#there is an up version and a down version and I need them to be right!!!! ( Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[thatonegrimm]

Heyyy

Can you do saja boys x idol reader

Finding out she has toxic manager forcing her on diet and doesn't take any breaks

Thank yewwwww, 🩷🩷

Thank you for the request! Hope you enjoy it! 💌

🌙Saja Boys x Idol!Reader —Toxic Manager

You tried to hide it. The skipped meals. The forced smiles. The exhaustion. But the moment they saw the cracks, it was over.

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

🧿 Jinu

He noticed it in the way your hands trembled when you lifted your chopsticks.

And the way you smiled too quickly when someone asked if you’d eaten.

Later, backstage, he caught you alone, sitting with your head in your hands.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just walked over, crouched beside you, and offered you a steamed bun from his coat pocket.

You stared at it. “My manager—”

“Doesn’t get to starve you,” he interrupted gently, but firmly.

You blinked. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight.

“I read the rider in your contract,” he said quietly. “And I saw the messages. The ones you delete before I can read them.”

You looked away, guilt rising.

But he just nudged the bun into your hands.

“You don’t need to ask permission to eat,” he murmured. “You don’t owe anyone your body.”

You nodded, eyes wet.

“And if they push you again,” he added, “let me know.”

Because Jinu never made threats.

But when he said that, the air around him shifted.

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

💪 Abby

He found out from a stylist who mentioned it offhand.

“Her manager said no water until she finishes the shoot.”

Abby froze mid-stretch.

“...No water?”

That night, he showed up at your dorm with three bags—home-cooked food, electrolyte drinks, and a tub of body wipes.

You blinked. “Abby—”

“Sit,” he said firmly. “Eat. Hydrate. No arguing.”

You hesitated.

“I’m serious,” he added, gently pushing a spoon into your hand. “You’ve been running on fumes. I can see it.”

You stared at the food, then at him, overwhelmed.

He softened.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I’m mad they treat you like this.”

Then he looked at you—earnest, strong, warm.

“You’re not a product. You’re a person. And I’m gonna remind you of that until it sticks.”

And he did.

Every time he saw you.

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

📚 Mystery

He noticed it during rehearsal.

The way you swayed between moves. The way your lips moved silently, counting under your breath like it was the only thing holding you upright.

When everyone cleared out for a break, you didn’t sit.

So he did something rare.

He walked over, took your hand, and led you outside. No words.

You didn’t resist.

You ended up on the rooftop, cool wind in your face.

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked simply.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Then quietly, “Manager says I need to slim down for the comeback.”

He nodded once.

Then said, “He’s wrong.”

You blinked at him.

“I see everything,” he murmured. “Your effort. Your exhaustion. You shine without shrinking.”

Then he passed you a protein bar.

He didn’t force it. Didn’t beg.

But when you ate it, he didn’t stop watching.

And later that night, you found out your schedule had been mysteriously cleared for the next 48 hours.

Mystery never admitted how.

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

💋 Romance

He caught you skipping dinner after a shoot.

You gave him a quick, airy excuse. “I’m fine, I swear. I’ll just grab something later—”

“Nope,” he said, twirling a fork and setting it in front of you. “Sit your pretty self down.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing weakly. “You don’t understand, my manager’s watching—”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leaned in. “I do understand.”

His smile dropped.

“I know that kind of pressure. I know what it does to people.”

You stilled.

“I’ve seen it steal joy. I’ve watched people starve their shine to keep someone else happy.”

He looked at you like he saw you.

“You don’t owe anyone a version of you that hurts.”

You said nothing.

So he fed you a bite of pasta.

Then another.

“You’re my favorite idol,” he whispered. “Not because of what you look like. But because of the way you burn.”

And that stuck with you longer than the meal.

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

🔥 Baby

You didn’t realize he overheard your phone call.

Didn’t realize he was behind the door, frozen, listening to your manager berate you for “looking puffy” in the last stage photos.

You turned to find him standing there.

His jaw clenched.

“What did he just say to you?”

You flinched. “It’s not a big deal, I’m just—”

“No.”

He walked past you, straight to your phone, and grabbed it.

“Baby—wait—”

He turned on the camera and stared straight into the lens. Hit record.

“Hey. This is Baby. Of Saja Boys. And if I ever catch you talking to her like that again, I’m going to find a way to make you regret it. Professionally. Permanently. Capisce?”

He ended the video and texted it to the manager himself.

You stood there, stunned.

He turned to you. “If they fire you, I’ll hire you.”

“You don’t even run a company.”

“I’ll start one.”

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

M-List

[st4rofeden]

Phainon pretends he's fine. of course he does, always been. the moment something wounds him— he masks it with louder talks, wider smiles, fills every room with his poetic antics. he complimented everyone he walks past, starts a tragic limerick mid-sentence, even bantering with anyone at his field of vision. but the jokes lands too fast. the smile dont quite reach his eyes. you'll notice when he misuses a metaphor. when he says "sunlight" but his eyes meant lonely. he becomes to theatrical, trying to convince himself he's still bright.and when it gets bad, he vanishes to the highest rooftop, not to sulk, but to shrink. you spot him there with wind-tossed hair and hands folded tightly in his lap, staring at the stars without speaking. he'll still joke when you sit beside him. he'll still say things like “What is a heart but a messy, red clock prone to melodrama?” but when you rest your head on his shoulder, he'll finally exhale, long and slow. and eventually— quietly, like a confession he'll say: “Sometimes I wonder if I burn too much just to hide how hollow I feel.” and when you wrap your arms around him? That's when he cracks, pent up anxiety begin to follow up, he slumps “Ah I'm fine truly! the stars are no—” you cut him off before he finishes. “I need a hug.” you didn't, cheeky. but he did. he'll caress your back soothingly, praising and comforting you like it's his duty. all while he's the one clinging tightly to your warmth, almost squishing you as he buries his face to your neck, to hide himself against the world in your solace

When Anaxagoras is upset, he disappears—but not physically. he's still there, standing exactly where you left him earlier, still doing what he’s supposed to— organizing files, adjusting blueprints, giving sharp lectures with zero stutters. but his voice loses cadence. his sentences turn clipped. he speaks only when necessary, and when he does, it feels like a door half-closed. He won't tell you what’s wrong. Not until he sorted it, dissected it, classified the pain and determined whether it’s irrational. you'll find him in his office late, sitting in the dark, staring at his hands like he doesn't quite trust them. he won't ask for comfort, but when you quietly sit beside him— bring him tea, brush your fingers against his knuckles—he'll pause, just briefly. and if you say nothing, if you give him the silence he understands, he'll lean toward you, just enough that your shoulders touch. Later, maybe hours later, when the lights are still low and your head is on his lap, his stiff shoulders slowly relax as you run your fingers on his scalp, other hand softly rubs your thumb on his cheek. he'll murmur quietly,  “I don’t like this version of myself. But I’m grateful you still choose to be near him.”

Mydeimos gets quiet. not in a cold or distant way— he's never cruel to you— but in that heavy, suffocating silence of someone who doesn't want to burden you. his jaw clenches more than usual. his responses shrink to nods and low grunts, and when you try to get close, he almost flinches— not from you, but from the fear of spilling something he’s worked too hard to lock down. he trains harder on bad days. days in the sparring yard long after sundown, fists wrapped tight, his body glistening with sweat, pushing himself to the edge of collapse. and still, he'll say he's "fine". but if you find him after— press a cool cloth to his bruised knuckles, gently clean his face with cloth and cold water, kiss the lines between his brows, and whisper “you don’t have to hold it all in”— he’ll stop. you'll feel the exhale in his throat. and then, almost reluctantly, he'll sink into you. maybe sit on the bench, head bowed into your chest , arms around your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him, all while his warriors glanced when they get past. no, he doesn't really care. and he won’t speak for a long while. but when he does, its hoarse. “I don’t know how to say it. but... I needed you today. I always do.”

[jordiemeow]

summary: your boyfriend clark always seems to find the light in everything. but with several hard fights back to back ending in numerous civilian casualties to weigh him down, he just needs a gentle touch to soothe him and coax him back to his former brightness.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, porn w minimal plot, mild comfort in the form of sex, very brief dry humping, riding, no protection, kind of soft dom!reader, no superman spoilers

wc: 1.9k

notes: started a more dom!clark version of this but idk this felt more fitting. lil short but had to get Something for him out. slowburn fic in the works but i have some joaquín stuff to wrap up first <3

—

You always knew what you were signing up for when you fell in love with Clark Kent.

Not just the farm-boy charm or the unflinching kindness that makes the people of Metropolis trust him within minutes. Not even the gentle way he always holds your hand like you're something fragile. Delicate, to be cherished.

No, you knew what came with loving him. You signed up for the cape, the responsibility stitched into every seam of that blue and red suit. The scars that never get the chance to stay, but still mark him in ways you can't always see. For the nights he comes home smelling like ozone and steel and sweat, shoulders bowed with the entire weight of the world, and for the ache that comes with knowing he's the only one strong enough to carry it.

And you signed up for the silences. Especially on nights like this one, where he doesn't really talk much, voice crushed under the weight of what he deems to be failure.

You can tell by the slow way the apartment door shuts behind him, like he's on edge and afraid of breaking the hinges. No text in advance. No warm "I'm home!" No unmistakeable smell of sugary street donuts drifting down the hall. His footsteps are too quiet for a man his size, boots barely making a thud against the wood of the hallway. And when he rounds the corner, he doesn't look at you. He just drops to the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and fingers loosely laced, breathing like he's trying not to cry.

He won't. He never does. But just the thought makes your stomach churn.

When you look up from the book you've been pretending to read for the last hour, awaiting his return home, your heart cracks. "Clark?" You prompt, voice soft and gentle amidst the silence.

He's still deathly quiet, staring at the floor, his clothes clinging to his skin, muscles drawn tight beneath the fabric. You close the book quietly and set it aside. Stand and cross the room, steps slow and careful to avoid putting him even more on edge. When you reach him, you kneel between his knees and rest your hands lightly on his tense thighs.

He's changed out of his suit, but his skin is still tainted with the aftermath of battle, smeared with streaks of blood that definitely aren't his own and littered with fading bruises. He's a little drained, and with the sun hidden behind a dark sky smattered with stars, he just wants to go about it the human way of healing: sleeping it off. Clark shakes his head, jaw clenched, staring at some point past your shoulder. "Don't. I'll get soot on you."

"I don't care."

His hands twitch restlessly, bruised knuckles turning white from the tension. You see it now—the faintest tremor in his fingers. The clench of his jaw. The haunted look in those blue eyes that usually glow so easily with adoration when he looks at you.

"Clark," you try again, kneeling in front of him now. "Please?"

That breaks something in him. You can see it. Just a little, but you know him too well to not. His throat works around a sound he doesn't let escape. "I couldn't save them," he whispers when he finds his voice, raw and broken. It's nothing like the deep, charming timbre of the voice the rest of the city knows to be Superman. "There were too many. But I—I did everything I could. I swear, I did—"

"I know," you interject. Because he always does. "But you're not God, Clark."

His eyes flick up to meet yours, pain shining within the sapphire depths. "Sometimes I think people forget that."

"Then let me remind you."

Clark doesn't like to ask for help. He doesn't like showing weakness—not when the world counts on him to be indestructible. But when you rise up on higher your knees and press your forehead to his, his breath stutters and his resolve breaks. You cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the dirt-streaked angles of his cheeks, and kiss the corner of his mouth in a gesture that isn't hungry. Hell, it's not even romantic. Just… grounding. Something that says hey, I'm right here. Always here.

"It's been a long week," he says hoarsely, a last-ditch attempt to brush your concerns off. He never likes to be a burden. Not to anyone, but certainly not you. "I'll be fine."

"You always say that," you chide gently. God, you remind him so much of his Ma sometimes. "But you're not steel, Clark. You bleed. You feel."

He tries to smile, but it's brittle at best, so you decide not to press. You just slide your hands up to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one at a time. Your movement is slow and careful, but the pace sets his nerves alight between your touch. Your knuckles brush a bruise along his ribs and his breath catches—not from pain, he's faced much worse, but from the intimacy of your touch. You lean in and kiss it anyway. Another one on his hip. His sternum. His shoulder. Every mark you find becomes pure under your lips, as if your tenderness could erase the damage.

He watches you in silence when you push his shirt off his shoulders. You're still in your pyjamas—nothing particularly sexy, either. Just some cotton shorts and a faded grey tank top with the logo of his 'S' on the chest you brough home as a joke one night after work. But he still looks at you like you're bathed in silk and starlight rather than $20 worth of shitty merchandise.

"I hate seeing you like this," you admit in a whisper. "Torn down. Worn out. Freaks me out."

His hand cups your cheek, calloused thumb brushing just under your eye in a silent apology. He isn't able to find words, so you duck to press a kiss to his clothed knee and then stand slowly, coaxing him back onto the bed. His back hits the mattress with a low exhale, and you follow, straddling his lap with deliberate slowness. He groans at the weight of you, his hands moving to your hips to steady you both.

"You always carry so much," you continue, your words a soft breath that tickles his temple. "Let me carry this for you tonight."

You grind down gently, just enough for your bodies to brush through the fabric—his pants still on, your cotton shorts already damp and clinging. The friction is minimal but the pair of you share a stuttered breath. He's already getting hard beneath you, throbbing where your hips meet, but he doesn't buck. He waits. For you.

Always for you.

When you kiss him—slow and deep—you taste the iron of his split lip and soothe it with your tongue. He groans into your mouth, and that’s when the shift finally happens: he lets go, melting beneath you until he's practically one with the sheets.

