#my part was recorded using audacity

[legendary-dumpster-fire]

So about a week or so, @yumeinati sent a cover of Brian's part of Stranger in The Starship Aurora discord server (hyperlinking the permainvite if any of yall are interested), and as soon as I listened to it, I HAD to record Tim's part. We are both absolutely obsessed with how it turned out, and we hope yall enjoy it too!

[simpingforheros]

Jason’s Girl??

Pairing: Jason Todd X Female! Reader

Summary: Wait, Jason had a girlfriend? And he’s whipped for her? And she’s Hot?????

Warning: Fluff, a little bit of SMUT, Miscommunication, Dick being Dick, Established Relationship, Female Pronouns, Ass Harassment (you’ll see what I mean), Groping, Jason being a jackass to Dick. Toxic! Jason towards his own family, Implied Oral (m receiving), Actual Oral (F receiving) , doggy style, Choking, Fingering, face grabbing, dumbification, degergation, pet names, consensual recording, lipstick marks, tattoos.

Author’s Note: I’m back again to harassing @jjenthusee again because they had the nerve to not only inspire me with one diabolical fanart to make me write this, but then they had the audacity to show me this so yea, yall are getting some Jason being a whipped boyfriend. Also my first smut ever so please give me critiques.

AN: Part 2, Part 3

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Oh Jason-" Dick's voice fills the air as he waltzes over to Jason as he sits in front of the Batcomputer with a charismatic smile. Jason swears that he saw the devil in that smile as his older brother asks,

"So, Wally and Roy wanna go out to the bar tonight and I know you are off and have nothing to do, sooooo, would you mind covering for me for patrol?"

Dick was already mentally planning all his pick up lines for all the attractive individuals he wanted to spend the night with before Jason casually bursts his bubble.

"No. Got plans." Jason grumbles, already annoyed with Dick. He was trying to focus on his work so he can leave as fast as he can. The clicks of the mouse emphazies Dick's frustration as he says.

"Brooding and looking at 'Hot Milfs near me with Guns' does not count as plans.' His blank tone becomes a whine as he begs, "Come on, Jay. Ever since my break up with Star-!"

"You mean you cheating on Kori with Barbara again?"

Dick glares at Tim from over his shoulder as he snaps at him.

"Shut up, Timmy Turner."

His eyes become begging pools as he looks to Jason. "Help your older brother get laid and work my patrol for me. I promise to cover for you Monday...."

Jason scoffs as he knows Dick wouldn't return the favor once Monday rolls around. He stands up from his chair as he grabs his helmet. All the reports are done, meaning he was officially done until his patrol route on Monday.

Dick groans and follows Jason to his motorcycle. "Jay, Bro. I'm serious. Please help me out."

Jason smiles at Alfred as he sees the old butler waiting for him by the bike with a gift bag in hand. He takes the bag as he says, "Thanks, Alfred."

The butler smiles as he says, "I hope you two enjoy them. I used Martha Wayne's famous white macadamia nut cookie recipe. I remember you told me they were her favorite."

"Her??" Dick gasps as Jason gets onto his bike. Dick stands in front of the bike while holding the bars. "You're leaving your brother high and dry for some girl? I thought Bro Code overpowers any flings."

That's all Dick remembers Jason having. Every relationship Jason had that Dick was aware of was either flings or toxic messes. Hell, He was dating Slade's daughter a couple years ago and she literally tries to kill him. Why does Jason even refuse the chance to bash evil-doers' skulls in for a random chick?

Jason rolls his eyes as he places his helmet on his head. "Can't really help you if you are too insecure to keep a woman in the first place."

Dick snaps at him as he jumps from the front of the bike as Jason reves it up before darting out of the Batcave.

"I AM NOT INSECURE!!!"

Tim peaks down at the runway as he says, "I mean...it says a lot if you can't pick between two women..."

Tim's words die in this throat as he was met with Dick's glare. Alfred chuckles at the following argument that begins to fill the Batcave as he hopes Mistress (Y/N) enjoys the cookies.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Shitttt...."

He groans as Dick rolls off of Roy's couch with a splitting head ache. The effects of last night filling his senses as he stumbles to stand up . He would have been better off going on patrol instead of paying Duke 50 grand to take his patrol. The very fact that Duke was also rich but still insisted that he paid solely on Principle made Dick respect and loathe Th Signal.

But having that 50k would have been better than the lack of action he got. Apparently women currently preferred exploring the pumpkin patch that is Roy and Wally instead of the Romi Beauty that was Dick.

The socks on both the main and guest bedroom tauts him as he starts to throw on some comfortable clothes before heading out of the door. Maybe he can go for a run before heading back to Bludhaven...

Then a sight catches his eyes as a pretty little thing trotted up the stairs. Her (H/C) hair was in a protective hair style leaving her clean face exposed as her long lashes grazes her cheek bones. Her eyes focusing on the cell phone in her hand as Dick's eyes hungrily scanned her figure. She breathed a certain casually put together woman on her day off as she moved gracefully in her baggy sweat pants concealed by the over sized zip-up that was hanging off her shoulder, exposing her pretty skin. The lack of strapage on her shoulder that made Dick’s mouth water at the possibly that this little minx was just casually out without a proper top or maybe without a bra.

As she reaches what he assumed to be her apartment door, Dick tries to straighten his walk a little bit as he beats her to the door. His hand resting on the door as he was leaning against it, trying to appear as the charming billionaire’s son that he always used to get women.

“Hey there.” Dick says smoothly as the girl cocks an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know I was in heaven until I saw you over here, Angel.”

The girl cringes and covers her mouth as she tries not to burst out laughing in his face. Dick takes it as his flirtation working as she gives him a polite smile.

Maybe he can get laid afterall…

“That was pretty corny, I’ll give you that.” She admits before she starts to turn her door knob to go back into her apartment.

Dick panics as he says, “I’m Dick by the way. Well I mean Richard, but everyone calls me Dick.”

A knowing look on her face appears as she says, “I’m not surprised.”

He gently places his hand on her arm as he says, “I don’t normally do this, but can I get your number?” His charm game up to its maximum potential as he gives her the look all women swoon over. The look that at least lets him get away with the shit he had done to Kori and Barbara at least.

The woman looks at him with the most disinterested look as she says, “Nope.”

“No?” Dick asks as she nods.

“N. o. No.” She says as she pulls away from him. “My boyfriend is inside and unless you want him to kick your ass, I’m gonna go inside and enjoy my anniversary.”

In Dick’s half drunken stupor, he takes the rejection as one of those white lies that women tell strange men so they would leave them alone. Of course she wouldn’t be receptive to some stranger appearing outside of her apartment at whatever fucking time it was in the morning…

“Oh really? What makes you think your ‘boyfriend’ and kick my ass?” He teases. “Is he big and scary?”

Her smirk deepens as a twinkle of mischief and annoyance makes her eyes pop. “He is very big and very very scary…”

Her confidence only egged Dick on as he says, “Baby, I’m from Gotham and I don’t know what counts as scary here in Jump City…”

A diabolical giggle escapes her lips as she says lightly. “Oh you’re from Gotham? So is my boyfriend. I’m actually moving there next weekend. You two probably know each other…”

Before Dick could respond, her fist knocks hard against the wood as she calls out through the door. “Jason Baby, I need you!”

‘Jason?…No it can’t be….’ Dick thoughts before heavy steps came to the door and pulled it open, and to Dick’s horror, there stood Jason Peter Todd in a pair of grey sweatpants and a tight white tee shirt with the bold red letters saying, ‘ I <3 my girlfriend and her phat ass’

Dick probably would have laughed his ass off if he currently didn’t feel like pissing himself under Jason’s glare. With his eyes still glaring at Dick, he asks the woman, “Yeah, Princess? Is my brother bothering you?”

His arms across over his chest, emphasizing the way the shirt make his biceps bulge out as his girlfriend giggles.

“I figured that’s who he was and no he isn’t.” She says softly as she stands up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “He just didn’t believe me when I told him about my big scary man.”

Jason’s eyes soften as he flicks over to her. His hand instinctively grabbing the bag from her hand that Dick didn’t even notice, most likely take out from a restaurant. “You got us breakfast? I could have cooked us something.”

“Yea, but you looked too sweet sleeping and I know you’ve been having a hard week.” She says as she takes off the zip up that Dick now realizes was Jason’s. Oh lord did Dick wish she didn’t take it off.

Now the vixen was in a tube top and a pair of black sweat pants with ‘I <3 my boyfriend’ curving deliciously across the seat. Dick’s eyes didn’t linger long as the temptress snaps her fingers in his face.

“Hey, that’s not yours to look at.” She scolds him, which causes Jason to chuckle. Her eyes looked up to Jason with a playful warmth as she says, “I’m gonna head in and plate the food.”

Jason decides to be a tease and cups her ass while she squeals. “You just need to sit on the table to plate mine.” Her lightly swatting him causes him to laugh as she walks into the apartment.

She calls out over her shoulder. “Bye, Dick! I hope you get that insecurity issue looked at!”

Dick gaps at the blatant insult as he looks up to his younger brother for support. Jason’s shoulders shake as he tries to contain his laughter. It was disturbing to Dick to see Jason so happy…

“You really let her speak to your innocent brother like that?…”

Jason’s eyebrow shoots up as he says, “First of all, you’re as innocent as everyone in Arkham, and second, I’m not her handler. She’s a grown woman who obviously can handle herself,”

“Jay~” a purr comes from the inside of the apartment that causes a stir in both of the men. An evil glint passes through Jason’s face as he says to Dick.

“See ya later!” Before Dick could respond, Jason already had the door close as the eruption of laughter fills the hallway.

Shit….

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

It wasn’t until a week later that Dick realizes what Jason had planned for him as revenge for flirting with his girlfriend.

Jason had brought (Y/N) to Wayne manor to meet everyone after it was brought to life that she was not only not a fling, but a serious long term girlfriend. Jason somehow hid the fact that he had been dating for 2 years fucking years.

Alfred knew the couple’s love story before they even walked through the door as he delightfully told them about how Jason, who was brooding about his break up with Rose Wilson, met (Y/N) at Roy’s apartment complex after he witnessed her beat up some loser.

Apparently Jason couldn’t wait to tell Alfred all about it after he managed to get her to go out with him and the rest was history.

Barbara also knew about it after Jason came to her asking advice on certain gifts to give her. The ginger practically fawned over (Y/N) as soon as she came through the door.

Honestly, everyone kinda fawned over the couple as they can see the magnetic connection between them. It was clear to everyone that Jason had finally found his match and the shit eating grin on his face whenever he locked eyes with Dick made him more sure of it.

It was the same grin as he had in those videos he sent Dick moments before he arrived. Dick can still recall the video like he was the one to experience it like a delightful nightmare.

It started simple enough. (Y/N)’s flustered face filled the screen as Jason's hand cups her face. Her light pants and her red-stained lips shined with what Dick assumed to be spit as his brother's thumb swiped at her bottom lip. The already smudged red lipstick stained her skin as Jason began to coo at her.

"Aw, Princess, your lipstick is smudged." He almost sounds like he's mocking her with how sweet he sounded. "I guess it does matter, right? Because you look so fucking pretty."

Her eyes shined at the praise as she pressed her cheek further into his palm. Her voice melted like sugar as she asked him.

"You really think I'm pretty?" Her eyes almost shine mischievously as she asks him. "Does that mean I made your cock pretty too?"

Jason chuckles as he presses his thumb into her mouth, pressing lightly on her tongue as he coos. "I think you're very pretty. Especially when you choke on my cock and paint it red with your sweet lips."

Pulling his thumb out as she whines, he gently pushes her down onto the bed as it shows her in the same exact outfit she had on the day she and Dick met. Her hands go to pull off her clothes when Jason stops her with a single hand.

"Nah, baby. He ain't seeing all of your goods." Revealing that the video was made specifically for Dick to see before the video ends.

While Dick understood Jason's message from the first clip of the video, he couldn't help both the curiosity and the string in his own pants to watch the other video sent right after that one.

“Fuck, Jason!” Her moans filling the speakers as her eyes were screwed shut. Her nose scrunched in the cutest way as Dick made notes of what all looked different on her.

Her skin was shining with sweat and her hair frayed from the friction between it and the sheets. Her exposed skin was now flushed with a soft trail of bite marks blemishing the sea of smoothness. The camera was placed so he can see all of her except for her cunt which was obstructed by the mass of black hair that he assumed was Jason devouring her like a dog.

His movements remaining steady as he eagerly digged his nose into her folds as her manicured hands forced him in deeper. Her breathless moans and high pitched squeals as Jason begins to fill her unseen hole with his fingers while he began to solely suck her clit.

"Baby... Please...." She begged as she tried to grind her hips into his mouth, but the iron grip of his hand on her thigh prevented that as she cried. "Please let me cum...I've been a good girl for you...please let me cum...."

Dick swore he almost came into his own pants at the sweet sound of her begging.

Jason chuckles against her skin as she whines in frustration. He pulls away from her cunny only enough to where his head still blocked the view of it from the camera.

"Aw princess, you forgot the game..." He scolds her as his fingers seemed to go faster inside her. Her moans becoming almost pornographic as the stimulation and her impending orgasm was being played out of her. "Who does this sweet girl belong to?"

"Y-you, Jason" She pants out her answer as makes a noise that sounded like he didn't believe her. His free hand grabbing the propped up camera and bringing it around so only she was in the shot.

The heavy rising and falling of her covered chest filled Dick's vision as the soft squelching of her cunt being finger fucked serenaded him.

"You sure about that? You didn't seem too disinterested in Dick when he was hitting on you earlier...Maybe you were too cock hungry to even care about whose cock would fill you."

Her head shakes in denial as she whines as the squelching quiets down. "No, I only want you, Jay."

"Yeah? You mean it. Princess?"

Her head frantically nods as her eyes glass over. Her hips try to roll into his hand as the camera shifts a little to her hips. A tattoo coming into the frame. A small red heart with the initials 'JPT' written in cursive right beside it.

The video ends there before the final video is switched on by Dick, whose on the edge of his seat now.

The beginning shot shows her now on her knees with her head down to the mattress. Her cheek was presses against the slightly red stained sheets as her plump ass was raised, only being propped by a pillow under her hips to cover any view to the front of her pubic area. Jason held her hands to her back as his hips were pressed against the back her hips. Her whining and incoherent babble as she tries to roll her hips back into him earns a firm slap to her ass as Jason smirks.

