#the worm is the real star of the show

[0lekingcole]

Art of every outfit creature wore! (Nearly)

I feel like I can never decide how I want him to look but I love how the face turned out in the pajamas/milk one

[arellas]

really surprising how even on reddit (home of the misogynists) batman fans have more sympathy for talia and her character assassination than those on this site. those who have actually read older comics think talia was better off before morrison, meanwhile this site’s fanbase which mostly adheres to fanon + are way more focused on the robins than they are on batman tend to demonise her in order to prop up their own faves because half of them don’t read comics and the half that do only ever focus on the robins and never on anything else happening within them. i’ve also noticed this particular trope of them specifically vilifying talia in their content in order to strengthen damian’s bonds with certain people in the batfam whom he canonically has little to no substantial interactions with lol

[yierrem]

dating headcanons - zzzero men edition (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

ft. gn!reader x anton ivanov, ben bigger, lighter, von lycaon, wise ; no applicable warnings! my first request (i tried to finish it before christmas in my timezone, but still, merry christmas to the anon who requested this :DD and to those reading!!) hehehhe i hope its good enough｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

anton ivanov

you cannot look me in the eye and tell me this man isn’t the type to yell “this is for you!�� or “if i hit this you give me a kiss” and completely miss whatever target he’s supposed to hit. he hits it. sometimes. he still gets a kiss anyways.

[“dude” “we’re literally dating and you’ve placed your lips on mine do NOT call me dude.” “…babe”]

big on gift giving and words of affirmation in terms of love languages. he makes sure to put a lot of thought into whatever he gives to you to properly convey his appreciation and show just how much you mean to him.

"strong, sincere, and straightforward." he's definitely the type to encourage you to try new things especially when you're the type to get easily nervous. if you're scared of looking stupid, don't worry; he'll do it with you hand-in-hand so you can be stupid together. becomes your no. 1 hype man and would give you his honest opinions whenever you need ‘em.

you see or hear him talking to his jackhammer bro for the most mundane or random things and you've become used to it at this point. its honestly endearing (you're hopeless)

["bro do you think they'd still love me if i was a worm?" "vroom vroom vroom" “you think so?” “vroom” "yeah, you're right."]

ben bigger

scary bear privileges meaning no one wants to mess with you knowing that you're dating someone who cuts such an intimidating presence but you know better than them because ben would much rather use his paws to tap away at a calculator or spreadsheet than willingly get into fights.

on that note, he's most likely to be the best companion for grocery shopping; he'll know how to get all the good discounts and haggle for the best prices for sure.

best cuddle partner to have during colder seasons no. 1. although he puts his fur care second, it's still soft and fuzzy to the touch and he likes that you appreciate the warmth it provides too.

since he struggles with some of his accounting responsibilities due to the size of his paws, sometimes you help him with sorting some of belobog industries' financial documents and eventually you end up finding the task quite relaxing after a while of doing it.

but, of course, he loves spending time with you outside of work. anything to take his mind off of the horrors of accounting. he'll mentally file away anything he learns about you when you're together for future purposes, may it be gift or date ideas.

he's the bear thiren between both of you, but in private he loves cuddling against you like you're some sort of plush toy. you don't mind. another win-win situation because you get to rest against him like a giant pillow as well.

lighter

he tries to be flirty with you and sometimes it works! but when you match his energy and it backfires on him he turns into a blushing mess who doesn’t know what to do with himself.

also the type to want to show off or act all suave. he has an image to keep as the undefeated champion! the red scarf! (he’s internally giggling and kicking his feet from one [1] cheek kiss you left in passing).

date nights with him sometimes consist of drives on his bike and stargazing at a nice little spot he found in blazewood. then halfway through, he’d get distracted from seeing the stars in your eyes and think that its a hundred times better than the real thing and fall in love all over again.

“gets as many challenges as love letters” but he makes sure that you and anyone who tries to make a move know that he only has eyes for you. could be in the form of having an arm around your waist or his jacket on you when you feel cold.

a physical touch and acts of service guy because. well. he did say he’d like to die for love one day. that’s a very romantic thing to say and do. also his heart still races whenever you hold his hand but he swears he’s getting used to it (he isn’t). probably melts when you gently run your fingers over his face or any of his scars

i honestly feel like he's one of those "me and my bae don't argue they just tell me to shut up and i do" types.

von lycaon

an ideal date for him would be a fancy dinner or picnic somewhere nice and discreet. complete with scented candles, your favorite flowers, and homecooked food (which probably tastes better than anything you've ever eaten at any restaurant). then at some point when both of you have finished eating and you're both in conversation, he brings your hand up to his lips and leaves a kiss on your knuckles.

["darling, your face is...concerningly red. are you feeling alright?" "i'm fine. i think."]

you WILL be receiving that prince/princess treatment (threat). breakfast in bed when he isn’t busy, spontaneous massages offered when you mention ONCE that you feel tired, and all that jazz. you probably will never have to open another door yourself with him around and he ALWAYS offers his arm for you to take when you're walking together.

best cuddle partner to have during colder seasons no. 2. just prepare yourself for horrendous shedding as summer begins… but you don’t mind helping him brush through his fur (*´ω`*) its therapeutic and you’re one of the very few people he trusts with the task so its a win for both of you.

since he's a wolf thiren, he sometimes unwillingly attracts the attention of stray cats and dogs; he usually pays them no mind but it is somewhat of an inconvenience for him. however, the sight of you playing with them while quietly cooing eases some of his discomfort. seems like you aren't the only one suffering from cuteness aggression.

his guilty pleasure is squishing your cheeks in his hands. no i will not elaborate

wise

this is one of the random play managers we’re talking about, so. movie date nights are mandatory. both of you alternate when picking movies but sometimes you bicker over options like an old married couple just for the fun of it.

a lot more chill when it comes to PDA but he can be flirty when he wants to be. if he knows you have a weak spot for it, he uses it to his advantage to get what he wants. scheming little minx. /pos

words of affirmation and quality time guy, i think. since he's always so busy with managing the store and completing commissions alongside belle as proxies, he makes the most out of the time you guys can spend together alone. even if it's just laying in his bed or on the couch doing nothing together sometimes.

everyone and their mothers and grandmothers on sixth street will probably know that you’re dating or figure something out at some point even when both of you don’t really do much together in public/are trying to keep it on the low. never underestimate these aunties man

unfortunately for wise, he will become the target of teasing or nagging from belle when it comes to your relationship. once you get close enough she'll also share embarrassing stories from when they were younger or before you and wise started dating much to her brother’s chagrin.

secretly likes clinging and cuddling up to you like a koala. both of you are in bed? oh okay, don’t mind him, he’ll just scooch a bit and wrap his arms and legs around you, claiming that having you in his bed helps fix his insomnia (it does, to some degree). [“wise i can’t move.” “you don’t need to.”]

on the days you help out with tasks in random play, you could quite literally just be standing while doing something and then you’ll feel a pair of arms sneak around your waist from behind as he leans his head on one of your shoulders with a quiet, satisfied sigh.

[orphicsun]

.・College Ellie Headcannons゜・

Note: This is more loser Ellie-centric, I wanna maybe do a part two with just reader and her. Some sexual content and mentions of getting zooted below so 18+ warning!

•Art major, but she’s not the typical hot artsy lesbian you dream of her to be. More like rolls a fat blunt and sketches in her journal, it’ll either turn out to be a masterpiece or look like a crackhead had a go with her paper.

•Speaking of art major, when she’s horny and frustrated because she refuses to hook-up…she draws the lewdest art known to woman-kind. Those are her real masterpieces, but she can’t exactly turn them in for credit in her art class, can she? Fuck, the things that woman can make, though. Lowkey uses her exes naked bodies as inspiration though, maybe kind of weird but who’s gonna stop her?

•Doesn’t eat the food on campus half the time. She is embarrassingly addicted to Tai Pei containers and the occasional microwavable egg-roll. “That shit’s nasty, Ellie! Goddamn, just eat the Tacos 4 Life we have on campus.” Her friends will all tell her, but no. It’s like a guilty pleasure. Maybe it’s cause she grew up lower class and is used to TV dinners, has a special trauma bond to food that should be banned and probably is outside of America.

•Wardrobe consists of band tees, honorable mentions to Gorillaz and Falling in Reverse.

•Is actually an insanely talented writer. After reading her journals I feel like nobody talks about how emotional her entries are and she keeps a journal of her own in college for sure, not only for sketching and organizing art but also to write all her feelings out.

“Fuck me, this is my last year being gay.” -After her and Cat’s break-up, probably.

•Hates coffee. Definitely game-cannon, but this is important to the college setting. It’s the classic Monster or nothing, and she will absolutely judge you for drinking coffee. She calls it “the devil’s dirt.” So dramatic.

•Used to watch bad Hallmark movies because of Dina, now watches them alone because she misses Dina. There’s nothing like crying your eyes out to Christmas Under Wraps!

•Has a collection of rubber ducks on her shelf. Doesn’t use her very small space for normal things like her wallet or books, no. It’s rubber fucking ducks.

•Also has a slipper collection in her tiny closet, from Pikachu all the way to dinosaur feet.

•Has the “two-seater” t-shirt (iykyk) but refuses to wear it in public because she’s a pussy

•Favorite fruit is grapes. I just know my girl loves grapes when she can get her hands on them steer clear bc she will NOT share. Favorite candy is gummy worms!

•Actually wears rain boots when it’s wet outside or snowing

•Likes wired earbuds over airpods, listens to Pearl Jam when she misses living with Joel

•Is oddly good at making those little paper stars and has a huge grocery bag of then in all different patterns and colors

•When she starts dating you she shows you her dinosaur cookie-cutter collection because you're really good at baking. (Also bc she wants to see you in a frilly cute apron!)

•Is a slut for hugs. Kisses are cool, sex is great but agghhh Ellie just loves wrapping her arms around you and sometimes when you two are in her dorm she'll just hug you for what feels like hours on end, she calls it her 'weekly therapy.'

•Loves high sex because when she's sober she hates feeling like she's awkward or all up in her head. She also has a tendency to invite you over for sex after smoking.

•Has a septum piercing. Maybe this one is self-indulgent because I would go ballistic over seeing actual Ellie with one, but I say that college Ellie got hers pierced at 16 and didn't cry over the pain but wanted to literally jump off of a bridge the entire healing process it was so bad.

•Sometimes when you kiss her, her septum will slide over and look uneven and she feels fucking NIGERIA FALLS in her boxers when you fix it for her. Also for those of you who are sluts for glasses, you can fix her glasses too and it'll make her just as weak.

[jiminomenon]

valentines special!

pairing: punk! karina x mean girl! reader

word count: 1.3k+

summary: valentine’s day was just another overrated holiday—until jimin turned it into a full-blown spectacle. from an obnoxious banner over y/n’s locker to stuffing her arms with roses, jimin made sure everyone knew exactly who y/n belonged to. despite y/n’s endless complaints, jimin only doubled down, dragging her away for a surprise rooftop date with takeout and chocolates. annoyed but secretly soft, y/n let her win—just this once. not that she’d ever say it out loud.

from my series: match made in hell

valentine’s day was overrated. the flowers, the chocolates, the desperate attempts to prove love in one day—it was all so unbearably cliché. y/n had always looked down on it, rolling their eyes at the couples who paraded through the halls like they were starring in a low-budget rom-com.

she didn’t do romance. she did power. control. having people wrapped around her finger just to let them go the second they got too close.

and yet, somehow, jimin had wormed her way past all of y/n’s walls.

where y/n broke hearts, jimin broke rules. where y/n ruled the school, jimin ruled the streets. where y/n thrived off making people crave their attention, jimin was the only one who didn’t play along—because she already had it.

which was why y/n should’ve known better than to expect jimin to ignore valentine’s day.

they barely made it through the entrance of the school before being ambushed.

balloons—black and pink, because jimin had to keep some edge to the whole ordeal—lined their locker. but the real kicker was the massive, messy banner hanging above it, spray-painted in red like some crime scene message.

“mine. forever. get over it.”

y/n’s eyes twitched.

the hall was packed, and people were staring. whispering. y/n could already hear their names being thrown around in hushed voices, laced with awe and jealousy.

then there was jimin, leaning against the lockers with her usual smug grin, ripped jeans and leather jacket giving her that effortless bad-girl look she knew drove people crazy.