"I don’t need much tonight, sweetheart," he whispers when you pull back for air. You almost laugh. Clark can always go for hours—you have Kryptonian stamina to thank for that—but you're not opposed to something slow tonight. Gentle. Loving. Something to remind him you're right there with him. "Just you."

Your hand slips between you, finding the fly of his pants to unzip. His hips lift a little to help you push them down, starry boxers and all, and then he visibly shudders beneath you when you draw him out. His cock is thick and hot and already leaking at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking him slowly, and his hips jerk despite himself.

He's so sensitive tonight. A smile graces your face, but you choose not to tease, not when he's in such a fragile state.

You tug your shorts aside, not even bothering to remove them fully. Just enough to let the heat between your thighs brush against him, a choked moan escaping you. You glide his cock along your folds—slick, teasing friction that makes him hiss through his teeth when your wetness lubes him up.

"Let me ride you," you murmur, breath catching. "Wanna take care of you."

"Are you sure?" He asks, even now, even like this—hard, throbbing, aching—he's always checking in, always so careful with you.

"I need to," you whisper.

You guide him in slowly, achingly, taking just the tip first. The stretch is deep, almost unbearable, but you don't rush. You've shared enough jokes about him having a Super-dick to know how to ease into it. You breathe through it, eyes locked on his, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. Inch by inch, you sink down until he's fully seated inside you, hips flush together.

He groans like it actually hurts him to feel this good. Ironic, considering you're the one being split open.

"Fuck," he chokes out.

"What happened to 'Superman doesn't swear?'"

He barely manage a laugh. "Shut up. Oh, you feel like heaven."

You finally start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that drag his cock along your walls in a rhythm that makes you both whimper. Every time you rise and fall, your cunt squeezes him just right, and his head drops back and his mouth falls open. The strain in his jaw softens, melts, and your name is an endless moan pouring from his lips.

He can't even fathom why he'd ever considered spending the night at the Fortress of Solitude instead of here with you.

"You're doing so good, Clark," you groan, rocking back against him. "That's it. Fuck, right there."

His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut. He thrusts up just once, hips chasing yours, instinct breaking through discipline. You don't even have it in you to tut at him.

"I'm close," he confesses, voice cracking so hard with pleasure it borders on a whine. "Oh, fuck—baby, 'm gonna—nghhh—"

"You can cum inside me," you breathe. "I want you to."

He lets go instantly when he's granted permission. You can feel it—the shudder that overtakes him, the sharp intake of breath, the way his whole body trembles beneath you as he spills inside you with a low, broken moan. You can feel him pulsing as the warmth fills you, sudden and overwhelming. The fluttering of your walls prolongs his pleasure until his hips are canting up and his face is contorted in sheer ecstasy.

"Oh God, yes."

You keep moving in slow, lazy circles until his orgasm fades and he's softening inside you. Your fingers move to stroke through his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and he melts into it gratefully. Eyes half-shut, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin.

Eventually, you lift off him and guide him beneath the covers, ignoring the mess between your thighs when you fix your shorts back in place. He doesn't let go of you, pulling you with him, strong arms wrapping around you without preamble.

There's a long silence where all you can hear is his soft pants. Then, quietly, it's broken with:

"…You're the only thing that makes it bearable sometimes," he murmurs. "The only place I can breathe. Makes me feel human when all the Earth wants is some invincible hero."

You press a kiss to his jaw, and then a careful one to his bruised lip that'll no doubt be plump and healed soon. "You never have to be Superman with me."

His arms tighten around you. He exhales into your hair, warm and shaky and finally, finally at peace after a long week. Or a long life, if he's being honest.

"I know," he whispers. "That’s why I keep coming home."

Home: right here, with you.

—

taglist: @newrochellechallenger2019 @gibsongirrl @imperishablereverie @gracelynnx @ellaynaonsaturn — (join here)

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Eleven

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Booooo this guy suckssssss!!!!!!

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The house was too clean.

Ana had been pacing for the better part of two hours, stopping only to wipe down surfaces that didn’t need wiping, rearrange throw pillows that were already symmetrical, and check the time on her phone like that would somehow bring them back faster. Over and over. Again and again. She couldn’t sit. Couldn’t rest.

She was barefoot, her steps soft and silent against the hardwood, and every so often she’d pause at the front window, heart crawling up into her throat, scanning the empty street for signs of the car.

She’d promised herself she was going to tell them tonight.

All of it.

Both relapses. How she’d been sober for eight months, not twelve. Every pill she’d hidden, every lie she’d told with a steady hand and a carefully assembled smile. Not out of malice. Out of fear. Out of survival. Out of a lifetime of thinking the truth had to come second to keeping people around.

But if she was going to tell Oscar the truth—really tell him—then it had to start here. With the people who had loved her before and after the worst of it. With the ones who still called her daughter.

She couldn’t be two people anymore. Couldn’t keep polishing one version while the other one rotted under the surface. The split was killing her.

So she was going to tell them. Susie. Her father. Sit down across from them, hold their hands, and explain—not as Ana the Problem, or Ana the Tabloid Tragedy—but Ana the Person. Ana the Daughter. Ana the Girl Who Was Trying.

Headlights swept across the driveway like a wave crashing.

Her stomach twisted so violently she felt it in her throat.

She heard the car doors slam. Heard the sharp, familiar beep of it locking. Her heart beat so loud in her ears she almost missed the small voice that came a second later.

“Ana! Ana, I saw the helicopters!”

She was already moving. Already at the door. Already opening it.

Jack launched himself into her arms, and Ana caught him mid-run, spinning him once, twice. A shaky laugh escaped her lips, wet with emotion she barely kept from flooding her eyes. She kissed his forehead, his hair, his temple, like a woman starved.

“I saw, little dragon,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You looked so cool in your little headset. So professional. Just like Daddy.”

He beamed, cheeks flushed from excitement and the night air. “I waved at the camera to say hello to you. Twice!”

“I know,” she said, smiling through the crack in her chest. “I saw that too.”

And then she looked up.

And saw her father’s face.

Not Susie’s—Susie was a step behind, bag slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable. But Toto—her papa—stood like he’d been hollowed out and filled with something cold.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders high. His eyes unreadable in a way that frightened her more than anger ever could.

Ana’s stomach dropped like an elevator with the cables cut.

“What?” she asked. The word barely made it past her lips. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the front door the rest of the way, letting Susie step through, setting her bag down gently. Too gently. Like anything louder might break the room.

“Jack,” Toto said quietly, not looking at her, “Can you go wash your hands upstairs before dinner, bitte? Thoroughly.”

Jack paused, brows furrowing at the sudden shift in tone.

“Why?” he asked, cautious. “Not dirty.”

“Just go, sweetheart,” Susie said softly, gently steering him toward the stairs with a hand on his back. “Please.”

Jack lingered. Looked at Ana. Then back at Toto. Something in him sensed it—the shift in the air. The weight in the room. But he went, dragging his feet just a little, the thud of him climbing the stairs echoing far too loud.

The moment he turned the corner, Ana turned back.

“What happened?” she asked again, firmer now. Her throat tightened. “Is someone hurt? Did—?”

Susie let out a breath, short and weary. “Ana—”

“Don’t ‘Ana’ me. Just tell me. Please.”

Toto finally looked at her.

And she knew.

She knew.

Even before his hand moved to his coat pocket. Before he pulled out his phone.

The dread was a living thing inside her.

“Your brother,” he said, each word clipped and cold, “gave an interview. An hour-long podcast. It went live during the race.”

Ana blinked. “What?”

Her skin went cold. Her lungs shrank, suddenly too small for breath.

“What… what did he say?”

Toto didn’t answer. Just unlocked his phone, tapped the screen, turned it toward her.

She heard Nate’s voice before she saw the title.

“…I mean, we all want her to be okay, obviously. She’s my sister, you know? But it’s like—how many times are you supposed to believe the recovery story when the relapses keep happening? At some point, it’s not a comeback. It’s just who she is. Ana’s always been a bit of a loose cannon. The one we all had to keep an eye on…”

She didn’t flinch.

She shattered.

Her chest clenched. Her vision blurred. Her ears roared with white noise.

“He didn’t—he wouldn’t—” she gasped, searching their faces, looking for something, anything, that said this wasn’t real. That she was misunderstanding.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Susie said, her voice shaking with barely-suppressed rage. “He… he talked about everything. The overdoses. The hospitalisations. He gave the names of the clinics. The months you were here. He made it sound like you weren’t even recovered—that’s why you’re never seen in public anymore.”

Ana’s legs gave out.

She caught herself on the armrest of the couch, barely able to breathe, shaking from the inside out. “But I—None of that is true! I don’t understand—”

“I do not know why he has done this,” Toto said tightly, his voice heavy with fury. “But I am going to fix it. I need you to hear that, maus. I am not going to let this slide.”

She looked at him, trembling.

“I—but he—he’s my brother. I know he hates me, I know he resents me, but—he knows what it was like. He knows. How could he—?”

“Yes, honey,” Susie said, quietly. “He knows. That’s what makes it worse. He didn’t misunderstand. He didn’t guess. He gave it to them. Every last piece of you.”

Ana choked on a sob. Covered her mouth with her hand as the tears came, fast and sharp and unstoppable.

“But I’m doing good. I am! I go to my meetings and I go to yoga and I eat vegetables all the time. I’m trying. I’m trying to hard. I’m a good girl and I—“ She cut herself off with a sob. 

Susie knelt beside her, brushing back her hair with shaking hands.

“I know, baby,” she said. “I know you are.”

Ana curled in on herself, her arms wrapped tight across her ribs, as if she could hold all her pieces in place.

Because it had happened again.

She hadn’t even opened her mouth.

And she’d already been reduced to damage.

—

Jack was already in his pyjamas when Ana came into his room—soft navy cotton covered in little racing cars, one of which had clearly been meant to resemble a Mercedes, but was just different enough to dodge any kind of official licensing.

He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, clutching his stuffed Komodo dragon by the neck, his little brows furrowed in a frown too serious for a five-year-old. His eyes darted up the moment she entered. “You were crying,” he said bluntly.

Ana froze in the doorway. “What makes you say that?”

“Your face is all…” He mimed big tears, dragging his palms down his cheeks. “Pink. Like it gets when we watch the horse movie.”

She exhaled, managing a laugh that sounded mostly human. “You caught me.”

He tilted his head, frowning deeper. “Why?”

Ana walked over and sat beside him, smoothing the crumpled comforter and brushing his curls off his forehead. “Just a grown-up thing. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Is it because of the thing that was making daddy angry on the way home?”

Ana hesitated.

Even at five, Jack didn’t miss much.

“Kind of,” she admitted softly. “But it’s going to be okay.”

He looked up at her with wide, uncertain eyes. “Did you do something bad?”

That landed like a stone in her chest.

Ana swallowed, forcing her voice to stay level. “A long time ago, I did some really bad things. But I’m trying to be better now. So sometimes, when people talk about the bad things, it makes me sad.”

Jack was quiet for a moment.

Then, “I did something bad last week. I broke Daddy’s favourite cup, but I didn’t tell anybody. I hid all the broken pieces in the garden.”

Ana blinked, stunned into silence.

“And I still get sad about it,” he added gravely.

Her throat tightened. “That… daddy wouldn’t have been mad at you for that.”

“I know.” He snuggled closer to her side, dragon in hand. “Can you still read the book?”

“Always,” she said, kissing his temple. “Every single night.”

Ana pulled the book from the shelf—Zog and the Flying Doctors, his current favourite—and launched into it with her full range of silly voices: the bumbling knight, the snooty king, the bossy princess. Jack giggled through every page turn, and she let herself fall into the rhythm of the story, the way his small body slowly grew heavy with sleep, his breaths stretching longer.

By the final page, he was out cold.

Ana sat there for a while, just watching him.

A tiny body. A steady rhythm. Unburdened.

Eventually, she kissed Jack’s forehead, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and quietly crept out.

The moment she reached the top of the stairs, the energy shifted.

She heard her father’s voice—low and sharp, slicing through the quiet. “I don’t care if he’s her blood, he violated every single clause in that contract. You’re telling me his NDA doesn’t extend to private family matters? Bullshit. You’ve seen the paperwork. You drafted the paperwork—”

Susie was at the kitchen table, laptop open, several windows of browser tabs and email threads overlapping. She had her reading glasses on, which only came out when she had a headache. Her jaw was tight, one hand clenched around a mug of coffee

Ana didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood in the doorway, silent, watching it all unfold.

Another storm that bore her name, whether she wanted it or not.

Her father’s voice carried on in the other room, anger climbing in waves, edged with the distinct tone he saved for strategy meetings and courtrooms.

Susie was typing with short, quick strokes, pausing only to glare at her screen.

Neither of them saw her standing there.

And Ana didn’t know what to say.

Because she hadn’t lit the match this time.

But somehow, everything was still burning.

—

The fire crackled low in the grate, amber light flickering across the pale blue walls of the family room. The house had fallen quiet—Jack asleep upstairs, her father finally off the phone, Susie reading somewhere, trying to wind herself down with a paperback she’d borrowed from Ana’s bookshelf. 

And Ana sat alone on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees, staring blankly into the fire.

The warmth didn’t reach her. Not really.

Her fingers curled around each other, wringing quietly. A quiet tremor had taken up residence in her hands, barely visible but stubborn, like her nerves had been set to a new, unbearable frequency.

The silence felt heavy. Full of breath she hadn’t taken yet.

It wasn’t just the betrayal. Wasn’t even just the shame.

It was the realisation—the creeping, nauseating dread—that the world was going to be looking at her again.

And worse than that. 

Oscar might see it.

The thought hit her so hard she flinched.

He might see it.