The first time Dick saw Jason in the video and he was still wearing that stupid white shirt with the " I <3 my girlfriend and her phat ass" on it. However, red lipstick now stained the collar of the shirt and his neck. His own face was smeared in some red lipstick as he smirks down at her.

"Aw, is my princess ready to be fucked dumb?" He asked down to her as she mewls. Her grinding hips pressing into his pelvis as Jason moves his shirt out of the way. The move seemed intentional as the newly exposed skin showed a matching heart tattoo with what Dick assumed to be her initials just on Jason's Adonis belt.

"Baby?" Jason asks as his voice lowers an octave. His hand reaches around her neck and pulls her up by her neck as she chokes a gasps. His hips now thrusting deep into her as the pillow still hides the sinful union from the camera.

"I asked you a question," Jason whispers as his voice becomes gravelly. His hand flexed as he choked her, but it was obvious that he wasn't grabbing her as hard as he could.

(Y/N) cries as tears roll down her face as her whimpers fill the room. The bottom half of her face was now stained pink with no other evidence of the red lipstick remaining. Her now free hand reached around and cupped Jason's ass, encouraging him to fuck her insides up as she finally answers him.

"Yes, please...I need it, Jason. I need you..."

Jason growls as his pace quickens as the nasty sound of their skin clapping almost overpowered her squeals as she takes it.

"You little minx..." He whispers as he slams her down onto the mattress before pulling her hips back to his. His hips slamming into her jiggling ass as she whimpers. Drool and tears cover her face as she mumbles out praises.

"So full...So big...can't get enough..." She whimpers as Jason smirks from above her. "No one else could match you...I love you, Jason."

"I love you too, Baby." He whispers as his hand slips around her hips and begins to rub circles into her hidden clit. Her squeals became high-pitched pants as her climax began to rise.

Jason's other hand reaches for the camera as he whispers his final message to the camera.

"Maybe Dick can learn how a real man should treat his woman..."

Let's just say that Dick remained silent in his room with a stomach ache as he learned that Jason was both crazy and the luckiest son of a bitch he ever met....

++++++++++++++++++

Author's Note: I will never forgive Dick for the shit he pulled against Babs and Kori so enjoy my revenge. Also, let me know what you thought of my first smut. I didn't commit to a full one because I was scared lol. And thank you @jjenthusee for the inspo again and I promise I'll quit the harassment for now.

+++++++++++++++++

@simpingforheros fanfiction. I DO NOT CONDONE MY WRITINGS TO BE COPIED, STOLEN, OR REPOSTED ON OTHER WEBSITES OR ACCOUNTS WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[stvolanis]

Mean rafe is my fav :)

how silly of you to run away, especially when you knew that Rafe would stop at nothing to get to you. His most prized and prioritized possession, and possibly the only thing that kept him sane for as long as you did. he was a mess without you, and his facade of nonchalance was crumbling as he watched you grind against none other than Topper at one of his parties. The sheer audacity.

with every hand that traveled down, and every murmur Topper whispered into your ear—he felt his blood grow uncomfortably hot, and the room around him felt like it would collapse any second. A rush of adrenaline, so strong, it shot through him like a bullet lodged into his heart when seen you giggle at something Topper said. He was done watching from the sidelines as you practically fucked each other on the dance floor, in a painful display; your attempt to embarrass, and make him jealous was working better than you’d hoped.

so, you tried your best to act shocked when screams and yells were heard around you. It took a minute to process the scene before you, the gruesome one of Rafes’ fist colliding with Toppers face over and over. “Shit, shit, shit—Rafe, get off him! You’re gonna fucking kill him!” You yelled out, more so annoyed than worried or afraid. A regular occurrence of his that you got used to was his temper.

Rafe stopped. In the blink of any eye, all of of his malice was directed towards you. While people were calling for help, crying and recording to post on social media platforms, his hand found your upper arm in a tight, nearly suffocating grip. “Tired of you’re little ass actin’ out. Always makin’ me have to get my fuckin’ hands dirty. And for what? Just so you can come crawling back to my dick when that stupid little head of yours realizes no one can do you as good as I do?” He gritted out through clenched teeth, dragging you to his truck.

he threw you into the passenger seat, your name in cursive and pink vibrantly still on the dashboard with a little heart next to it. His hand reached over, the same one that had gripped on to your arm was now harshly gripped onto your jaw, squishing your cheeks together. He clicked his tongue. “When are you gonna learn, hm? You’re fuckin’ stuck with me, so make it easier for both of us and shut the fuck up, and act right before I give you something to really cry about.” He hissed, face hardened has he watched a tear roll down your cheek.

don’t be shy, ask to be a part of the tag list and request things!!

TAG LIST: @elvisalltheway101 @epthedream69 @claire-elvisgirl @elvisrealgf @littlehoneyposts @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @luxuriouslokistan-3 @foxevxid @sapriao @xiyingly @jazminsjaz @likeits2002 @www-interludeshadow-com @khxna @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @floredaqueen @hockeyrat @rafeswhorejjsslut

[dirtyvulture]

Natasha Romanoff* x Fem!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Requested by @amanda13parker: GP!Nat who has blanket consent from fem!R to use her whenever and Nat takes full advantage of it. Cooking? Not anymore she's not. Bent over the counter and stuffed. Watching a movie? Nope. Riding Nat and bouncing on her ... thing... Sleeping? Woke up to being bred. And R is loving every second of it while being praised and a bit degraded, being called by Nat her good girl and her breeding slut since she enjoys it so much.

AN: Enjoy, friend! And everyone should go check out your artwork. 👀 This is basically just porn with no plot, so keep scrolling if you're looking for something with substance. 😂

*Nat has a penis.

You hear the front door slam open and Natasha trudge inside, dropping her heavy work bag to the floor.

"I'm in the kitchen!" you call out, although you know she can guess where you are based on the smell of your cooking. You're almost done now, the stew aromatic and bubbling in the pot, and you're taking the freshly baked bread out of the oven when Natasha walks in.

Just as you set the hot pan on the counter, you feel Natasha's arms coil around your waist, her front pressing against your back, her weight heavy and warm against you.

"That smells so good, baby," she whispers into your ear and your heart rate quickens when you feel her bulge press against your butt.

"Are you hungry?" you ask.

"For you," she responds, and before you can protest, Natasha has you turned around, facing the counter. Your shorts are on the floor as she wrestles out of her pants, her strong hands lifting your hips up to angle yourself back.

"Oh Nat," you moan as her thick cock slides through your center. You feel yourself dripping onto her in record time and you're glad she can't see how red you are in the face at how quickly she turns you on. Her fingers part your folds and rub your clit roughly, causing you to keen louder and thrust back, the emptiness in your core begging to be filled by her.

Natasha throbs at the noises you make, her breathing picking up as she prepares you for her. She slaps her cock against your butt before sliding in, grunting as you tighten and convulse around her.

"Fuck babe, your'e so big," you pant, pushing back to take her entire length. Natasha slams her hips forward, almost sending you crashing into the counter, setting a hard and face pace you can barely keep up with.

Good thing the bread is already out of the oven, because you have no chance of going anywhere now.

Natasha's grip on your waist tightens to keep you in place as she slams into you over and over, the tip of her cock brushing the sensitive spot inside of you with every thrust. You're almost standing on your tiptoes as you try to angle yourself to fit her better, moaning in ecstasy at the thought of her using you like a personal Fleshlight.

"Right there, Nat. Right there. Please don't stop," you beg, holding onto the edge of the counter so tightly if it weren't made of granite a piece would have snapped off.

"Look at you taking me so well. My good girl," Natasha grunts, losing some of her rhythm as she nears her release. The slick noises of sex fill the kitchen, and with one final thrust you come undone, spilling all over her cock.

***********************************************************************

Movie nights don't always go as planned for the two of you either. More than half the time they end up with both of you on top of each other, Natasha's cock somehow finding its way inside of you every time. But you don't mind. You love being bred by your girlfriend and even if your favorite movie of all time was playing, you'd gladly let yourself be taken any way Natasha wants.

And if being dragged onto Natasha's lap halfway through a movie and made to ride her cock until your legs were shaking and you were seeing stars wasn't enough, Natasha has the audacity to wake you up in the middle of the night, already with her cock between your legs, hard and ready for another round.

Both of you are lying on your sides, and you lift your leg higher to give her easier access to sink into you to the hilt. Your brain is a scrambled mess from being woken up so suddenly and fucked so frequently, but you don't mind at all. You love being used by Natasha and you love making her feel good.

The bed rocks as Natasha thrusts into you, holding onto your leg to keep them separated.

"You like being woken up just to be bred like the slut you are?" she grunts into your ear.

"Yes, yes!" you respond, reaching back to tangle your hand in her hair, dragging her head down into the crook of your neck.

"Who's slut are you?" Natasha asks, her thrusts quickening. She will never get over how well you take her, like your pussy was meant for her cock and her cock only.

"Yours!" you pant, slick running down the inside of your thigh. You aren't even sure if you've cum already, but Natasha gives no signs of slowing down as she plows into you. She gropes onto your breasts, biting bruises onto your neck and shoulders, handling you roughly as she searches for her release. And you're happy to lie there and be used, your body in a state of euphoria as Natasha finally cums into you, the hot pulses of her seed triggering yet another orgasm from you, and you go limp in her arms.

"That's my good girl," Natasha murmurs into your sweaty neck. "You'll look so beautiful carrying my child."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Please like, comment, and reblog! Follow for more content. 🥰

[starwikia]

so like are we done with the idea that james is a victim of the internet harassment mob or whatever you guys like to call it when in reality no one like forced him to be part of the public eye again. he had multiple times to disengage but he threw himself head first into the spotlight with some half assed apology where he used his dead mom, illiterate dad, and like 293 mental illnesses that he was in the right to do a widdle plagiarism but it’s not his fault! it’s everyone else’s fault for not being nice to him about it!!! how dare these people bring these issues to the public not thinking how james would feel about it! like ppl are forgetting there was notable period of time james went off air entirely. and every time he’s jumped back it’s always attempts to paint himself as the victim.

like be real for a second if anyone was weaponizing the internet harassment machine it was james somerton. he knew what he was doing when he posted that note. he knew the shit his victims would get for having the crime of (checks notes) voicing out their issues with him. he knew there’s people out there who are foaming at their mouths to use anything they can get their hands on as a “gotcha!” at hbomberguy (right wing people yes, but don’t act like it’s just them i’ve seen plenty of lefties trying to prove they’re superior to harry). they don’t give a shit about james, not really. he’s the dude who hbomb did a “hit piece” (yes that’s a term i’ve seen people use) and that’s what matters.

not to mention the writing that’s also very clearly targeting nick who’s basically cut ties with him at this point. james pushed all the burden on nick by saying it’s their fault, actually. he’s one of the co-writers and everything going to shit was nick’s fault when they had the audacity to move. james is faultless! with james still trying to monetize stolen content on the blatant lie that he’s doing this for nick’s sake as a portfolio. acting as if nick isn’t an sentient human being who could upload their own content, as if nick would even want to be associated with james at this point. this isn’t a teenager being harassed for an honest mistake, this is a 35-year old con artist who’s stolen hundreds of thousands and peddled the most vile shit as actual history but realized he was in deep shit and weaponizes very serious mental health issues as a “i’m just a poor little gay baby!! my alter ego did it!!!”

for the record if you’re among the people who tried to wash down james’ crimes as “he just did plagiarism!! it wasn’t that bad of a crime!” fuck you, man. i’m not kidding.

the fact i’ve witnessed people whitewash his acts of racism, sexism, transphobia, homophobia, antisemitism and misogyny (in fact i’m probably still missing a few things here), and say he’s being harassed by the internet just because he stole articles makes it so clear they have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. his shit isn’t fucking erased just bc he realized that he has to handle the consequences. he’s grasping at anything he can at this point to make sure that even if he’s not coming back, he’s sure as hell trying to take anyone he fucking can down with him.

he doesn’t get a second chance to be a content creator at this point. he doesn’t get to show himself to do better. he needs to fucking leave. and if he tries to publicly make himself the victim then he better know that he’s going to get public backlash.

if anything situation proves to me that he can never be trusted with a public platform ever again because he will immediately guilt people into feeling sorry for him.

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | January 27th-February 2nd 2025

Had the audacity to go on a daytrip over the border to the US and all I got was spending way too much money at Target and a cold :(

Complete

the sincerest form of flattery by canadadry (S8E3: Final Approach, Brad POV | 1,7K | Teen): “Your boy—Buck,” Brad says. “First marriage?” “Pardon?” “Well, your wife is—” Brad starts, stops. Remembers at least a third of the lecture he’s been given at least a dozen times by his publicist on the danger of making assumptions. “He calls your wife by her given name—I mean, does the same to you, but I’d reckon that has more to do with professionalism than personal grievances, given the fact that you clearly get on.” — in which Brad Torrence only almost passes out, and observes the aftermath.

The couch is a lawless place by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 1,8K | Teen): Eddie had kissed him. He knows it happened, because the smudge of chocolate on his pants is still there, courtesy of the peanut butter cup he’d dropped when Eddie lent over and kissed him.

Call Ended (beep beep beep) by paleredheadinascifi (Wine Nights, Getting Together | 2K | Teen): Or, Buck wakes up to a series of increasingly horrifying calls from Eddie. He gets to the bottom of it.

Who you gonna call? by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S8A, Buck&Ravi | 1,7K | General): Buck has his first bad leg day since Eddie moved to Texas (Part 1 of The Chainsaw Gang)

Avoidance or Denial by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S8A, Getting Together | 4K | Not Rated): Eddie is back from texas and has some theories about Buck and Ravi....he's never been good at theories (Part 2 of The Chainsaw Gang)

and i'd do it over and over again by playinginthunderstorms/ @playinginthunderstorms (PWP, S8E6: Confessions | 4K | Explicit): Gun to his head, Buck honestly doesn't think he could say which one of them made the first move, but somewhere in between the six-pack he'd brought over and whatever was left of a dusty bottle of tequila in the back of a kitchen cupboard, Eddie—beautiful, radiant Eddie, with his pink shirt and tiny underwear—had ended up in his lap, thighs bracketing Buck's, gasping and grinding helplessly into Buck's hips, the most delicious whines spilling out of his mouth and straight onto Buck's tongue, white-hot pleasure spiking through him as potent as the lightning bolt, so he figures he'll at least die happy.

