he was enchanted by her roots. he asked so many questions, genuinely curious, always eager to learn—“what’s that dish called again?” “wait, how do you pronounce that?” he loved watching her cook, especially when she moved like her kitchen was a stage, hips swaying while she stirred bubbling pots of callaloo or fried up bake and saltfish with her bonnet on and music blaring. and god, the soca. she taught him how to dance with his hands on her hips and her voice in his ear whispering, “don’t fight the music, feel it.” he felt it everywhere.

៹⠀he was obsessed with the contrast between her softness and her fire. how she’d kiss him slow one minute, then roast him the next for being dramatic. how she’d stand on her toes and flick his forehead for teasing her about her height, only for him to melt when she nuzzled into his neck a second later. he’d let her fall asleep on his chest while they watched movies, one arm under her back, the other playing with her curls. he’d press a kiss to her temple and whisper, “you’re the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.”

៹⠀he talked about marriage all the time. in casual, dreamy hypotheticals. “what if we had our wedding in Tobago?” “do you think my mom would survive Carnival?” he didn’t want a wedding that felt cold or stiff—he wanted joy. he said the ceremony could be simple, quiet even, but afterward? he wanted a celebration. music in the streets, soca blaring, her dancing in full costume while he followed behind with glitter on his face and no shame in his heart. not part of the wedding—just part of their love.

៹⠀he said he wanted three kids. maybe four. he wanted them to speak both languages—Korean and English—with bits of patois sprinkled in just to drive him crazy. he wanted them to grow up knowing rhythm, knowing history, knowing love. he already had a lullaby playlist saved in his phone. he already talked to your belly even when there was nothing there yet. and when he held your niece in his arms, cradling her like she was something sacred, his voice softened into something only you would recognize. “one day,” he whispered. “one day, that’ll be ours.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he said she looked like a goddess the first time he saw her. not because of some grand outfit or perfect lighting—just the way she carried herself. short, yeah, but powerful. her voice had that smooth, musical cadence that made everything sound richer, like she was always mid-story. she laughed with her whole body, flirted with her eyes, and when she teased him in patois, he didn’t understand a word but felt every syllable. she touched his wrist when she said “you sweet, you know that?” and he knew he’d follow her anywhere.

៹⠀he was fascinated by everything she came from. he wanted to know it all—the names of her favorite street vendors, the songs she danced to growing up, the way her grandmother made callaloo. he’d sit in the kitchen and sketch her while she cooked pelau barefoot in one of his shirts, or record her explaining the meaning behind Carnival traditions like he was archiving magic. he learned to wine from watching her, copying her hips, then getting all flustered when she joined him, laughing, “boy, what you doing?”

៹⠀he was obsessed with her height. not in a teasing way—more in a devotional way. he’d kneel just to be eye level, wrap himself around her like a blanket, call her “pocket-sized storm” when she got mad. he carried her all the time—threw her over his shoulder, picked her up mid-kiss, spun her around the living room during slow songs. sometimes he’d just stare at her, chin on her shoulder, murmuring things like “you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen” until she’d whine for him to stop. he never did.

៹⠀he said he wanted to get married somewhere warm, somewhere alive. “Tobago,” she said, and he swore he saw sunlight in her eyes. he didn’t care how the ceremony looked—as long as it was hers. he wanted something soft, meaningful, surrounded by family. but when Carnival came, he said he’d match her costume for costume. feathers, color, gold on his skin, her hand in his. not a wedding outfit—just celebration. just joy. he said, “that’s how i want to love you. out loud.”

៹⠀he wanted one kid. maybe two, but definitely one. he said it like a wish—“i just want a little version of you.” he imagined lullabies sung in two languages, bedtime stories that blended Korean fables and Caribbean folklore, little hands learning to paint, to dance, to speak in rhythm. he wanted their child to know their history, to hear steelpan and feel it in their chest. he said their family would be a blend of art and joy and legacy. he already called her “home.” a baby was just the natural next verse in their love song.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he noticed her the moment she walked in—not just because she was short (though her height made her adorably easy to spot in a crowd), but because she moved like someone who knew joy. there was something in the way she laughed, chest-deep and without apology, that made something shift in him. and when she spoke, her voice—warm and lilting with that unmistakable Caribbean cadence—wrapped around his senses like a melody. he was hooked before he even knew her name.