He might already know.

The interview had been public for hours. That was enough time for clips to circulate. For soundbites to be posted to TikTok. For Twitter—God, X, whatever it was now—to drag her name from the digital grave she’d buried it in. The internet had always loved a scandal, and her past made for excellent entertainment.

She’d scrubbed her digital footprint after that last stint in rehab. Erased what she could. Deleted every trace of who she’d been. Her father had hired entire legal teams to threaten lawsuits, force retractions, and buy silence. Eventually, it had worked. The tabloids got bored of the lifeless story. People forgot.

And she became invisible.

It had been a relief at the time.

To be forgotten.

To be able to just… exist.

But now—now her brother had dragged her corpse into the light, and the internet would dig.

They’d find everything.

And Oscar—

Oscar, who had looked at her like she was whole, even when she’d felt like little more than shrapnel wrapped in skin.

He might look at his phone tonight. Might open Instagram, or Twitter, or TikTok. Might see her name trending—her face. Old photos, even older videos. Might hear Nate’s voice. Hear those words: “relapse,” “heroin,” “loose cannon.”

Her stomach twisted so hard she nearly doubled over.

Because she hadn’t told him yet. 

And now the world might do it for her—with none of the softness. 

She was exposed. Completely.

No armour. No filter. No way to take it back.

Her nails dug into the fabric of the couch.

If he saw it—if that’s how he found out—what would he think?

What would he feel?

Would he hate her for keeping it from him?

Would he think she was weak? Untrustworthy?

Would he walk away before she even had the chance to explain?

Or worse—would he pity her?

Ana exhaled shakily and dropped her head into her hands.

The fireplace crackled behind her.

Outside, a branch scraped across a window.

And inside her chest, the shame clawed up her throat, raw and acidic.

Because for all the times she’d clawed her way back to the surface—for all the strength and sobriety and hard-won quiet—she still didn’t know how to look someone in the eye and not flinch at the idea of being fully known.

She wasn’t ready for this.

Not again.

Not like this.

—

Her fingers hovered over the screen for too long.

Her thumb trembled just slightly, barely enough to see—unless you were her. Unless you’d lived inside that body, with its flickering panic and its thousand unspoken regrets.

The phone screen reflected her face in the dim hallway light.

She didn’t look like herself.

Eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Cheeks blotchy. Lips chewed raw. Hair tangled at her temples where she’d been tugging at it without realising.

She looked like a girl unraveling.

And maybe she was.

But still, her thumb moved.

Pressed the green button.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

She held her breath so tightly her lungs ached.

“Hey…” His voice. Soft. Tentative. Confused. Then again, with the barest thread of warmth, “Hey, pretty girl. You—Is everything okay?”

Ana’s throat locked.

It was the first time she’d ever called him.

Not texted. Not sent a voice note.

Called.

“Hi,” she managed, but it came out cracked and weak.

She heard the shift of him on the other end, maybe sitting up straighter, maybe pushing a door closed. The rustle of fabric. The stillness between breaths. “What’s going on?”

Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just concerned. Listening.

She swallowed, hard. Her whole body was trembling now, a tight hum of adrenaline under her skin.

Okay.

No accusations. No anger.

He hadn’t seen it.

He didn’t know.

“No,” she said. “I—I mean, not really, no.”

A beat of silence. Then his tone changed—low, focused, more serious. “Anneliese? What’s going on?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to ground herself in the pain, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.“I need to ask you something,” she said, the words tumbling out like she had no control over them. “I know it’s selfish and insane and I have no right to demand anything from you, but I need you not to go—I need you to not go online for a little while.”

A pause. “What?”

“Please, Oscar, just—don’t check Instagram, or Twitter, or TikTok. Don’t look at your explore page, don’t scroll. Please, please don’t. Not until I see you.”

“Ana,” he said, slower now, steadier, but more concerned. “What are you talking about? You’re freaking me out.”

She let out a broken sound—half-sob, half-laugh. “I know. I know I am. But I just—something’s happened. Something bad. And I need to be the one to tell you. Please let me be the one to tell you.”

He didn’t speak, but she could almost feel his breath on the other end of the line. “It’s about you?” he asked finally, voice quiet.

“I—” she whispered, with a hitched breath. “Yes. I mean—yes, but not in the way you think. It’s about me. My past. Every ugly, awful part. My brother—he went on a podcast. Told them everything. Named names. Details.”

Oscar exhaled, the kind of breath people let out when they didn’t know what to say yet.

“I didn’t know he was going to do it,” she said, voice cracking. “I knew he hated me, but I had no idea it went that deep. But now it’s everywhere. Or—it will be. Soon. I don’t know how long I have. I just—I needed to get to you first.”

She could hear him sit, could hear the faint scrape of a chair, the hollow sound of space around him. Like he was trying to hold the weight of this before it landed. “You’re safe?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I’m safe. I haven’t—I’m okay. But I need you to hear it from me, and I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I—I’m begging you. I’m begging, Oscar. Please.”

There was another pause.

And then he exhaled and said, “Okay.”

She blinked. “Okay?”

“I won’t go online. I won’t look.”

“Okay.” Her voice was shaking. “Okay—Thank you. I’ll send you my address. You can come as soon as you land in Monaco. I’ll be here. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll answer anything. Just—please don’t look, and if you do—Just… forgive me. Please, Oscar.”

He was quiet. Then, gently, “I’ll be back in Monaco in a few hours. I’ll come to you.”

Her eyes flooded again.

The tears came heavier this time, her whole face hot and cold all at once.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words like glass on her tongue.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Oscar said.

She nodded, one hand pressed to her mouth to keep herself from sobbing into the phone.

“I’ll come to you,” he repeated, firmer now. “I promise. As soon as I land.”

And Ana didn’t doubt him.

Not even for a second.

—

Oscar lowered the phone slowly, like it might burn him.

The call ended, but the aftershocks hadn’t. His pulse was still hammering behind his ribs, loud in his ears, and his grip on the device was too tight, like he didn’t trust his own hands to let go.

Across the hotel suite, Lando was sitting frozen on the edge of the armchair, his own phone forgotten in his lap, his jaw slack.

Oscar finally glanced over. Winced. “You heard that?”

Lando blinked. “Mate,” he said slowly, like he was trying to work out what planet they were on. “You didn’t exactly whisper.”

Oscar exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. The TV hummed softly in the background.

Lando shook his head, incredulous. “Was that—was that your—are you seeing her?”

Oscar didn’t answer.

Lando’s eyebrows lifted. “Holy fuck. You are.”

Oscar rubbed his jaw. “Don’t, Lando.”

Lando sat up straighter. “Are you seriously gonna wait until you get to Monaco to find out what’s going on? Mate, I’m pretty sure I know what she’s talking about—everyone’s talking, the whole bloody paddock, it’s everywhere already—”

“I said don’t.” Oscar snapped it this time. His voice was sharp, cutting, rougher than he intended. “Don’t tell me.”

Lando blinked, taken aback. “Alright, alright. I won’t. Jesus.”

Oscar stood, restless, hands on his hips now, pacing a little like the movement might help. It didn’t. His chest felt tight. His brain wouldn’t stop rewinding the sound of Ana’s voice—small, scared, like she was holding herself together with thread.

“I promised her,” he said, quieter now. “She asked me not to go looking. Let her be the one to tell me. And I said I wouldn’t.”

Lando watched him, something like concern softening the line of his mouth. “You like her that much?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar admitted. “I don’t know. But I promised, so.”

Another pause.

Lando sighed. “Fuck, man. This is—”

Oscar ran both hands down his face. “Yeah. I know.”

Lando picked up his phone again, not unlocking it, just turning it over in his hands. “I won’t tell you,” he said eventually. “Not if you’re serious about this. But just… prepare yourself, alright?”

Oscar looked at him.

And in Lando’s expression—something serious, almost protective—he saw it.

Whatever this was, whatever had happened…

It wasn’t small. 

But Anneliese had begged him.

And he didn’t think he’d ever be able to deny that girl anything—

Not when she begged.

—

@/f1hotseat

not to be dramatic but anneliese wolff is my favourite niche F1 interest because wdym some of the new dts era fans don’t know about her lore lmao

@/gossipgrid

nate wolff went on a podcast and literally told the internet every dirty detail about anneliese wolff’s addiction…… is anyone else feeling kinda grossed out by the audacity of men right now??? 

@/racinginred

i don’t even LIKE anneliese wolff but what nate did is low. he literally detailed her overdoses?? resent her all you want, but that’s your sister, man. i bet toto is steaming at the ears rn

@/burnerformaria

she was seventeen and getting ripped apart by the tabloids meanwhile y’all ate it up. and now it’s happening again after she’s (allegedly) been clean for like a year???? disgusting!!

@/tracksidequeen

every few years the world remembers ana wolff (the daughter of toto & his first wife) exists and decides to crucify her again. it’s getting soooo old.

@/f1noir

sorry but if my sister OD’d and went to rehab i wouldn’t be going on a podcast and talking about it years later for clout. nate wolff is trash 

@/chaoticneutral

“loose cannon” is what they call women with complex mental disorders. men just get called “delicate.” funny how that works isn’t it. FUCK YOU NATE WOLFF

@/sundayslikethese

people act like anneliese wolff is the fucking devil for suffering from an addiction that millions of people also suffer with. and she was a kid when it all went down. it just doesn’t sit well with me idk

@/slowpitstop

ana wolff is trending again. do we really need to relitigate the addiction of a 22yo girl who hasn’t been in the spotlight for literal years?

—

Lando sat back in his seat, phone in hand, jaw tight. He scrolled, skimmed the noise, the headlines, the rehashing of pain that wasn’t his to touch.

And then, without thinking twice, he double-tapped a tweet.

@/f1noir

sorry but if my sister OD’d and went to rehab i wouldn’t be going on a podcast and talking about it years later for clout. nate wolff is trash 

The little heart turned red.

He locked his phone.

Didn’t say a word.

Just… made his alliance clear for the world to see. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[cryptotheism]

"Alchemy is the pre-Enlightenment version of scientific inquiry, and it resembles science in many respects: an alchemist observes phenomena in the natural world, hypothesizes a causal relationship to explain them, and performs an experiment to test their hypothesis. But here is where the resemblance ends: where the scientist must publish their results for them to count as science, the alchemists kept their findings to themselves. This meant that alchemists were able to trick themselves into thinking they were right, including about things they were very wrong about, like whether drinking mercury was a good idea. The failure to publish meant that every alchemist had to discover, for themself, that mercury was a deadly poison. Alchemists never figured out how to transform lead into gold, but they did convert the base metal of superstition into the precious metal of science by putting it through the crucible of disclosure and peer-review."

-Cory Doctorow

The stuff about alchemy having a pre-enlightenment scientific process is correct.

The publishing thing is just wrong. Alchemists published their results and techniques all the time, and regularly collaborated with their peers. That's what half these damn historical documents are.

Also, the toxic effects of metal fumes were well known by the 9th century. Abu Bakr Al-Razi emphatically writes about the need for proper ventilation in alchemical laboratories in the Sirr al Asrar, and that book was used as a manual for alchemists well into the enlightenment. Additionally, Al-Razi was just the first guy to actually write that down. Distilled mercury and sulphur fumes smell awful, and are often *physically painful* to inhale. Alchemists knew they were dangerous. It was the nature of the danger, and the techniques for mitigation wasn't fully understood.

I know that might not seem like an important difference, but it is. The problem wasn't that alchemists were secretive and never shared their knowledge with their peers. (They did.) It was because aggregate, instrumental, knowledge about the dangers of heavy metal poisoning simply had not been gathered yet.

It wasn't because the alchemists didn't understand mercury, poisons were poorly understood! In fact, it was an alchemist --our boy paracelsus-- who invented the concept of "the dose makes the poison"! Did he "trick himself into thinking he was right" when he tested similar doses of deadly poisons on different animals to gauge how concentration effected a biology? No!

Like who was Paracelsus supposed to appeal to? What panel of his peers could've reviewed his work? Who knew more about mercury poisoning than he did? Everyone else at the University of Württemberg was still reading Galen! What could he have done to make his experiments "count"? He was roundly rejected by the medical authorities of his time!

You could make the argument that alchemists had no centralized scientific authority, but that's a conditional claim! The Baghdad House of Wisdom effectively acted as that centralized body for jabirian era alchemists. Many Islamicate alchemists abandoned with the effusive language and mystical secrecy, because they damn well needed to teach people. The Sirr al Asrar, the "Secret Book of Secrets" is straight up a textbook written in very plain language.

Like, I know Cory is being pithy, and he's probably making some larger point whose context I am not seeing through this excerpt, but I reject the idea that alchemists were supersitious and secretive idiots that could've been proper scientists if they just submitted to peer review.

It is hard to collect knowledge! The methods underlying science have been present for quite a while, but the damn printing press is recent! It is time consuming and expensive to collect and disseminate expert knowledge when you don't have modern communication infrastructure!