We’re Looking For Something Dumb To Do by scarmaddiewrites (Bachelor Party, Secret Marriage | 5K | Not Rated): “We should get married.” “What?” Buck chokes, his heart doing some weird fluttering thing in his chest. “Really?” “Yeah, I mean… I’m not a redhead or double your age, but maybe I still have a chance?” In the background, Buck hears someone chuckling—probably Ravi, whose drunk giggles have turned into full-on cackles. “Please, Eddie,” Buck says, his voice a mix of exasperation and something warmer, something fond. “Have you seen your ass? To hell with all the other requirements.” Or Buck and Eddie get married during the bachelor party and Ravi encourages it.

Your Life Was My Life's Best Part by saveyourblood/ @saveyourblood (S6E10: In A Flash | 5K | Mature): A neglected child. A soldier who saw people die. A veteran with PTSD. A first responder. A single father. A widower. Eddie Diaz became everything that was supposed to break him. What is he supposed to call this? What does he call the thing that may actually destroy him? - The one where Buck dies, then he doesn't, and their life flashes before Eddie's eyes.

lights will guide you. by dylaesthetics (Social Media, Eddie Sexuality Crisis | 6K | Mature): Am I (M33) comphet or an impostor???!!! For the record, I am straight. I think so, anyway. Or I did, all of six hours ago, before my coworkers introduced me to the term ‘comphet’. And now my entire world has kind of spun on its axis and I’m wondering if I’ve been secretly craving dick this whole time. - OR after breaking up with Tommy, Buck goes on a deep-dive on sexuality. He needs to tell someone about all he learns, of course, and Eddie seems like the best option.

Golden Morning Sunbeams by Buddiesmutslut (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Getting Together | 10K | General): Or: As Eddie is debating his move to Texas, a few texts from his son in the middle of the day set him on a course to getting everything he's been wanting.

🔥 An Angry Blade by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-8x05: Masks, Cursed Buck | 43K | Mature): Buck finds out that the curse of Billy Boils is VERY real, and far more complicated and dangerous than he could have expected.

🔥 oh brother, I see (you burn like me) by canadadry (Adriana & Maddie POV, Post-S7E10: All Fall Down | 47K | Mature): Adriana doesn’t tell their parents that she’s going to LA. She doesn’t tell Eddie, either—or ask, for that matter. She does ask Chris, and he thinks it’s a good idea—says as much, on the phone, and doesn’t say much else. “Buck will probably be hovering,” is what Chris does volunteer. It still surprises her when the man who opens the door is not Eddie. It’s—Captain America, is the thing that actually comes to mind—a man close to a foot taller than she is, if not more than that, with blond curls and broad shoulders, and he’s got a question in his very blue eyes that’s probably less friendly than the one he actually asks her. “Uh,” he says. “Can I help you?” — Or: Adriana arrives in LA. Maddie has been here the whole time.

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon S1-S6, Divergent Post-S6 | 472K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

WIP

🔥 Doe & a Drop of Golden Sun by ohstars/ @oh-stars (Canon Divergent, Dad Buck | 10/? | 45K | Teen): Buck doesn't mean to keep secrets from everyone, but he also can't talk about the pain he experiences on a day to day basis. With his nine-year-old living across the country and his custody limited to one monthly visit, Buck doesn't know how to share this part of himself. How does he tell his team of six years that he's had a kid this whole time? How does he tell his sister? How does he tell his Edd-- best friend? It's fine. The universe isn't going to give him a choice in the matter when the worst thing imaginable becomes his reality.

🔥[Podfic] Promising Light by cottagepodfics @cottagepodfics / fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Time Travel | 80min | 2/3 | Mature): Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

[happypopcornprincess]

Under the Same Sky

Pairings - Joaquin Torres X fem!Reader (TFATWS AU)

Premise - You have your heart guarded for the longest time. But when you encounter a stranger on the same mission, will you be able to do the same?

Word Count - 4.5K

Warnings: Some strong language, references to Pop Culture, allusions to SMUT

a/n - I wrote this while I was falling in love with someone. This one is for everyone who ever fell in love, hope you guys have a happy ending that you truly deserve <3

Click here for Part 2

“I swear to God Barnes, if this is some kind of dipshit prank you are playing on me, I’ll give your number to that sweet server lady from Yori’s Japanese place and record your introverted ass trying to strike a conversation.” You grumbled into your phone as you locked your door and walked down the stairs of yours (and Buck’s) apartment building.

After making you spill your morning coffee over the couch while telling you about him evading the country, breaking Helmunt Zemo out from prison, going to Madripor and Karli threatening Sam’s family, he had the goddamn audacity to ask for your help with the entire situation.

You were, of course, rushing to Louisiana for Sarah and the kids, because afterwards you get to murder him in cold blood.

“If this wasn’t for Sam’s family in danger, I would not have asked for you. And by the way, I am not an introvert. That’s you. Now hurry up, my guy’s waiting.” his annoyingly calm voice spoke through the phone.

“Is your guy about to be a wrinkly old pervert trying to get high by speed walking?” you almost screamed, reaching the ground floor and pulling open the back door towards the alleyway. The chill air makes you shiver a bit, and you find yourself colliding with a person, “oof” you hear a muffled sound coming from him.

“I’m so sorry- I-“ you began to explain yourself, but the other person spoke up first, “y/n?”

Your hand hovered over the concealed weapon on your waist, “uh, yeah?” you murmur, taking a step back in caution wondering how he knew your name.

“Yeah, I found her.” He speaks into his cell and cuts the call.

Dressed in casual clothes, he held a duffle bag in one hand, his eyebrows raised as he was looking at you. He smiled, waved at you, and Bucky spoke into your ear, “found my guy?”

“This is your guy?” you said pointing at him.

Bucky only laughed, “meet us in Louisiana. Take care y/n.” he cuts the call. Bucky’s guy was not a wrinkly old pervert, but this insanely good-looking man with great posture and a warm smile.

And to your horror, he was hot.

His warm, sun-kissed complexion hinted at his Mexican heritage. His hair added an air of rugged charm and you swore you never saw anyone with eyes so dark brown that drew you in instantly.

“You are…” you extend your hand after shoving your phone in the pocket of your overcoat.

“Lt. Torres.” He grimaced, embarrassed, “Joaquin. Joaquin Torres.” He extends his hand.

You shake his hand and oh god why are his hands so warm!

“Marines?” you ask, trying not to think about his hands.

“Air Force, ma’am.” He says, stepping back for you to get out of the doorway.

“Please, just call me y/n.”

You fumbled with your bag as he raised his eyebrows, “let me take that for you.” He offered.

“Oh no, no it's fine.” You laughed out, and he raised his arms in defeat.

He was walking to the end of the alley beside you, cold air escaping his lips.

Pink, soft, how would they feel on your lips and…

You concentrate on walking, trying not to look at him where his neck met his shoulders and goddammit what is wrong with you y/n can you stop daydreaming about this guy?

What you missed while giving yourself a pep talk… was the smirk on Joaquin’s face.

---

The initial car ride was a bit silent, awkward conversation hanging in the air. But then, like magic, the tension dissolved. You stumbled upon a shared love for Power Rangers and the cartoons of our youth. Suddenly, you were deep in conversation, reminiscing about your childhoods, carefree and filled with the magic of childhood. Turns out he isn’t much older than you, just a two year difference.

His laughter was infectious. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, his teeth flashing in a wide grin – it was a sound that felt warm and comforting, somehow. You found yourself leaning towards him, captivated by the way his lips curved into a smile, the way the light caught the gold flecks in his eyes. The familiar road seemed to stretch on forever.

Finally when we pulled onto the familiar, deserted road leading to Sam's house, two small figures came into view, standing near the porch. 

“Auntie!” Cass and AJ sprinted to you as soon as you stepped out of the car.

“Heyyyy!” you laugh and fall back as they hug you with full force, “ugh, I missed you guys so much.”

“We missed you too!” AJ grinned as he refused to let go of you.

“Who's this?” Cass asked you, pointing towards Joaquin.

Among the excitement of meeting them, you almost forgot the poor guy. Joaquin stood next to the car awkwardly looking at you. You smile and introduce him, “guys this is my friend, Joaquin.”

“Hey.” He waved at Cass and AJ.

Cass looks at him with all seriousness, “Do you play Fortnight?”

Joaquin fumbled, “Yeah. A bit.”

“Cool.” They both replied in unison.

“Okay now let auntie breathe for a minute.” Sarah spoke as she walked towards you wearing an apron, clearly cooking for dinner.

You hugged her tight, meeting the family after so long, “Hey Sarah.”

You look towards Joaquin, how he was laughing with the kids. And then you look at Sarah, your soul sister, and how Bucky had asked you to break the news to her delicately, “Sarah, we need to talk.”

---

Sam and Sarah were your go to destination every summer. 

You saw Cass and AJ grow up after the blip, and stayed with them when they needed help. You might not have the same blood, but they were your family.

They have stayed away from all the mayhem, until now.

You three sat down on the kitchen table and told her everything that you knew about the situation.

“Dear lord.” Sarah sighed as she held your hand, “You think these people… they will come here?

“There is a possibility, but Sarah, I swear I won’t let anything happen, okay?” You squeeze her hand, “We’re here for you and the kids.”

Joaquin spoke up, “We have made arrangements just in case things go south, I’d suggest you to be ready to move anytime.”

“Okay.” looking at the kids playing in the living room, AJ laughing as Cass plays on the console, “I can’t let them be hurt again Y/N, they’ve been through so much.”

“I know.” You look at Joaquin, he gives you a smile and nods, a silent acknowledgement of the promise you were making to Sarah.

You will keep them safe, and Joaquin will be there for you.

---

Starry night sky, the cool lakeside breeze, and the slanted roof of the Wilson residence. 

You took a deep breath as you closed your eyes.

If this was six years ago, from the same spot you could hear Steve and Sam coming up with ideas to locate Bucky, Natasha and Clint in the backyard fighting over something stupid, Sarah and her late husband on the porch setting up the grill, and Wanda making things fly that made Baby AJ giggle.

You opened your eyes, but found only darkness ahead of you. That sliver of hope you had of watching your found family under one roof again was alive for five years… until the minute you saw Natasha didn’t return with Clint, Wanda not even looking in your direction at Tony’s funeral, and Steve going back in time without saying goodbye.

Your throat choked up trying not to cry as you recalled Natasha saving you from the hell called Red Room. She bought you up, taught you everything you know, she was the reason you were alive in the first place. Natasha was your sister in every sense, and she was taken away by fate.

Silently crying, you whisper a prayer off into the night.

“Is this seat taken?” you wiped off your eyes as you heard Joaquin.

He was standing on the attic window, two beers in hand. You shrug as he takes a seat next to you, handing you a beer.

“How did you find me?” you ask him.

“I didn’t actually,” he answers, “I just wanted a place to think for a while.” You notice the tension in his shoulders, he was trying too hard to act cool while something was clearly bothering him.

“Spit it out.” you nudge his shoulder with yours.

His deep brown eyes look at you as you take a sip, and he confesses, “I got a call before I came here. My Abuela.” He takes a deep breath, “She’s cooking up a feast for the local homeless shelter, and I know, I know she’s not well because her voice is raspy and she’s breathing too hard and I begged her to sit this one out, but she’s one stubborn woman, won’t even listen to her only grandson.”

You shock him with a laugh, looking at the dew on your bottle, “Sounds like someone I used to know.”

“Your ex?” he nudges your shoulder playfully.

You laugh, “My sister actually,” recalling flashes of red hair chasing you around the Avengers compound, “yeah, she was a force to be reckoned with.”

“She passed away a year ago.” You admit it out loud, it felt weird to talk about her in the past tense.

You feel his body go rigid beside you, “I’m sorry, I thought…”

“It’s alright.” You look at him, and smile involuntarily, “Natasha was more of a mother to me than a sister, and I can’t believe I’m saying it out loud but… I miss her.”

He acknowledges you silently. But after some time, you hear it in his voice; the moment it hits him, “Natasha… as in… Natasha Romanoff?”

It made you laugh; his jaw wide open in shock, eyes wide. He looked like his eyes would come out of his head. “I don’t go by Y/N Romanoff, for people to react like that.” You point at him and he closes his mouth.

“How… I didn’t know… but you two-”

“- look different?” you bring your knees closer, wrapping your arms around them, “I was adopted.”

“ohhhh.” He drew out the exclamation, taking his sweet time not knowing what else to say.

“She saved me from the Red Room. Took me under the wing, sent me to High School… God knows how that went.” You laughed recalling the absolute menace you were during your teens. “If there was mischief in school, my name was somehow related. And Nat was always there to get me out of it. Except for that one time I blew up the toilets to rebel against the dress code… said I deserved getting suspended.” The fight you had afterwards… Steve and Tony had to interfere or else you both would have torn each other’s heads off.

“My mom once got a call from the local ER when I was twelve.” He spoke up, looking at the stars and a smile spreading on his face, “I drove my bike off of the road and straight into the canal, and hit my head pretty hard. She was mad as hell and Abuela won’t stop fussing about me. I was grounded for the entire semester, but every night we three would sit in the living room to watch whatever was on Cartoon Network.”

There was sadness laced in every word of his, “That was the last summer I had with her. She passed away a few months later.”

You could not say anything.

You knew exactly how he was feeling right this moment, that empty feeling inside your chest left behind after somebody’s gone. You silently hold his hand, acknowledging the hurt he must be going through.

“I must be the last person you want to hear this from, but, know that the hurt you’re feeling right now, y/n,” he gently grasps your hand, “it’s just all the love you have for the person you lost. I don’t want to say it gets easier, but you get better at letting it out over time.”

“Thank you, Joaquin.”

He smiles, taking a sip from his bottle glancing at you. Dark brown pupils looking right into yours.

Damn he’s pretty.

Your heart dropped a beat, a funny feeling in your chest unblurring the next second.

The first thing Natasha and Clint taught you was how to read people. You could tell what was going on in someone’s head just by looking at their subconscious cues. A voice in your head pointing out everything you need to know about them.

It was quite silly to be honest, that voice inside your head that had been quiet for a while now, was screaming at you for not looking at what was right in front of you…

You liked him.

