#watching: charges & specs

[captainsantiagos]

Jake confessing all of his feelings for Amy and then going on a six month long UC op is just!!!!! He’s so insane!!!!! Wow!!!!!

[tojisun]

simon riley x f!reader; uhhh a wedding night kink au blurb or something like that idk anymore

it coalesces — the burning need; the hunger; the itch to touch and to claim. it is seeping into your pores, leaving you parched and heady, your breaths coming out in rasps as you stare at him heave from across you.

simon’s jeans are pooled to his knees and you trail your eyes down from his chest to his flushed cock where it twitches on his thigh. he hasn’t even touched himself yet but it is already an angry red, leaking, and so sensitive, that it has him gripping at the edges of the mattress.

simon has never looked so… debauched as he does now.

he has never looked more subservient to his desires and he has never acted like his hunger triumphs over everything, leaving him as he is now, all sloppy before you. his cold bravado and his walls that drive you out have crumbled. he is so putty now, and you haven’t even done anything. not a whimper, or a tease of a show. you just walked into the kitchen, in the pretty dress which johnny drunkenly confessed that simon bought for you, and talked.

you spoke about your day — about work and your meetings; about the recipe you wanted to try; about the trip to the grocery shop and the limited sale of the ribeyes that simon particularly loves.

you just told him how fun it is to be a civilian again. how it was so easy to fall back into the normalcy of a woman your age, amiably befriending the mothers at the park who shared their favourite recipes with you before ushering their chubby babes back home, or the butchers who were obviously trying to make you buy more cuts of meat than you needed, or even your short meeting with kate that had little substance as you two just fell into a quiet conversation about her wife.

it was a day full of banality, and you shared that with simon. but, somehow, something about it, about you, dragged his aches into the surface because the next thing you knew was that simon was slotting himself behine you, fitting you in the spaces of his arms, before breathing you in.

you stuttered out his name, only for your voice to warble even more when he rutted his hips along the plush of your ass, all purposeful and slow.

“si…” you gasped out, blinking the fog away.

this wasn’t the first time that simon and you fooled around, and you are sure that it would never be the last, but it was never this charged. it was never so—

intimate.

it always happened in quick bursts, like two beasts jumping at each other, snapping maws and showing fangs, like any sign of weakness would end with a throat ripped open. but never like this — at a safehouse, in clothes that are so ordinary that one would never mistake the two of you as spec-ops, and sensual.

it was never a needy rutting nor a slow fever.

it was always an all-consuming passion so this… carefulness left you—

well.

it left you aching.

like the rug had been ripped from underneath you, and you are thrusted into the abyss, only with the heat of simon’s body burning from where he’s caressed maps into your back.

“room,” you remember gasping out. you felt him nod before he planted a kiss on the side of your neck, making you jump, and then he was tugging the two of you to the bedroom.

then here you are now, by the door, watching as he dropped himself on his mattress, his scarred hands tearing into his buckles and his zipper before tugging his jeans down and leaving him bare while you remain there standing, heaving, and your eyes wide open as you drink him in.

“c’mere,” simon rumbles, his voice grave and heavy, and you follow his call because you are enchanted by him.

you fall to his lap, your dress ruffling as you scoot closer, closer, closer. you pause. simon clicks his tongue and pulls you even closer.

“s’right,” simon murmurs when your clothed cunt finally brushes against his leaking cock. “sit on it, pretty.”

he wraps you in his arms, and leaves searing kisses along the cut of your jaw and the slope of your cheek, and it is so, so drunken and clingy that you cannot help but mirror his affections. you cling onto his shoulders, nuzzling close, before humping at his cock, feeling its sticky pre- mussing the cloth of your panties.

“that’s it,” simon sighs, almost dreamily. “such a good wife f’r me.”

oh.

oh.

a mewl leaves your lips as your mind catches up to what made simon like this — you realize now that he’s envisioned something like this before. a life outside of the violence. a life where he dresses you up and you become his pretty wife; dolled up for him, cooking for him, coming home to him.

“yesss,” you keen. “thank you si.”

you hump at his cock faster, positioning yourself so that every brush of the head bumps into your hardening clit. “thank you, husband.”

simon’s hands clamp down on the meat of your ass, and he groans, loud and deep.

“gonna buy you a ring,” he grunts, his voice all sticky with his desire. “gonna make this permanent, baby.”

a soft hiccup leaves your lips, your eyelashes fluttering when he pulls back just enough to gaze up at you.

“y’would love that, won’t you?” he asks just for formality.

“yes,” you gasp out, feeling his hands slide underneath the skirt of your dress and into your panties, his palms rough against the fat of your ass. “love nothing more, si.”

his whole body shivers, like it is singing in pleasure, before he plants a chaste kiss on your lips.

“say i do.” his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in familiar circles.

you hiss for a second, your eyes shutting close at the muted pleasure racing across your nerves.