“what the hell is this?” y/n asked, voice flat.

jimin popped a lollipop into her mouth, tilting her head. “a declaration of love, obviously.”

y/n exhaled through her nose, already feeling a headache coming on. “this is humiliating.”

“and yet, you’re still standing here looking hot as hell,” jimin mused. “so, i think i did something right.”

before y/n could snap at her, jimin whistled. suddenly, a group of her delinquent friends appeared, each carrying a bouquet of deep red roses—real ones, expensive ones, the kind y/n would never admit to liking.

one by one, they handed them to y/n until their arms were completely full.

“jimin.” y/n’s voice dropped an octave, laced with warning.

“what?” she leaned in close, lowering her voice. “you think i’m gonna let some loser try to shoot their shot with you today? had to make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

y/n pursed her lips, ignoring the way her heart pounded at her words.

“you’re insane,” she muttered.

“and you love it.” jimin grinned, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against y/n’s cheek, right in front of everyone.

whispers erupted around them. someone gasped.

y/n scoffed, shoving the flowers into jimin’s hands. “you’re carrying these.”

jimin only smirked, tucking one behind y/n’s ear. “anything for you, princess.”

the chaos didn’t stop there.

the rest of the day was filled with jimin’s shameless displays of affection.

she skipped her classes to walk y/n to hers, stealing bites of her lunch and draping herself over her shoulders like a clingy cat. she slid love notes into their pockets (most of them inappropriate), charmed the teachers into excusing her lateness, and made a show of glaring at anyone who even looked at y/n for too long.

by last period, y/n was exhausted.

they barely had time to breathe before jimin was dragging them out of school, her grip firm yet gentle as she led them to her motorcycle parked just outside.

“we’re ditching,” she announced.

y/n raised a brow. “and where, exactly, are you taking me?”

jimin tossed her a helmet. “it’s a surprise.”

y/n narrowed her eyes. “if this is some grand romantic gesture, i’m—”

jimin rolled her eyes. “just get on.”

reluctantly, y/n did, wrapping her arms around jimin’s waist as she sped off.

they ended up at an abandoned rooftop, overlooking the city just as the sun started to set.

a picnic blanket was laid out, complete with takeout from y/n’s favorite restaurant and a box of chocolate-covered strawberries.

y/n stared.

“say something,” jimin said, rubbing the back of her neck. “this is the most effort i’ve ever put into anything.”

y/n slowly turned to her. “you… actually planned this?”

“yeah, yeah, don’t make it weird,” jimin muttered, flopping down onto the blanket.

y/n sat beside her, watching as the sky turned shades of pink and orange.

“you’re ridiculous,” she said softly.

jimin smirked. “and yet, you’re still here.”

y/n rolled her eyes, but when jimin reached for their hand, they didn’t pull away.

jimin’s fingers traced lazy patterns on y/n’s palm, her usual cocky smirk softening just a little under the glow of the setting sun. it was almost unsettling—almost.

y/n clicked their tongue. “you’re really trying to be all romantic right now, huh?”

jimin scoffed, biting into a chocolate-covered strawberry. “romantic? please. i just like watching you get all flustered.”

y/n snatched the box from her hands, popping one into their mouth. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“and yet, here you are,” jimin teased, leaning in so close their noses nearly touched. “sitting on a rooftop with me, eating strawberries, holding my hand like some lovesick idiot.”

y/n refused to let her win. she tilted her head, gaze dropping to jimin’s lips.

“you’re the one who planned this whole thing just to impress me,” she murmured. “so, really, who’s the lovesick idiot here?”

jimin’s smirk faltered for half a second.

then, with a huff, she leaned back, flopping dramatically onto the blanket. “fine, you got me. i’m obsessed with you. madly in love. completely whipped. whatever.”

y/n hummed, pretending to think. “i like the sound of that.”

jimin groaned. “you’re unbearable.”

y/n grinned, lying down beside her. “and yet, you’re still here.”

silence settled between them, comfortable and warm. below, the city buzzed with life, but up here, it was just them. no distractions. no expectations.

just them.

jimin shifted onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “you never told me if you liked it.”

y/n blinked. “liked what?”

“all this.” jimin gestured vaguely at the setup. “the banner, the flowers, the whole valentine’s day thing.”

y/n let out a breath, staring up at the sky.

she had never been the type to care for grand gestures, never cared for romance beyond what she could use to her advantage. but jimin wasn’t just some disposable admirer.

she was jimin.

y/n turned her head, meeting her gaze. “it was stupid.”

jimin’s expression barely changed, but y/n caught the flicker of something in her eyes before they continued.

“but… it was also kind of nice.”

jimin’s lips twitched.

“kind of?” she echoed.

y/n smirked. “don’t get ahead of yourself.”

jimin huffed out a laugh before reaching for y/n’s face, brushing their hair back.

“happy valentine’s day, princess,” she murmured.

y/n rolled her eyes, but when jimin leaned in, she didn’t pull away.

jimin’s breath was warm against y/n’s lips, the space between them shrinking with every passing second. y/n could feel her heartbeat hammering in her chest, but she refused to let jimin see how much she affected her.

“if you’re expecting me to say it back, don’t hold your breath,” y/n murmured, tilting her chin up slightly.

jimin chuckled, eyes flickering down to their lips. “who said i needed you to say anything?”

and then, finally, she kissed her.

it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet—it was everything jimin was. reckless, consuming, and just a little cocky. she kissed y/n like she had something to prove, like she wanted to remind she exactly who she belonged to.

y/n, for all their pride and stubbornness, melted into it anyway.

jimin grinned against her lips, tugging her closer. “took you long enough to give in.”

y/n pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, smirking as she tangled her fingers in the collar of jimin’s jacket.

“shut up and kiss me again.”

jimin didn’t need to be told twice.

[guardianspirits13]

I think one of the most overlooked factors in Netflix's cutthroat approach to deciding wether to renew a show is that they wholly underestimate the power of fandoms.

They seem to think that unless a show is record-breaking or award-winning it will not be profitable to renew but they fail to recognize that most people don't give a shit about the accolades as long as a show is good.

And even then, it is normal to take more than one eight-episode season to pick up real cultural traction. Plenty of now-beloved shows did not reach mainstream popularity until they were multiple seasons deep.

Netflix fails to consider the longevity of their IPs over the initial peak of interest, and have thus cultivated a self-fulfilling prophecy as people avoid starting new shows because they don't want to become invested in something that is more likely than not to be cancelled, and thus these new shows don't reach the ludicrous viewership standard they have set to justify a renewal.

Sure, they get new subscribers for new shows but what keeps them there? Maybe they'd actually stay subscribed if a new season of something they are invested in is on the way (barring the cost itself, which is a whole different can of worms).

Plenty of people subscribe only for one or two shows- I remember people cancelling their subscriptions when they took The Office off because that show alone was keeping them on the platform.

Supernatural did not get 15 seasons because of its exceptional writing or cinematography (ha), they got 15 seasons because of devoted fans who wanted more. Who kept rewatching and buying merchandise and paying for con tickets.

Daredevil is one of the best shows I have ever seen, and that was at the time where the "early" cancellation was common after three seasons (with 12+ episodes). Inside Job is one of the only adult animated series that I have ever thoroughly enjoyed, and it was lucky to have two seasons. Shadow and Bone had the potential to be a franchise based in the extended Grishaverse, and yet it also ended after two seasons.

Finally- not everyone watches shows the day they release! We don't all have that sort of time, and it's ok to discover a new show a week, a month, a year after it releases! Word of mouth and fan culture/communities have been the rock upon which lasing series are created, from Star Trek to Game of Thrones.

All this to say, @netflix yall get your act together and renew Dead Boy Detectives before you lose your captive audience 🫠

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Fellow Honest - Playful Dress Voice Lines

When Summoned: As long as you have Fellow Honest-sama by your side, there is nothing for you to fear.

Summon Line: In my good hands, you'll have all the applause and fame you could ever dream of! Now then, is the next stage over this way?

Groooovy!!: Let's go, Gidel! Life is all about being free and having fun!

Home: Go! Showtime!

Home Idle 1: So, it's written here in this textbook... Mhmm. Uh-huh. I seeeee! ...I ain't got a clue what it's tryin' to say.

Home Idle 2: That little brat! ...Ahem. Have you seen Ace-kun anywhere? I thought I'd pay him back for a prank he just pulled a bit ago.

Home Idle 3: Hey, Gidel, didja see how grand the cafeteria is here...? Better eat up as much as we can while we're here!

Home Idle - Login: Well, ain't this a fine, scholarly establishment. I can feel my knees knockin' together just from stepping foot on campus. Don'tcha agree, Gidel?

Home Idle - Groovy: Fwahaha! Ramshackle's a real odd name for a dorm. You got a pretty sweet pad, you better take care of it.

Home Tap 1: I seriously don't know what to make of Kalim-kun's happy-go-lucky nature. Even if I hadn't been the one to trap him, he definitely would've ended up in some kind of pinch some day, you know that, right?

Home Tap 2: I'll admit it now, but I was definitely shocked when I first laid eyes on Ortho-kun. I guess there really are a ton of curious things at a school.

Home Tap 3: You want to know how I wormed my way onto this campus? Maybe you really shouldn't underestimate Fellow Honest-sama's gilded silver tongue.

Home Tap 4: It seems you young scholars have no appreciation for being able to learn in a school like you do. If you're gonna skive off anyway, just drop out already.

Home Tap 5: What, you want to hear about all the different kinds of shows I've done? Fwahaha! I dunno, maaaybe it'll be a little too exciting for you to handle, hm?

Home Tap - Groovy: Oh, boy. I definitely know I want the school that I put together to be a waaay more peaceful and refined place than Night Raven College.

Duo: [FELLOW]: Now, it's time for the show, Grim-kun. [GRIM]: Fellow! I'll show you what a real star can do!

Requested by @sakurakudo.

[thenaughtynorth]

Unscripted (18+) (CM Punk x f!reader)

CM Punk is obsessed, and she knows it. Their tension has been a slow-burning war. Teasing, testing, neither willing to break. But after a brutal match where he bleeds just for her, the game shifts.

CM Punk x female!reader

Warnings: Smut (18+), blood, penetration, oral, dirty talk, masochism, sadism, choking.

Word count: 7,4k

I already KNOW this will get a part 2

———

There was always a certain energy backstage after a live show. Chaos, anticipation, and people moving in all directions. But tonight, it felt different. It was like everything had shifted. And it was because of him.

CM Punk. The one man who had somehow managed to worm his way into my mind, even though I should’ve kept my distance.

It was ridiculous. I was just a producer—an essential part of the team, sure, but I was behind the scenes. No one ever looked at the producers, not like they looked at the Superstars. But Punk? Everyone looked at him. People talked about him, praised him, envied him. He was the rebel, the star, the one who broke the mold and didn’t care what anyone thought.

But there was something about him. Something that drew me in.

Maybe it was the way that he walked into a a room like he owned it, the unshakable confidence that radiated off of him. Or maybe it was his eyes? The way they seemed to study everything, always searching, always hungry for something more. Something real.

I never thought much about it until he started finding ways to speak to me, ways that weren’t about work. At first, it was innocent enough—just casual conversation, little jokes shared during the chaos of a show. But over time, I started to notice the way he lingered when he talked to me, the way his eyes didn’t leave mine for just a fraction too long.

I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was imagining things. But deep down, I knew the truth.

It was terrifying. I had worked so hard to build a career, to prove myself in this business, and all of it could be ruined in an instant if I let myself get caught up in whatever this was with him.

But then there was the way he looked at me sometimes.. like I was the only thing in the room, like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way his voice softened when he spoke to me, like he was letting his guard down just for a moment.

It was enough to make me question everything.

The show had ended, the crowd still echoing in my ears as I packed up my notes. The chaos of the post-show routine was in full swing, but my mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was on him.

I felt him before I saw him.

A presence at the doorway, steady and unyielding, pulling my attention like a force I couldn’t ignore. My hands froze over my notes, pulse kicking up against my will. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Still, I made him wait.