---

“I was not expecting that.” You speak into Sam’s empty room, standing on the doorway with Joaquin.

Cass and AJ had separate rooms, Sarah had hers, and the only empty one was Sam's, which you were to share with Joaquin.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” He says unprompted.

“No, no, Joaquin, we traveled for the entire day. We’re both tired. We can share the bed.” He was too tall to fit on the couch anyways.

 He picked his bags and settled in, “You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. No worries.”

Worries, y/n, you’re not doing this out of goodwill. I mean… His arms? Just imagine how they would look wrapped around your-

You let out an internal scream and started unpacking your luggage before you did something scandalous, freshened up in the washroom and returned to the room to see him lying on one side of the bed, his back to you, wearing only sweatpants and a white vest. Your eyes were drawn straight to his biceps, they looked like they belonged to some sculpture in the dim lamplight.

Someone works out.

You immediately slapped a hand on your mouth realizing you said that out loud. Frozen with embarrassment, you waited to see if he heard that.

When you were certain he didn’t, you took your place on the other side, and were immediately knocked out by the exhaustion.

---

Next Day

You woke up to the smell of pancakes and the shouts of AJ and Cass from the backyard. You stretched out, thinking of any tasks you had to do today. You'd helped Sarah pack a go-bag yesterday and set up the alarms around the house. The only task left was to have a look at the Attic. The clutter filled there could be the best hiding spot for anyone.

After sniffing the smell of fresh pancakes for the second time, you couldn't resist any longer. You swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded downstairs.

Sarah and Joaquin were laughing in the kitchen, the sound warm and inviting. He was wearing an Air Force t-shirt over his sweatpants, his hair still damp from his shower, and a lazy smile playing on his lips. Of course he's a morning person, you thought, a pang of envy hitting you.

"Good morning sleepyhead," Sarah called out, her eyes twinkling.

Joaquin looked up, his smile widening as he saw you. You realized, with a jolt, that you were still in your Naruto pajamas, your hair a complete mess. Panic surged through you, but when you saw him smiling at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners, you relaxed slightly.

"Morning," you mumbled, taking a seat at the table.

"Joaquin made these," Sarah announced proudly, placing a plate of golden brown pancakes in front of you. "They're incredible."

"They are," you agreed, already taking a bite. "God bless you, Sarah, these are heavenly."

"Oh, that's all Joaquin," Sarah said, pouring you a tall glass of something. "I just made the milkshakes."

"Milkshakes!" you exclaimed, your eyes widening.

"Chocolate and caramel," she said, placing the glass in front of you. "With extra cream."

"Thank you!" You high-fived her, then turned to Joaquin. "And thank you, for the pancakes."

"Anytime," he said, taking a bite of his own pancake. He met your gaze, a slow, appreciative smile gracing his lips. You swore you saw a glint of something in his eyes – amusement? Admiration? Something more? You blinked, suddenly unsure of yourself.

Is my head playing tricks with me? you wondered, your heart pounding a little faster than it should be.

---

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm…”

“Uhh… What's the whole deal with John Walker?” Joaquin asked while fixing a sensor on the attic window.

All afternoon you had been setting up sensors anywhere there was a blind spot. You don’t want to scare Sarah, but your gut would not be satisfied until the house was a fortress.

“It’s the government’s doing to be honest. I have a feeling it’s gonna implode royally and they’ll be doing anything to cover it up.” You looked up from your tablet, “including taking down Walker.”

“Damn.” He stopped, climbing down the window still, “you speak like you’ve witnessed this before.”

You let out a dry laugh, connecting the sensor to your tablet, “I saw the Avengers being torn apart from the inside.”

“Wait,” he tilts his head, his hair bouncing while doing so, “you were with the Avengers during the Sokovia Accords?”

“Yep.” You sit along the wall under the open window, with the sunlight pooled into the attic and cool air rushing in, and pat the space next to you, “I was eight maybe, when Natasha and Clint saved me from being an assassin for The Red Room.” You took a deep breath, “Grew up with them, I stayed mostly on the sidelines until the Civil War. Then it was three years of being blacklisted by the government and whatnot.” he takes a seat right next to you, your shoulders touching.

“Enough about me,” you look at him, “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Born in Mexico, raised in Arizona.” He looks at you, his eyes in the sunlight shining bright.

Can eyes sparkle? I’ve never seen someone’s eyes sparkle before.

“Damn. Grand Canyons, huh.” you smile as you imagined him in hiking gear.

“Yeah, I’ve been there many times and believe me… it takes my breath away every single time.”

You huff out, “I always wanted to hike on that trail, never got the chance.”

“Maybe you can come with me after all this is over.” He says coyly, nudging your shoulder, “I can show you around, we can go visit other places, Horseshoe Bend, Havasu Falls…”

Y/n… just say it. He can’t be more obvious than this.

You smirk, “Joaquin Torres,” he looks at you, his cheeks turning red, “are you asking me out on a date?”

“Maybe… if you want to.” He looks at the ceiling, and to your amusement, you realize he was blushing, “And I promise I won’t scam you for money…” you laugh out loud, “I’m always up for hiking the trail, you know, because I work out.”

You groan in between laughing, “you heard that!”

“Yeah, I heard you checking me out…”

“…I wasn’t checking you out!” you fall back on the wall, “You have nice arms. That’s all.” You try not to smirk, but you see him do so from the corner of your eye.

“That’s all? What about my sensor uploading skills?” he wavered his eyebrows.

“10 by 10. You remain undefeated.”

Silence falls over as you keep stealing glances at each other. It’s only broken when he says, “You’re really pretty by the way.”

You laugh, and nudge his shoulder, “just pretty?”

“…and a Geek, you looked great in those Naruto pajamas…”

You hide your face in your hands but he continues, “Where did you get them? Costco?”

“I went on tour to Japan, so…” you look into those chocolaty brown eyes again, his face in the sunlight makes his features stand out, your attention going to his lips.

“Maybe you could take me with you next time.” He says, holding your hand, caressing the back as he looks at your lips.

“Only if you want to.” You whisper, leaning in, praying you weren’t reading this wrong.

Joaquin took hold of your neck, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. He pulled you closer, your lips meeting in the middle with a soft, exploratory touch. His lips were soft, as you'd imagined, and his hands cradled your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more. His tongue darted out, tasting you, a low groan rumbling in his chest that sent shivers down your spine. You wanted him to do more, go further, and you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his.

Before Joaquin could protest, you straddled him, pushing him back against the wall. His eyes widened in surprise, a predatory glint entering them. You crashed your mouth on his, this time with a fierce urgency. The soft exploration of your first kiss quickly escalated into a desperate demand, your bodies pressed together, a primal need igniting within you.

"Fuck... y/n," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. He pulled back slightly, his lips leaving a trail of hot kisses down your neck, his breath fanning against your skin. He found the sweet spot on your pulse, sucking on it with a possessive intensity that made you arch against him. You gasped, clutching at his shirt, your nails digging into the fabric.

He leaned back, his eyes closed, a blissful moan escaping his lips. "God, you taste incredible," he whispered, his voice rough with desire. He kissed you again, this time a slow, deliberate exploration, his tongue tracing the inside of your mouth, mapping every curve.

Every inch of your body seemed to ignite by his touch, time melting away. There was only him, his hands roaming over your body, his lips devouring yours, and the intoxicating feeling of desire that consumed you both.

High Pitched and Grating, a sensor alarm rang through the attic.

You retreat in shock, like two deer caught in headlights, and Joaquin grabs the tablet and sees where this was happening.

Blood drained from his face as you witnessed at least four flag smashers moving towards the Wilson residence, guns armed, maybe a mile away.

He gets up, “East side?” grabbing the tablet and locking the windows.

“I’ll get Sarah.” You reply, already on your feet rushing downstairs.

---

"Halt," Lucas whispered, his voice a low growl in the pre-dawn darkness. The team crouched low, their figures mere shadows against the backdrop of the dense forest. Sam Wilson's house loomed ahead, a beacon of normalcy in the encroaching gloom.

"I see only two people inside," Matt reported, his voice a whisper cutting through the silence. "No kids." He checked the thermal scanners, the infrared images flickering on his visor.

Artie, his face pale in the moonlight, grabbed Lucas's shoulder. "Karli didn't say anything about kids."

"She told us to bring them alive," Lucas reminded him, his eyes fixed on the house. "And they need to be unharmed for negotiation."

Nadia shifted uncomfortably, her hand tightening around the grip of her revolver. "I don't like this," she muttered, her voice laced with unease. "I didn't agree to harm any kids."

Lucas turned to her, his gaze sharp. "Nadia!" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "We're doing this. One way or the other. Stop whining and get to work."

He took a deep breath, the metallic scent intensifying. "One World..." he began, his voice echoing in the stillness.

"One people," his team responded in unison, their voices a low, guttural chant.

With a silent, coordinated movement, they emerged from the shadows, their figures gliding towards the Wilson residence, the air thick with anticipation and a chilling sense of foreboding.

---

"Go, go, go!" you barked, adrenaline surging through you. You snatched Sarah's bag, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of the handgun inside. You grabbed AJ's hand, his small fingers clutching yours tightly, and ushered them towards the waiting car.

Cass and Sarah were already running, their figures mere shadows against the encroaching twilight. You threw the bags in the backseat, your movements a blur, then helped Cass and AJ climb in.

Sarah slid behind the wheel, her face pale. "Y/n, what are you doing?!" she gasped, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"I have to stay here," you said, your voice firm. "Make sure they don't follow you." You shoved your Glock into Sarah's hand.

A roar from inside the house cut through the tension. "Y/n! They're here!" Joaquin's voice, amplified by the sudden silence, echoed through the air.

"Sarah, I promise I'll be fine," you said, your gaze locked with Cass's in the rearview mirror. Tears were streaming down her face, but she nodded, her small frame trembling. "You have to go." You shoved your tablet into her hands, a desperate plea in your eyes. "Remember what I told you earlier. You'll be safe here."

"Sarah, go!" you screamed, your voice hoarse.

You watched as the car lurched forward, disappearing down the dirt road that snaked towards the water. A beep on your watch confirmed her location, a fleeting sense of relief washing over you.

Phase One. Over.

Phase Two. Let's go.

You sprinted through the back door, the house suddenly feeling eerily silent. Joaquin was already there, a grim set to his jaw. He was clad in his SHIELD armor, the sleek black material gleaming in the dim light. Guns and your emergency bag lay scattered across the kitchen table, a grim testament to the impending battle. You stole a glance at the tablet, its screen flickering with life as it ran facial recognition on the figures outside.

"Ready?" you asked, your voice a low growl, as you slipped on the bulletproof vest and began loading the magazines.

"Yeah," Joaquin replied, his eyes scanning the room, assessing the situation.

You looked out the window, the setting sun casting long, eerie shadows across the yard. "Let's hope Sam doesn't sue us for destroying his house," you muttered.

To be continued...

Part 2

A/N - Thank you everyone for sticking with me till the end of this fic! if you liked it please let me know through the asks and the comments. Love y'all, Take Care!

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[blakbonnet]

*DRUM ROLL* This AOTW is the podfic edition of our beloved weekend celebration of great artists in this fandom, and our featured artist this week is none other than @lindie-kninjaknitter ✨ If you're a lover of podfics, you've definitely heard at least one of Lindie's 265 fics either on your commute or because their voice is just so calming. Lindie also agreed to answer some questions for me:

Let's start with the technical: what are the programs you use to create your lovely podfics?

I use GarageBand to record with a ShureMV7 microphone, and I use Audacity for processing and post on SoundCloud.

How did you get into podficcing? Is this the first fandom you've tried it for?

I got into podfic making I knew what a podfic was. The story “No One Would Riot For Less” by sacrificethemtothesquid was a retelling of season one from Ed’s POV. I couldn’t put it down. So I recorded into the Voice Memos on my phone so I could take it with me on walks. When I found out that this was something that people do, I asked the author for permission to post and they said yes, and with the encouragement of some generous kind pirates in the comments I recorded more.

What made you fall in love with narrating stories?

This is the only fandom I’ve recorded although after I did a few stories, I auditioned for some books on audible and have recorded two stories there. It was not as rewarding or enjoyable as recording fanfiction. I love that the audio out there helps people in the ways it does. Folks tell me they listen while they do boring tasks or enjoyable art or their commute. I feel like I get to sit in the corner of a room in so many peoples lives, reading these awesome stories and it makes me very happy.

Any tips for beginners who wants to give podficcing a shot?

Tips for beginners! There are some good resources on AO3, the sapphires project, tree change project… These were designed to try to support new podfic makers as well as get those stories to audio. But I think the most important thing is find a story you want to live in! Something you really, really love, and then record it on your phone or whatever you have. I didn’t have a microphone until I started Hell or High Water.

Sound quality wise the two big things you need to do are to get your voice through a recording device and onto your DAW (digital work station – mine is GarageBand) While at the same time, eliminating other noises as much as possible. Echo is not your friend so a bathroom is your worst option… a place with soft walls blankets carpet on the floor in a quiet corner works great. Or a closet.

What is your favourite podfic that you've narrated?

My favorite podfic is which ever one I’m working on right now! There are some I am particularly proud of the vocal performance. Throat G.O.A.T. stands out… Constellationism, Baddy Zaddy have such sense of place! Captive of the Pirate King was the first one in which I really felt part of a community. I’ve made… 260 so far… each one was my favorite as I worked on it!

What are your personal challenges when it comes to narrating podfics?

I always want to do more than I can reasonably actually record. In choosing one it means I’m unchoosing several others.

I have dyslexia… sometimes I cannot get into the flow of reading which is frustrating.

There are some topics and materials I find difficult to narrate. Often that discomfort is offset by many other things that I love about a story and so I will narrate them anyway.

When I am approaching difficult material, I do a lot of journaling. I take breaks. I record sentences in pieces, then stitch it together and I am pretty sure you can’t tell in the finished recording.

We have a wonderful community of narrators who are there to listen and help each other with things like this.

Why OFMD? 🥹

Why OFMD? I think the underlying story of figuring yourself out later in life really appeals to me. I see myself in many of the characters, Ed, Stede, Jim, Izzy, Lucius… This story and the crew have really helped me understand myself better… feel less broken? (Chapter 25 baby!!!) feel less of an outsider? To recognize that parts of myself that I’ve had to tone down my whole life are worthy of being loud about.