[reachartwork]

NOW I'M THE [[It Burns! Ow! Stop! Help Me! It Burns!]] GUY! Deltarune and The Real

i won't be the first person to make these connections, I just want to put my pencil down to paper.

the real, the symbolic, the imaginary

for those unfamiliar with jacques lacan, here's the crash course: lacan divides human experience into three registers or orders.

the real isn't what we typically think of as "reality" - it's the raw, unprocessed, impossible-to-symbolize truth that exists beyond language. it's the terrifying void of pure existence, the thing that burns too bright to look at directly. it's not that the real is hidden; it's that our minds literally cannot process it without mediation. the real is not "the sky is blue", the real is "the photons", and you interpret blueness from it. it's impossible to access directly.

the symbolic is the realm of language, law, and social structures. it's how we organize and make sense of the real through words, systems, and meanings. it's the filter that makes reality bearable.

the imaginary is the domain of images and fantasy - our idealized self-image, our fantasies and illusions. it's where we construct narratives that help us navigate the symbolic while avoiding the real.

deltarune's nested realities

now look at deltarune's structure:

the real - the actual physical world where we, the players, exist

the creator level - gaster(?)/the survey program creator/the voice

the light world - hometown, the "normal" world of kris and toriel

the dark world - the fantasy realms created from objects

nested fantasies - games within games, like Mantle, noelle's various video games

this isn't just cute meta-fiction - it's a lacanian structure. each layer down is a further retreat from the painful brightness of the Realness above. it's no coincidence that the further "down" you go in deltarune, the more underground, the more shadowy things become (and the creepier).

the sun as the unmediated real

let's focus on the symbolism: in deltarune (and undertale), "realness" is consistently associated with light, particularly sunlight, while "fantasy" is associated with darkness and being underground.

the light world exists aboveground, in sunshine. the dark worlds exist below, in shadow. the bunker - which likely houses even deeper truths - is furthest underground of all, a black void of complete darkness.

in undertale, the human world is aboveground in sunlight, while monsters exist underground in the darkness of mt. ebott. humans have physical bodies made of matter; monsters have magical bodies that dissolve into dust when you breathe on them wrong. it's not just that humans are "stronger" than the monsters - in a very determinate sense, humans in undertale are "more real" than the monsters.

(this doesn't necessarily carry over to deltarune - i mostly just bring it up to show that this is a theme that he's been playing with and refining for quite some time. it shows up in the halloween hack too!)

this imagery isn't arbitrary. the sun functions as the ideal symbol of the lacanian real - it's the ultimate object that cannot be directly observed without causing pain and damage. you need protective filters (sunglasses, the symbolic order) to even look at it.

the horror of unmediated reality

this explains why characters who glimpse higher levels of reality break down. in spamton's dialogue, the japanese version specifically refers to burning from brightness, not acid. jevil's madness comes from seeing the world as a prison. their pain isn't from seeing something hidden - it's from seeing too clearly, without the necessary filters.

かってはタダのメール送信担当。いまは[[待ってまぶしすぎて目が痛いもうやめて]]担当death！ In the past, I was just in charge of sending emails. Now I'm in charge of [[Wait! It's too bright! My eyes hurt, stop!]]

(emphasis mine)

ralsei knows the truth too, but bears it with great difficulty. it's torturous to him. why? because as a darkner, he knows he's just a creation, an object given temporary life. he knows the light world is "more real" than he is, and that knowledge is almost unbearable.

the shadow crystal bearers are all people who understand better this distinction between the real and the fake. jevil understands that, because he is "not real", then there is no consequence. spamton instead strives for "realness" - to an extent, he understands that he is "a character", and instead strives to become "a person", like pinnochio. we don't know what the knight's deal is, but gerson, notably, has a liminal position as both a lightner and a darkner. i think that's why he can just throw his crystal in the desk and forget about it - he knows already that he's not real because he knows he's dead, and has already accepted and made peace with it. the crystal holds no allure because he knows that sunlight would dispel the illusion.

escape into darkness as protection

the dark fountains create dark worlds - spaces of fantasy and imagination where the burning light of reality is softened, diffused, made bearable. they're not just escape hatches; they're necessary psychological protections against the overwhelming intensity of the real.

this is why kris keeps creating them, why noelle retreats into them, why susie seeks refuge there. it's not simple escapism - it's a vital mechanism for psychological survival. "darker, yet darker" isn't just a mysterious phrase - it's a description of the essential movement away from the unbearable brightness of unfiltered reality.

game_change and deltarune's mechanics

even the game's mechanics reinforce this. the new "game_change" function toby implemented (allowing separate game instances to launch) mirrors the creation of dark worlds - separate, isolated fantasy spaces that provide relief from the continuity of a singular reality.

each chapter's dark world functions as a self-contained fantasy with its own rules, its own internal logic, yet they share connections. this mirrors how the imaginary order allows us to construct separate but interconnected fantasies that help us navigate the symbolic.

the trauma of awakening

awakening to higher levels of reality is consistently portrayed as traumatic in deltarune. look at how noelle reacts in the weird route when forced to confront the truth that her actions weren't just a dream. the realization leaves her devastated, because the protective fantasy has been stripped away.

that's why the narrative keeps emphasizing how characters create additional layers of fantasy - it's a psychological necessity. mantle exists within the dark world as yet another layer of abstraction and protection. it's fantasy within fantasy, a recursive structure that puts more and more filters between consciousness and the blinding real.

when spamton says that he wants to stand tall with kris and look into heaven, the "upness" of the heaven in question is a necessary part of what he's saying. "the real" exists "above". (this is also why i think "the angel's heaven" is the real world that you and i live in, and the game will end with us being "banished" from hometown, but i won't put too hard a stake in there in case i'm wrong). heaven is above the clouds, where the sun is. when he stands tall, that means he wants to access more realness than his position as a darkner gives him access to.

conclusion: the necessity of fantasy

ultimately, deltarune isn't condemning fantasy or escapism - it's showing how necessary these mediating structures are. we can't directly confront the real; we need the symbolic and imaginary orders to survive.

spamton exists in microcosm. i'm sure you would react the same way if someone forced you to stare into the sun, too.

[allsteddie]

Married Steddie where their 6-year-old daughter has no idea her papa Eddie is famous.

They adopted Hailey when she was just a baby. Most of her earlier years were spent on the road with her daddy Steve and papa Eddie, as Corroded Coffin was still on tour and pretty active. She was too young to understand any of it, though.

When Hailey was around 4, the band agreed to go on hiatus for a while. Jeff was having problems with his wife, Gareth’s mother was going through a hard time after being diagnosed with breast cancer, and Hailey was about to start school and wouldn’t be able to follow her papa anymore. With all that in mind, everybody agreed it was best to take a break and focus on their own families for the moment. When things got better, they could get together again and work on their new project; there was no rush.

So Eddie went back to Indianapolis with Steve and Hailey and left the persona Eddie Munson behind for the time being. At first, Eddie thought it would be hard for him. He was so used to being on the road, that he thought he would feel restless at home, but he was so wrong. Because when you have a four-year-old at home, there’s no such thing as a boring day. And since their house had a studio, Eddie also spent a lot of time working on his own solo material, something he never had the opportunity to do when the band was still on tour.

He didn’t really have any plans in mind when he started this project. The only thing he knew was that he wanted it to be different from anything he had already done with Corroded Coffin; something more intimate and Hailey-friendly. He really wanted his daughter to see him perform, something not really possible when you’re the lead singer of a metal band and your kid is barely four and still easily overwhelmed by loud noises. He was gonna change that with his solo album.

Eddie spent the next two years trying to be the best papa he could for his little girl, and working on his solo project when he had time. By the time Hailey was six, Eddie was finally satisfied with how the songs turned out and the album was ready to be released.

It was a Saturday night when Eddie stepped on a stage again. And this time was different, this time his family was right there, watching him from one of the stadium boxes, as Eddie faced a crowd for the first time in almost three years. And although Eddie could not see them from the stage, knowing Steve and Hailey were there made the whole experience so much more special.

He played all twelve songs from the new album, plus acoustic versions of some of Corroded Coffins most popular songs. The crowd sang along with him the whole time and screamed whenever he interacted with them. It was nice getting to do what he loved after such a long pause, thrilling even.

When the concert ended and Eddie bid the crowd goodnight, Hailey and Steve were already waiting for him backstage. He barely had time to put down his acoustic guitar before Hailey was throwing herself in his arms, squealing and giggling and wide-awake despite the late hour. Her pretty hazel eyes were sparkling with excitement.

“Papa, you’re famous!” she said, awed, as her papa picked her up.

“I am?”

“Yes! Everybody was screaming your name.”

“No way! Did you scream too?”

“I did.”

Eddie smiled, endeared by the honest reaction. That’s why he loved children, especially this child. You could always count on their honesty.

“Did you tell papa what you told me earlier?” Steve chirped in, rounding the coffee table separating them so he could drop a kiss on Eddie’s lips.

“What?”

“I wanna be famous like you when I grow up,” Hailey stated proudly, her little hands resting on her papa’s face as she smiled big enough to show her missing front teeth. “That’s so cool.”

Eddie raised his brows. “I thought you were gonna be a zookeeper.”

Rolling her eyes, the little girl huffed. “If I’m famous, people will know me and they’ll let me play with the alligators whenever I want. Then I don’t really need to be a zookeeper anymore,” she argued, as if that was the obvious conclusion to the matter and his papa was so silly for not seeing that.

“Oh, right, of course. How foolish of me.”

Steve took Hailey, so Eddie could change and wrap up whatever business he still had with the other musicians and staff before they left. It was way past Hailey’s bedtime, but the excitement of seeing her papa perform had yet to run out. She was still awake and babbling non-stop when they left the stadium and made their way to the car, holding both her dads’ hands.

They were reaching the car when the little girl stopped, forcing both men to stop with her.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Steve asked once he noticed his daughter thoughtful expression.

“If papa is famous,” she said, big eyes staring at her parents full of hope. “Does that mean he can ask the zoo people to let me play with the alligators?”

The question was so unexpected it rendered Steve speechless. Eddie would never understand his daughter’s fascination with alligators.

“Sorry, kid, but you have to be at least twelve for that. Zoo rules,” he said, doing his best not to laugh at his little girl disappointment.

Hailey’s pout was the cutest thing. “That’s so not fair.”

[aeriikiesss]

HWANG IN-HO X READER HCS

WARNING: MDNI, smut (18+), degradation kink, praise kink, breeding kink, pet names, mask-on sex, marking

A/N: lowk ovulating sb hahashshbsbsbs #needthat enjoy some of these crappy hcs that i’ve made tonight…also u can tell which kink is my fav by the way i wrote them..

SFW

hwang in-ho, a man who expresses his love by doing things for you without being asked—fixing things, arranging protection, ensuring your life runs smoothly. he might leave a clean towel for you after your shower, stock your favorite drink in the fridge, or silently take your car to get serviced. he doesn’t say “I love you” often—but if he’s doing things to lighten your load, that’s him saying it in his own way.

hwang in-ho, a man who isn’t the one for public affection, but he shows his love subtly: leaving a warm drink by your side while you’re working, fixing something broken without telling you, or remembering small details like your favorite scent. or even leaves you your favorite flowers, and puts a note, “take care of yourself while im busy.” while he’s out doing his job out there in the island.

hwang in-ho, a man who is a very light sleeper, being the frontman means long nights. he’s used to being awake while the world sleeps. his ideal peaceful moment is lying beside you, watching you sleep, when no one is watching him for once. he’d always wake up earlier than your usual schedule, sometimes being at midnight.

hwang in-ho, a man who you’ll rarely get long stretches of time with him, but when you do, he gives you undivided attention. he’ll sit beside you in silence, hand resting lightly on your back, just enjoying your presence without needing to fill the air with words. occasionally, he’ll invite you to his private quarters to listen to music or read together—an intimate, vulnerable window into his world.

hwang in-ho, a man who isn’t very good at comforting but tries his best for you, he’d always listen to your life rants and always leaves out sweet nothings in your ear, peppering you with soft kisses on the face—rubbing your hair with comfort and patting your back to calm you down.

hwang in-ho, a man who doesn’t get jealous easily, but he’s vigilant. If someone crosses a line with you, even subtly, they’ll find themselves suddenly transferred or mysteriously removed. He protects what’s his silently but fiercely.

NSFW (18+) !!

hwang in-ho, a man whose the type to strip you down psychologically as much as physically. his version of degradation isn’t loud or theatrical—it’s methodical, delivered in a cold, measured voice that cuts deep because it’s calm. he tells you how desperate you are, how easy you are to ruin, how all it takes is his voice and his cock to reduce you into a mess. and he says it while watching you fall apart, knowing you crave the humiliation.

hwang in-ho, a man even at his filthiest, he’s still precise. he doesn’t only break you—he builds you, piece by piece, with praise that lands like gold. he tells you you’re perfect when you obey. he calls you good when your body takes him fully. and he praises your need, your cries, your stretch, your surrender, and your body.

hwang in-ho, a man who calls you “my girl” constantly. it’s possessive, final, like he’s stating a fact. he’ll growl it into your ear while you’re bent over and stuffed full, or whisper it when you’re curled up in his bed, raw and spent.

he uses “baby” only when he’s edging toward losing control—when his thrusts get sloppy, when your whimpers drive him to the brink. “slut” and “whore” only come out during heavy degradation scenes, and he says them with complete authority, never playfully. thise words don’t leave his lips unless he knows you want to be called that, and when he says them, it’s laced with cruel pleasure.