When I finally met his gaze, Punk was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, looking like he had all the time in the world. His face was still a little battered from his match earlier, the dried remnants of blood near his temple, his bottom lip just barely split. He should’ve been exhausted. He should’ve been somewhere icing his wounds, not standing here watching me like I was the thing keeping him awake.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t need to.

I swallowed down the urge to break the silence, turning my attention back to my work. Busy. That was the excuse I was sticking to, even though my focus had been shot the second I felt his eyes on me.

His voice finally cut through the quiet. It was low, rough, with the kind of weights that made my stomach tighten. “You got a second?”

I kept my expression neutral, even as my fingers gripped my pen a little tighter. “The show’s over.” The implication was clear. You should be gone.

“I know.” His tone was too smooth, too easy, but I could feel the edge underneath it. “That’s why I’m here.”

I didn’t look up. “I have work to finish.”

He made a noise, something almost amused. Unbothered. “That’s cute.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He still hadn’t moved from the doorway, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to come closer to crowd me. He did it just by being there. By making it impossible to focus on anything other than the heat rolling off him, the way the room felt different just because he was in it.

I shifted in my chair, straightening my shoulders, forcing myself to sound unaffected. “You should be resting. You just got your ass kicked.”

His smirk deepened, and I immediately regretted the choice of words. “That what you think?”

I pressed my lips together, not taking the bait.

Punk finally moved, slow, deliberate steps, and I hated the way my breath caught at how casual he looked about it—like he hadn’t just gone through hell hours ago, like he wasn’t covered in bruises, like he wasn’t completely and utterly unshaken.

Like I hadn’t gotten under his skin at all.

He stopped just short of my desk, close enough that I could see the way his knuckles were still raw, the faint twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Not as calm as he looked, then.

Good.

The silence stretched between us, heavy, expectant.

I knew what this was. What it had always been.

A game. A battle.

A slow, drawn-out war where neither of us wanted to be the first one to cave.

He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk, and I hated how my pulse jumped at the shift in proximity. How my eyes instinctively dropped to his mouth before I caught myself.

Punk noticed. Of course he did.

The corner of his lip curled, and his voice dropped lower. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend?”

I arched a brow. “Pretend what?”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, like I was trying his patience. I liked that. Wanted that.

He studied me for a moment, like he was deciding whether or not to push, but I already knew the answer before he did. He was always going to push.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing my wrist. Light, barely-there, but enough to send heat curling through my stomach. Enough to remind me how easy it would be to give in.

I refused to move.

He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction, waiting for anything.

I gave him nothing.

Finally, he sighed, feigning disappointment, but there was something darkly amused in his expression, something that told me this wasn’t over. Not even close.

His fingers trailed one last, slow line against my skin before pulling away.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he said, his voice low, just above a whisper. “You know what I want. You know what we both want. You just have to admit it.”

I didn’t move a muscle.

“Alright,” he murmured, stepping back. “Keep playing.”

“But you’re not the only one who can play games,” he said, his voice lowering, the heat in his tone unmistakable. He stepped toward me again, closing the gap between us with slow, deliberate steps. His presence was overwhelming, and I couldn’t seem to stop my heart from pounding harder. I hesitantly stood from my chair.

I wanted to step back. I wanted to keep my cool, to remind myself that this was dangerous, that I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. But every word he said was like a spark, setting off a wildfire that I couldn’t control.

But there was something in his eyes, as he grabbed my wrist. Something dangerous, something hungry that made my breath catch in my throat. He wasn’t just playing anymore. He was in it, completely and fully, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what that meant.

“You’re gonna regret it,” I warned, though I wasn’t sure if I was warning him or myself.

His grin turned predatory, his grip on my wrist tightening just enough to send a jolt through me. “No, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and steel, “you’re gonna regret not giving me what I want.”

The heat between us was suffocating, and every inch of me screamed to give in. To stop pretending like I wasn’t affected. Like I didn’t want him just as badly as he wanted me. But I wasn’t ready to lose myself to him yet.

His eyes flashed, but there was something new in his gaze now. It was something raw, something that told me he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He turned, leaving me standing there, my body still humming with the electricity of everything that had just happened. My heart raced, my head swirled, but my pride wouldn’t let me acknowledge what was really happening between us.

At the door, he hesitated, just for a second, then turned his head slightly—just enough for me to see the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t work too hard.” His voice was quiet, teasing, laced with something that curled low in my stomach.

I watched him go, my breath steady even though my pulse was anything but.

He knew what he was doing. That deliberate, unhurried exit. The way he rolled his shoulders, stretching out the ache from his match, making sure I saw the way his shirt clung to his still-warm skin. He knew I was watching, and he was making damn sure I had something to look at.

I should have been annoyed. Should have been unaffected. But my fingers twitched against the desk, itching to reach for the place where his touch still lingered.

I exhaled, forcing myself to look away from the empty space where he had just been, my skin still buzzing with the aftermath of his presence.

He wasn’t pressing. Not yet. But the warning had been clear.

This game we were playing?

It wasn’t over.

—

The arena was packed, the crowd’s roar echoing through the halls. The Premium Live Event was in full swing, and backstage, it was a chaotic buzz of activity. But for me? Everything felt frozen. The only thing I could think about was what was about to happen out there.

CM Punk. Drew McIntyre. In the ring.

The matchtype was a brutal one. A Dog Collar match. No rules. No mercy. Just pure violence. It was personal, something real between them. But even as I watched the crew setting up backstage, adjusting cameras, preparing for the madness, I couldn’t shake the way my mind kept circling back to him.

It had been a month since our little moment backstage. The teasing, the tension, the unspoken words that still hung in the air between us. And despite the walls we’d built, despite the games we played, there was no denying the fact that something had shifted.

The bell rang. And like a switch flipping, the crowd’s energy reached a fever pitch. Drew McIntyre entered first, his massive frame dominating the entrance ramp as he made his way to the ring. Punk was next.

It was as if the entire arena held its breath when his music hit.

He was the rebel, the one who refused to play by the rules. His eyes were cold, determined, but I could see the flicker of something else in them. something almost… dangerous. Something that was meant for me. I knew it. I felt it. And I couldn’t ignore it.

Punk stepped into the ring, the dog collar chain hanging from his neck like a reminder of what was to come. He looked straight ahead at McIntyre, but the second his eyes flickered toward the camera, I felt the heat of his gaze on me. There was no mistaking it.

And then, the bell rang again and the fight started.

The match was brutal, violent, and raw. Every punch, every slam, every chain wrapped around bodies seemed to echo through the arena. The camera angles were all over the place, showing the carnage, the blood, the destruction. But all I could focus on was him.

Punk was taking hits—hard hits—but he was giving them right back. I knew that under all that blood, under all the violence, there was something more. Something deeper. He wasn’t just fighting for victory; he was fighting for something else. And in the chaos of the match, I found myself completely, utterly drawn to him.

At one point, Punk and McIntyre clashed in the center of the ring. They were both bleeding, their bodies covered in bruises, but Punk… Punk was different. There was a primal hunger in his eyes as he locked the chain around Drew’s neck, pulling him down to the mat.

The crowd was on their feet, roaring, but I barely heard them. The world had narrowed. It was just me, the man in the ring, and the tension that was thick as the blood staining their bodies.

Then, everything shifted. Punk pulled away from the chaos for just a moment. He was crouched over, panting heavily, his bloodied hands wiping the sweat and blood from his brow. He looked into the camera, but not just any camera, as he found the one nearest the production area.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk as he mouthed something. It wasn’t for the audience. It wasn’t for the match. It was for me.

Still playing games?

He spelled it out with the blood on his hands, wiping it across the mat in the shape of those words. Each letter dripped with the reality of the situation. A challenge. A dare. And the heat that spread through my body, the way my chest tightened, told me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

I swallowed hard, my heart thundering in my chest. Every cell in my body was screaming to look away, but I couldn’t. Not when it felt like he was right there with me, in the room, taunting me, teasing me with the dark promises in his eyes. The rawness, the violence, the blood—it was all just a backdrop to the unspoken game we were playing.

The match raged on, but I could barely focus on the violence anymore. Punk was teasing me. The subtle smirks. The way he moved in the ring, like he was aware of every camera, every angle, every single person watching. But most importantly, he was aware of me. Every time he glanced toward the cameras, every time he wiped blood from his brow, every subtle movement he made sent a new wave of tension running through me.

My body was on fire. Every time his eyes flickered toward the screen, I could feel the burn. Every time he grunted in pain, I could feel myself reacting. I was dying for him, and he somehow knew it.

Punk had McIntyre on the ropes, literally, using the chain to choke him, to drag him across the mat. The blood was pouring from both men, and the intensity was palpable. But Punk, in that moment, seemed to come alive.

And then, without warning, he turned his attention to the crowd for just a second before he sent a slow, deliberate wink in my direction.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even close to being normal. Punk was making sure I knew that this—everything—was for me.

The game we were playing was only getting more intense, and as I watched him land a vicious kick to Drew’s chest, I could feel the heat pooling low in my belly, a fire igniting between my legs.

Finally, the end came. Punk landed his finishing blow, sending McIntyre crashing to the mat with a brutal twist of the chain. The referee counted, and the bell rang.

Punk was victorious. But he wasn’t celebrating in the traditional sense. No, instead, he dropped to his knees, bloodied, bruised, but still grinning like a man who’d just won the war.

And then, as the crowd roared, he turned his gaze to the camera one last time. It was as if his eyes never left mine, and in that moment, the meaning was clear. There was no escaping this. Not anymore.

We were in this together—whether I liked it or not. And there was no turning back. It was as if our souls had been intertwined and I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And after his grueling match, his teasingly brutal performance, and the blood message he’d sent, I was no longer uncertain if he was drawn to me too.

Backstage, I was an absolute fucking mess. My body was on fire, my thoughts a tangled mess. What had happened out there? What was happening between us? Every part of me wanted to pull away, but the rest of me was hungry for more.

Punk had made his mark on me tonight. Not just in the ring, but in my mind, in my body. And I was starting to wonder if I’d ever escape the game he was so expertly playing.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop wanting him.

And that was the most dangerous game of all. I couldn’t keep myself away from him, even if I tried.

After the show, I’d hidden myself to the best of my ability, keeping myself unnecessarily busy, so I wouldn’t run into him backstage.

The adrenaline was still coursing through me as I walked through the hallways of the hotel. My heart pounded against my ribs, every step heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

The entire night had been an inferno of tension, a war both physical and emotional, and the aftermath had left me breathless. Even though the match was over, there was no denying what was still simmering beneath the surface between us.

I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Punk. His smirk. His eyes. The way he made everything feel like it was just for me, no one else. There had been so many moments in that ring when he’d looked at me through the camera, teased me with the kind of raw intensity that made my pulse race and my thoughts scatter. I couldn’t ignore it. I wouldn’t.

Now, I was headed to his hotel room, and I knew exactly what I was walking into.

The moment I knocked on the door, a pulse of heat shot through me. I could hear movement from inside—Punk’s voice, low and gravelly, talking to someone on the phone, but then the sound stopped abruptly.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and there he was.

Punk.

Bruises and cuts framed his face, his body battered and bruised. His eyes—dark and almost feral—locked onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved. The silence stretched out between us, thick and taut with unspoken promises.

He didn’t say a word.

I didn’t either.

But as the door opened wider, I could see the way he was watching me. like I was the only thing he could focus on in that moment. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the adrenaline still lingering in his veins, his muscles still tender from the fight.

It was like a pull, a magnetism that neither of us could fight.

“Come in,” he said, his voice rough, but there was a playful edge to it. A challenge. An invitation.

I stepped over the threshold without hesitation.

The room was dimly lit, a faint glow coming from the small lamp by the bed, and the scent of sweat, blood, and his signature cologne filled my nostrils. He had already showered though, his hair semi-dry and dangling loosely around his face. A part of me wished he hadn’t, feeling drawn to the rawness of the combination of his blood and sweat.

There was something raw and intoxicating about the way he still carried himself after the war he’d just been through.

Punk shut the door behind me with a soft click, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. The tension between us was thick enough to choke on.

His gaze drifted slowly over me, taking in the way I was standing, the way I was breathing, almost like he could feel the heat rising between us.