Please head on over to @ofmdlovelyletters to leave your love for Lindie 💕

[velvetvexations]

apologies, but i'm about to use your inbox as a dumping ground, because i cannot STAND this idea that trans women are uniquely susceptible to "social murder" and that trans m&ms are uniquely capable of perpetrating it

in college, i was a part of a big queer group. at the time i was pre-everything, but openly identifying as nonbinary, and visibly afab. there were about 20 of us in this group, all around the same age (18-22), and a solid mix of genders and expressions. i'd say there was a roughly even spread of genders and gendered experiences, not substantially more of one than another.

at first, everything was great! i had a ton of friends! sure, they socially ostracised a (cis!!) girl, and made it a point to make a second group chat without her in it, and avoided her....but hey, that's justified, she's annoying, whatever. (aside: as a grown adult, i know now how big of a red flag that is, and it'd send me running in the other direction nowadays.) the fact that she was neurodivergent and asexual was probably irrelevant.

once she was gone from the group, they picked someone else. this person was genderfluid, also autistic and asexual. they did the same thing to her, froze her out until she stopped trying.

she was gone, they picked another. cis gay guy, also neurodivergent. outright threw him out of his dorm room because he had the audacity to have sex when his roommates were on vacation.

i was the next one (for the record.......also neurodivergent, also asexual). and i have to say, bullying when it's the group you've built your social circle around, and when they're people you LIVE with.......it's really, really rough. i had a roommate watch me develop an eating disorder and tell me to my face that i was "appropriating fat struggles." i had people follow me to where i was eating breakfast and make thinly veiled threats from right behind me. they talked to my professors about me; the rumours were so vitriolic that i was kicked from a class outright. there was an entire DEPARTMENT i could no longer take classes in safely. i struggle with all of that to this day, almost a decade later, and i have never received an apology from anyone.

you know who did that? cis people, men and women. trans people, men and women. nonbinary people of all stripes. to me, a "tme" or whatever.

"social murder" is always a possibility when your social circle is necessarily small; it's weird to pretend that queer friend groups never blow up spectacularly, or that the fallout isn't particularly damaging when your other options for friends are limited by who doesn't hate you on principle. but to act like it's along GENDERED lines exclusively, or that it's always worse when it's a trans woman, ignores all other intersections (when in my own experience, it's been neurodivergence and disability that have contributed more to "social murder" in queer friend groups than any identity) and is just.....not just cruel, but maliciously ignorant.

I'm so very, very sorry that happened to you anon. <3 I love you.

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

a certain type of (typically white lower support needs speaking) autistic people: autism is not a disorder because there’s nothing wrong with me and a disorder implies there’s something wrong with me that needs to be cured😫😫people treat me bad because they see it as a disorder instead of the correct thing of difference or a neurotype!!!

half of this type of people: autism is not a disability because there’s nothing wrong with autism i’m not disabled i can do everything just like a nondisabled person and disability is Bad and i’m not bad

(which. disability is not a bad word and all but i at least applaud you for the consistency??)

other half of this group, somehow: autism is a disability because autism is disabling and there’s nothing wrong with disability! disability isn’t inherently bad it’s how society treat us that disables us!!! —but autism is still not a disorder! it’s not a disorder it’s a disability and a neurotype!

(disability isn’t bad but this group also perpetuated a lot of misinformation about the social model. i only have to fight them on one subject (autism as disorder) instead of two (autism as disability and disorder) but somehow this group is even more frustrating to deal with because the sheer cognitive dissonance is going to explode my brains. like so you can separate disability from societal ableism but you can’t separate disorder from societal ableism???)

bonus. all of them: *will come onto the post of a higher support needs autistic person talking about why autism is a disability AND a disorder and half complain half dissecting why some (lower support needs) autistic people are so fucking keen on speaking over higher support needs autistic experience. and then have the fucking audacity to say “well i don’t think autism is a disorder because” and then performatively say “if i misunderstand you’re welcome to educate me” as if the entire fucking original post isn’t an education and as if i owe explaining my entire experience to you*

for the record and for the last fucking time (narrator: it would not be the last time). disorder is not a bad word it’s not an inherently wrong thing it’s not a bad thing and if you think it is please for the love of god work on your internalized ableism instead of externalizing it to a more marginalized person. yes the construction of disorders especially in the realm of psychiatry is shit and a mess but that doesn’t mean what you think it means please. a disability a disorder an impairment is limiting by definition it’s a fact it can be neutral it doesn’t have to inherently mean the societal stigma associated with it is true. a disorder and how society and ableist people treat that disorder is heavily intertwined but the second is not inherent to the first.

if you don’t see your autism as a disorder i’m not going to argue over your own experience but stop fucking implying or straight up saying all autism is not a disorder. stop trying to erase the disorder part of autism spectrum disorder. please get out of your tunnel vision and actually shut up and listen to higher support needs / nonspeaking autistics for once in your life without adding any of your comments please.

disability is not an inherently bad thing. disorder is not an inherently bad thing. impairment is not an inherently bad thing.

[michithing]

Medic's Melding Madness - Part 1

...is an SFM animation about Medic, who makes a discovery, that leads to him making plans for the future...

major warnings i want to mention are body horror (without any gore tho) and manipulation.

also has some gay characters - if you've seen my recent HeavyMedic posters then yeah, those are from this video actually

it'd be pretty cool if you would check it out..........

its a project ive been working on since around june, and has let me learn many things; i wrote a script, recorded soundeffects, even went and made some music using samples and audacity. its definitely not perfect but im still proud of it

and.........................

..happy halloween :3

[hookhausenschips]

The Burden of Greatness

Prologue of Revved Up To Fight

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Summary: The prologue introduces Y/N Griffin, the heir to a legendary motorsport dynasty, raised in a world where racing is not just a passion but an expectation. As she grows, she grapples with the immense weight of her family’s legacy, ultimately questioning whether she races for herself or simply to fulfill the world’s expectations, setting the stage for a journey of self-discovery.

WC: 9.4k (she's looong lol I got carried away sorry)

Warnings: themes of family pressure, high expectations, self-doubt, and identity struggles, a racing accident, injury, emotional weight of legacy, burnout, and self-discovery

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The Griffin family was more than a name—it was a dynasty. To the world outside, they were motorsport royalty, icons whose achievements were woven into the very fabric of racing history. But to Y/N, they were simply family. Her grandfather’s records in Formula 1 still stood as monuments of speed and strategy, his name etched in the sport’s annals as one of the greatest to ever race. Her father had turned MotoGP into a stage for breathtaking audacity, riding like a man possessed, rethinking the very essence of what it meant to push the limits of human endurance and mechanical precision. And her mother—her mother was a legend in her own right, a woman whose dominance in IndyCar was less about brute force and more about an almost spiritual connection to the track, a quiet master of strategy, timing, and grace under pressure.

The Griffins didn’t just race; they defined racing. Their triumphs had become part of motorsport folklore, told and retold at every track, in every garage, on every pit wall. They were pioneers—risk-takers who had turned the sport into an art form. They had shaped it. Molded it. Redefined it. 

From the day Y/N was born, the world had made up its mind. There would be no “if” about it; the question was always when. She wasn’t just another racer, another aspiring champion. She was the heir apparent to a legacy so great, it was almost impossible to imagine anything but the highest of expectations. Destiny, as far as the world was concerned, had already been written in the stars. 

But for Y/N, the weight of that legacy was something far more intimate. It wasn’t about living up to the stories told about her family’s triumphs. It wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. It was about something simpler, more profound: living up to the quiet, unspoken legacy that had been passed down to her in ways she had never truly understood until much later. 

Sunday nights at the Griffin house were never typical. There were no lazy meals or casual chats. There was always a blueprint spread across the table, a car engine in various stages of disassembly, and race footage flickering across the television screen, paused mid-turn as her father’s voice—deep and steady—talked through tire pressure and aerodynamics. “The car,” he would often say, “it’s not just a machine. It’s an extension of you.” 

Her mother’s words were quieter, precise, her voice a soft, calculated hum that cut through the air like the hum of an engine coming to life. “Perfection,” she’d whisper, “is in the details. Watch the line. Every millisecond matters.” There was no room for error. The world they inhabited was one of constant improvement, of never settling, of always pushing towards that elusive thing called perfection. 

To Y/N, these weren’t just lessons; they were a way of life. Her parents were more than just her mentors—they were the architects of her world. From the time she could walk, she was never handed toy cars or dolls. Instead, they put wrenches in her hands and showed her how to use them. They taught her how to take apart and rebuild an engine before she had even learned to properly tie her shoes. 

The house wasn’t filled with the usual memorabilia of childhood. There were no stuffed animals, no posters of pop stars or superheroes. Instead, the walls of the Griffin household were adorned with photographs of races long past, faded trophies gleaming in the corners of rooms that smelled faintly of gasoline and leather. Y/N’s childhood was a laboratory of sorts—a place where racing was the answer to every question, and family was the force that held it all together.

Her earliest memories weren’t of parks or playgrounds, but of race tracks. Of the smell of fuel in the air, the roar of engines, the metallic hum of pit crews in their choreography of precision. She was there, in the pit lane, wide-eyed and breathless, as her parents worked their magic, tweaking settings and adjusting valves with the kind of calm intensity only those born into racing understood. For others, the sound of a revving engine might have been deafening. For Y/N, it was a symphony. 

Her grandfather, sitting next to her with his weathered hands resting on the back of the pit wall, would often point out to the track. “Monaco,” he’d say, his voice gravelly but steady, “it’s about control. It’s about patience.” He’d recount the glory of his victory, detailing every twist and turn of the track as if it were etched into his bones. And Y/N, sitting on his knee, absorbed it all—each word, each piece of wisdom. 

Her father, always the adventurer, would take her up to the podium after his victories, lifting her high into the air as though the triumph was hers, too. And in a way, it was. He’d tell her, with a proud grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “You’re next. You’ll be up here someday. But remember, it’s about more than winning. It’s about making every second count.” 

And then there was her mother. Quiet, reserved, always with a plan. Before her first karting session, her mother had knelt before her, adjusted her helmet, and whispered the words that would stay with her forever. “You’re a Griffin, Y/N. You don’t just race—you set the standard.” 

The Griffin family wasn’t just supportive; they were all in. Their belief in Y/N was not a passive thing—it was active, deliberate, and persistent. Her father wasn’t just content to let her watch from the sidelines; he became her first teacher, guiding her hands as she turned the wrenches, his voice always calm but firm, explaining the physics of a turn or the importance of throttle control. Her mother, ever the strategist, was always the one to help her perfect her technique, breaking down complex moves into bite-sized, understandable bits. She could see the potential in Y/N long before Y/N saw it in herself.

When Y/N first raced, it wasn’t with an overwhelming sense of competition. It was with a deep-rooted sense of connection—connection to the car, to the track, to the generations of Griffins who had come before her. Her father, meticulously adjusting her kart’s bolts, would look her in the eye and say, “You’ve got this, kid. Just remember what I taught you: Feel the car. Don’t fight it.” Her mother, always composed, would be there at the starting line, helmet in hand, leaning in with the softest words of advice. “Breathe. Focus. Own the track.” 

The pressure of carrying the Griffin name, however, was something Y/N felt acutely. It was never spoken directly—it didn’t need to be. Every time she won, every time she stood atop the podium, the expectations of the world seemed to double. Every small mistake, every failure, felt magnified. Yet, in those moments of solitude, after the race had ended and the cheers had faded, her family was always there to remind her that the journey wasn’t about comparison. It wasn’t about matching the past—it was about creating her own future.

As Y/N grew older, the whispers started. Fans spoke her name with an air of inevitability, as if she were simply waiting for her time to emerge. Journalists speculated—often with more fervor than accuracy—about her future. T-shirts bearing her name began to pop up alongside those with her family’s, emblazoned with slogans like “The Next Griffin Legend.” Her family, it seemed, had become a measuring stick for all who came after.

Yet, despite the weight of these expectations, Y/N carried herself with a quiet, unshakable confidence. She didn’t feel the need to chase her family’s history, to prove she was worthy of the name she bore. No. She wanted something more—something deeper. She wanted to honor their legacy, to carry the torch forward, but she also wanted to carve out her own story, a story that was uniquely hers, even if it was still intertwined with the threads of her family’s past.

The world might have been watching, but Y/N wasn’t looking over her shoulder. Instead, she looked forward, her gaze set firmly on the track ahead. It was a daunting path, filled with expectations and pressure, but Y/N wasn’t afraid. After all, she was a Griffin. And Griffins didn’t just race—they set the standard.

Y/N's first race was a quiet affair—nothing more than a local karting competition in a forgotten corner of the world, tucked away in a dusty lot surrounded by bleachers that had seen better days. For most young racers, it would have been a humble start, a first taste of the sport that might not have amounted to much more than a handful of local bragging rights. But for Y/N, this was the beginning of something far grander, an opening chapter in the story of her destiny.

At just eight years old, she slipped into a custom-fitted racing suit, its fabric snug against her small frame. Her name—Y/N Griffin—was embroidered neatly on the back, a quiet echo of a legacy she hadn’t yet begun to fulfill. As she pulled the helmet over her head, the weight of her family’s history felt distant, almost irrelevant. Here, in the stillness of that moment, there was no roaring crowd, no cameras flashing, no family legacy pushing her forward. There was only the track, and only her.

Her father crouched beside her, adjusting the straps of her helmet with his usual precision. His hands were steady, but his eyes, focused and intense, betrayed the pride he was trying to hide. “The race isn’t won in the first corner,” he said, his voice calm yet knowing. “But that’s where you can lose it. Stay sharp. Trust yourself.”

When the flag dropped, everything around her faded. The world became a blur of asphalt, rubber, and the growl of a kart that vibrated beneath her, its engine alive with power. She gripped the steering wheel, her small hands steady as the nerves that had threatened to rise seemed to disappear entirely. There was no Griffin name, no family pressure—only the race.

She didn’t win that day. Her kart crossed the finish line a few places behind the leader, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how she raced. Her control on the track, her ability to read the turns, and her cool-headedness in the midst of chaos stood out. She wasn’t just a kid trying to race—she was learning, adapting, and above all, she was growing. 

Her family saw it immediately. Her father’s sharp gaze never left the track, watching as his daughter took each corner with uncanny precision. Her mother, standing near the pit lane, gave a small, approving nod. Y/N wasn’t just racing. She was beginning her journey in the same way her family had—on her terms.