“so beautiful f’r me,” you hear him say, and it is so breathy that you almost miss it but his benevolence sticks to you and not even an orgasm feels as good as hearing his devotion so you look back at him, your trembling hands cupping his cheeks, before you finally whisper, “i do.”

you lock your vow with a kiss, this one more hungry as hot lips devour each other. and, like a good husband, simon makes love to you all night long.

[lowkeyerror]

Our Soul

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Notes: Requested, soulmate au, mostly fluff, like the smallest dash angst maybe

Summary: When searching for coven members, Agatha finds her soulmate. Her nerves about the woman being involved only grow when The Witches' Road turns out to be legit.

An: Sorry the request took so long, I did simplify it a bit I hope that it's still enjoyable.

Masterlist

Agatha made a mistake. The moment she had looked into Y/n’s eyes, she was sure of it. She’d always thought finding her soulmate would be this horrific thing. That the description of having your soul intertwined with someone else's sounded painfully, boring, and wasteful. Yet she had it all wrong.

It was the soft pull of a flower to a summer breeze. It was as if something warm finally reached her freezing soul. The souls were translucent with glowing specs shinning inside. Agatha’s, dark purple like her magic; Y/n's, golden like the tint of her irises sparkling in the sun. They twirled up together, two halves becoming one whole. Then they lay flat, into a singular form.

She visualized it, beautiful, all encompassing, and complete. However she was still horrified in some ways. She glanced at the paper with Y/n’s name scrawled across it and then back at her. It was too late to take back the offer. The way that Y/n's eyes lit up at the mention of the road was impossible to miss.

She’d have to do something about it. There was no way she was going to let her end up like the rest of the people on the list. Y/n dying was nowhere in Agatha’s plans.

Y/n made a mistake. She was sure of it when Agatha’s hand pulled her down on to the road. The way her mind had called Agatha’s hand a perfect fit for her’s. The entire reason she had agreed to come in the first place was now jeopardized. All because of Agatha’s illustrious blue eyes, her cunning smile, and the warm softness of her hand in yours.

She was here to find her soulmate. That’s all she wanted from the road. Yet here she is swooning over Agatha Harkness, known most for her treachery. It felt like she was failing her one true love.

When Agatha stops abruptly at the last step, Y/n crashes into her. Agatha is quick to tug at her wrist, pulling the gorl back into her, rather than tumbling backwards.

“Are you alright sweetheart?”

Y/n watches Agatha’s eyes scan over her, worry easily perceived. The younger woman respond with a loose nod. She was being pulled in by the current of Agatha’s crystal-esque eyes.

“Yeah,” is all she can manage to say.

She smiles slyly knowing she had Y/n flustered. Agatha doesn’t let go of her, the older witch’s pull persisting. The older woman doesn’t trust this road. She knows it isn’t real, that this shouldn’t be happening. Whatever this is, she wouldn’t let it claim you.

While she takes charge of the others, Agatha never strays far from her soulmate. She felt like she had to protect Y/n. After the road’s first test Agatha knew she was right. Mrs. Hart was dead, and everyone was shaken up about it. Especially Y/n.

As everyone walks away from her body, Agatha falls in step with Y/n.

“How are you holding up?”

Y/n’s gaze stays on the ground she shake her head slightly, as if she expects a thought to fall out, “I don’t know.”

“Is this your first time dealing with that kind of thing?”

Y/n tilts her head, “Agatha we’re hundreds of years old. I’m no stranger to death or dead bodies. It’s just… been a long time.”

“Right.”

“Why’d you bring her?” Y/n couldn’t help but ask.

Agatha fumbles for an answer. The truth being that she didn't think things would go this far. This was supposed to end in the basement. She would’ve stolen everyone’s powers then manipulated Mrs. Hart’s memories and she would be none the wiser. She was intended to be a placeholder not a carcass.

Y/n watches Agatha carefully wondering what kind of lie she would tell, how the woman would spin the story. Instead she sees a small dip in the character Agatha was always playing.

“I didn't think she'd get hurt,” it’s a small, but honest truth.

Agatha was scared of the woman’s response. Perhaps Y/n would call bullshit and turn on her. Everyone was always so quick to point a finger at her. She had been taking the blame since she was a child all that time ago. So it would be nothing new to her.

“I believe you.”

Y/n doesn't know why she said it. She didn't plan on responding, but something inside of her was begging her to speak. It was another flaw in her eyes, wanting to bring comfort to Agatha. The woman that was distracting her from her soulmate.

Agatha is fighting the urge to question why Y/n believes her. She didn't deserve the girl's trust. She’s starting to believe she didn't deserve Y/n. Yet that didn't necessarily matter anymore, their souls were already intertwined.

“We should try summoning another green witch,” Y/n suggests.

It causes a bit of commotion in the group, but with no choice left, they try it.