I fought the urge to squirm. My pulse hammered in my ears.

“You gonna stand there all night?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

I swallowed. “What do you want, Punk?”

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “You know what I want. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

His eyes narrowed, and in that moment, I knew we were no longer playing games. The space between us evaporated as he took a step forward. Slowly. Calculated.

“You also wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want the same damn thing. You sure you’re ready for this?” His words were a whisper, but they carried a weight.

I didn’t answer. My body already had a mind of its own, the heat pooling between my legs undeniable.

Punk’s lips quirked up into that familiar cocky smirk, and then he closed the distance between us, his hand coming up to trail down the side of my face. His touch was rough, but the way he cupped my chin sent an electric shock through my body.

“You’re not gonna walk away from this now. Not after what we’ve been through,” he murmured, his voice thick with the taste of challenge.

I leaned into his touch. “I’m not walking away, Punk,” I whispered, the words tasting like a promise I was too scared to break.

He didn’t let me finish the thought. His lips were on mine in an instant, hot and insistent, the kiss searing as though he was trying to brand me. The world outside of this room disappeared, leaving only the two of us, tangled in the raw, primal energy of what had been building between us for months.

His hands were on me, rough and demanding, as though he couldn’t stand the space between us any longer. He pulled me closer, so close I could feel the heat of his body against mine, his bruised chest pressing into me.

I gasped when I felt the hard line of his body against mine, the way the roughness of his skin made me feel like I was losing control. But he didn’t give me a chance to gather my bearings. He kissed me harder, his tongue sliding into my mouth with a hunger I couldn’t even begin to understand.

And just like that, I was lost in him.

The heat in the room was unbearable. My chest rose and fell with every frantic breath, every kiss he gave me deepening the need between us.

His hands moved lower, one of them sliding under the hem of my shirt, his rough fingers tracing the curve of my waist. Every touch was a shock, a jolt of sensation, and I couldn’t stop the quiet moan that slipped from my lips.

Punk pulled away for just a second, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of me beneath him, his eyes dark with desire.

“You want this. You want me,” he whispered. His voice was rough, almost a growl. “And now, you’re gonna get it.”

Before I could respond, his hands were on my hips, pushing me back toward the bed with an intensity that made my heart race. His lips were on my throat, kissing, biting, his breath hot against my skin.

I gasped, my fingers threading through his hair as he continued to mark me, making sure I knew exactly what this was.

“You’re not walking away from me. Not now,” he said again, his voice strained with need.

Every word, every touch, every second spent in that room with him was a challenge I didn’t know if I was ready for.

But I was beyond caring. Because when it came to him, there was no turning back.

Punk’s hands gripped me with a possessive force, and I couldn’t help but respond, my body a mix of anticipation and fire. The heat in the room was suffocating, the air thick with the raw, untamed chemistry between us. His lips left trails of heat against my skin as his hands pulled me closer, guiding me backward until I was pressed against the edge of the bed. I could feel the undeniable weight of his presence, his gaze heavy with hunger and something deeper, something that spoke of a craving for more than just physical proximity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, his voice low, almost like a growl. “You feel how much I want you?”

Oh. My. God.

I nodded without hesitation, my body betraying me as the tension between us built higher, tighter. There was no holding back now. We were in this together, lost in the pull of something primal and unspoken. I had no control.

His hands slid to my hips, tugging me closer as he gave me a look that made my stomach tighten, a glint of something darker flickering in his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t have to. Every part of him screamed want, and it was almost like he was daring me to break.

“You’re so fucking irresistible,” he muttered under his breath, his lips grazing the curve of my neck. “Everything about you drives me wild.”

I shivered under his touch, feeling the heat building between us, the air thick with unspoken promises. But instead of following through, he held me there, just on the edge, taking his time. I tried desperately to touch him, but he firmly slapped my hands away, leaving a stinging sensation on my delicate skin.

“You don’t get to decide what happens next,” he said, his voice dangerous, a warning masked by desire. “I do.”

He stepped back, briefly releasing me, and the sudden loss of contact was almost unbearable. My body craved him in a way that was raw, untamed, and completely out of my control. I met his gaze, defiant but wanting, knowing the power he had over me.

Without saying another word, he took a step toward the dresser and grabbed a bottle of water, his movements deliberate. His eyes never left mine as he opened it and took a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. My gaze followed the movement, and I realized just how badly I wanted to be that close, wanted to feel that heat against my skin.

“You’ve got me right where you want me, huh?” I said, trying to hide the tremor in my voice, but he saw right through it. His eyes flickered with amusement and something more dangerous.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he replied, his smirk making my pulse spike. “But we’re getting there.”

The words hung in the air, thick with implication, and then, without warning, he was right back in front of me, his hand gripping my chin as he tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his eyes. His touch was possessive, demanding, and my body instinctively responded, leaning into him despite myself.

With a firm hold on my jaw, he poured water into my mouth. I swallowed obediently, still locking eyes with him.

“You need to be hydrated for all the things I have planned for you.” He chuckled darkly, wiping water off of the corner of my mouth with a calloused thumb. I sent him an open-mouthed, puppy-eyed look.

“I like the way you look at me,” he said, his voice a dark rasp. “Like you’re both scared and desperate for more. But that’s not how this works. Not tonight.”

I barely had time to process what he was saying before he kissed me again, but this time it was different. There was a hunger, a desperate need, and I knew then that we were no longer playing games. The passion between us was almost suffocating, a heady mix of control and chaos.

The taste of iron caught me by surprise. The cut he’d suffered on his lip had busted open again.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming in quick bursts. His hand traced the line of my jaw, going through the small pool of blood, he’d transferred to my face. He was literally marking me. His touch was rough, almost punishing, but there was something about it that made me crave it more. It was a touch that was both reverent and possessive, as if he was memorizing the way I felt beneath him, as if he was still trying to decide just how much of me he was going to take.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “You’ll let me take care of this… all of this.”

I nodded before I could stop myself, the words slipping out as if they were the only thing that mattered. “Yes. I’ll be good for you.”

The bloody smirk that spread across his face told me everything I needed to know: Punk was in control, and I was caught in his web, more tangled than I had ever been before.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against my ear. “Good,” he whispered, the single word carrying so much weight. “Because if you want to keep playing this game, you better be ready for what comes next.”

“I need you,” I whimpered, wishing I had sounded more in control.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, stretched taut between us like a wire about to snap. Punk hovered over me, his breath uneven, his chest rising and falling against mine in a rhythm that felt anything but steady.

I could feel the shift, the way something deeper was threatening to break through. The tension between us had always been sharp, electric, but now? Now it was unbearable.

He was still watching me, his dark eyes flickering over my face like he was looking for something. Maybe some last thread of resistance, some unspoken hesitation that he could rip apart. But there was none. I wasn’t fighting this anymore. I wasn’t sure I ever had been.

Punk exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around my jaw for just a second before he leaned in, his lips hovering just over mine. “Say it again,” he murmured.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I swallowed, heat spreading through my body like wildfire. He wanted me to admit it. To surrender.

I should have been scared of how easy it was.

“I need you.”

The second the words left my lips, something in him snapped.

Punk kissed me like he wanted to consume me, like he wanted to own me. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him, the warmth of his skin searing through the thin barrier of clothing still between us. He wasn’t careful—he wasn’t gentle—and I loved it.

“I knew you’d come to me,” he muttered against my lips, his breath hot, his voice thick with something dangerous. His hands slid up my sides, slow and deliberate, teasing, testing. “Knew you couldn’t keep pretending forever.”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers digging into his shoulders, feeling the bruises he carried from his match just hours ago. But if the pain bothered him, he didn’t show it. If anything, it seemed to fuel him, pushing him further, making him rougher.

“You should’ve come to me sooner,” he continued, his mouth moving against my skin, leaving a trail of heat down my throat. “We’ve wasted so much time.”

I gasped when his teeth grazed my pulse point, my body arching instinctively into his. The satisfaction in his low chuckle sent a shiver through me.

“Is this what you wanted?” he taunted, his hands gripping my hips, his bruised knuckles pressing into my skin. “You’ve been watching me. I know you have. Sitting backstage, pretending you don’t see me.”

I bit my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but he knew.

Punk pulled back just enough to look at me, his smirk dark and knowing. He tilted his head, studying me, dragging out the moment just to make me squirm.

“You like seeing me bleed, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice like gravel, rough and edged with something almost cruel. “I saw the way you looked at me out there. Remember? There are cameras everywhere. You liked watching me take that beating. Liked seeing me suffer.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off with another bruising kiss, swallowing whatever lie I was about to tell.

“Don’t bother denying it.” His hand slid into my hair, gripping just enough to make me feel it. “You liked watching me hurt.”

I let out a shaky breath, my pulse hammering in my ears. The worst part? He was right.

I had liked it. I had sat backstage, watching his match, feeling every second of it like it was happening to me. Every hit he took, every moment he suffered, had sent a pulse of something dark and hot through my veins.

And the worst part?

He had known.

“You’re a sick little thing,” Punk murmured, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But that’s okay. Lucky for you, so am I.”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into his skin, determined not to let him have the upper hand so easily. “You’re so damn sure of yourself,” I whispered, forcing my voice to stay steady, refusing to let him see how wrecked I already was.

His grin widened. “Because I know you.” His hand trailed down my side, slow, deliberate, teasing. “I know what you need.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure, but it was slipping fast.

Punk pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me again, his eyes dark and unreadable. He exhaled, his thumb tracing the edge of my jaw.

“You can still leave,” he said, voice lower now, rougher, like the thought of it pained him. “If you walk out that door, we forget this ever happened.”

He let the words settle between us, heavy, suffocating. A way out. A chance to stop this before it consumed us both.

I stared at him, my body still burning from his touch, my pulse still racing. But there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.

I reached up, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer until our lips were nearly touching.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His breath hitched.

In one fluid motion, he pulled my top up and over my arms, smudging the blood on my jaw and cheek even further. His own shirt soon followed.

He was bruised, battered, and pieces of his skin had been torn, only for it to have been stitched back together again. There was something insanely hot and passionate about the nonsensical act of violence he’d been a part of. The fact that it was all for entertainment—and all for me.

Punk was rough with his touch, not missing a single ounce of skin as his hands roamed over my stomach, waste and chest. His eyes grew big, when he removed my bra, and came face-to-face with the solid metal bars piercing both of my rock-hard nipples.

He rutted his hips feverishly into mine, sending me a clear message; he sure as shit liked what he saw.

Ecstasy and a loud moan rushed over me, as he took a bejeweled nipple into his mouth, and chewed and bit on it, like a starved dog with its bone. It was oddly fitting, had he only still been wearing the dog-collar.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes, or maybe it was just one long, drawn-out moment where time didn’t exist.

Punk was relentless. He was teasing and rough and careful all at once, like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to make sure I felt this long after the night was over. He didn’t let me get away with anything—every sound, every reaction, every sharp inhale, he noticed.

“You always act so tough,” he murmured at one point, his fingers tracing my jaw, his thumb brushing over my swollen lips. “But look at you now.”

I wanted to snap back at him, wanted to bite out something sharp and smug, but I couldn’t. He’d taken all of that control, pulled it right out of my hands and owned it.

And I let him.

I wanted him to.

My pants were practically ripped off of me, as he—with one goal in mind—attached himself to my hips.

“You’re being such a good fucking girl for me, you know that?” He mumbled, voice smooth like velvet, but slightly muffled by the fabric of my panties. His face was planted between my thighs as he breathed me in.

When I didn’t immediately answer, he roughly took a hold of my jaw, pushing two fingers between my swollen lips.

“Use that pretty mouth of yours,” he demanded, “do you know how good of a girl you’re being?”

My thighs twitched and I was unsure if I had died and gone to heaven.

“Y-yes, Punk, yes I know”

That was the confirmation he needed, before he discarded my panties, and dove nose first into me, devouring me like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

It was sensory overload. The soft licks of his tongue connecting with my sensitive and eager core. His salt-and-pepper beard rubbing and scratching my upper thighs. And the sounds of my own very clear arousal mixed with his saliva? Pheeeew.. it was nearly too much to handle.