៹⠀he became obsessed with her food, almost embarrassingly so. the first time she made him curry goat with buss up shut, he actually moaned, mouth full and eyes wide like she’d cast a spell on him. from that day on, he followed her around the kitchen like a shadow, asking a million questions in a mix of half-English, half-Korean—“what’s that spice?” “why it smell like heaven?”—and when she taught him how to wine to soca music in their living room, he was bashful but determined. she caught him practicing in the mirror more than once, biting back laughter while he took it dead seriously.

៹⠀he never stopped teasing her about her height, especially when she was trying to reach something off the top shelf. he’d hold it out of reach just long enough to hear her curse under her breath, then hand it over with a smug smile and a kiss to the top of her head. in the mornings, he’d pull her into his lap while she drank coffee and hummed old calypso songs under her breath, pressing his face to her shoulder and murmuring that this—this—was his favorite part of the day.

៹⠀he brought up marriage one night when they were both tipsy, tangled together in bed with music playing low from her phone speaker. “you know I wanna marry you, right?” he said, voice low and sleepy, more truth than question. it wasn’t a proposal—not yet—but it was a promise. he let her take the lead with wedding talk, always nodding when she said, “it has to feel like home.” he wanted the carnival bands, the feathers and glitter, the sound of steelpan and the taste of sorrel wine on their tongues. he just wanted her—loud, laughing, radiant—on that road with him.

៹⠀he said he wanted two kids, maybe three. he imagined them bold like her, full of rhythm and mischief, tiny hands beating on pots and pans in the kitchen. he talked about teaching them to draw, to drum, to love loudly. he called her mama playfully before they were even trying, resting his palm on her belly after sex and whispering nonsense in her accent just to make her laugh. when he watched her cuddle his niece on video calls, something clicked into place. he didn’t just want that life—he needed it.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

lu's note heyyy just wanna say—i’m not black, and i’ve never had the honor of visiting beautiful trinidad & tobago. i did my best to research and be respectful with how i portrayed things, but i know that no amount of googling or youtube deep-diving can capture the full heart of a culture. so if anything felt off, i’m truly sorry. it’s never my intention to be insensitive—on the contrary, i loved this request so much and really wanted to make a little space where more of my readers feel seen and celebrated

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @belleilichil @poetryforthesad @lelewright1234

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Sean and I were talking about this again tonight for some reason, and I wanted to make sure people knew that when Morgan Spurlock was filming Super Size Me, he was a heavy alcoholic who was hiding his drinking from at least the audience and the doctor who was evaluating him.

Specifically, this moment from the documentary is very important:

At one point in the doc, Spurlock’s doctor tells him he’s “pickling” his liver, which he said resembled an “alcoholic’s after a binge.”

It wasn't the fast food making him feel so shitty, and it wasn't the fast food causing all his medical issues. It was the heavy levels of drinking.

I want to be very clear: I grew up and still have to deal with a very alcoholic parent. It fucking sucks. And almost worse than the drinking is the lies that get told to cover the drinking. To pretend it isn't happening. To act like it's not that bad. When my mother ended up with literal bone death in her hip, she said, "It's so odd that I had this happen; it usually only happens to people who abuse steroids." Years later when my right hip started hurting, I looked up the issue my mom had because I wanted to know if there was a genetic chance I'd gotten it. No genetic chance. There is a second thing than can cause it, though. Severe alcoholism. My mother will tell you she's not an alcoholic with a straight face but then adjust her medical information so she can keep the lie up. In fact, I'm certain she didn't go to the doctor about the pain until the bone death was well on its way (an excruciating experience) because she was afraid she'd be asked about her drinking.

Spurlock made a documentary they literally showed in high schools to teach kids not to eat fast food knowing full fucking well it wasn't the fast food that was doing those things to his body. But he chose to not only lie for a documentary, but to continue the lie while that documentary was used as "proof" that fast food is terrible for you. Spurlock's work in Super Size Me made fast food a bigger stigma than it already was and the result of the lies in that movie affected policy decisions while being not just misleading by accident or on purpose (on purpose example: Michael Moore getting the rifle at the bank) but 100% a known lie from the filmmaker himself.