“good girl” is reserved for moments when you’re obedient, on your knees, mouth open, or holding still while he pushes deeper. he says it like a reward—but one you have to earn every time.

and then there’s “mine.” not shouted. not muttered. said with finality. often while his cum leaks out of you. often when he’s still inside you, filling you a second time. often while you cry from overstimulation, clinging to him, and he won’t let go.

hwang in-ho, a man who doesn’t just like coming inside you—he needs to. There’s no pullout. no condom. no second-guessing. once he’s inside, he’s fucking for release, and when he finishes, he finishes deep—with full, deliberate intention to leave his cum in you and watch it stay.

he fucks like he wants to get you pregnant—even if that isn’t on the table. That instinct is there. he grips your hips harder when he’s close. he slams in deeper. he groans louder. he tells you he wants to fill you, ruin you, stretch you so wide that nothing else can compare. he leaves you gaping and dripping, and he’ll push it back in with his fingers if you start leaking.

he loves watching your belly twitch as he finishes inside, hand pressing down on your stomach to feel the way his cock stretches you out from the inside. if he’s feeling particularly unhinged, he’ll keep you full—stuffed with his cum—while you lie on your back, legs up, held open for gravity to do its job.

hwang in-ho, a man who fucks you with the mask on more often than not. it’s his shield, his power. the anonymity excites him—and terrifies you in the most arousing way. the voice modulator gives his commands a distorted weight, and the blank black of his visor makes it impossible to read him. you don’t know if he’s watching you, or studying you, or just waiting for your body to break.

hwang in-ho, a man who bites into your shoulder when you’re about to come. he digs his nails into your hips when he’s slamming into you from behind. he sucks hickeys onto your throat so deep that they turn dark and sore. he bruises the insides of your thighs with the press of his fingers alone. and when he finishes inside you, he likes to leave a handprint on your ass to match the cum pooling between your legs.

[lcvecove]

A LAKE HOUSE MORNING ⋆ JH86

how I think early mornings at the hughes lake house would go with each brother. jack’s version <3 jack’s had me in the biggest choke hold for months now. I think i’m converting to a jack girly 😪

read: quinn’s version and luke’s version

you hear the clatter of pans and cutlery as you make your way down the stairs of the lake house, sunlight streaming in through windows all over the house that quinn must have opened earlier, just as he does every morning.

you follow the noise all the way to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the entryway, watching your boyfriend as he makes breakfast.

he was standing in front of the stove, wearing a pair of swim shorts, the blue shade coincidentally matching the blue bikini you were currently wearing, covered by one of his shirts.

you stand there for a good five minutes, admiring the way his back muscles strain as he moves stuff around. when he eventually turns around he jumps back briefly, eyes widening as he sees you.

“shit baby. make some noise will you?” he says, putting a hand on his chest and you giggle at his slightly breathless tone.

“sorry, I was just enjoying the view” you tease, letting your eyes run over his chest that was now turned to you.

“fuck,” he says, the word coming out soft and a little choked up as he returns the favour and lets his eyes run up and down your figure. he suddenly couldn’t handle the sight of you standing there all perfect, bikini strings peaking out the top of an old shirt of his that you cut the collar off of. hair still slightly messy from sleep. he rubs that palm that was still over his chest a few times, as if that could help ease whatever emotion was currently overwhelming him.

“what?” you ask softly, padding over to him and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, your face smooshing into the centre of his chest, breathing him in.

“I’m just happy you’re here,” he mumbles against your head, pressing kisses on your temple.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you tease, genuinely just making a joke but jack never took it well when you or anyone else tried to undermine what he felt for you.

“I don’t,” he promises, pecking your nose softly. “this was the first year I was seriously contemplating not coming to the lake house. if you said no, I would’ve went wherever you went. and that’s a big deal for me you know, with how little time I get to see quinn” he says and your heart speeds up, both at his words and at the way his hands sneak under your shirt, resting on your bare waist.

“I’m glad I decided to come here. it’s been my favourite summer by far,” you admit smiling and jack can’t help but mirror it.

“really?” he asks, his tone hopeful, as if he’s been worrying about your fun the whole summer. needing to be reassured that you’ve been having a good time with him, and his friends, his brothers, in his house.

“really,” you confirm with a nod and he lets out a happy little giggle that you want to bottle up and replay every second of every day.

“we’re matching,” he mumbles, tugging at the strings of your swim suit. “I like that”

before you can reply the annoying blare of the fire alarm goes off and jack winces, turning around and cursing as he removes a pan containing now crispy-burnt pancake from the stovetop.

you can’t help but giggle as he takes an oven mitt and waves it under the fire alarm hoping it will quiet down.

“thing is so sensitive I swear,” jack mutters as it finally stops. “wanna go out for breakfast?”

“what about your brothers?” you ask biting your lip as you contemplate

“we can bring them something back. quinn ran to the store, and luke was definitely woken up by that alarm so it’s in our best interest to leave the house, seriously,” he states, grabbing his keys and you laugh softly. jack’s little brother was definitely not a morning person.

he drags you out the front door just as you hear a muffled “jack what the fuck!” coming from upstairs.

“I don’t even have pants on” you giggle as he pulls you and opens the passenger seat door of his car

“I don’t have a shirt” he shrugs sending you a cheeky smile, “we’ll go through a drive through don’t worry” he continues, kissing your cheek before running over to the drivers side.

best summer by far.

[thatonegrimm]

How about a ai hoshino! reader from oshi no ko

She just as famous as the saja boys, and huntrix,

little idea that I came up with her dark eyes, her reflection of her demon powers, and she only feeds off the energy of the crowd instead of actually taking souls.

Basically, she takes the energy of the adrenaline within their souls. She doesn’t actually take them or eat them, but she feeds them like it’s energy and can actually taste them. It doesn’t really affect any of her fans. They just feel really drained and drowsy.

I got this inspiration by idol yoasobi

Literally, “your idol” and “idol” are kind of the same with the same beginnings and enchanting and all sorts of things, but when I was watching the video, I saw her kind of changed to a dark outfit version and I kind of thought

why not make her have a demon form because it would fit her And her eyes could shift a black eyes when she goes into a demon form which makes her unique

Basically, I just think both of the idol songs one from my movie. One from a anime show are kind of the same but this is basically what I want. I want them to meet the famous who is a half demon just like Rumi but she embraces her demon side. She still grows up with the same backstory, but she kind of embrace it when she sings her songs.

I could go on forever, but this would probably take too long to read so

Please do consider this as a future possibility if you cannot write it and thank you for taking the time to even read this and you can totally come up with how the boys would initially react to her whether or not the type is boyfriend girlfriend, etc. you come up with what they should be doing

 Thanks for your request! I hope it meets your expectations. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x ai hoshino!Reader

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

They call her a goddess onstage. A monster off it.

A half-demon idol with eyes darker than shadows and a smile bright enough to blind, she doesn’t take souls—she drinks the adrenaline right out of a crowd's chest.

Her voice wraps around people like silk. Her gaze holds like gravity. When she sings, her audience leaves not broken… but drained. Lightheaded. Emotionally spent. Like something inside them bloomed too fast and burned out.

But they always come back.

Because what she gives in return is unforgettable.

She doesn’t hide her demon half. She doesn't flinch from it. She performs with it. Becomes it. Every note, every move, every carefully crafted look down the bridge of her nose is a love letter to the chaos she was born from.

She isn’t cursed.

She’s chosen.

And now, she’s famous enough to stand next to the Saja Boys. Maybe even outshine them.

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

🧿 Jinu 

Jinu read your profile like he was preparing for a mission.

Stage clips, interviews, social media—all mental notes about power, presence, and possible risks.

Then he saw you in person during rehearsal, bathed in crimson light, eyelids heavy like you were carrying some secret pain.

And every plan he made evaporated.

“You… resonate strangely,” he said later, standing awkwardly outside your dressing room.

You tilted your head, eyes sharp.

“You’re the kind who tries to fix everyone,” you said softly. “I can taste that exhaustion.”

He blinked.

You smiled—soft but knowing.

Jinu cleared his throat and excused himself.

Later, he told the others, “It’s strategic to observe her from a distance.”

No one bought it.

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

💪 Abby 

Abby didn’t hesitate to approach you.

He shook your hand like you were old friends, eyes bright.

“Hey! You were incredible! That note? Felt it in my bones. You okay though? That kind of energy—do you need water?”

You blinked, caught off guard by how genuine he was.

“You’re… not intimidated?”

He grinned. “Why would I be? You’re strong. Cool, too. Also, your eyeliner? Perfect. Waterproof?”

You didn’t feed off fear, but Abby’s loyalty tasted like warm cinnamon and comfort.

He saved your signed photo in his phone, calling it “battle inspiration.”

He meant it.

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

📚 Mystery 

Mystery stood still the first time he saw you.

Backstage, you hummed softly in the shadows without looking up.

“You’re the one who stalks in shadows,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

You smiled faintly.

“Your aura folds. I like that.”

His eyes narrowed, one hand twitching like it reached for a hidden blade.

You brushed past him, close enough to feel the cold.

“Don’t worry. I don’t bite.”

“You don’t have to,” he murmured.

The air stayed cold after you left.

Later, you found a folded page in your makeup case—a poem in precise, strange script, unsigned:

“I saw you burn, and I stayed.”

You kept it.

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

💋 Romance

Romance met you at an industry showcase and decided it was fate.

You didn’t meet his gaze.

You didn’t have to.

On stage, you were both promise and threat, and he stared, mesmerized.

Later, at the bar, he cornered you with a flute and a grin that could wreck worlds.

“If you weren’t real, I’d have to invent you.”

You looked him over slowly.

“If you invented me, I’d still leave you on read.”

He nearly laughed. Not offended—delighted.

“I hope you do.”

The next day, he rewrote the bridge of a song just because your name rhymed with something interesting.

He calls you “his muse with fangs.”

Everyone else calls it a problem.

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

🔥 Baby

Baby watched your comeback from the wings, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Your voice wasn’t loud or flashy.

But you held the crowd in a chokehold.

He could feel their energy flow toward you like flipping a switch.

“She’s doing something,” he muttered.

No one listened.

Later, you passed him in the hallway, eyes drifting over him—lazy, curious.

“You run hot,” you said.

He didn’t blink.

“You should see me focused.”

You smirked. He didn’t.

But his ears flushed red.

The next time he trained, he snapped a sparring dummy in half.

Jinu said nothing. Just nodded.

Baby never flirted.

He never flinched.

But he never missed your live streams.

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

M-List

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Okay, so:

Firstly, I'm not sure you do need to be in Wales to answer this, actually. The final page asked me if I live in Wales or not, and experimentally clicking "No" did not make it shut down. Maybe someone external give it a go? See if it lets you.

The format is 15 questions (you don't have to answer all of them), which are basically asking if you think the new anti-bullying guidance is sufficient. The draft documents are provided. This includes the Easy Read Version, which is a summary written in simple English with uncluttered large text and some pretty photos for accessibility.

Obviously, if you want to answer all 15 questions, go ahead! But the important ones are number 5, number 12, and in my opinion number 13. You can simply tick the "Yes, good" box for each, but if you're minded to write a comment in:

Five is about the protected characteristics being included, and the guidance is currently explicit in including gender expression and gender identity in that (contrary to the UK government.) Please praise them for this inclusion. You can, of course, also criticise if you think something is excluded or insufficiently included; but, please explicitly say it's good that they are including gender identity/expression in the guidelines. I personally also used this box to give feedback on their terminology definitions in the main document, which I overwhelmingly thought were very very good. But obviously: optional

Twelve is about gender-neutral toilets, and whether or not you support the 'Education (School Premises) Regulations 1999' being amended to say that schools may provide gender-neutral toilets in addition to sex-separated toilets. Note that this is not saying that schools MUST provide GN toilets; only that they can if they want. There are a lot of talking points that you can include here, but I encourage you to focus on how much safer gender-neutral single-stall toilets are than their multi-stalled gendered counterparts. I personally included how much bullying and harassment occurred in the girls' toilets when I was in school thanks to the stall doors not reaching all the way up and down, and how little privacy there is if you're having a hygiene-related emergency. I also included that gender-neutral toilets are safer for everyone, and there is no counterpoint that isn't purely about trying to create a hostile environment for queer kids.

Thirteen is about the Welsh language, and I think it would be helpful to talk about linguistic oppression and bullying. For Welsh, but also other languages. If you do this, please include how many non-English speakers are pressured to use English socially and have their own language stigmatised. However, you should also include that talking about someone in their presence in a language they don't understand is also bullying.

Alternatively, of course, you can ignore all of that, and write whatever the hell you want lol.

Respond positively to this pro-trans schools policy for Wales

From my local WhatsApp group:

The Welsh Government are doing a consultation on its pro-trans schools policy. UK Gender Critical activists are upset and are trying to brigade it to push it in an anti-trans direction. Please fill out the consultation to try to reinforce the pro-trans stance. https://www.gov.wales/rights-respect-equality-anti-bullying-guidance

The deadline is 31 July 2025.

NB: Please only respond if you live in Wales! If you don't but want to help, please boost this and share it on other social networks. Thank you. ✨

[rickybobbydan]

Behind Closed Doors

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Oscar's developed quite the reputation for being emotionless. But underneath it all, there's someone who does see that Oscar's just a private person. He's not a robot, he has a heart, and his heart has your name written all over it.

Themes: Fluff

Going into summer break had been long overdue. For most drivers, it was a necessary pause, a moment to step away from the relentless rhythm of the calendar, the back-to-back races, the constant travel, the ever-present pressure. It was a time to cool off, to breathe, to remember who they were outside of the cockpit. Oscar could have flown home to Melbourne to see his family, grounding himself in the quiet familiarity of where it all began. He could have stayed tucked away in Monaco, buried in solitude and silence, pretending that the season hadn’t seeped into every crevice of his mind. Instead, he had come here, to the Amalfi Coast, because you asked him to. You told him he needed a change of scenery, that the sun and sea would do him good, and because it was you, he didn’t argue.

The world knew Oscar Piastri as composed beyond his years. In the paddock, they spoke of his quiet confidence, his unshakable calm. On social media, he was dubbed the robot in McLaren orange, the driver who never cracked under pressure (we don't talk about Alpine or Silverstone), whose pulse supposedly stayed flat even during last-lap battles at 300 kilometers per hour. They made jokes about his emotionless interviews, his stoic podium appearances, the way he barely flinched during chaos. But the version of Oscar that the world saw was only a fraction of who he really was.