I had been fantasizing about him putting his mouth on me forever, but nothing could’ve ever prepared me for the real thing. Punk had a skillful mouth, which was both clear whenever he dropped a pipebomb on an opponent, as well as when he drove me towards an intense release.

With a firm hold and a fast move, he flipped us over, mouth never leaving my pussy.

Punk’s fingers dove into my hips and thighs, as he quickened his pace on me, clearly picking up on the way my body was twitching for an orgasm. He guided my hips, making me ride his face with passion and without a single care in the world.

The grip he had on me was rough, hard, possessive and 100% guaranteed to leave marks come morning.

The sounds leaving my mouth were pornographic and uncontrolled, collecting a throaty groan from Punk underneath me.

It was as if I had been struck by thunder and lit on fire, when my entire body shook as he sent my over the edge and into a mind blowing orgasm.

He guided me through my high, as if he knew every inch of my body and as if we’d done this dance a million times.

A large toothy grin was plastered on his bearded face, that was coated and shiny with my arousal. I couldn’t help but to match his smile. He had, after all, rocked my world.

He gently flipped us over again, hand finding my jaw and mouth for the hundredth time.

“If that’s my last meal, I’m dying a happy man,” he mumbled, maybe more to himself than to me, as he undid his belt.

Minutes had turned into hours, before he finally had my legs wrapped around his waist, pushing slowly, but surely, into me.

It wasn’t just about the way he touched me—it was the way he looked at me. Like he saw right through every single wall I had put up. Like he had known, this whole time, that I would end up here, under him, his.

Some fucked up version of destiny.

A string of dirty curse words left both of our mouths, as our bodies intertwined. It was a feeling unlike no other. Like holstering a gun. Adding the last piece to a puzzle. A feeling better than any high in the entire world.

I felt a tightness around my neck, as Punk just couldn’t help himself. He squeezed expertly—making sure not to miss even a single second of eye contact, even whilst cutting off most of my air. But two could play that game.

I raked my fingers over his chest, circling the skull-tattoo, before pressing a sharp nail into the flesh near one of the cuts he’d suffered during his match with McIntyre.

“F-fucking hell, baby,” Punk moaned his breath hitching, eyes flashing down to the cut I had now reopened slightly.

A wicked smile was on full display on my lips. He likes the fucking pain.

The grip on my throat was replaced by an even harder grip on my hair, as he pulled and pulled whilst punishing me even harder with his relentless pace.

A small drop of Punk’s blood landed on my chest.

“You never answered me before,” he grunted in between his deep thrusts, “do you like seeing me in pain?”

A rush of courage came over me as I forcefully nodded, yanking his hair back.

“I love seeing you in pain, Punk”

He growled, eyes dark and hungry.

“Matter of fact, I live for it. I get paid to see you hurt, bleed, and be in excruciating pain, Punk,” my words were teasing, yet forceful and confident. I was enjoying the game we were playing.

My words only made Punk even wilder and hotter; It was an impressive pace he was setting. Every single dirty word, possessive grab, or even a moment of nasty, shared looks, spurred him on, making my legs feel like jelly.

“You might be one sick fuck, but so am I,” I raise my voice, grabbing a hold of the flesh on his back with my sharp nails.

A sloppiness overtook his thrusts, indicating how close he was to losing control and finishing.

Another pull on his hair, and the most sinful look I could’ve ever sent him, was what sent him crashing into his orgasm.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He repeated like a mantra, as he pulled out, jerking himself and coming all over my stomach and chest, as if he’d just autographed his own name to mark me his.

When both of our highs were over, the only sound in the room was our breathing—deep, uneven, wrecked.

I was sure this was the closest two non-believers would ever get to heaven.

Punk was still hovering over me, his arms braced on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. His breath was warm against my lips, but he didn’t kiss me again. Not yet.

His eyes searched mine, still dark, still intense, but there was something else there, something softer. Something he didn’t say.

I reached up, my fingers tracing the bruises along his ribs, my touch barely there. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

He smirked, but it was slower this time, lazier. “Worth it.”

I rolled my eyes, but the smile that tugged at my lips betrayed me. I couldn’t help it.

For a moment, we just existed like that. No words. No games. Just breathing the same air, feeling the same fire.

Then, finally, Punk let out a breath and shifted off of me, collapsing onto the mattress beside me.

I turned my head to look at him, and he was already staring at the ceiling, his hands resting over his stomach, fingers twitching like he was thinking too hard.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was just… us.

And then, just as I was about to say something, Punk spoke first, his voice lower, rougher.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

I swallowed, my heart kicking up again. I didn’t answer right away, because I did know. I had known before I ever walked into this room.

But hearing him say it out loud made it real.

I turned on my side, propping my head up with my hand as I studied him. His face was softer now, the sharp edges dulled just a little by exhaustion.

He glanced over at me, and there was something unreadable in his gaze—something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face just yet.

So I did what I always did. I deflected.

I smirked, reaching over to brush my fingers along his bruised ribs again, light, teasing. “You’re really not gonna make it through training tomorrow.”

Punk let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

I grinned. “You like it.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhaled and ran a hand through his messy hair, smirking just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I really do.”

And even though we weren’t saying the big things—the real things—somewhere deep down, I knew.

This wasn’t over. It was just the beginning.

[butterfly-stitches]

ok hear me out... → → → (MDNI / Suggestive Content)

80s pornstar!Adler

Russell Adler: an infamous and renown adult film actor. Started his career early in his 20's. Becoming a staple in late 50's through early 70's adult films, starring in innumerable XXX films and scenes; a 'Hollywood' movie star in all but content (who made his mark on the adult movie industry during his debut). Soon, Adler semi-retires. Making a few cameos here and there, rarely starring in films (not as much as he used to). Before he soon falls under the radar in the late 70's, away from the public eye. His legacy all that remained in the wake of his career.

Enter Bell: A young Russian porn star who seemingly popped up out of nowhere; an overnight celebrity new to the 80's adult film industry. Not much is known about the Russian adult film star known only by this alias; no definitive history, no family, no traces of a real name. But that doesn't sway the public eye or adult industry. It only seems to fuel the fire, throwing major roles at the Russian's casting agent with fervor (that was borderline begging and pleading) in hopes of the role being accepted.

Soon, a casting opportunity arises at the young porn star's doorstep. Pitched as career-changing, money-making, and life-altering. A once in the lifetime, window-of-opportunity. Starring in an upcoming adult film with porn star legend Russell Adler himself! Thought to have disappeared from the industry completely, only for him to un-retire for this role call (money talks after all, and in this case, it revives). But it seems more than just money that motivated this legend in the flesh. An innate curiosity about this new Russian film star that came out nowhere but is making huge waves in the adult industry (just like he did at the start of his career). But there is a deeper and darker desire to why he accepted the role. To show the young Russian porn star their rightful place. And why his name carries so much weight in the adult film industry, even with his long disappearance. Like his legacy on the industry, he would put his mark on Bell too.

One that won't be easily forgotten. Forever recorded within film reel, for others to enjoy the seasoned pornstar's claim.

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

A/N:

i can't get this brain worm out of my head!!! 🙈🙊

(wrote this instead of studying btw)

[disgustingtwitches]

A Rose in Harlem

New York is supposed to be the city where people vanish into the chaos, but somehow, Simon Riley has found his way into your life. He’s managed to slip past your defenses, filling a void you didn’t realize was there. But when the closeness starts to feel too real, you pull back, desperate to hide your vulnerability. Simon, however, has already bared his own scars and expects you to do the same. Suddenly, your life feels like a romcom you never signed up for, starring the one man who’s impossible to ignore.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete, when no one else ever cared.

Masterlist

PART 4

The Sweetest Taboo

So, you're sleeping with your neighbor. This is fine. Totally fine. You're two consenting adults; no one needs to know. Except Simon seems to disagree.

You wouldn’t peg him as the "kiss and tell" type, but much to your duress, Simon is unapologetically the "kiss and show" type.

At the grocery store, he casually shows up at the same time, grabbing your bags like it’s second nature and walking you home. The stares from the neighbors make your face burn.

Morning run-ins in the foyer have evolved into something dangerously inappropriate. He refuses to let you leave without a kiss. Sometimes it’s just a fleeting brush of lips; other times, it’s deeper, lingering, and edging into the territory of lewd, making you shove his face away.

Then there’s the hoodie. One of his oversized ones, soft and smelling faintly of him. He bullied you into wearing it. You caved, of course, but it stays hidden in the back of your drawer when Ishta comes around—there’s no way you’re dealing with opening that can of worms.

It’s not just the overt gestures, though. It’s the way he lingers too long at your door after you’ve kissed him goodnight. Watches you through the fire escape, like he has every right to. Sitting there with his legs sprawled, a cigarette lazily dangling between his fingers, he makes no attempt to hide it.

You tried to put an end to that one. Bought curtains on a whim, feeling smug about the newfound privacy they’d grant you. But they mysteriously disappeared the day after you installed them—conveniently after you’d gone to work.

Simon played dumb when you confronted him, leaning casually against his doorframe.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, angel. Someone breaking in while you’re away? Maybe I should stick around your place and keep watch.”

His grin was infuriatingly smug, as it usually is.

It’s all becoming a little too real, a little too… loud. And yet, when you’re pressed up against him in the quiet of your apartment, his hands framing your face like you’re the only thing worth holding onto, you almost forget about his wrongdoings.

***

“Brought out the good shit tonight.”

Ishta grins, popping open a bottle of prosecco—the cheap, overly sweet kind she adores. You hold back the urge to grimace as she pours, passing you a glass.

“What's the occasion?”

“Me and Mr.Scottsman are official!”

She squeals lifting her glass high. You mimic the gesture, the clink of glass on glass ringing lightly through the room.

“Wow, it's so official you still won't tell me his name.”

You quip, rolling your eyes as you take a cautious sip. The sweetness of the wine hits immediately, and you fight the reflex to wince.

“John. Johnny.”

She sighs dreamily, hearts in her eyes.

“I call him Johnny because John is way too serious for my liking.”

You raise a brow at her,

"Sounds like you’ve got it bad, Ishta.”

She doesn’t deny it, swirling the prosecco in her glass like it’s some romantic prop, her grin widening.

"Oh, you have no idea. He’s got this laugh—it’s ridiculous—and he can’t make tea to save his life. But, ugh, he’s perfect."

You shake your head, taking another begrudging sip of the prosecco, already bracing yourself for what’s sure to be a night of gushing anecdotes about Johnny.

“Perfect,”

You echo with a laugh, setting your glass down.

“You’ve been together for how long now? A month?”

“Three weeks,”

Ishta corrects.

“But when you know, you know.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, sure. You’re gonna marry this man, huh?”

“Don’t tempt me,”

She says, her grin widening.

“He’s already invited to meet his family. Can you believe it? His family, and I’m just over here trying to not come off as a complete lunatic.”

“Well, you’re failing spectacularly.”

You tease.

She throws a pillow at you, laughing.

“Says the one who’s been mysteriously glowing these past few weeks. Care to spill why?”

You freeze for half a second, a sip of prosecco poised at your lips.

“Glowing? What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,”

Ishta says, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re hiding something. Someone.”

You feign indifference, shrugging.

“Maybe I’ve just been using better skincare.”

“Bullshit. Spill. Who is it?”

She leans forward, her gaze piercing.

There’s no way you’re telling her. Not about Simon. Not about the fire escape. Not about the way his hands feel against your skin or the things he whispers in the dark.

“No one,”

You say firmly, hoping she buys it.

“And stop projecting your ridiculous love life onto me.”

Ishta squints at you, unconvinced.

“Uh-huh. Sure. For now, you’re off the hook. But mark my words,”

She wags a finger at you.

“I’ll figure it out.”

You laugh nervously, downing the rest of your drink.

You’re grateful for how easily distracted Ishta can be, her attention now fully locked onto the trashy dating show the two of you watch every Thursday. It’s a routine you’d both adopted more for the chance to mock strangers' poor life choices than for any genuine investment in the drama.

Occasionally, she’ll pipe up, her voice dreamy as she recounts the latest romantic gesture from Johnny, her “Mr. Scotsman." She compares him to the guys on TV, and each time, she insists that Johnny does it better. You can almost hear the wistful sigh in her voice as she talks about how much she adores him.