[ephemerasnape]

Sexual Obsession Iceberg: Hogwarts Legacy Edition

Now available as a documentary! ↰

ETA: Okay, you've forced my hand.

Marvolo Gaunt is not in the game, so he is not on my iceberg. Sorry.

Black, Amit, and Leander are in a lifeboat. Leander is the only one rowing. Amit is crying while Professor Black criticizes Leander's rowing abilities and resolve.

Richard Jackdaw is physically unable to travel to the arctic circle due to his status as a ghost.

[teeth--thief]

Google Drive full of book PDFs about Chernobyl

Link to the Google Drive if you don't want to click the title: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kscKFciW6almJA8p-0sUQPO3c0A4AQYe

Note: It will be updated regularly - for as long as I'll be able to find/get new things =) So far I've compiled 41 books in three languages.

Just to repeat what I said in the first post: I'm open to any requests or suggestions or even PDFs themselves, if someone wants to share theirs from their collection. Message me, send me an ask, throw a rock through my window - whatever you prefer, just please, do it yourself because I'm too scared to message anyone, thanks. No fiction - that's the only rule. Any language is welcome - if you want me to look for a certain book in the language of your choice, I'll do that. If you have a book in language other than English, I'd love to add it to the Drive! If you have a better version of whatever PDF I've already got, then I'd be more than happy to do a swap.

Now, some of my reasoning, if anyone's interested: first of all, I think it's important for everyone to be able to access stuff like this. Think of it as a library, minus the "give these back" part. Secondly, I get soooo mad when people are like haha, found this super rare, basically impossible to find, very expensive book! ...I shall now keep it exclusively to myself. Ma'am, you're ruining the vibe and stalling everyone's hobby research but I guess you do you...

List of all the books (under the cut):

In English:

Voices from Chernobyl - Alexievich S.

Chernobyl Reactor Accident - Source Term

Chernobyl - Insight from the Inside - Dr. Chernousenko V.M.

How It Was - Dyatlov A.S.

(ENG+RUS) Chernobyl Booklet

Chernobyl: The Devastation, Destruction and Consequences of the World’s Worst Radiation Accident - Fitzgerald I.

Final Warning. The Legacy of Chernobyl - Gale R.P.

Midnight in Chernobyl: The Untold Story of the World’s Greatest Nuclear Disaster - Higginbotham A.

INSAG-1

INSAG-7

Interesting Chernobyl - 100 Symbols

From Chernobyl To Fukushima - Karpan N.

Manual for Survival. A Chernobyl Guide to the Future - Kate Brown

Chernobyl. Confessions of a Reporter - Kostin I.

The Politics of Invisibility. Public Knowledge about Radiation Health Effects after Chernobyl - Kuchinskaya O.

Memories - Kupnyi A.

Chernobyl 01:23:40 - The Incredible True Story of the World’s Worst Nuclear Disaster - Leatherbarrow A.

Chernobyl Notebook - Medvedev G.

No Breathing Room - Medvedev G.

Chernobyl Record - The Definitive History of the Chernobyl Catastrophe - Mould R. F.

Wormwood Forest - A Natural History of Chernobyl - Mycio M.

Life Exposed: Biological Citizens After Chernobyl - Petryna A.

Chernobyl: History of a Tragedy - Plokhy S.

Ablaze - Story of Chernobyl - Read P.P.

Producing Power: The Pre-Chernobyl History of the Soviet Nuclear Industry - Schmid S. D.

Chernobyl: A Documentary Story - Shcherbak I.

The Vienna Report

Chernobyl - Crime Without Punishment - Yaroshinskaya A.A.

In Russian:

Chernobyl: Kak eto bylo. Preduprezhdeni - Kopchinsky, Steinberg

Chernobyl. Tak eto bylo. Vzglyad Iznutri - Voznyak Ya. Troitskiy N.

Лучевая болезнь человека (очерки) - Гуськова А.К., Байсоголов Г.Д.

Чернобыль. Как это было - Дятлов А.С.

Чернобыль: 30 лет спустя - Кравчук Н.В.