From that first race, Y/N was hooked. The world of karting was her crucible, the place where she began to refine her skills, her technique, and her understanding of the sport. It wasn’t just the adrenaline that fueled her; it was the pulse of the competition, the thrill of the chase, the dizzying rush of passing a rival by mere inches, and the split-second decisions that made the difference between victory and defeat. 

Karting, with its tight corners and rapid acceleration, taught her the value of patience and precision. Each race was an opportunity to perfect her craft, to peel away at the layers of her own abilities and uncover the racer hidden beneath. 

Weekends became a blur of travel and racing, the familiar hum of the kart's engine a constant companion. When the races were over, the work didn’t stop. Y/N spent her weekdays tinkering with her kart, adjusting carburetors, studying engine specs, and constantly pushing the boundaries of what she could do with the machines. And when she wasn’t hands-on with her kart, she was at home, watching race footage—her parents’ wins, her mistakes, the greats of motorsport who had come before her. Every turn, every maneuver, every hesitation—she dissected it all, her young mind hungry for improvement.

Her parents, always in her corner, took on their roles with dedication. Her father, the motivator, pushed her harder than anyone could. “You need to brake later, Y/N. Feel the track. Push it.” Her mother, the strategist, taught her how to outthink her opponents. “It’s not just about who’s fastest. It’s about how you race.” Their teachings were complementary, a perfect balance of instinct and intellect, the very foundation of her rise to prominence.

Y/N wasn’t just racing to win. She was racing to dominate. And it was clear to everyone—especially her family—that she wasn’t just a prodigy. She was a force.

By the time Y/N turned 12, it was evident that karting was no longer enough. Her talents had outgrown the circuit, and the world of motorsports beckoned with a myriad of opportunities. But Y/N wasn’t content to simply conquer one discipline—she wanted to prove herself across the board.

It was time to branch out.

Her first foray into rallycross was a revelation. The sport, with its wild slides and gravel-churning corners, required an entirely new set of skills. But Y/N adapted seamlessly, her karting precision translating effortlessly to the unpredictable terrain. The art of control, of mastering the slide, became a natural extension of the technique she had spent years honing.

Next came dirt bikes. This was where Y/N learned fearlessness. She took to the dirt with the same tenacity she had shown on the tarmac, launching herself over jumps with an ease that belied her age. The rough trails, the high-speed descents, the sense of weightlessness as she soared above the ground—it was all part of the thrill. And it was here that Y/N discovered a different kind of rhythm, one that didn’t rely solely on smooth lines and perfect corners but on the thrill of the unknown, the unpredictability of nature.

Her experiments with single-seaters—low-tier cars that mimicked the high-speed elegance of Formula 1—further proved her versatility. Y/N was no longer confined to one style or one genre of racing. She was a racer in every sense of the word, adaptable and able to excel in a variety of disciplines. By the time she was 14, her trophy shelf was full, each medal a testament to her adaptability and raw talent. In every category she entered, Y/N didn’t just participate—she dominated.

At 16, Y/N’s career hit a new high. She had moved beyond local competitions and into the national circuits, competing with racers who were often several years older and much more experienced. Her name—once whispered in garage corners and paddocks—was now shouted in headlines and echoed in sponsorship meetings. The media took notice. Sponsors flocked to her, eager to align themselves with the rising star who was not only talented but magnetic.

Her victories were no longer just about skill—they were about her style. Fans adored her aggressive but calculated approach. She wasn’t reckless; she was fearless. Her ability to balance strategy with speed, to attack the track with an unrelenting drive, earned her the respect of competitors who knew exactly what it took to win. Y/N wasn’t just winning races; she was setting new standards. 

The wins kept coming—one after another, each more impressive than the last. But it wasn’t just her on-track performance that drew attention. Y/N had an authenticity that resonated off the track as well. Her smile, her energy, her genuine love for the sport were evident in everything she did. Media outlets heralded her as “the future of motorsports.” Commentators couldn’t get enough of her. 

But Y/N knew that the path she was carving was about more than just collecting trophies. She wasn’t just carrying the Griffin name into the future—she was redefining it.

With the victories came the weight of expectation. The world was watching, and the whispers of her family legacy were always in the background. Yet, Y/N wasn’t interested in just being a successor to the legends who had come before her. She wasn’t racing for the recognition or the fame; she was racing because it was her passion, her dream. 

As she entered her late teens, Y/N’s name was becoming one of the most talked-about in the world of motorsports. Her legacy was only just beginning to take shape, and yet, beneath the accolades and the applause, a new question began to take root: Was she racing because she loved it? Or was she racing because she felt she had no other choice?

It was a question that would shape the trajectory of her career. Because the answer, she realized, would determine not just her future in racing, but the very way she would define herself in a world that had already decided who she was. The next chapter of her life, her career, and her legacy depended on it.

As Y/N’s career soared, so too did the mounting weight of expectation. What had begun as a promising start, a young prodigy following in the tire tracks of legends, had evolved into something much bigger. The Griffin name, a symbol of dominance and innovation in motorsports, now came with a new layer of pressure. With every victory, every podium finish, the comparisons grew louder. 

“Is she the next Derrius?”  

“Can she surpass her grandfather’s records?”  

“Will she become the greatest Griffin to ever race?”

These questions were as constant as the roar of engines. They were present at every press conference, whispered among fans, and often, she could hear them echoing in her own mind long after the crowds had gone home. To the world, it was thrilling, a new chapter in an ongoing saga that had captured the imagination of motorsport fans everywhere. But for Y/N, it became suffocating. 

The weight of her family’s legacy, once a proud foundation, now felt like an unshakable burden. The pressure to meet expectations—both her own and others’—became a constant companion. Every race was no longer just about the thrill of competition or the joy of racing. It was a test of her worth. 

If she won, it was expected. Her grandfather’s records, her father’s titles, her mother’s legacy—every success she achieved felt like a mere continuation of something already set in stone. But when she lost, it was scrutinized, analyzed, and dissected as if each mistake reflected a flaw in the Griffin lineage itself. The media’s gaze was sharp, always searching for cracks, for signs that Y/N wasn’t quite what they had hoped for. Every miss, every off moment, felt like a personal failure.

Her family, supportive as ever, tried to shield her from the relentless noise of the media. Her mother, who had always seen the fine details others missed, reminded her time and time again, “Comparisons are inevitable, darling. But they don’t define you. Not unless you let them.” Her father, ever the rock, urged her to remember why she raced in the first place. “Feel the car, Y/N. The joy of racing isn’t in the records—it’s in the ride. Focus on that.”

But no matter how many times they spoke those words, the voice inside her head never quieted. “Is this what I really want?” she wondered. Racing had been her life for as long as she could remember, but was it her dream? Or had it always been someone else’s?

By the time she reached her late teens, Y/N began to question everything. The trophies, the accolades, the endless lines of sponsors eager to bask in her success—they all felt hollow at times. She loved racing, there was no doubt about that, but was she racing because she truly wanted to? Or was she simply fulfilling a role carved out for her long before she was born? 

Her family’s legacy had been passed down through generations, and she had inherited not just the talent, but the weight of history itself. It was not enough to simply be a good racer; she had to be the racer, the one who carried the Griffin name into the future. But what if that wasn’t what she wanted? What if the very thing that had shaped her life was now suffocating her spirit?

It wasn’t just about winning races anymore; it was about carving out a new identity. She didn’t want to be defined solely by the greatness of those who came before her. Y/N yearned for independence, for a space where she could define her own success—not as another Griffin, but as Y/N, the person who had something unique to offer.

And yet, the road to independence was fraught with uncertainty. How could she step away from a legacy that had already been etched into the annals of motorsport history? How could she abandon a sport that had shaped every fiber of her being? 

In the quiet moments between races, when the rush of adrenaline and the roar of the engines faded, those questions became harder to ignore. Was it time for her to find her own way, to redefine who she was, or was she doomed to live in the shadow of expectations for the rest of her life?

Then, it happened. The moment that would forever alter the course of her career—and her life.

It was supposed to be just another race. She had prepared for it with her usual meticulousness. The track was familiar, the car fine-tuned to perfection. She was in the zone, focused and ready, but in motorsports, as in life, things don’t always go as planned.

The collision was violent, a crash that seemed to unfold in slow motion, yet happened in an instant. Her car slammed into the barriers, metal screeching against metal, and everything around her dissolved into chaos. Her vision blurred, her thoughts scrambled, and then—silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic in the air and the low hum of machines surrounding her. The pain was sharp and undeniable, but it wasn’t just the physical injury that hurt the most. It was the realization that something deep inside her had shifted. Racing had always been her everything—the heart-pounding excitement, the thrill of pushing herself beyond her limits—but now, in the quiet of the hospital room, that spark seemed distant, cold. The joy she once found in the sport felt like a distant memory, something she had once possessed but had now lost.

She spent days in that sterile room, alone with her thoughts. The questions that had plagued her for months now became impossible to ignore. Had she lost her love for racing? Had the weight of the legacy crushed something she could never get back? More importantly, what was the point of pushing forward if the joy had vanished?

It took weeks of recovery, both physical and mental, before Y/N made the most difficult decision of her life: to step away from racing. It wasn’t a resignation. It wasn’t giving up. It was a pause—a chance to reflect, to rediscover who she was outside the confines of the track and the overwhelming expectations placed on her.

When she told her family, she braced herself for disappointment. Her father, ever the stoic pillar, simply hugged her tightly, his words soft and reassuring. “You’ve already done more than enough to make us proud, Y/N. Whatever you choose, we’ll support you.”

Her mother, who had always known how to see the bigger picture, nodded with understanding. “You need to live your dream, not ours. Find your own path, darling. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

The motorsport world reacted with shock. Fans speculated endlessly, with many wondering if the pressure had finally broken her. Critics questioned her decision, sponsors scrambled to adjust their strategies, and journalists speculated about what went wrong. 

But for Y/N, the noise of the outside world faded. For the first time in her life, she felt free. Free from expectations. Free from comparisons. Free from the weight of a legacy that had never been hers to begin with.

In that moment, Y/N made a vow to herself. No matter where life took her next, she would no longer race to meet the standards of others. She would race—if she chose to race at all—on her own terms.

—

It wasn’t until I lay there in that hospital bed, staring up at the sterile, white ceiling, that I fully grasped the weight I had been carrying all these years. The pressure, the expectations, the constant need to live up to the legacy that came with my name—it had all built up inside me, layer after layer, until it felt like I was drowning under its suffocating heaviness. Every race was no longer just a test of my skill or my passion for the sport; it had become a test of my worth. Could I live up to the standards set by my parents, my grandfather, by a family whose name was synonymous with greatness?  

I had spent my entire life running toward that goal, toward the idea of becoming the next great Griffin in motorsports. I thought I loved racing, and for a long time, I did. But as I lay there in the stillness of the hospital room, it occurred to me that maybe I hadn’t been racing because I loved it at all. Maybe I was just running away from the truth: I was chasing the shadow of a legacy that wasn’t truly mine.  

For years, the sound of engines roaring, the rush of the track beneath me, had been my heartbeat. But now, in the silence of my mind, a quiet voice asked: What if I want something different? 

That question had never crossed my mind before. My life had been carved out for me, shaped by the stories of my parents' triumphs and my grandfather's legendary records. How could I step away from that? How could I turn my back on a legacy that had been a part of me since birth? The thought was terrifying. But there, in that sterile room, I realized something—something crucial. I didn’t have to become the next great Griffin. I just needed to become me. 

When the doctors finally cleared me to leave the hospital, I went home, unsure of what to do next. But I knew one thing: I had to face my family. I couldn’t keep pretending that I wasn’t questioning everything. That day, as I sat with them in the living room—my parents, both sitting across from me, eyes full of concern—I felt the weight of their expectations. Their love. Their pride. It was in every glance they shared, every word they spoke. I couldn’t carry it any longer. 

And so, with a voice that trembled more than I’d care to admit, I said, “I think I need to step away.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent. My mother’s eyes softened, her hand reaching out to take mine. My father stayed quiet, his expression unreadable, though I could see the tightness in his jaw. I braced myself for the disappointment I feared would follow. But instead, my mother squeezed my hand and said, “Y/N, you’ve already proven yourself. Now it’s time to figure out who you are beyond the track.”  

And just like that, something inside me broke free. The relief that washed over me was overwhelming. It was the first time in years that I hadn’t been afraid of disappointing them. In that moment, I realized they hadn’t been pushing me toward a legacy for the sake of their own pride. They just wanted me to be happy, to find fulfillment beyond the expectations of the world. Not just to be successful—but to be me. 

Now, as I look ahead, it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. I don’t have a path laid out for me. The road is completely unknown. For the first time in my life, it’s mine to pave. One step at a time, I’ll carve my own way. 

I have no idea where this journey will take me. But there’s one thing I know for sure: I’m ready to find out. 

---

The months that followed my decision to step away from racing were some of the most challenging I’d ever faced. Physical recovery was only part of it—the real battle was internal. Every muscle, every bone, every ligament in my body screamed for relief during therapy. But it wasn’t the pain of healing that haunted me. It was the emptiness. The silence that hung in the air when I wasn’t on the track, wasn’t chasing another goal. I’d spent my life racing toward something. Now, I was racing away from everything I had known. 

I was no longer driven by competition. The one thing that had always defined me—pushing myself past the limit, fighting to be the best—was suddenly gone. There was no finish line anymore. The absence of that goal felt like the most deafening thing I had ever encountered. 

In the midst of this new, quiet life, I sought out small ways to heal. I started journaling, pouring my thoughts and feelings onto the page as a way to understand the chaos swirling inside me. My journals became a mirror, reflecting everything I had tried to ignore. My emotions, my doubts, my fears—everything came to the surface in a way I hadn’t expected. It was difficult. But it was necessary. 

I also returned to the things I had enjoyed before racing had consumed me—painting, hiking, watching movies with my cousins. One afternoon, we decided to binge-watch old wrestling matches, something I hadn’t really thought about since I was a kid. I didn’t expect it to spark anything, but as I sat there, watching the legendary Trish Stratus face off against Lita, something stirred deep within me. I couldn’t put it into words right away, but I felt it—an electric thrill, a rush, an undeniable pull.