It wasn’t the Oscar you had come to know years ago, tucked away behind schoolbooks and shy glances at a campus neither of you quite fit into. It wasn’t the boy who stayed up too late helping you study, who passed you scribbled notes in class, or shared quiet silences with you during lunch because words were never necessary to feel close to him. It most certainly wasn’t the man now lying beside you on a sun-warmed terrace, salt still clinging to his skin, hair messy from the sea, eyes softer than the world had ever known him to be.

The world never saw Oscar when his guard was down. They didn’t know the sound of his laugh, sharp and rare, but always genuine when it broke through the quiet. They didn’t know how much he cared, how deeply he felt things even when he didn’t always have the words to express them. They didn’t know the weight he carried when the results didn’t go his way or how long he sat with disappointment, even when he masked it behind carefully chosen words. But you did. You had always known and maybe that was the difference.

When the noise of the season faded, when the cameras were gone and the team radios silent, what remained was the boy who had let you in long before the rest of the world knew his name. And here, beneath a golden sun that made everything seem softer, quieter, more real, he wasn’t Oscar Piastri, McLaren driver and championship leader. He was just Oscar. He was yours.

Under a sun covering everything in gold over the Amalfi Coast, where Oscar’s curls were still damp and full of salt, the world couldn’t see the Oscar you knew, padding barefoot across the villa he had rented out, humming and singing quietly to a playlist he had chosen for “background noise”, so he said. The world would never know Oscar like you did, especially when he looked at you the way he was right now, like he was finally taking a breath after months of holding it in.

“Found you,” Oscar said as he stepped out onto the sun-drenched terrace, the hem of his swim trunks still damp and a striped towel slung lazily around his neck. The golden light clung to him, softening the sharp edges the world usually saw.

You looked up from your book, blinking at him through the glare. Your sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of your nose, revealing the relaxed curve of your expression. “I wasn’t hiding,” you said, though your tone made it sound more like a challenge than a defense.

He grinned and dropped onto the lounge chair beside you with the kind of ease that only showed itself when he was far away from pit walls and strategy meetings. “No, but you always find your way out here when you need space from me.”

You snorted, dog-earing your page. “I just needed space from the snoring. Honestly, you’re worse than a jet engine.”

Oscar gasped, dramatically clutching his chest as he leaned back, as though the insult had pierced him. “That’s slander,” he said. “You can’t speak about national treasures like that.”

You tilted your head and pretended to consider it, lips tugging into a smile. “You mean the snoring, or you?”

“Both,” he replied without missing a beat, his eyes glinting with mischief.

And just like that, you were laughing, real, full-bodied laughter that spilled into the salty air and made your chest ache in the best way. Oscar watched you with the kind of smile he reserved only for you. The one that softened the seriousness of his face and made him look simply like your boyfriend. The one who burned the toast that morning because he got distracted watching you dance around the kitchen. The one who had valiantly tried to teach you how to paddle board earlier that afternoon and had ended up in the water more times than you did. The one who kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

He reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “You’re relaxed,” he murmured, the words warm and quiet like the breeze that swept in from the coast. “That’s rare.”

You nudged his thigh with your foot, playful and fond. “Says the guy who sleeps with one eye open during race weekends.”

He chuckled, gaze softening as it settled on you. “It’s nice though, isn’t it? Not having a schedule. Not being pulled in ten different directions. Just…this. Just you and me.”

You nodded, the weight of his words settling over you like a second sun. “It is. It’s like you’re really you here. Away from the cameras and the crowd and the car.”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He just reached for your hand, fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt both familiar and impossibly new.

“I wish people could see this side of you,” you said, voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “The way you are when no one’s watching.”

His thumb moved slowly over the back of your hand, tracing soft circles into your skin. “They don’t need to,” he said, and though he spoke gently, his voice was steady with conviction. “You do. That’s enough for me.”

Something in your chest fluttered at that, and it wasn’t fleeting, it stayed. He wasn’t just in love with you. He was safe with you. Honest. Unfiltered.

He leaned in then, not with urgency, but with certainty, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. Each one felt like sunlight, slow, warm, lingering. “I love you,” he whispered, and it wasn’t dramatic or performative. It was simple. Like breathing. Like truth.

You smiled against his skin. “I love you more.”

“Impossible,” he replied, already settling back into the cushions with you pressed into his side. “I’ve got a championship-level heart, remember?”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there were no team briefings, no tire strategies, no qualifying simulations echoing in the back of his mind. There were no headlines to chase or podiums to stand on.

There was just this: two people tangled in love, the hum of summer all around them, and a boy named Oscar who finally allowed himself to be seen, not as a driver, not as a prodigy, but as a person.

Off the record. Exactly where he wanted to be.

Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev , @monsterslivinginadream , @cryingtoteenwolf , @roderickstrong , @likeformula1 , @maddyw-223

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Fourteen

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Oscar Piastri the man that you are...

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The silence in the room was thick—real and heavy, like fog that clung to the skin.

Ana sat on the edge of the sofa, knees drawn up, hands fisted in the sleeves of her hoodie. The soft ticking of the clock marked the seconds between breaths. Toto stood by the fireplace, unmoving. Susie sat across from her, a mug of tea cooling in her lap.

No one said anything for a while.

She’d expected immediate yelling. A lecture. Maybe a slammed door. But instead, there was only this quiet—suffocating in its stillness.

Toto finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate, like he was weighing every syllable. “I would like to know what has been going on, Ana. All of it.”

Ana swallowed. Her throat was dry, and her palms were damp, but her bones felt cold.

She’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. In bathrooms. In rehab. On long walks where she spoke the truth to no one. She’d cried through it. Laughed once. But none of those versions felt anything like this.

“I need you to promise,” she said, voice thin, “that you won’t hate me.”

Toto looked at her for a long time. “You are my daughter. I could never hate you.”

Her stomach twisted.

She looked down at her sleeve and picked at a loose thread. “I lied,” she said.

Neither of them moved. She almost wished they would—flinch, blink, something.

“I’m not a year sober,” she said quietly. “It’s… only been eight months. Nine on Wednesday.”

Susie exhaled softly, but still said nothing.

“There were relapses,” Ana went on. “Two of them. One was at two months. I thought I could manage a glass of champagne at a dinner party. But it turned into three shots of vodka in the bathroom before dessert. And then I found a gram in an old coat.”

Her chest ached—not from the shame, but from how easy it had been.

Toto sat down slowly across from her, elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable.

“The second time was worse,” Ana said, voice wobbling. “Four months in. I was alone. You were both in England. I had a panic attack, and I didn’t call anyone. I called my old dealer instead. He brought me everything I needed.” She paused, then lowered her voice further. “That’s when I needed stitches. I told you I fell down the stairs.”

Susie’s hands tightened around her mug, but she didn’t speak.

“I blacked out,” Ana whispered. “Smashed a glass. Woke up on the bathroom floor. There was blood everywhere. I’d cut my head somehow—I don’t even remember how. I called Lewis because I knew he was in Monaco; he’d posted something on Instagram.”

Toto leaned back slowly. Still silent. Still listening.

“I was so scared you’d give up on me,” she whispered. “That you’d be ashamed of me. That maybe you wouldn’t let me see Jack anymore because I was a liability again. And I don’t think I could’ve survived that.”

The silence stretched, unbearably long.

When Toto finally spoke, it was quiet. “I would never be ashamed of you. But I will always be disappointed when you lie.”

She nodded, throat thick. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You could have died, Ana,” Susie said softly.

“I know.”

“You almost did,” she added, voice trembling. “So many times, honey.”

“I know.” She sniffled.

Susie placed her mug carefully on the table, then reached across to take Ana’s hand. Her palm was warm. Steady.

Toto watched them, his eyes searching her face. “Who is this… Lucian?”

Ana blinked. “He’s… Jules’ brother.”

“And what does he do?”

She hesitated.

She could lie. Say nightclub. Say private venue. Say anything but the truth. But hadn’t that been the problem?

“He owns a club,” she said. “A private one. Here in Monaco.”

Toto’s brow lifted. “A nightclub?”

“Not exactly.” Her stomach turned. Her cheeks flushed. The room felt warmer. “It’s… um. It’s an adult club.”

Silence.

Heavy. Unblinking.

Ana could feel her father’s stare.

Susie tilted her head slightly, face unreadable—but not unkind.

“I know how that sounds,” Ana said quickly. “But it’s not seedy or dangerous. It’s… incredibly safe. There are rules. No drugs. Everyone’s vetted. Lucian’s scary strict about safety.”

“And that’s where you’ve been spending your time?” Toto asked, slowly.

She nodded. “Sometimes. It’s called Valhalla.”

Toto closed his eyes. “Of course it is.”

Ana groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’m trying not to,” he said tightly. “But it’s proving difficult.”

“I don’t drink there,” she said. “Ever. And Lucian keeps an eye on me. Jules too. He doesn’t let anyone near us if they’re a problem. It’s one of the only places where I feel like I can actually breathe.”

Susie’s lips tightened into a line.

Toto looked at her again. “And… Piastri?”

Her heart fluttered. Ana looked down. “We met there. At Valhalla.”

“I see.”

“He wasn’t—Lucian knew him. Thought we might get along, so he introduced us. And I recognised him, obviously, but—he didn’t recognise me. Didn’t know who I was. Didn’t know how damaged I was. How terrible I’d been…” She trailed off, throat closing. “I hated lying to him,” she said. “But I thought—I didn’t think I deserved the way I felt around him. That happiness.”

Susie’s eyes were glassy now.

Ana’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s so… kind.”

Toto let out a breath. “You care for him.”

“I do.”

“And he knows everything?”

“Yes. Now he does. I told him last night.”

Toto raised an eyebrow. “And he was kind to you? He acted like a man?”

Ana nodded. “Yes, papa.”

He didn’t speak. Not for a long time.

When she finally looked up, she braced for anger. Or disappointment. Or distance.

But Toto only looked tired. A little sad.

“You are still learning how to live in your own skin,” he said at last. “And that’s hard. Harder than most people understand.”

Ana’s throat tightened.

“But I will always want you safe,” he added. “Even when you push me away. Even when you lie.”

“I don’t want to lie anymore,” she said, voice breaking.

“Then don’t,” he said firmly. “Start here. Start now.”

She nodded. Swallowed hard.

“I’ll try,” she said. “I am trying.”

Susie squeezed her hand. “No more lies. No more secrets.”

“I promise.” Ana breathed. And meant it.

—

Ana sat on the windowsill in her bedroom, knees hugged to her chest, forehead resting against the cool pane of glass.

The house was quiet. Still. The kind of silence that pressed in around her temples and made her skin itch.

She could still hear Nate’s voice—loud, broken, shaking with rage. The way he’d looked at her like she’d sicced Lucian on him like a dog. Like she’d wanted him to be beaten up. Orchestrated it.

She hadn’t.

But she understood why it happened.

Lucian didn’t lose control. Not like that. He wasn’t impulsive. He wasn’t theatrical. He calculated. Measured. Watched from behind those tall, icy walls and made his decisions cold and clean.

And the only time he ever let those walls crack open was when someone crossed a line they couldn’t come back from.

Nate hadn’t just crossed a line.

He’d lit a match in a room soaked with gasoline.

He’d humiliated her. Publicly. Turned her sobriety into a punchline. Reduced years of struggle, of pain, of clawing her way back from the brink—to content. A comedy skit with commentary. Something strangers could laugh about in their group chats.

Lucian had seen it. That meant Jules had too. Probably everyone at Valhalla by now.

And Lucian had done what no one else had.

He’d done what he thought might make it end.

So no—Ana wasn’t angry at him.

She wasn’t surprised, either.

But she was sitting in the aftershock of it, her chest hollow, her throat raw, because Nate was still her brother. And even if he hated her—even if some part of him always had—she didn’t want to be the reason someone hurt him like that.

She hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

Her phone was warm in her hand. She kept unlocking it, then locking it again.

Nate’s name stared back at her. Like a cliff’s edge. Like a dare. Like a door she could walk through if she wanted to get sucker-punched with more hurt than what she already wore like a second skin.

She could send a text. Say something simple.

“I’m sorry.”

Or—

“I didn’t ask Lucian to do that.”

But even in her head, it rang false. Not because it wasn’t technically true—but because it didn’t change anything. Didn’t undo what was already done.

What she really wanted to say was messier.

“I didn’t ask him to hurt you. But I’m not sorry he did.”

She closed the messaging app.

Whatever Nate needed to feel better, it wasn’t going to come from her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And anyway—she needed to see Lucian.

She needed to look him in the eye, in that low-lit, pulsing office of his, and tell him she understood. That she knew what it meant for him to act like that. That she got it—what it cost him, what it meant. That she wasn’t mad.

That maybe—God help her—part of her had felt safe for the first time in years when she found out what he’d done.

But she didn’t want to walk into Valhalla alone.

Not tonight. Not like this.

Too raw. Too fragile.

She scrolled to Oscar’s name. Hovered.

He might be busy. Might have plans. But he’d told her—anytime. And even the thought of sitting next to him in the car, quiet, maybe holding his hand, made something in her chest settle.

She pressed call.

It rang twice.

“Hey, pretty girl,” came his voice—soft, warm. Familiar in a way that made her ribs ache.

“Hi,” she said, voice quiet. “Are you busy?”

“Never too busy for you.” A pause. “You okay?”

She hesitated. Picked at a fraying thread on her sleeve. “Do you think… that you could maybe take me to Valhalla tonight?”

There was a pause. Not long, but she could feel the weight of it. “Baby—”

“I don’t want to scene,” she cut in, her cheeks flaming. “Or anything like that. I’m not in the right place for anything like that. I just… I need to talk to Lucian.”