You smile at her, teasing lightly,

“Gonna end up as one of those military wives?”

Ishta laughs, a genuine, carefree sound that rings out in the space between you. She shrugs with mock indifference, but there’s a spark in her eyes.

"Maybe. I mean, he’s a loverboy under all that wildness, but yeah… I’d say I’ve got it bad.”

You smirk at her, shaking your head.

"You’re hopeless."

"And you’re one to talk,”

She fires back, leveling you with a knowing look.

“Sexy British neighbor still got you tied up in knots?”

You scoff, taking a sip of your drink to stall. The wine’s still too sweet, sticking to your tongue, but you focus on the tang that lingers at the edges.

“I’m not ‘tied up’ in anything. Haven't even spoken to him since the noise complaint situation.”

“Riiight.”

She side-eyes you, unconvinced.

“Something tells me that's not entirely true. You get this weird look on your face every time I bring him up.”

You try to keep a straight face.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into things.”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans back, crossing her arms.

“One of these days, I'll catch you slipping.”

You roll your eyes, desperate to redirect her attention.

“I think you’ve had too much wine.”

“Or not enough,”

She shoots back, taking another sip with a knowing smirk. She hums, like she just remembered something important.

“I forgot to tell you, Johnny invited you to come with me to meet his family.”

You make a face of confusion.

“Me? Why?”

“I talk about you a lot, believe it or not you are one of the most important people in my life.”

The statement takes you back a bit, makes you feel a twinge of guilt lying to her.

“But his family?”

“Well…”

She tilts her head, searching for the right words.

“They’re not exactly blood relatives. They’re his squad, I think that’s the term he uses. He trusts them with his life, so he sees them as family—or the closest thing to it. Something like that.”

It’s her turn to hesitate, her fingers absently trailing the stem of her wine glass.

“Anyway, he thought you might want to come along. Besides,” She adds with a grin, peeking up again.

“It'll be fun. Think about it! Drinks, charming military men, and me as your entertainment. What more could you want?”

With Simon in your life, you think to yourself, you find yourself wanting for nothing lately—except maybe a little less suffocating attention.

“Yeah, what more could I want.”

You say aloud, masking the weight of your thoughts with a light laugh.

Ishta beams at your answer,

“That’s the spirit! You’ll see—it’ll be good for you. And hey, if nothing else, you can help me judge Johnny’s friends. Who knows, maybe one of them is a secret disaster like the guys on this show.”

The conversation shifts back to the TV, her playful commentary dragging you out of your head. But even as you nod along, your mind is already working on an escape plan.

You’re just gonna text her some excuse when the day comes. She’ll understand. Probably.

***

“How can you breathe in these?”

You groan, tugging at the waistband of Ishta’s skin-tight leather pants as she twists and wiggles, trying to pull them up.

“Breathing isn’t a priority here.”

She huffs, planting her hands on her hips and giving a final shimmy.

“Looking good is. Besides,”

She admires herself in the mirror.

“Johnny will love it.”

“Yeah, he probably cares more about how easy they’ll be to take off, Ishta.”

She grins, running her hands down the smooth fabric.

“Yeah. My man, the most efficient guy I know.”

You laugh, shaking your head as she strikes a dramatic pose.

“Efficiency—truly the cornerstone of romance.”

“Don’t knock it,”

She quips, spinning around to face you.

“He’s got it down to an art. Makes him a great lover.”

“Ishta.”

“I mean seriously, when I'm running late he knows exactly what to-”

“Ishta!”

“What? Someone has to get laid here, and it sure isn't you!”

You groan in protest, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at her. She ducks, her laughter ringing out as she returns to inspecting her reflection in the mirror, twisting to check out the back of her pants.

“I think my butt’s getting bigger.”

She declares, completely unfazed.

“Aren’t we running late?”

You ask, exasperated.

“We’re fine. He’s getting us an Uber.”

She replies, adjusting the waistband of her pants with a smug little smile.

“To Brooklyn? Ouuu, big money.”

You tease, rolling your eyes as you grab your bag.

She grins, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I just got him trained right. I'll show you how to do it when you get your own man. Or woman. Or anyone.”

Before you get to have your say her phone dings, and she grabs her keys.

"C’mon, Uber’s here."

You give her one last look before following her out the door, ready for whatever insanity lies ahead.

***

The bar you stand outside of is dingy and small, a stark contrast to the sleek black SUV Johnny arranged for Ishta and you. You raise an eyebrow, already feeling out of place.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

You ask, rocking side to side in your heels, feet already hurting.

“Too good for it?”

Ishta teases.

“No, just… aren’t we a little overdressed?”

You reply, glancing down at your outfit. Her red-bottoms are going to get ruined by the sticky floors, and your top is way too low-cut for a place like this.

Ishta smirks, giving you a look.

“You’ll be fine. Besides, if anyone stares for too long, the guys will probably scare them off— if they are anything like Johnny describes.”

And so, you step hesitantly into the grungy spot, thinking of what shitty liquor you need to get you through the night.

The bar is dim, louder than you expected, the scent of stale beer and fried food heavy in the air. Ishta leads the way with her usual confidence, weaving through the mismatched tables and chairs. You follow, heels catching on the sticky floor, your stomach tightening as she heads toward a table in the back.

That’s when you see it: the large black hoodie. The person wearing it is turned away, broad shoulders hunched slightly. Something about the way they hold themselves makes your chest tighten. You tell yourself it can’t possibly be him. The odds are ridiculous, almost laughable.

And yet, your feet falter.

Johnny spots Ishta first, lighting up with a grin so wide it makes his eyes crease at the corners, laughter lines deepening across his face. There’s a boyish enthusiasm in the way he waves her over, unrestrained and unabashed, like a pet spotting its owner after a long day apart.

You remember her mentioning once, in passing, that he was born the year of the dog. It’s funny how fitting that feels now. Loyal, eager, a little too earnest. He all but bounces out of his seat, the movement causing a ripple of attention to shift across the table.

The ridiculously pretty man seated next to him glances up first, his expression brightening with easy charm. Across from him, an older man with a beard you could only describe as unnecessarily dramatic turns and nods politely.

Then, the hoodie moves. Your stomach plummets.

Simon.

His expression is unreadable, but the sight of him freezes you in place, and before you realize it, you’re standing there looking like a deer caught in headlights. The rest of the table follows his gaze, looking at you with various degrees of curiosity.

Ishta grabs your arm.

“Oh my God. Girl, is that your man? What’s wrong? You can’t back away now!”

She says in a low voice, dragging you forward before you can recover.

“That is not my man,”

You hiss back, but it does nothing to stop her relentless pull.

Johnny grins as you both approach, his voice warm and thick with his accent.

“Almost scared her off, Ghost.”

Ghost?

Your eyes flick to Simon. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word.

Johnny, takes over the introductions.

“This is Simon. Don’t mind him, wasn’t properly socialized as a bairn.”

There’s some shifting around as the group makes room. To your dismay, Simon stays tucked into one side of the booth, leaving Kyle and Price to scoot out. They pull over chairs from a nearby empty table, and you find yourself awkwardly squeezed beside Simon while Ishta takes the seat across from you.

“Finally nice to put a name to the face.”

Ishta beams at Simon, and you can see the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t respond. She laughs when Johnny makes a confused face, giving a brief rundown to the table.

“She says you haven't seen each other since that incident.”

Ishta waves her glass in Simon's direction.

Simon leans back in his seat, mask still up.

“Avoids me like the plague, she does. Must’ve left quite the impression.”

Kyle snorts, leaning forward with an amused grin.

“That’s just his thing. Simon’s got a talent for being a nuisance, don’t you, mate? Knows exactly how to make people’s lives hell.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

Simon replies smoothly.

The table chuckles, but you stay quiet. His knee bumps yours under the table and you shoot him a sharp glance. He doesn’t even look your way, focused instead on swirling his drink he hasn't touched. You drink more than you probably should, hoping it’ll dull the awkwardness.

Thankfully, the rest of the table carries on without issue, their conversation flowing easily.

“Military, huh?”

You ask eventually, your voice quieter than intended.

Simon doesn’t look at you, but Johnny leans in with a grin.

“Yeah, we're stationed here for a while, so get used to seeing my handsome face around.”

The ease in his tone does little to settle the tension twisting in your chest. Simon doesn’t so much as flinch, remaining a stoic, unreadable presence. His silence feels deliberate, heavy, but Johnny’s brightness seems determined to lighten the mood.

“Maybe you’ll even get used to this one,”

Johnny adds playfully.

“Though I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s got the personality of wet cement.”

That makes you laugh a little, along with the rest of the table. Younod toward Simon.

“So… Ghost. That’s a call sign?”

Simon hums, noncommittal, leaving Johnny to fill the silence.

“Wish I got something cool like that,”

Johnny says, shooting Simon a look that’s both teasing and fond.

“Guess he earned it, scary bastard.”

You glance at Simon again. His face gives nothing away.

Ishta leans over and whispers something into Johnny’s ear, her lips brushing against his ear with a playful familiarity. Whatever she says prompts a crooked grin to spread across his face, his blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

The two of them fall into their own little world, lovebirds whispering and laughing softly, entirely lost to anyone else at the table. Their giddy exchange contrasts sharply with the tension simmering between you and Simon.

You shift in your seat, feeling the press of his knee against yours again. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but the contact makes your pulse quicken. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if it’s intentional. If he notices your reaction, he doesn’t show it.

Across the table, Price and Kyle keep the conversation flowing, their camaraderie effortless. You envy the ease they seem to find in this dynamic, the sense of belonging that eludes you in this moment.

Eventually, you decide to call it a night.

“Think I’ll head out, guys.”

You say, grabbing your bag. You glance toward Ishta, but she’s too busy twirling a strand of Johnny’s hair between her fingers, practically sitting in his lap.

Kyle stands, reaching for his jacket.

“Want me to walk you home, love?”

Before you can answer, Price butts in.

“Think Simon’s closer. Said you're neighbors, right?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.”

“He'll take you home. Don't need Kyle chasing up your dress.”

Simon finally looks at you, dark eyes unreadable. Without another word, he gets up.

***

The train ride back is painfully silent, tension coiling thick between you. Simon doesn’t make small talk, doesn’t fill the awkward space with meaningless words, and you can’t decide if you’re grateful or annoyed.

When you finally reach your apartment, you stop at the door, fumbling with your keys. You unlock it and step inside, turning to offer a polite, “Goodnight.”

Before you can close the door, Simon’s boot wedges into the frame.

“No kiss goodnight?”

He murmurs, pulling down his mask, voice low.

“Do you always have to be like this?”

You mumble, leaning forward and tilting your head up.

“You like it.”

He replies, pressing his scarred lips against your glossed ones.

The kiss lingers in your mind longer than it lasts, the warmth still spreading through your limbs. He pulls away, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. You stand with the door still open,

“Ok, well, goodnigh-”

“Not gonna invite me in for a drink?”

The way he says it—like he’s giving you the option, but he knows exactly how this game goes—brings a rush of heat to your cheeks.You hesitate for a moment, the weight of the night pressing down on you, but it hits you then—you’ve been waiting for him to make this move. Simon knows exactly how to push just enough, always teetering on the line between being too much and just enough.

You tilt your head, playing the game, your voice teasing.

“I don’t believe in letting strangers into my place, Ghost.”

His jaw tightens at the name, a flash of something flickering behind his eyes, but he recovers quickly, scanning your face with a quiet intensity.

“Hit your head, angel? The name’s Simon, remember?”

“Hmm,”

You cock your head, a playful smirk curling on your lips as you tease,

“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

Simon’s expression shifts, eyes narrowing just a fraction as his lips curl into a grin.

“No? Thought you’d remember it with how many times you say it when I’ve got you bent over that couch.”

“Simon!”

You gasp with a smile.

“Glad to see your memories back, love. Had me worried there for a moment.”

His voice drips with smug satisfaction, fingers creeping around your waist as you step backward into your apartment. His movements mirror yours, closing the distance, the same familiar rhythm between you two. Except this time, the dance ends in your bed, bathed in silvery moonlight that filters through the windows, casting shadows and soft glimmers over the room.

What he says to you in that space, the things he says are as depraved as they are tender, sinful words laced with something softer, gentler. And in that moment, you realize they’re the sweetest things Simon is capable of offering.