---

Wrestling had always been in the background of my life, a casual interest that my family indulged in every year when we tuned into WrestleMania. But that was all it was—entertainment. Something fun to watch, a distraction from the demands of our everyday lives. I never really saw it for what it was—a sport, yes, but also a spectacle. A carefully choreographed story that was told with every slam, every turn, every dramatic punch thrown in the ring. 

For the first time, though, I began to see it through a different lens. As I watched the matches unfold before me, I saw the athleticism—the precision, the discipline, the risk-taking that mirrored what I had once loved about racing. The wrestlers didn’t just compete; they performed. Each match was a narrative, a story of triumph, of rivalry, of overcoming odds. And they did it all with an audience that was captivated, hanging on every word, every move.  

It was the charisma of the wrestlers that truly grabbed me, though. Legends like The Rock could command a crowd with a single line. AJ Lee had the power to defy expectations with her every action, and Becky Lynch? She had the ability to turn every moment into an iconic one. The ability to weave a story, to make people feel something—this was what drew me in. 

Wrestling wasn’t just about the competition. It was about the drama, the performance, the connection with the audience. It was a way to tell your story, to shape your own narrative. And in that moment, I realized something profound—I had a story of my own that I wanted to tell.

I could feel it then, the stirring inside me—the same excitement I once felt when I raced. This was new. It was terrifying. But it was exhilarating, too. The thought of stepping into the ring, of feeling the crowd’s roar, of telling my story on my terms, was a rush unlike anything I had experienced before. 

It was a whole new world. And it was calling me. 

Wrestling wasn’t something I could just try out casually. If I was going to pursue this, it had to be serious. I wasn’t looking for a hobby. I wasn’t looking for a replacement for racing. I wanted something new, something that could build its own legacy—my legacy. And I was ready to chase it. 

I started researching wrestling schools, watching match after match, familiarizing myself with the industry. I didn’t know where to start, but I knew one thing: I was done running. This was my next chapter, and it was time to turn the page.

—

The realization came to Y/N with the sudden force of a freight train, an overwhelming clarity that struck her deep in her chest: she wanted to wrestle. Not as a fleeting hobby or a passing interest, but as her next chapter. It wasn’t just a desire for competition. It was the pull of something far more profound—a chance to reinvent herself completely. Wrestling offered everything she had once loved about racing: the adrenaline, the discipline, the commitment to constant self-improvement. But with wrestling, there was a new element, a new opportunity—reinvention. Here, she could carve out a completely different legacy, one that was hers and hers alone. 

For so long, she had been defined by the legacy of the Griffins. The weight of that name had pushed her forward, but also bound her to a path that wasn’t entirely her own. Every race, every win, every loss had been part of a story that had been written long before she even had a say in it. But now, as she reflected on what she truly wanted from life, it became clear: this was the time for her to write her own story, from scratch. Wrestling was the blank page she had been waiting for. 

It wasn’t a casual decision. Y/N’s approach was always all or nothing—whether it was racing or this new dream she was chasing. Her determination burned hotter than ever before. She threw herself into research, studying wrestling schools, watching hours upon hours of matches, learning about the history and nuances of the sport. She read about the greats, from Stone Cold Steve Austin to The Rock, and the pioneers who had transformed wrestling into the cultural force it was today. The fire she thought had long since extinguished in her was reignited—stronger, fiercer, and brighter than ever.

---

It wasn’t just about the wrestling moves. Y/N understood that now. It wasn’t enough to simply be good in the ring; in fact, that was only part of the equation. What truly made a wrestler unforgettable was their persona—the character they portrayed to the audience, the story they told. And who better to teach her how to build a persona than Nikki and Brie Bella?

When she first reached out to them, Y/N had been nervous. The Bella Twins were icons in the world of wrestling, known not only for their in-ring abilities but also for their savvy business sense. They had successfully transformed themselves into global brands, with legacies that stretched far beyond the squared circle. Y/N wasn’t sure if they’d even respond, let alone agree to mentor her. But much to her surprise, they were more than willing. 

Their first session wasn’t in a gym or a ring. It was in a sleek, high-end studio, with glass walls and whiteboards, and an atmosphere that hummed with professionalism. The Bellas wasted no time, launching straight into the art of crafting a character.

“Wrestling isn’t just about what you do in the ring,” Nikki said, her voice full of conviction. She paced back and forth in front of a whiteboard, her hands moving with purpose as she outlined character traits, stories, and personas. “It’s about who you are. Your entrance, your promos, how you connect with the fans—that’s what makes people remember you.”

Brie, always the grounding presence, nodded in agreement. “But it has to be real,” she added, her eyes locking with Y/N’s. “Fans can tell when you’re faking it. Authenticity is key.”

Under their guidance, Y/N began the painstaking process of building her wrestling persona. Nikki encouraged her to tap into bold, daring aspects of herself, urging her to explore traits that would electrify the audience, leaving them wanting more. At the same time, Brie pushed her to stay true to her roots, to weave in elements of her motorsport legacy—her confidence, her drive, and the fierce independence that came with being a Griffin. 

The work wasn’t easy. Crafting a persona that would resonate with millions required self-exploration, introspection, and, at times, vulnerability. But with the Bellas’ mentorship, Y/N grew more comfortable in her new identity. They worked on her mic skills, running mock promo sessions where Y/N would deliver lines with the same passion and intensity she once reserved for racing. Each time she stood in front of the mirror, microphone in hand, she could feel the transformation taking place. She wasn’t just a racer anymore. She was someone new. Someone powerful. Someone unforgettable. 

---

Once Y/N had a clearer idea of who she wanted to be, the next step was to learn how to bring that persona to life in the ring. And there was no one better to teach her the fundamentals than Cody Rhodes and Seth Rollins, two of the most respected names in professional wrestling.

Cody’s approach was meticulous, almost philosophical. To him, wrestling wasn’t just about physical moves—it was about telling a story. Each match was a performance, a carefully choreographed dance between two athletes, and every move had to have meaning. “Every strike, every suplex, every hold, it has to matter,” he told Y/N during one of their early sessions. “It’s not just about beating your opponent—it’s about making the audience feel something with every move you make.”

His words resonated deeply with Y/N. She had always been a racer, someone who thrived under pressure, someone who could tune out the noise and focus on the task at hand. Now, she had to apply that same mentality to wrestling—only this time, she wasn’t racing against the clock. She was performing for an audience. Every move needed to tell a story. Every moment needed to be intentional.

Seth Rollins, on the other hand, brought a different kind of energy to their training sessions. Known for his incredible stamina and high-flying style, Seth pushed Y/N to her physical limits. He designed grueling drills that tested her agility, her conditioning, and her ability to think on her feet. “You’re going to get tired,” Seth warned her after a particularly brutal training session. “But the crowd doesn’t care. They want to see you perform—you have to make them believe that you can keep going forever, even when you’re running on fumes.”

The physical toll of the training was immense. Y/N’s body ached, her muscles burned with exhaustion, and there were times when she wanted to quit. But she didn’t. She pushed through, just as she had on the racetrack, because she knew that wrestling was no different from racing in one key way: it required every ounce of her heart and soul.

Under Cody and Seth’s combined mentorship, Y/N’s wrestling skills evolved rapidly. She learned the technical basics—lockups, grapples, strikes—and began to understand how to structure a match in a way that captivated the audience from start to finish. Wrestling wasn’t just about being the strongest or the fastest. It was about creating moments, telling a story with each move, and drawing the crowd into that story.

As Y/N’s body grew stronger, her mind grew sharper. The ring became her new track, and each session became another opportunity to push herself further, to break through barriers she didn’t even know existed.

With each passing day, Y/N felt herself stepping deeper into this new life, this new world of wrestling. The persona, the moves, the physicality—it all came together in a way that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. It was a path full of uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, Y/N wasn’t afraid. She was ready to embrace her new identity, to face the challenge head-on.

And as the final lesson of the day came to an end, she stood in the center of the ring, drenched in sweat, but full of purpose. This was only the beginning. The crowd hadn’t yet seen what she could do, but soon, they would.

—

When I met Becky Lynch, it felt like meeting someone who already understood the depths of my struggle, the weight of my journey. In so many ways, she embodied everything I wanted to become—resilient, unapologetic, and undeniably real. She wasn’t just a legend in the ring, she was a fighter in life, and that was exactly what I needed.

I remember the first time we sat down together. It was over coffee in a small, quiet corner of a local café, far from the chaos of the gym and the constant grind. Becky was leaning back in her chair, sipping her drink like she had all the time in the world, but I could see the fire in her eyes, the sharpness that came from having fought for everything she had. 

"Your story is your strength," Becky told me, her voice calm but powerful. "You’ve been through hell, and you’re still standing. Use that. Let it fuel you."

The words hit me like a lightning bolt. She was right, of course. I had spent so much time running from the weight of my past—my racing career, the pressure, the burnout—but I never stopped to realize that all of it had shaped me into who I was today. The struggles, the failures, the moments when I thought I’d lost myself, they weren’t weaknesses. They were the foundation of my strength. 

Becky helped me see that. She wasn’t interested in the technical side of wrestling in our early conversations. Instead, she gave me something more precious: her perspective on life. The battles I’d fought off the track, the choices I’d made, the moments when I thought about giving up—these weren’t just parts of my past. They were the very thing that could make me stand out in the ring. Wrestling wasn’t about fitting into a mold, it was about breaking it. 

She taught me how to use my own experiences as a weapon. We worked together on promos, diving into the depths of my past. My motorsport background, my struggles with burnout, and the pivotal decision to leave it all behind. I hadn’t just walked away from racing—I’d stepped into the unknown, and that was my story to tell. It wasn’t the story of a champion who followed the script. It was the story of a woman who had fought, fallen, and risen again, carving her own path in the process.

“You can’t hide behind a gimmick,” Becky said one day while we were crafting a promo. “The fans will see through it. You have to be who you are. If you embrace that, they’ll follow you anywhere.”

It wasn’t just the moves that I had to master. It was learning to connect with my audience on a personal level, to make them feel what I had felt. The rawness of it all—my decision to walk away from my family’s legacy, the guilt, the fear, the hope for something better—it became my fuel. And every time I stepped in front of a camera, I carried that with me.

—

Learning from the best meant I had to confront not just my technical limitations but my understanding of what wrestling truly was. It wasn’t just physical. Wrestling was performance, psychology, and the kind of storytelling that left people on the edge of their seats. And no one understood that better than Booker T.

Booker was a master of showmanship. When we first started working together, he broke down everything I thought I knew about wrestling. “You don’t just wrestle with your body,” he said during one of our early training sessions. “You wrestle with your mind. Get in your opponent’s head. Get in the crowd’s head. Make them believe in every single thing you do.”

It wasn’t enough to simply execute the moves—I had to sell them. Every punch, every suplex, every slam had to make the crowd feel it. It was about timing, psychology, and, most importantly, presence. 

“You need to make people care,” Booker said as we rehearsed a sequence. "It’s not about the biggest move or the loudest hit. It's about what you make people believe. The moment you step through that curtain, you’re not just a wrestler. You’re a storyteller.”

I’d always been able to perform—racing required the same kind of mental discipline and the ability to create an atmosphere, to build tension and excitement. But wrestling was different. Every action had a consequence, and every moment was charged with meaning. Booker’s words stuck with me, and each time I practiced, I worked on pulling the crowd in, making them part of the story.

While Booker taught me to control the mental aspect of the match, Naomi helped me bring my in-ring style to life. Naomi had this incredible energy, a vibrant, acrobatic flair that lit up the room every time she entered. I was drawn to her dynamic style, how she blended strength with grace. I wanted to capture that same fluidity in my own wrestling. Racing had always been about precision, control, and bursts of speed, and I could apply that same mindset to wrestling. 

Naomi worked with me to choreograph sequences that played to my strengths. Together, we created dynamic moves that combined my athletic background with the rhythm of wrestling—quick, fluid transitions, sudden bursts of power, and sharp, controlled movements. She taught me to not just perform the moves but to feel them. To flow through the ring with intention.

“It’s about rhythm, Y/N,” Naomi said as we practiced a series of flips and transitions. “When you’re in the ring, you’ve got to move like you’re dancing, but the dance is all about who’s watching. If you’re not connecting with them, all the flips and spins in the world won’t matter.”

I could feel the rhythm in my body, the way the moves started to make sense. There was power in every swing of the arm, every twist, every step. I wasn’t just moving through the motions. I was creating something.

—

Working alone in the ring had always been the goal, but as I trained more and more, I realized that there was a whole new dimension to wrestling I hadn’t considered before: tag team dynamics. When I began training with Jey and Jimmy Uso, and their father Rikishi, I quickly understood that tag team wrestling was its own art form.

“Tag wrestling isn’t just about you,” Jey said during our first session together. “It’s about trust. You’re only as good as your partner makes you look.”

At first, the idea of tag team wrestling seemed simple. You and your partner take turns fighting, right? But it was so much more than that. Jey and Jimmy taught me how to communicate nonverbally during a match, how to read the subtle signals from a partner across the ring, how to move as one unit, anticipating each other’s next move. The timing, the synchronization—it had to be perfect. Every moment of the match was a shared experience. 

“And when you’re in that ring, it’s not just two people wrestling,” Jimmy added, grinning. “It’s four people telling one story. The chemistry between you and your partner is everything.”

Working with the Usos changed my whole perspective on wrestling. It wasn’t just about executing moves or telling my own story—it was about creating a narrative that flowed between the four of us. It was teamwork, trust, and understanding the rhythm of a tag team match. The crowd didn’t just see a solo performance—they saw a collaboration, a blend of personalities, and a battle of wills.

Rikishi, ever the wise patriarch, took me aside after one of our training sessions. His lessons went beyond the ring. “Wrestling’s about respect,” he said, his voice low but full of wisdom. “It’s not just about what you do in the ring. It’s about honoring the history of the sport, the legends that paved the way for you.”

His words stuck with me. I started to see wrestling in a new light—not as just a career, but as part of a legacy, a long tradition that I was now a part of. It wasn’t just about my story—it was about respecting the past while building something new. 

As I continued to train and evolve, the lessons I learned from Becky, Booker, Naomi, the Usos, and Rikishi became the foundation of everything I was becoming. I wasn’t just learning how to wrestle—I was learning how to be a storyteller, a performer, and a partner in every sense of the word. It wasn’t just about my next match or my next promo. It was about the journey—the long, hard path that had led me here—and the one that stretched out before me.