“To Lucian?” he echoed. There was a question buried under the words.

“Yeah.” Her throat tightened. “In person.”

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” She dragged a breath into her lungs. “I mean—yeah. My brother… he was at the house this morning when I woke up. He’s got a black eye and a split lip. Lucian did it.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Well. That’s one thing off my mind.”

Ana blinked. “What—you wanted to hit him?”

“Not me, exactly,” Oscar said dryly. “But Lando’s been making some… let’s say concerning comments. Something about knowing where Nate hangs out. Mentioned brass knuckles.”

Ana laughed, shocked. “No. No way. Little Lando Norris really said that?”

Oscar chuckled. “Little?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling despite herself. “I met him a few times. Back when… everything.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “He mentioned it. Go on—tell me.”

Ana curled a little tighter against the window, her smile softening into something sadder. “He was short. Still is, I guess. A little shorter than me. But so kind, you know? Back then, when I was at my worst... the other drivers were polite, mostly. But you could see it in their eyes—they thought I was radioactive. Lando never did.”

Oscar stayed quiet on the line.

“He used to let me tag along at parties. Ask him stupid questions. Follow him and his mates around like some stray. He was never embarrassed to be seen with me. And he always—always—fell asleep in the weirdest places. Like curled up on a beanbag in someone’s kitchen, snoring.” She paused, swallowing. “He didn’t realise how dark it got. How bad the people around us really were. He was soft. Too soft. I used to pay people off to leave him alone. He didn’t even know. He was an easy target.” Her voice caught. “We were almost the same age, but he felt younger. I don’t know why.”

Oscar was quiet for a beat longer. “He still is. Kind, I mean. He’s changed, grown up, but he’s still a good guy.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “I’m glad.”

A moment passed.

“I’ll be there at seven,” Oscar said. “You want me to drive up or just text when I’m out front?”

“Text,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

“Alright. You remember your safe-word?”

She made a face at the shift in tone, but hummed. “Yeah—Scuderia.”

“Good.” His voice softened further. “I know this is still new, but when we’re at the club, I’ll be that way with you. Even if we’re not scening. We can talk more in the car, yeah?”

It wasn’t really a question. She nodded anyway. “Okay,” she said quietly, cheeks flushed.

“Wear something orange. A bracelet, a belt, whatever. Just something orange, alright?”

Ana bit her lip. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, pretty girl.”

They hung up.

She stayed at the window a minute longer, forehead pressed to the glass, watching dusk spill across the skyline.

Somewhere across town, her big brother probably still hated her.

Maybe more than ever.

And—miraculously—she couldn’t bring herself to care.

—

From the window of his study, Toto watched Ana step outside, cardigan sleeves tugged over her hands, shoulders slightly hunched. She paused at the curb, glancing once over her shoulder, as if to check whether anyone was watching.

He stayed still.

A black car pulled in through the gates and onto the gravel second later—sleek, understated. The boy stepped out to open the passenger door for her.

At least he has manners, Toto thought.

Ana gave a small smile, said something too quiet to hear. Oscar replied. She climbed in.

The door shut.

Toto exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

Oscar Piastri.

Of all the people she could have let in. Of all the men in the world, it had to be a driver.

Not Lewis. Not George. Men he knew, men whose faults he could name and measure. Men who had been through enough fire to know when to keep their hands steady. Men who wouldn’t flinch from a woman like Ana—not because they didn’t care, but because they understood what caring actually cost.

But no. It had to be this mystery—Oscar.

Quiet. Young. Careful on track in a way that Toto respected, but knew he would outgrow in a matter of time. 

It wasn’t that he doubted the boy’s intentions—he didn’t.

He doubted his experience.

Ana was porcelain, yes. But she was also flame. And flame didn’t care how carefully you held it—it burned anyway.

He watched the car pull away, watched it turn the corner and disappear.

His reflection ghosted back at him in the glass, older than he remembered being.

Maybe that was the problem.

Maybe this was what it meant to let her live her life.

Still, for a fleeting, irrational moment, he couldn’t help but think: ‘Why couldn’t it have been George? Or Lewis? Someone I already trust with the weight of the world.’

He closed the curtain.

And let her go anyway.

—

The car was warm, quiet save for the soft hum of tires on tarmac. Monaco blurred past the window in flashes of dusky gold and streetlamp silver, the world shrinking to just the interior of Oscar’s car and the steady rhythm of his breathing beside her.

Ana sat curled in the passenger seat, fingers twisting lightly at the orange bangle on her wrist—Hermès, enamel, a gift from a version of herself that still wanted pretty things. She didn’t know why she wore it tonight. Except… she did.

Oscar glanced over, one hand loose on the wheel. “That the orange thing you picked?”

She nodded, holding it out. The bangle caught a glint of passing light.

His gaze flicked to it, then to her. “Looks good on you,” he murmured.

Her cheeks warmed, but she only said, “You said to wear something orange.”

“I know.” He smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d go full luxury catalogue on me.”

She made a face. “You want me to take it off?”

“No,” he said, low. “Leave it on. I told you to were it, didn’t I?” He reached over then—just slow enough to give her time to move, to say no—but she didn’t. She sat still as his hand found her thigh, fingers warm against the soft denim just above her knee. His thumb moved in a slow arc. Comforting. Possessive in a way that didn’t frighten her.

Ana swallowed. Her body reacted like it always did—tension, breath catching—but it was different, now. Different with him. It wasn’t fear. It was awareness.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

She traced her thumb along the edge of her bangle. “I keep thinking I’m going to mess this up. Somehow.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Am I?” she asked, glancing at him.

Oscar’s hand tightened slightly on her thigh. “Yeah, pretty girl. You are.”

Silence stretched for a minute, soft and tentative.

Then he spoke again, voice low. Measured. “When we’re at Valhalla tonight, I want to look after you. In a more… structured way.”

Ana tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll order your drinks for you—non-alcoholic, obviously. I’ll walk half a step in front of you. I’ll tell you where to sit, and I’ll keep an eye on everything going on around us. I’ll touch you when you need grounding, and I’ll expect you to tell me if something doesn’t feel right. You can safe-word at any time, even if it’s just because you want to go home.”

Her breath hitched, but not from panic.

He glanced at her. “Does that sound like something you’d like?”

She hesitated. “I think… I think it sounds like something I need.”

He nodded once. “Good. Because I think it’ll help. You’ve spent so long carrying yourself, making a thousand decisions every second to stay upright. I want to take some of that off your shoulders tonight.”

“And if I safe-word?” she asked quietly.

Oscar’s voice softened. “Then we take a breather. Or I take you home. Or we go for a drive. Or to a quiet rooftop to eat chips and cuddle. Whatever you need. Safe-wording doesn’t change how I feel about you. Doesn’t make you weak. Doesn’t make you any less of a good submissive.”

Ana looked down at his hand, still resting firm and gentle on her leg. “What if I’m… too much?”

“You’re not.”

“What if I am?”

“Then I’ll just have more of you to hold onto, won’t I?”

Her chest burned. She turned her hand over in her lap, palm facing him. An invitation.

Oscar didn’t hesitate. He laced their fingers together, his touch steady and sure.

“You still good with ‘Scuderia’?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Alright,” he said, giving her hand the slightest squeeze. “Tonight we’ll talk to Lucian. After that, you stay close. I’ll take care of everything.”

Ana leaned her head against the window, the glass cool against her temple. For the first time all day, her lungs filled properly. Not shallow, not sharp. Just air—steady and clean.

She didn’t know what would happen with Lucian. She didn’t know what would happen with Nate. But right now, right here, she didn’t have to figure it all out.

Oscar would hold the line for her.

And for a little while, she could just be.

—

A YEAR AGO

Sobriety was fickle.

It came in quiet, like a tide—gentle, almost apologetic. And then it receded just as fast, without warning, leaving her gasping and raw on the shore.

Ana sat on the edge of the exam table, legs swinging slightly, the crinkling paper beneath her sounding too loud in the sterile quiet. The air smelled of antiseptic and money—overcleaned, overprepared. She couldn’t tell if it was the doctor speaking now or the nurse. Their voices blurred together, overlapping and meaningless, like waves folding over each other.

Her father stood in the corner, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. A leather folder rested in his hands—monogrammed, expensive, unnecessary. He flipped it open now and then, not to read but to gesture. “We need clarity on her liver enzymes,” he said, like he’d ever known what that meant before a handful of months ago.

A nurse pressed her fingers against the inside of Ana’s elbow, brushing over the raised scabbing. “You’re going to have some pretty gnarly scarring,” she muttered, snapping on gloves.

Ana didn’t flinch. She just watched the way her skin puckered around the touch, how her body still remembered everything even if she didn’t want to.

Her father again: “And the tox screen? She’s been clean, yes? For how long now—sixty-eight days?”

Sixty-nine, Ana thought. But she didn’t bother correcting him. It didn’t matter. Sixty-nine days wasn’t anything. It wasn’t even a full season. It was barely a breath in the life she’d lived.

She stared up at the ceiling instead, counting light panels like she used to count doses. One, two, three, four. Sometimes they were constellations. Sometimes just cracks.

“Ms. Wolff?” the doctor prompted. 

Ana blinked. “What?”

“I asked how you’re feeling.”

“I’m fine.”

“Any cravings? Nightmares? Mood swings?”

“I’m fine,” she said again, sharper now.

From the corner, her father shifted. The leather creaked faintly in his hands. He hated when she lied—not because she lied, but because she did it so well.

“She’s disassociating,” the doctor murmured, like she wasn’t sitting right there. “We may want to consider grounding techniques. Equine therapy, perhaps.”

“I’m not riding a fucking horse,” Ana said flatly, without looking up.

The doctor gave a placid, professional smile. Her father did not.

Silence followed—dense and heavy. The kind of silence that filled places like this: clinical rooms, courtrooms, confessionals. Ana waited for it to pass.

Eventually came the rustle of paper, the dull snap of the folder closing, the whisper of expensive shoes against linoleum. The appointment was ending. Or restarting. They never truly ended—not when the doctor was on retainer, and her father’s desperation was supported by a black card.

Ana slid off the table. The paper clung to the backs of her thighs, peeling away with a sound like Velcro. She caught her reflection in the metal of the supply cabinet—sharp collarbones, hollow cheeks, wrists thin as twigs. She looked half-there. Less like a girl and more like a memory.

“I’m starving,” she said suddenly, the words coming out cracked and unsure. Like her voice wasn’t used to naming needs anymore. “Can we get burgers?”

Her father’s head snapped up. His face didn’t soften, exactly, but there was something just shy of hope flickering behind his eyes. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He was already reaching for his phone. “Anywhere you want. We can have them brought in. Or—no, we’ll go. Let’s go. There’s that place you used to like—Stillman’s?”

“I don’t like Stillman’s.”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “Well… wherever. You pick. McDonald’s?”

It was absurd, really. The man in the ten-thousand-euro suit offering her a Happy Meal. But he meant it. He meant it in that frayed, frantic way he always did now. Like every bite she took was a battle he couldn’t afford to lose.

She used to sneer at burgers. Once, when she was ten, she’d cried because her sandwich didn’t have arugula. Now she could barely keep toast down. And here she was, asking for meat and grease and sugar like it was oxygen.

“I want a milkshake,” she said, softer. “Chocolate. Like, the shitty kind. With whipped cream and sprinkles.”

Something in his face broke open—relief maybe, or fear, or both. “Good,” he said. “We’ll get milkshakes. Right now.”

He held the door open like he was afraid she’d disappear again if he didn’t keep her in sight. She walked past him—still too thin, still fragile—but upright. And that was something.

Behind her, a nurse muttered just loud enough to hear: “At least she’s trying this time.”

Ana stopped. Turned. Her smile was razor-sharp.

“Go fuck yourself,” she said, sweet as the milkshake she was about to treasure.

—

Now, in the car, she watched Oscar out of the corner of her eye. He looked good behind the wheel—comfortable, confident, completely present in a way that made her feel steady just watching him.

She bit her lip.

“After the club,” she said hesitantly, “can we—” she cut herself off.

Oscar turned to her briefly, his hand still warm on her thigh. “Anything, baby. Just name it.”

She hesitated. “Can we—Maybe can we go and get milkshakes?”

His smile bloomed slow and soft, something golden in the dimness of the car. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We can get milkshakes.”

[jonny-be-gewd]

@darklings-girlboss-era I can't speak for everyone but every gifset I post is captioned with the movie or show name, which episode, episode name. If I gif a YouTube video or another online video I always link to that video. So, I'm still crediting where the media comes from. That link I provide also gives the YouTube videos more views every time someone clicks it. And I'm not asking for credit for the original media, I'm asking for credit for my gifs.

There's a lot that goes into GOOD gifmaking. We aren't just cutting a portion of film and slapping it online. We have to make caps, pull those caps into photoshop. Then spend however long it takes us perfecting the color and sharpness and really dark gifs have to be lightened while not blowing the color out.

Not to mention the time it takes me to hunt and DL all the HD movies and shows. Many of which I get only because I pay for subscriptions to the streaming services they're on. Because no, I don't torrent all of mine. We also pay for a subscription to photoshop. So, we not only invest our time and talent into gifs, but our money as well.

And the really good gifs you see on Tumblr, they take lots and lots of practice to get that good at it. We don't make them with a phone app in two seconds and just flop 'em online. You honestly wouldn't believe how much time it takes to get really good at it. I've been doing it for YEARS and I'm still not the best, so what does that tell you? I consider myself fairly good but not REALLY good.