Lying on his chest, you let your thoughts drift, his sparse chest hair tickling the side of your face. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat drums against your ear as your fingers trace lazy circles on his skin. His hand mirrors yours, gently skimming the small of your back in slow, soothing motions.

You enjoy these moments just aas much as the more heated ones—maybe more. They feel almost domestic, like peeking through the keyhole of something you tell yourself you can’t have. But for now, it’s enough. It fills that quiet loneliness you feel some days.

Simon presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering there for a beat longer than you expect. It feels like him savoring the closeness he so rarely allows himself.

“Mind if I sleep here tonight?”

His voice low and casual.

Your body goes stiff before you can stop it, and his hand on your back stills.

“Oh,”

You say, forcing a laugh that cracks at the edges.

“Didn’t think you’d grown tired of your bachelor setup. What happened? Mattress on the floor finally giving up on you?”

Simon hums, unbothered, his fingers resuming their lazy path.

“Figured I’d upgrade. You offering?”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you sit up quickly, putting a small but deliberate distance between you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He doesn’t move, watching you with hooded eyes, his expression calm, unreadable.

“Why not? Thought we were comfortable now.”

His tone is deceptively light, but you can hear the challenge beneath it.

“I don’t sleep well with someone else in the bed,” You say, crossing your arms, covering your bare chest.

“It’s just a thing—I’m used to having my space.”

“Space, huh?”

He sits up and leans back against the wall, hands clasped behind his head, looking entirely too at ease.

“Didn’t seem to need space a few minutes ago, angel.”

You frown, heat rising to your face.

“That’s different. Sleeping is… it’s personal.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly.

“And what we just did isn’t?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your irritation in check.

“You know what I mean, Simon.”

“Not sure I do,”

His tone is playful, but there’s a stubborn edge to it now.

“Seems to me like you’re just makin’ excuses.”

“I’m not.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. You sigh, running a hand through his short hair, an apology of sorts.

“It’s just… I’m not ready for that.”

“A lil sleepover?”

He tilts his head. Before you can respond, he grabs your face with one hand, his fingers pressing against your cheeks to make your lips pout.

You yank your head away, sucking your teeth in frustration.

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, leaning back against the wall like he’s won something.

“Am I? Or are you just makin’ this harder than it needs to be?”

“Simon,”

You snap,

“It’s not about being hard or easy. It’s about boundaries. Respecting them.”

“Boundaries?”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk slipping just slightly.

“Since when have we had those?”

Never, you think to yourself. It's a little distressing if you think about it too long, letting a man have such sway on you.

He pulls you closer, his thick arms wrapping around you with an ease that feels as natural as it is intrusive. You don’t resist, though. Instead, your fingers trace the inked lines on his forearm, a distraction, an excuse not to look him in the eye.

“Think you got one more in you?”

His voice is low, dipping into something softer, coaxing.

“I’ll be out your hair after that.”

You can’t help the faint smile that tugs at your lips, even though you hate yourself for giving in so easily. It’s always like this with him—pushing, pulling, finding that sliver of space where you’re weak enough to let him in.

“Yeah,”

You murmur, leaning just slightly into his touch,

“Think I do.”

His lips curve into a grin, satisfied, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he pulls you into his lap. And just like always, he gets exactly what he wants.

Prev | Next

[winteringdream]

TAKE A CHANCE WITH ME ──── kim woonhak

✩ ⋅ pairing. kim woonhak x gn!reader ✩ ⋅ genre. fluff, kinda angst ✩ ⋅ warnings. none! ✩ ⋅ wc. 1176 ✩ ⋅ a/n. completely inspired by take a chance with me by NIKI and also super self-indulgent lol

You would die for Kim Woonhak’s laugh. The kind of laugh you could recognise anywhere, anytime. A laugh that colours the sky. Woonhak has been by your side for as long as you can remember. He knows everything about you, except one thing. 

You’re in love with him. But, how could you tell that to someone who doesn’t even believe in love?

“Love is overrated.” Woonhak had said, as he popped a gummy worm into his mouth. He turned to you as he chewed on the gummy worm. “Don’t you think?”

The two of you were young back then, but his words never left your mind. Woonhak only cared about music. Music is the only thing he loves, his passion for it swirling behind his eyes. How you wish he would love you the way he loves music. 

You’re polar opposites. Woonhak is sunshine, bright and warm. You, on the other hand, are like the moon, cold and distant. You read him like a book, and he’s the clueless little kid. Always surprised that you know what he thinks even though it’s written all over his face. 

Even though you try your best, you can't help falling for him, you’re hopelessly captivated. What you would give for you to get your feet back on the ground and your head off the clouds. 

“Hey, you coming, y/n?”

Woonhak’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You blink up at him, the sunlight that had been warming up your face now blocked by his silhouette. He’s standing over you, casting a shadow.

The way he calls your name makes you only fall deeper and deeper, like you’d fade away somehow if he's too loud. His voice is soft and tender, only when calling out your name. 

“Where to?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun still peeking around his frame. You hope he can’t see the way you’re looking at him.

He grins, lazy and bright. “I don’t know. You've been lying there forever. Let’s go do something fun.”

Before you can answer, his hands wrap around your forearms, tugging you up. His touch sends a spark right through you, and you hate how easily it shows on your face. 

“You’re restless,” you say, brushing imaginary grass from your clothes just to avoid his gaze.

He shrugs, still holding your arms longer than he needs to. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to pull you up.”

Your heart stumbles, but he’s already walking ahead, like he hadn’t just said something that makes your head spin. 

It drives you crazy how he can look you dead in the eye and stay unaware. Can’t he feel the electricity between the two of you surging through the air? 

You always follow Woonhak into everything, pranks, jokes, anything. He glances back at you, carefree. Humming some tune under his breath. Probably a melody he’s working on.

You hate it.

You hate how he can look at you like that, with stars in his eyes, like nothing’s burning inside you. You hate how soft his laugh is when you accidentally hit your hand on the corner of the table and say something under your breath. You hate how your heart aches for him in a way that’s loud, and clear, and real.

“Why can’t we just say what we want?”

He stops walking and turns to look at you.

You’re already blinking back tears, and that only makes you angrier at him and at yourself. “Why can’t you just once disregard the world, and run toward what you know is real?”

He stares at you like you’ve just cracked open something sacred. “y/n…”

You shake your head, your voice trembling and your fists clenched at your sides. “Why can’t we for once just feel what we feel and say it out loud? Why do we pretend like we don’t see it? Why do you keep pretending like you don’t feel it?”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast. The words are catching in your throat.

“I hear your heart, Woonhak. I’ve heard it a thousand times, even when we’re not touching, even across the room. I see right through you.”

He doesn’t move or speak, but his eyes are soft and locked on you. He looks at you like you’re his whole world. 

The tears you’ve been holding back fall from your eyes, down your cheeks and onto the ground. You’re angry at yourself for loving someone who looks you in the eye every day like you’re the sun, but never says it out loud.

“Why are you crying?” he says softly. His voice is quiet and gentle in a way that only makes it worse.

You almost laugh, but your voice breaks. “Because it’s killing me. I’m so tired of pretending that this isn’t real.”

Then he steps forward, slowly. Like you’re a bird he’s afraid to startle. He hesitantly reaches for your hand, and you don’t pull away. His palm is warm against yours, and his heart is still beating loudly. You can feel it just by standing near him.

“I’m scared,” he says. “Because if I say it out loud it becomes real. And real things can fall apart.”

You look up, through the blur of your tears.

“Not if you stop running from them.” You whisper, “We can still try.” 

He swallows and his grip on your hand tightens. You see the hesitation in his eyes, but there’s also something else. 

Your fingers are still tangled in his, and neither of you moves. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Woonhak says quietly.  “I’ve spent so long convincing myself that love wasn’t for me.”

You shake your head, a small, sad smile on your lips. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I know you, Woonhak. I see the way you care. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. “If we try and it doesn’t work–”

“But what if it does?”

You feel his fingers tremble slightly in yours.

Then, softly, he brings your joined hands to his chest and presses them against the place where his heart is beating so fast, so loud, you’re sure the whole world could hear it if they only tried.

“You’ve always felt like home,” He whispers.

You squeeze his hands gently. “Then stay,” You whisper. 

“I will,” He murmurs. 

He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, and he looks at you again with that soft and loving look he has had on his face for a long time now. 

“So what now?”

“Now?” he echoes. “Now I take a leap.”

And slowly, carefully, he leans in. Not too fast or  bold. Just enough for you to meet him halfway. Your forehead touches his.

He smiles and his heartbeat still pounds against your joined hands. The two of you can feel it. The quiet, electric current that’s always existed between you.

This is real.

And he’s not running anymore.

bonedo taglist: @ihruaz @tmrwsuns @lakoya

[pukefactory]

You write Threadville Oliver so well! I want to squeeze him til he makes a squeaky toy noise! Can I make a request for headcanons where his s/o is as doting as he is? Just trying to make sure he's well fed with good food, doing some of the heavy duty chores so he doesn't have to worry about them and getting rid of that worm making sure he has free time to spend off the farm

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *. EVERYTHING IN THE GARDEN IS ROSY .* :☆ﾟ.

✿ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Oliver X A Doting Reader

✿ Character(s): Oliver (Threadville)

✿ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

✿ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

✿ Image Credits: @supernob12three on X

❀ You carry two baskets: one for vegetables, and one just for him. He tries to protest at first, wiping sweat from his brow with that frayed handkerchief, mumbling something like, “Well now, you didn’t have to bring me a whole dang lunch—jeepers, that’s rhubarb pie ain’t it?” You cut him off with a kiss to the forehead. “I wanted to.” His ears go red. He eats in silence, smiling so wide it crinkles his whole face.

❀ Oliver’s garden gets a little out of hand when he’s distracted, so you’ve taken to sneaking in before sunrise to weed the beds and tuck little notes in the soil: “Good job on the squash today.” “I love you more than bees love blossoms.” He finds them every morning and pins them up on the rafters with clothes pegs. You pretend not to notice he keeps every single one.

❀ Worm doesn’t like you. Good. Because you despise Worm. You’ve made it your personal quest to keep that dirt-drenched pest out of the garden, standing guard with a rusty tin pail and a spoon like it’s a sword. When Oliver asks why you’re always out by the radishes at night, you just shrug and say, “Oh, just keeping things cozy.” He doesn’t know you shouted “GET OFF HIS CABBAGE, YOU SLIMY MONSTER” just yesterday. But he does know he’s been sleeping easier.

❀ The chores are shared, but when Oliver is feeling burnt out (and you always know), you let him sleep in while you collect eggs and prep breakfast. The moment he shuffles in—half-asleep and smelling like sunshine—you greet him with a kiss and a cup of tea sweetened with honey. “Today’s off-duty for you,” you whisper. “I already did the work.” “But I’m s’posed to—” “Shh. You deserve to rest.” He sits in your lap instead of a chair. Doesn’t argue again.

❀ There’s an old patch of land near the barn that Oliver swears is too rocky for anything to grow—but you’ve been sneaking compost and seeds into it for weeks now. One day, while walking home, he gasps and drops his basket. Morning glories. A sea of them. He turns to you, and he’s got that look, like he’s about to cry but too happy to do it right. “Did you…?” “I wanted you to have something just for you.”

❀ He forgets to eat when he’s focused. You learned the hard way when he passed out in the squash field. Now you bring snacks in a patchwork pouch and toss them to him like dog treats when he gets that glassy, tunnel-vision look. “Oliver. Eat.” “But I was just—” “Eat, or I’m calling Veena.” He eats. Grumbles. Then smiles when you ruffle his hair.

❀ Sometimes when the memories creep in—his dad’s hat still hanging on the door, the time he couldn’t afford shoes for Jasper—he gets real quiet. You don’t speak. You wrap him in your arms and play a record softly in the background until his breathing evens out. He tells you later, “You make the bad things feel like bedtime stories. Not gone, but soft.” You press your forehead to his and say, “You made me soft, too.”

❀ You sew patches into his jeans when he rips them, always shaped like hearts or stars. Oliver tries to act bashful but ends up showing off the new patches to everyone. “Yep, my partner sewed that one. And that one too! Ain’t they just the best? Look, this one’s shaped like a little eggplant!” You act like you’re exasperated, but it warms your chest every time.