—

The first time I met Stephanie McMahon, I was overwhelmed with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. Stephanie wasn’t just a wrestling executive or a promoter; she was a force of nature in the industry—one of the few who had successfully navigated the power dynamics of the business while still maintaining her identity as a McMahon. She was wrestling royalty, and to be in her presence felt like standing in front of a living legend. 

When she extended her hand to greet me, there was no air of superiority. She wasn’t trying to intimidate me, but instead, she carried an unspoken confidence that immediately made me feel like I had a place at the table.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice smooth yet firm, “I’ve been hearing a lot about you. I have to say, I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far.”

It was one of those moments where everything slows down, where you’re painfully aware of how much is at stake. I was sitting across from someone who had seen it all—the highs, the lows, the twists and turns of the wrestling world. And somehow, I was about to get a peek behind the curtain. 

But Stephanie wasn’t here to talk about my moves or my promos. She wasn’t going to teach me how to deliver a punch or sell a finishing move. She was here to show me how to navigate the most important part of this journey—the business side.

“Wrestling is a platform,” Stephanie said, leaning forward slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “How you use it will define your career. Stay true to yourself, but always think strategically. Protect your brand, and don’t be afraid to speak up for what you believe in.”

Those words stuck with me. In all my years of racing, I had always focused on performance—on being the best, on crossing the finish line first. But this was different. Wrestling wasn’t just about being great in the ring; it was about positioning myself for success in a world that operated on politics, media, and partnerships. I wasn’t just an athlete; I was a brand.

---

Stephanie’s mentorship wasn’t about teaching me how to wrestle—it was about teaching me how to thrive in an industry that didn’t just reward talent; it rewarded visibility, strategy, and timing. As she walked me through the intricacies of the business, I realized how much I had to learn.

“You need to think beyond the ring,” Stephanie continued. “It’s about building relationships with promoters, negotiating contracts, and understanding the market. Your value isn’t just in what you do when the lights are on—it’s in the image you project, the story you tell outside the ring, and how you build your legacy.”

I listened intently, absorbing every word. Stephanie explained how she had built the WWE brand alongside her family and how her role in the company evolved over time. She shared lessons about the importance of timing—how to capitalize on a moment when the crowd’s energy was at its peak, how to create buzz and make people care, not just in the ring but in every aspect of the industry. 

“I didn’t just get here because I was good at my job,” she said with a sharp, knowing look. “I got here because I knew how to position myself. You have to protect your brand, and you need to make sure people understand your worth. Don’t let anyone define your value except for you.”

---

I couldn’t help but think about my own journey—how I had spent years racing to live up to a family legacy, how I had felt the weight of expectations bearing down on me. Now, in this new chapter, I had the chance to create a legacy of my own. But that legacy wasn’t just going to be built on what I could do in the ring. It was about creating a persona that resonated with fans, and more importantly, protecting that persona in an industry where everything could change in an instant.

“Be careful with your image,” Stephanie warned, her voice steady. “One wrong move, one bad decision, and it can follow you. You need to stay true to yourself, but also know when to play the game. There will be times when you have to stand up for what you believe in. Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

Her words felt like a reality check. I had been so focused on my physical training and my promos that I hadn’t fully grasped the scope of what it meant to navigate the wrestling industry with intention. Being in the spotlight wasn’t just about shining in the ring; it was about controlling your narrative, managing your public image, and making sure that the story being told about you was the one you wanted people to hear.

It was a lot to digest, but it was exactly what I needed. My journey was no longer just about racing on tracks or learning wrestling moves—it was about becoming a multifaceted performer, a businesswoman who understood the value of her image, her story, and her voice.

---

I left my meeting with Stephanie feeling like I had just been handed the keys to a new world. Her advice had empowered me to think strategically, to protect my brand, and to own every decision I made. It was a different kind of confidence—the kind that came from understanding that I had control over not just my career but my legacy.

From that point on, I made it my mission to not only improve my wrestling but to learn everything I could about the business. I started studying the careers of some of the most successful wrestlers—how they built their brands, how they managed their public image, how they navigated the politics of the industry. I realized that wrestling wasn’t just a performance—it was a brand-building machine, a world of partnerships, sponsorships, and media opportunities that required a different kind of mindset.

I wasn’t just learning how to wrestle anymore. I was learning how to survive—and thrive—in an industry where the stakes were higher than I could have ever imagined.

Stephanie’s lessons became a touchstone for me as I moved forward. I learned how to position myself, how to use every platform available to me to create my brand. It wasn’t about being a carbon copy of anyone else. I didn’t want to be anyone but myself—authentic, bold, and unapologetic.

There were moments when I doubted myself, when I questioned if I was doing the right thing, but the lessons from Stephanie always rang in my ears: Stay true to yourself. Think strategically. Protect your brand.

I started seeing the industry differently. Wrestling wasn’t just about athleticism and performance; it was about crafting a story that would live long after the final bell rang. And my story was just beginning.

As I continued my journey through the world of wrestling, I kept one thing at the forefront of my mind: I was not just a wrestler—I was a brand, a story, and a force to be reckoned with. 

And with the guidance of people like Stephanie McMahon, I knew I had everything I needed to make my mark. The ring was mine to conquer, but it was the industry that I was truly ready to take on.

F1 Taglist: @tallrock35 @yourbane, @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery, @dhanihamidi, @decafmickey, @cmleitora, @d3kstar, @same1995, @hinamesgigantica, @fadingcloudballoon-blog, @laptime-deleted, @anamiad00msday

Series Taglist: ----

[ivalice-tifalucis]

I am so obsessed with this rendition of Again from From the Rehearsal Room: Tokyo that I decided to extract its audio, master it with my limited knowledge in audacity and little help from AI, put it on my music playlist, and even consider trying to extract everything from this particular stream, from what I found on bilibili. I think of all 3 livestream they did, this one is the best because of the song choices, the studio acoustic (I'm always obsessed with good sound acoustic in music recording), and the simple arrangement consists of grand piano (wonderfully played by the way, kudos to the pianist) and two guitars by Ramin and Hadley themselves. I notice this is the first one they did, isn't it? Because they were trapped in long quarantine and Sierra eventually couldn't come. I'm late to this so I only read how it went and I feel sad.

Also presenting some other songs that I have extracted:

Hadley sings Maria(??!!) and it's so good wtf. That high note, gosh.

Ramin's special, of course. I need this because I want Till I Hear You Sing without "ten long yeaars" part but there is no other more good recording on apple music/spotify except that one from Ramin's album which I really hate (the whole album basically). So thank god this exists.

I actually know this song for long because it was on some ad but I think that was Sinatra's version. I didn't know this song is from a musical until I fall down to this hole. Actually found out a lot of songs that actually are from musicals thanks to this hole. Gosh, I used to be so deep into musicals during Les Mis movie era but not THIS deep.

[cameoliob]

Can i ask for another snippet of "That was a long time ago" if you've written more of it, please?

(I swear i wasn't obsessed with Kallus/Jovan before reading your detailed headcanons, but now i can't help but ship these two doomed bastards!)

Say less

19 BBY

Okay. Jovan thought. He watched Xsandr bite at his lip as he tapped his pencil against the table, his brows furrowed in quiet concentration. From this angle Jovan could see just how Xsandr’s long lashes fanned over his cheeks, and how his freckles scattered over his nose. This is fine. “Stop looking at me,” Xsandr mumbled, as he scribbled down another set of equations.  “I’m not looking at you!” Jovan lied. He determindely turned to his own flimsi, his gaze so focused that he nearly missed how Alexsandr looked up at him with scrutiny. “You’re a bad liar.”  “I’m a great liar,” Jovan muttered.  “So,” Alexsandr languidly draped himself over the back of his chair and motioned at Jovan with his stylus, “notice how you just lied.”  “I didn’t lie!” “Wow, three in a row, that has to be a record.”  “I’m not–” “Liiiiaaaarrrrr,” Xsandr drawled as he stretched his arms above his head. And Jovan did not stare. “Just stop being weird. If you have something to say just say it.”  “Just say it,” Jovan guffawed, “it’s that mentality that keeps getting you into trouble.” Xsandr rolled his eyes.  “It’s their fault that they get so butthurt over it,” he shrugged, “stars forbid a man have opinions.”  “It’s just a bit-” Jovan nearly cut himself off as Xsandr shot him a look, “uh,” Xsandr quirked a brow, “abrasive– which is great! I don’t mind, I don’t mind it at all– I’m just– some other people might not like it– which I’m not- I’m not one of those people, I like it, it’s great, I don’t care!” Jovan swallowed thickly, his face suddenly growing very warm. He really had to get the rambling thing under control, this was a problem.  Xsandr had the audacity to laugh. Jovan supposed he should be offended, but when Xsandr looked like that, with his long lashes, and his little smile, and those little dimples that Jovan was only a little bit infatuated by, it was a bit difficult to be offended.  

2 ABY

“So,” Jovan started, “perhaps we should address the bantha in the room.” Kallus shot him a look.  “Which one,” he scowled.  “The biggest one, obviously,” Jovan crossed his legs and gestured vaguely at Kallus, “full beard.” Kallus rolled his eyes. “I thought the sideburns were a bit much, so it's certainly a welcome change.”  “If you like it so much maybe I’ll shave,” Kallus scowled. Jovan frowned. “If you’re going to talk my ear off, at least make it something worth-while.” “You used to love listening to me talk,” Jovan pouted.  “Before you got annoying,” Kallus glowered, “you’re wasting my time.” “But you did like it,” Jovan smirked. “Before I had standards, sure.” Kallus turned on his heel to leave. “I’m going to the cockpit-” “WAIT,” Jovan shot up from his seat and immediately regretted it. He had no doubt that it read as excessively clingy. “I have–” Kallus stared at him, his face devoid of any emotion, “I have actual questions. I’ll be serious.” God this was embarrassing.  “Out with it, then,” Kallus sighed. “So,” Jovan swallowed, leaning back against the table as if that made him look less awkward, “you’re with the Rebels.”  “Astute observation.” “What– uh,” Jovan ran his hand through his hair, “what did it?” Even if Jovan didn’t want to admit it, there was a part of him, buried deep in his chest that dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, Kallus was guilt-riddled after locking Jovan up. Maybe that’s why all of this was happening– “Had nothing to do with you, I can assure you that,” Kallus pursed his lips. Jovans heart dropped to his ass.  “What? I never said it did! Where’d you get that? I didn’t think that!”  “You’re a bad liar.”

Jovan, on his way to lie to the guy who lies for a living: surely this won't backfire

[mrs-luigi-vargas]

hey so i remembered that this is a thing that i made that exists in the universe

Turnabout (An Ace Attorney Parody)

*To the tune of Total Eclipse of the Heart*

I’m sorry if this has already been done

—

(Turnabout)

Every now and then I feel a little bit helpless when I sense the end is nigh

(Turnabout)

Every now and then I get a little bit desperate and I’m running out of options to try

(Turnabout)

Every now and then I get a little bit frightened and I want to just fall over and cry

(Turnabout)

Every now and then I think I’ve failed the defendant, but then I hear your voice in my mind

(Turnabout, wide eyes)

Every now and then I fall apart

(Turnabout, bright eyes)

Every now and then my brain restarts

But I’m going to make this right

And I’ll believe it more than ever

And with you by my side,

We can take them down together!

And we’ll stand and continue the fight

And we’ll never give up

With our new knowledge, we’ll cut the witness down to size

We can find the contradictions and expose all the lies

(All of the lies)

I might not know what to do, or what to pick apart

But my client isn’t guilty – that’s a good place to start

So you better sit tight

My objections are gonna take flight

The truth is going to come to light

Once the prosecution had control of the court,

But now their case is falling apart

I’ve said what I can say,

The evidence proved it from the start

Once upon a time, I thought this trial was lost,

Bur “Not Guilty” my client was found

I’ve done what I can do,

I’ve turned this trial around

[carlyraejepsans]

If you are going to make a game here’s some things that might be helpful!

Game engines:

Godot: very new dev friendly and it’s free. Has its own programming language (GDscript) but also supports C#. It’s best for 2D games but it can do 3D also.

Unity: I don’t even know if I should be recommending Unity. It has caused me much pain and the suffering. But Unity has an incredible amount of guides and tutorials. And once you get the hang of something it’s hard to get caught on the same thing again. It also has a great Visual Studio integration and uses C#. I will warn you the unity animator is where all dreams go to die. It’s a tedious process but you can probably get some plugins to help with that.

Unreal: Don’t use it unless you’re building a very large or very detailed 3D game. It also uses C++ which is hell.

Renpy: Made for visual novels but has support for small mini games. It only supports Python iirc. Basically if you’re making a VN it’s renpy all the way otherwise you should look elsewhere.

What to learn: Game design and how to act as your own game designer. As a designer you need to know if a part of your game isn’t meshing with the rest of it and be willing to give up that part if needed. Also sound design is very important as well. If you want to make your own sounds audacity is perfect for recording and cutting up your clips. If you want to find sound effects I recommend freesound.org and the YouTube royalty free music database.

Sadly I can’t recommend a lot of places to learn this stuff because I’m taking Game Development in Uni. So most of my info comes from my lectures and stuff. One of my game design textbooks is pretty good but it’s around $40 CAD. It’s called the game designers playbook by Samantha Stahlke and Pejman Mirza-Babaei if you’re interested (fun fact there’s a photo of Toriel in there)

Anyway sorry for dumping this large ask on you I’m just really passionate about game design and I like to see other people get into it.

please do not apologize I'd never heard half of this stuff so this is super useful!! I've seen some godot tutorials on YouTube although so far I've played around with RPG maker MV (it was on sale. very very fiddly interface, i had trouble getting around it) and gamemaker, which recently became free for non-commercial use (a lot more approachable on first impact but like i said, haven't really done anything substantial in either yet).

mostly, I'm still in the super vague stage. I've got an idea for the main story conflict, the protagonist and their foil, the general aesthetic i want to go for (likely 2D graphics, but it would be cool to make like. small cutscenes in low-poly 3D) but not much else. haven't exactly decided on the gameplay either! it's gonna necessarily be rpg-esque, but I'm not much of a fan of classic turn-based combat so. I'm gonna check out other games and see if i can frankenstein anything cooler :P