Живы - Купный А.

Чернобыль - Щербак Ю.

(ONLY Pages 367-383) Чернобыль, 10 лет спустя. Неизбежность или случайность?

KGB files - pre and post accident (includes additional information in Ukrainian)

In Polish: 

Jak to było - Diatłov A.S.

Czarnobyl - Plokhy S.

Czarnobyl - Sekuła P.

Katastrofa w Czarnobylu - Sekuła P.

Czarnobyl. Od katastrofy do procesu - Siwiński W.

[teeramoonlover]

This got me thinking.

Billy Loomis, Stu Macher/William Afton, and Bo Sinclair as they grew older, at some point they need someone from their own flesh and blood to continue their legacy, right?

So yeah those three gonna build one big happy family with reader, and their kids gonna be a bunch of satan's spawn but only being lovely to their own mom/dad/guardian.

And ofc in this case, those three lovely slashers ain't dead in these scenario.

Billy Loomis

As we all know, Samantha Carpenter is the infamous daughter of Billy Loomis. But what if Billy Loomis actually have another kid from the reader? I'm gonna assume this guy gonna be his son.

(My pov) His son definitely will hunt and kill the Ghostface, who dare to be like his dad. In his mind, he was like 'my dad and his friend are the only Ghostface, no one's gotta be like him. And it will stay that way'. So to ease his bloodlust, instead of killing innocents, why not just kill these Ghostface rookies. It's like they're asking for it, didn't they?

Not surprised to see he loves horror movies, maybe get inspiration from crime documentaries. High chance he is the mastermind and have many ways to lure those new Ghostface to him. Tempting to torture them like John Kramer did to his victims.

Oh and if his dad has mommy issue, bro got a whole daddy issues coming in. Like father, like son

Cast (Son): Benjamin Wadsworth

Born: 1997

Stu Macher/William Afton

If Stu Macher had a kid, ya bet his children gonna be a goofball like him? Wrong. In fact (from my pov), his son gonna double up from Stu's inner psychotic tendency in him. More aggressive, more violent and more unhinged. His son knew to embrace madness.

If Stu Macher become a killer because of peer pressure, this kid just pure psycho. Instead of being a friendly social butterfly or party king like his dad, he's the appitome of school's bad boy type of thing. It's either being mean or meanest.

Don't let me start on him becoming Micheal Afton.

If he gets proper love from his mom/guardian, he gonna be a big softie and overprotective (possessive) to his love ones. Gonna be hella toxic. He can be good, only with his mom/guardian, but to someone else? Rarely occasion.

Cast (Son): Drew Starkey

Born: 1996

Bo Sinclair

Ok first of all we all know, BO SINCLAIR IS A BEAST IN BED (rip reader's cunt/rim hole) and when he knew reader is pregnant, he was worried he might not be a good father figure to his kid until their first child born. Things change. Seeing his son's big blue eyes, like him, stir something in him. The Sinclair Jr made him soft. So ofc, Bo becomes bold and wants another child cuz he doesn't want his son to be lonely.

It's to be expected. To be apart of the Sinclair, they would eventually have twins sooner or later. Thank god both their son's head still intact in one piece. On the other hand, his three sons grew handsomely and receive motherly love from the reader.

The eldest, have a nasty tempered like his dad. You got on his way, he'll beat the shit out of you. He only be really nice to someone he care most, like his mama dearest. Always goes to church with his dad to see his grandma and help him in the garage.

The twins - The first twin (middle child) definitely got the charm from his dad. Knows how to be a sweetheart to ladies, but can be deadly once he hunt them for his uncle's sculpture. Most likely helping Vincent to build the museum. Might as well make an art museum next door too.

The second gonna be a rebellion, daredevil (youngest child) Well, not like strapping him to the chair. No no, mama won't like that. He loves adventure so definitely follow uncle Lester from town to town. He likes hunting, depends whether the prey will be animals or people. He can be nice. Charming too. Gonna be good friends with Stu's son, probably.

Cast (Sons): Eldest - Bill Skarsgård, Middle - Harris Dickinson, Youngest - Rudeth Pankow

Born: Eldest - 1994, Twins - 1996

Yep, one big chaotic, happy family indeed.