Below you will see two gifs. The top one is a gif made straight from the original media with no editing other than cropping and slowing it down. The bottom one is after I color edited it and sharpened it.

The reason I show these is because a lot of people don't realize how much we change the image from the original unless they see a side by side comparison. I see gifs other people make and don't even realize how much they edited it from the show or movie I saw because our brains just don't pull it up from memory that way. I made that shit pop. I made it look not washed out. I brought it to life. And don't get me started on the REALLY dark shows and movies that gifmakers bring to life and make it so you can actually see details. I've spent hours on one gifset before, like the dark ones. Trying to get the colors right, trying to lighten it and maintain it's definition. Saving several different versions until I'm semi-satisfied with the results.

As far as show and filmmakers, I've never once heard one of them complain about gifs. Why would they? Because usually people see gifs of a scene of something they haven't watched yet and go, "Oh damn, I need to watch this now." So if anything, our gifs bring them more viewers. I know for a fact I've seen gifs of things that made me go watch it. And I know I've made gifs of things and the reblogs say "I need to watch this now." I can't say for sure if they really mind or not, but again, I've never heard them complain.

Now, I'm not saying any of this angrily. I saw your question and felt it was an important one to answer because I know a lot of people think the way you think. So I wanted to explain why I think we deserve credit.

Knowing everything I just said, and seeing a side by side comparison of what I did to that gif, do you still think I don't deserve credit for what I put into it? I mean, especially since I'm not asking for credit for making the movie or the show or filming the interview. I'm just asking for credit for my gifs.

Saying we don't deserve credit for our gifs because we didn't create the movies and shows is similar to saying fan fic writers don't deserve credit for their writing because they didn't create the world and the characters. When you know that work still has talent that is exclusive to that person and no one else.

Or think about the people who work on shows and movies in the editing department, doing a different version of what gifmakers do. They didn't film the media, they don't own it, but they're still credited for what they brought to it. I took a washed out looking video and made it pop with life and color, and I don't deserve credit for that?

I would like to add that I personally would never post a gifset without writing or linking who the original media belongs to unless I just don't know. In which case, if someone does know they're free to tell me and I'll add to the set. I don't like it when people post gifs with no indication at all of where it comes from. Cuz damn, what if I wanna watch it?

GUIDE TO SPOTTING STOLEN GIFS

gifmakers on tumblr put a lot of effort into their gifs, and understandably get quite annoyed when someone steals them and reposts them without credit. it's especially frustrating when the stolen gifs get a ton of notes. we look at it and we go wtf how did this get so many notes when it's all stolen????

then i realised the average tumblr user, especially if they're new, or they've never created gifs or posted anything, or they don't understand how tumblr even works... well how are they gonna know?

this post will cover some of the most obvious signs that a gifset is stolen, including:

gif sizing + placement

gifset colouring, sharpening and style

the tags of the poster

if this post is helpful to you, please reblog to spread awareness!

1. gifset sizing

when a gifmaker is making a gifset, they Generally will make all of the gifs the same size. by "size" i mean dimensions in pixels. all the gifs will generally be uniform in size, and laid out intentionally to fit tumblr's recommended dimensions.

here is an example of one of my gifsets with uniform dimensions:

all of the gifs are the same size, laid out correctly for the recommended dimensions, and are fully visible with no cut-offs, blurriness, etc.

many times when a gifset is stolen, it'll be made up of a random assortment of gifs, stolen from multiple gifsets. the gifs might be all different sizes, and not laid out correctly, with parts cut off at the top or bottom. they might be blurry, compressed or just not "look" right.

here is an example of a gifset with inconsistent dimensions:

now, i used inspect element to see the dimensions, but how can you spot a incorrectly sized gif or inconsistently sized gifset at a glance if you're on mobile?

well, see that gif of sam? see how it's cut off mid-forehead, and just under his collar?

well, when you click on the gif and view it in its entirety, you can see that parts of the gif were cut off by the incorrect placement of a 540px gif in a 268px layout:

generally speaking, a gifmaker is not going to make a 540px gif and then put it side by side with another gif. gifset placement is not accidental. gifmakers know and use the recommended dimensions to ensure their gifsets are high quality and viewed on the dashboard the way they intended.

this is sign #1 that these gifs were not made by the person who posted them.

2. colouring and subtitles

gifmakers will generally try to make all of their gifs similar in colouring, sharpening and style. gifs will be (to the best of our abilities) similar in brightness, vibrance, tone and sharpness. basically, they will be visually consistent.

a stolen gifset will not. for example:

aside from the inconsistent sizing, these gifs are all sharpened and coloured in vastly different ways. this is admittedly something a gifmaker is more likely to notice, given our experience, but anyone can take a second to just look and see if the gifs look like they were all made by the same person. if they don't, it's likely a stolen gifset.

sidenote: subtitles are also another tell. i generally use the same font, font size, boldness, subtitle colour etc across all of my individual gifs and in all of my gifsets. if one gif has yellow subtitles in arial font, and the other has white subtitles in times new roman, chances are those are stolen gifs.

3. the tags of the poster

this is probably the FASTEST and EASIEST way to tell if a gifset is stolen, and requires some understanding of what tags are and why we use them on tumblr. here is a brief guide for tagging if you need one!

what you need to know is this:

gifmakers often use [media]edit tags to make it easier for people to find their gifsets in a sea of xreader fanfic and text posts, as well as user[tags] to increase reach

gifmakers will usually have a tag specifically for their gifsets (mine is #originals, some people use a #*, some people use their name like #[name]gifs or #mygifs). the purpose of that tag is to make it easy to find the gifsets we've made on our blogs

here is an example of a genuine gifmaker's tags:

people who steal gifs generally aren't aware of the tagging conventions gifmakers use to catalogue their gifs & increase reach, so they won't include them. they might even say outright that the gifs are stolen.

some examples of stolen gifset tags:

this one isn't an exact science. a lot of newer gifmakers aren't aware of the [media]edit tags, or other well-established tagging conventions, and sometimes gifmakers don't have a unique gifmaker tag. HOWEVER, most do and, when paired with looking at the sizing, colouring, sharpening and overall consistency of the gifs, this is usually a good way to sus out if a gifset you aren't sure about is stolen/reposted.

that's it! i hope this was helpful, and that you are better equipped now to figure out if a gifset was actually made by the person posting it!

if this was helpful to you in any way PLEASE reblog, so more people can learn how to pick a genuine gifset from a stolen one. plus i spent a lot of time on this and i would appreciate it okay thanks byeeee

[alphajocklover]

Im a 20 something burned out former gifted kid and after some soul searching and sometime in the gym and watching sports. I have come to realize that my life would have been so much better as a extremely dumb meathead jock. Is there any way to change my past or at the very least erase my IQ.

I completely understand man. Believe it or not, I tend to get burned out myself, if certain things (Like my complete lack of post for the last… forever) haven’t given that away. I know what it's like to be that twenty something year old guy, with everyone telling you that you have your whole life ahead of you, that this is just the beginning of your story, but still unable to let go of the idea that you have already wasted your youth. I get what you’re going through. 

But more importantly, I know how to fix it.

Most people would give you some advice, probably something like ‘you can’t keep looking to the past’ or ‘instead of regret, choose action’ or something like that. It’s good advice, if a bit cliche. But lucky for you, I’m not most people! Instead of giving you advice or helping you move past this regret over something you can’t change, I’ll just change it. I should warn you though, unlike most of my transformations, this won’t be a painless process. To get rid of all of that regret, all of that wasted time studying, all of those pesky little IQ points, we’re going to need to go to the extreme. We’re going to need to burn it off.

A lot of people associate burning, and most things fire related, with destruction, an uncontrollable, pointless, wanton kind of destruction that leaves nothing but ash and pain in its wake. In a way they’re right, destruction is a big part of burning, no one can deny that. It just isn’t the only part of burning, because burning doesn’t just bring destruction, but growth as well. Forest fires burn in order to break the old plants down to nutrients and make room for the new plants. Fevers inside us as our immune systems fight off infections and come back stronger. Muscles burn as we break them down in the gym so they’ll grow back stronger, beefier and sexier. Yes, burning breaks stuff down, but it also brings growth, and if you want to grow into the dumb meathead of your dreams we’re going to have to burn down the old you. Literally.

By the time you read this, you should have received a package from me. Don’t just go opening any unmarked packages though, you’ll know it's from me when you see it. Inside you’re going to find something unusual, a beautiful flame dancing in a jar. Don’t worry about it burning down your house, or of accidentally putting out the strange flame by dousing it with water or depriving it of air. It isn’t that kind of fire. This is a special fire, known as The Fire of Change. Or at least, it’s a part of it. The part I’ve sent you is just a spark, a fraction of the fire's power. It won’t stay lit very long, probably not more than a day after you’ve received it, but that should be plenty of time for you to do what you have to do. It’s going to feel unnatural to do so, mainly because of what would happen if it was any other fire, but for the changes to begin, you’re going to have to place a hand into the flames. It won’t burn, not in the way you’d expect, but it's going to feel hotter than anything you’ve ever felt before, like you’re placing your hand on a star. Before you realize, the flame will spread, traveling up your arm like a fire as it burns away the brush, burns away all you are and leaves something else in its place, something new and pure and burning hot. As the fire passes over your hand and up your arm you’ll watch your skin tan, your hand grow into a thick mitt, and your muscles grow, first your vascular forearms, next your suddenly beefy biceps. The fire will cross over your widening shoulders, down your thick, juicy pecs, burning away every part of the old version of yourself, the burn out version, and revealing something new underneath, someone filled with a masculine energy, a fire of lust. It won’t just be your muscles though, and it won’t just be physical. Yes, tattoos will burn themselves into your skin, stubble will grow on your studly jawline, and your hair will take a golden glow as the fire rages through it. But that same fire will burn through you, through your mind, changing how you think, through your heart, changing who you are, and through both your past and future, changing reality itself around you.

You burned alright. The old, burnt out you has become fuel, fuel to start the eternal flame that is the new you. Manly, cocky, muscular, horny, a true alpha. The new you is a fire that will never go out, that will burn bright like the sun, a fire with a glow that desperate twinks and lesser men will beg to bask in. Go. Burn. Let the fire grow, and spread.

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Hey there! been a while! I want everyone to know that, even though I may post less often, I'm still here and happy to write hot stuff! See you again soon!

[mattsdivaa]

sweetheart?

toughly!matt x sweetheart!reader

Matt sturniolo. The person everybody was scared to be around accept his friends. The people who smoked weed, underage drinkers. And spent their time at skate parks and hung out in the halls. then their was you. People enjoyed being around you or they didn’t. You laugh at your own jokes bc they aren’t funny and nobody else laughs at them.

Your loud as hell, not a good whisperer your grades where good until you lost motivation in the second semester. You always had a smile on your face. Always talking unless sombody says somthing that really gets to you then you go silent.

Last week everybody was warned that the seating chart would be changed and Ofcourse you got out next to Matthew Sturniolo. You didn’t mind Matt you always waved at him in the halls with a big smile you always thought he was attractive.

You where sat in your new chair with a big Smile on your face the desks infront of you being three of your friends. You start whispering to them but obviously it was louder then a whisper

“I got put next to Matt should I be sca-“ you where cut off by a big thud. Matt dropped his bag next to his seat and sat next you, legs spread hold on head down on his desk. 

You tap his head 3 times “hi! Mr grumpy pants” he lifts his head up giving you a look like he was trying to be intimidating “woah you have really pretty eyes!” His cheeks go a little pink his expression softens his lips look like they want to

Smile. One of Matt’s friends puts both hands on his shoulder “sombody has a crush on you Matt” his friend starts laughing, Matt’s other friends that where in the class coming up “sorry y/n our buddy’s not interested”

That’s when your friends infront starts speaking “y/n is just being nice she wouldn’t date losers like you” the teacher finally told the class to settle down that’s when you whispered to Matt “sorry aboit my friend I meant what I said about your eyes their really nice” that’s when Matt turned his head to you

“mhm sweetheart” You blinked. Sweetheart? your heart doing an unexpected flip in your chest. You tried to act cool failed miserably you rested your head down hiding the dumb smile stretching across your face.

Matt didn’t say anything else after that. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes lazily scanning the front of the classroom. But you noticed the way his leg bounced now. The way his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek like he was trying not to smile again.

The rest of class passed in a blur. You were too busy replaying that mhm sweetheart over and over again in your head like a broken record. When the bell finally rang, you grabbed your bag and turned to him.

“Okay, bye grumpy pants don’t miss me too much,” you smiled big 

Matt didn’t even look at you at first. Just grabbed his bag, stood up slowly, then leaned down so close you could feel his breath brush your ear.

“You talk a lot,” he muttered. “Kinda cute, though.” And then he walked off, hands in his pockets, hoodie slipping off one shoulder like he hadn’t just ruined your whole sense of reality. Your jaw dropped. One of your friends turned around with wide eyes.

“Did he just flirt with you?”

You just nodded, still stunned. “I think I need to sit back down.”

Later that day, during lunch, you saw Matt at his usual table in the back corner of the cafeteria. His friends were loud, laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny, making a mess, being the chaos crew they always were.

Matt? He was slouched in his chair, earbuds in, eyes drifting across the cafeteria like nothing mattered. Until they landed on you.

And that’s when he smirked. Just the tiniest bit. Just enough to drive you absolutely insane.

You nudged your friend beside you. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating. He just smiled at me.”

“Girl,” your friend said, “if that’s Matt’s version of flirting… you’re in deep.”

And maybe you were. Because suddenly, the “grumpy tough guy” wasn’t so scary anymore.

He was just a black cat you accidentally adopted.

And he looked like he was already starting to follow you home.

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