❀ You and Oliver do romcom nights once a week. He cries during every movie. You tease him for it. But the moment you sniffle, he’s pressing kisses to your knuckles, offering tissues and saying things like, “You don’t gotta be brave tonight. I’ll do the crying for both of us.” And he does. Loudly. You think he might actually be in love with Meg Ryan.

❀ He doesn’t say “I love you” with words, not often. He says it by saving the biggest tomatoes for your sandwich. By building you a scarecrow that looks suspiciously like you. By dancing with you in the kitchen, a track of dusty boots and muddy socks sliding across the wood. By whispering into your ear, when he thinks you’re asleep, “I hope I’m makin’ you as happy as you make me.” You always pretend you’re asleep just a little longer.

[wing-ed-thing]

Crocodile Relationship Headcanons

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, Alcohol Mentions

𓆃 The epitome of needing to back up your words with action, because if you're surviving Crocodile, you need to be ballsy and have the power to back it up.

𓆃 Getting on good terms of any kind with Crocodile is a Herculean feat and damn near impossible, given his mess of contradictory standards.

𓆃 Because there's no earning his respect if you don't have a backbone, but he's also bound to be steaming the moment you have anything smart to say.

𓆃 Crocodile is a jaded, old-fashioned pirate with a complex. In fact, the entire "pirate aspect" is 80% pure criminal activity and 20% sailing, because Crocodile is in it to win it and come out on top.

𓆃 Power is king, and anyone who earns a shred of respect from Crocodile is powerful. But it's not enough to be powerful until you prove yourself to be on his level, and even so, Crocodile is too self-absorbed to see you as an equal, even when it comes to individuals with bounties far greater than his.

𓆃 If you're weaker than him, you're a weakling. If you're stronger or on a level playing field, no you're not!

𓆃 Your best odds at any sort of functional relationship (romantic or otherwise) is when you have the slightest edge over him and keep an established record of it!

𓆃 Come out the winner of a duel. Steal the thing that he thought he had stolen from you, but you knew all along he was going to try to do that so Crocodile never actually stole the thing he thought he was stealing from you in the first place—

𓆃 But even so, your successes can't be too successful, or he'll begin to grow jaded. It has to be a slight edge, just enough to keep you alive and keep each other in check.

𓆃 Your foundation will be based on checks and balances, and anything more will be vehemently unspoken.

𓆃 Crocodile, of all people, is not a romantic, and anything more than bitter rivalry will come naturally and with uncommunicated rules just like the beginning of your relationship.

𓆃 You'll do what lovers do, just without the frills and without the acknowledgement.

𓆃 You'll take his clothes, and he hates when you do it. You'll throw a wine bottle at his head, shattering it against a wall as you chase him out of your room. You suspect each other at the drop of a hat and pull your weapons even faster, only for you to let him rest his head in your lap while he enjoys some expensive liquor sometime that evening.

𓆃 He drips whisky on your thighs as it pours out the sides of his mouth, and you hate him for it.

𓆃 You tell him you'll kill him, and he says he'd like to see you try.

𓆃 Or maybe you have no real power at all, but make up for it marginally with nerve.

𓆃 Like a rippling and hissing cat. Or a single dog defending puppies. Or a housewife in an apron with no weapon but a wooden spoon.

𓆃 Little power and little dominion, but enough ferocity to be intriguing. And despite sparking Crocodile's curiosity being a feat in and of itself, someone he perceives is so beneath him isn't bound to hold his attention for long, and definitely will not garner his respect.

𓆃 Perhaps he'll keep you around akin to a pet, only for him to leave you hanging the moment his path for survival intersects with your reliance on his protection.

𓆃 It wouldn't be impossible. When it comes to the kind of man who needs to take things slowly, it isn't impossible to grow on him. Even a softer, direct opposite of Crocodile can worm into his cold, dead heart if the stars aligned.

𓆃 But you're waiting on a time that's dire enough to make him pick between leaving you in the dust and more accidentally showing his hand when it comes to how Crocodile actually feels about you.

𓆃 Getting even remotely close to Crocodile is a gamble, and there's no way to prepare yourself.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

[noodledrawsandstuff]

(Tag dump/long post warning) Appreciation Post !!! Big ups to my gang

Felt like being nice today >:) This year hasn't been all that good to me, but these wonderful people have been a great help! (Even if I don't talk to/interact much with some of them) They're all sweethearts and if you like me for whatever reason then you should follow them if you don't already! (Sorry if I get repetitive but hehe + sorry if I forget someone... there's a shit load to go through here, I might need two posts-)

Of course I have to start with my all my fellas: cotton_candylover (watch-through buddy!), bara_kid_pirates (helped make my strawpage!) and purple_rainfrog (my co-writer in the dark ages...), you lot are great and I love watching through anime and being little shithead weirdos with you :3 why don't you have tumblr 😠 I'm going to skin you

@drago-is-me You are my lil guy and I want to grab and throttle you, also I love your art I want to kiss you platonically and then fight you to the death

@fortheloveofkiller I love your art sm!!!! You are greatness, and I will always respect a fellow Killer lover

@wyvernslovecake Shriek is my daughter and I love her dearly, you're very silly and I love you for it, also your writing is 👌

@perhapsrampancy Lovely friend of the worm (FOTW!!!) I want to give you a nice hug and a head pat and a big platonic kiss :3

@lxshoxk Your op bulls are yummy yummy and you are magnificent, you deserve all the best things you could want (and you're a FOTW for bonus points)

@d-angel00 Good FOTW and a very talented artist!! I adore you sm I wanna give you the biggest hug I can muster

@schwazombie Another lovely FOTW I adore you ty for the beautiful Killer on my straw page I love him

@baby-xemnas Peak lawbepo/luzo/kidkiller, incredible artist I want to kiss your art mwah it gives me life

@mekachu04 Incredible amazing showstopping artist, and a FOTW!!!

@shipshinablog Your art is absolutely delicious, I adore how you draw Heat and Wire they are just so beautiful I want to kiss them

@thamaris Another incredible artist!!! I adore your art, especially your gorgeous Wire he is yum

@a-killer-obsession Another one!!!!!!! Your art is adorable and your fics are just ough 5-star meals + fellow Killer enjoyer >:)

@nethhiri I adore your art/fics too ough I wanna devour it!!! (I'm repeating myself a lot but trust me I mean it! You're wonderful and very talented!!!)

@don-mellow Hehehe your art is scrumptious I love your big juicy muscular big titty men especially your Wire he is so fine

@magnuspirate I absolutely adore your art, your Heat is magnificent ty for showing him the love he deserves, plus your designs for the crew are so peak ough *eats* (ty for grey haired Wire I want to kiss him he's so pretty)

@toonsparks Your art is so fun and cute and ough I love it sm I need it more than oxygen bc its just so mmm it makes me joyous

@gratefulcheeses Your art makes me so feral, the way you draw my favourite beautiful boys is so ough delicious I will devour it

@moedesparta Another incredible artist, your art is so scrumptious I want it injected into my veins

@lfypj Your art is so fucking good oml I am in love with how you draw Kid and Killer they look so damn fine

@swampstew-stories (I cant tag your main lol-) I am feral for your writing ough it is just immaculate (personal shoutout to the Kid OnlyFans AU and Killer Tiktok AU they both give me life in very different ways)

@misaneeragoni FOTW!!! Your art is wonderful it makes me all giddy, also you are wonderful too!

Alright I think that's it.... unless I make a part 2 then it isn't- Either way, ty for sticking around if you got this far! You're a real trooper (insert name here.) Go follow the people above they're all wonderful and they deserve the world! All their art and fics and beautifulness has helped me at a time where I felt like the water in the Thames, this post doesn't even begin to describe how much I appreciate them and love what they do but I hope its at least something!

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Do you think Riot will make more seasons of Arcane in different regions post-s2, make more shows with different names that are set in the Arcane universe, or secret third option?

Yes and no.

To start with, yes: Arcane has been by far Riot's most mainstream successful media project ever (even outstripping K/DA), and there is literally no way in hell that the company isn't going to want to keep milking it until it is as dry, stale and withered as the PROJECT skin line.

So I predict that, absolutely, we will see new seasons of shows set in the League of Legends universe, probably animated, and hopefully with some of the extremely good animation partners Riot has managed to cultivate over the years.

The ARCANE branding is incredibly valuable now, and I wouldn't put it past Riot to do something stupid like name a show set in the Freljord ARCANE: True Ice or something unbearably stupid like that, even though the name relates extremely specifically to the setting and story of Piltover/Zaun and the Vi/Powder/Viktor/Jayce character group.

On the other hand, Riot might be the company on earth I trust the absolute least to effectively capitalize on and carry forward a success in creative arts that can't be monetized with skins and event passes.

Riot has an absolutely astounding history of tripping on their dicks when it comes to telling stories about their characters, in no small part due to its leadership quite simply never valuing storytelling as an end in itself. If it doesn't sell cosmetics or drive Engagement™ with the core League of Legends product, good luck getting Riot management to spend a fucking dime to make anything real.

Passionate people inside the company have to go to war, every single time, to make anything good happen. Legends of Bilgewater, the Spirit Blossom visual novel, the Marvel comics collaboration (RIP), Riot Forge, and very much Arcane, were absolute passion projects pushed over the line by people who literally put their jobs (and in many cases their health) on the line to make them happen.

Alex Yee and Christian Linke are old hands at Riot with a lot of clout, a lot of friends at the company, and a lot of goodwill to cash in, and if that hadn't been the case, there is literally no way in hell anything like Arcane ever gets made.

The behind-the-scenes documentary Riot themselves produced obviously goes out of its way to let Riot leadership suck themselves off about how much they contributed and how much they believed in the project, but make no mistake, they would have axed Arcane on the spot if there wasn't creatives fighting pitched battles every other day to keep it alive.

This is true of K/DA as well, by the way, there was a lot of internal resistance at Riot to that project - and to Star Guardians, and to Heartsteel. Anything cool Riot has ever made? Just assume that someone internally was shitting on it in meetings and trying to get it shut down.

Which is why I am intensely worried about Arcane in the long term. Not so much about Season 2, since it is mostly being produced by the same group of people, as far as I know, but that project is also going to be absolutely besieged by C-suite jackoffs trying to worm their names into the credits, making themselves Stakeholders™ and offering Feedback™ and voicing Concerns™, and I don't envy the showrunners the battles they are going to have to fight to keep these vultures away from the product.

But I am fucking worried about whatever Season 3 becomes. I am fucking worried about what happens the moment any of the key creatives behind the first two seasons resign, or get headhunted to new jobs. I am worried what's going to happen when Riot decides that the showrunners are "being difficult" and standing in the way of what leadership wants to do with the now very valuable ARCANE branding, and either corporately mandates them into roles of diminished influence or just outright fucking fires them (it'll be publicized as a mutual decision of course, it'll be publicized as a much celebrated retirement or "it's time to move on to new adventures").

Riot is a company with absolutely infinite capacity to fuck up a perfectly good thing for absolutely no fucking reason except some kombucha-chugging, suit-jacket-over-a-graphic-tee-and-sneakers-wearing, keeps-his-job-despite-multiple-sexual-harassment-allegations-because-he's-bros-with-the-C-suite, motherfucking "I am a player so I know what the players want" platitude-spouting "themes are for book reports"-ass Silicon Valley libertarian piece of shit decided he knows better than the artists whose work are the reason he takes home six figures a year.

[drdemonprince]

finally started watching the interview with The vampire show after many recommendations from various gay ass individuals. I do love that this show starts out so fucking gay right from the outset and is overt with it. It feels like a very knowing correction for all the Hannibal TV show girlies in a major way. at some points this is done a little bit too obviously, like when lestat kills the tenor who sings badly in a second episode. That's just literally a Hannibal lecter move. it's both random and very targeted how theres just a random Anthony Bourdain man in this show as well. I am not surprised to find out I am that predictable of a type of guy to be so pandered to. but hey it's a beautiful little world they have weaved here, and going from being gray worm on game of thrones to the star of this show is a real upgrade and I love to see it