“M’lady.”

When Rio Vidal comes crawling out of the ground Agatha lunges at her. The rest of the group is stunned by their clearly complex past. Agatha’s not the only one who reacts to The Green Witch.

Y/n’s eyes widen, “Oh no.”

When Rio sees Y/n she turns away from Agatha. She stalks towards the woman, cautiously taking Y/n’s hand in her. With a charming smile she presses her lips to the backside of the younger witch’s hand.

“Mi vida.”

Agatha watches with her jaw nearly on the floor. The blush on Y/n’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Rio drops Y/n’s hand, “What? I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd come by, help out.”

“So are you a green witch?”

Before Rio responds Y/n cuts her off, “As green as it gets, let’s keep moving.”

“I like that idea,” Agatha seconds that and begins to walk off, Y/n trails behind her.

The rest of the coven eventually joins.

“So... you know Rio too?”

Agatha keeps her gaze straight ahead, “Yup.”

Y/n let’s out an amused huff of air, “Seems like we know her in the same way too.”

“It does look that way. I gotta say, I would've never guessed she was your type.”

“At one point in time I thought she was my soulmate. You have to admit under all that cunning is someone so tragically lonely, but eternally beautiful. I always doubted that love would exist without fear of her."

Agatha knew what the girl really meant when she said ‘her'. Death had an air of beauty about her not only in appearance.

“Rio is everything you said, but you forgot to add irritating,” Agatha adds.

Y/n laughs at her, “Always showing up at the most convenient times for herself. Which just so happens to be inconvenient to everyone else.”

“I can't believe you thought she was your soulmate.”

Y/n looks away bashfully, “Well you must’ve too all things considered.”

Agatha disputes the statement instantly, “I never really bought into the whole soulmate thing.” She takes a moment to look into Y/n’s eyes, “At least not until recently.”

“Why not?”

“Agatha didn't believe in any of those kind of happy ending fairytale like romances sweetheart, just not in her character,” Rio steps in between the pair to get in on their conversation.

“Something to do with you maybe?” Y/n shots at Rio.

Rio gasps in faux-shock, “No, I’m the perfect wife. Right, my love?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, “Ex-wife, current thorn in my side.”

“Aww she’s so grumpy without her magic, Y/n. She’s usually a much more cheerful spirit.”

“Fuck off,” Agatha starts walking faster.

She reaches over Rio, to grab Y/n’s wrist pulling her along in a similar way she did down the road in the first place.

Whatever conversation that was going to play out died upon seeing another trial. By the look on the witch‘s face it was obviously Alice’s. The outfits, the rock band, the grunge of it all was a bit fun at first. Yet the fun never lasts in these things, especially when threatened by a generational curse.

The ballad was once again the key to the trial. Almost reminiscent of your way onto the road, singing the ballad helped Alice defeat her curse. However it was not without a cost, as Teen had some how gotten injured.

The responsibility fell on a group. A second trial and second death was looming over the group. The care and distress in Agatha’s movement was stark contrast to what had happened when Mrs. Hart died.

Y/n couldn’t help it as she silently asked Rio if it was the boy’s time. Lady Death stood silent, pensive, as if she herself was gauging the situation. Then she shook her head.

It was during this time that his wound was healed. Though he lay unconscious, it was general consensus that he'd be alright. While this placated the others, Agatha was not leaving his side.

The rest of the coven went to set up camp for the night. Y/n knew she wasn’t obligated to stay with Agatha and Teen, but she wanted to.

Whatever Agatha was feeling, for once it was plain on her face. The moment was fragile, something Y/n was mindful of as she sat quietly next to Agatha.

“Have you ever lost something so pivotal to your existence that without it, you no longer feel whole?”

“My brother,” Y/n’s gaze lingers on Billy.

“Do you… have you seen him in other people?”

Y/n nods, “Sometimes I can’t help it. I see someone that looks like him or likes the things he likes or acts like him, but they’re not him.”

Agatha turns her attention to Y/n. The far away look in her eye makes the older witch move close to her.

“What happened to him?”

Y/n’s bottom lips curls up into her mouth, “I happened.”

Agatha’s hand finds it’s way on top of Y/n’s. The younger witch intertwines their fingers. Y/n lets out a large breath, trying to center herself.

“My son,” Agatha whispers. “I see Teen and I see the kind of boy that mine could’ve grown to be .”

“Agatha,” Y/n says her voice softly.

Agatha clears her throat, “Let’s go see what kind of camp they’ve set up.”

She stands abruptly, but makes sure to extend her hand to the other woman. Y/n takes the help to stand. Agatha is reluctant to drop the girl’s hand, but she does. That doesn’t keep the woman away from her. Y/n walks close enough that their arms brush as they walk to camp.

When both sit, the other’s are full of laughter, reminiscing about their battle scars. Agatha shows off her's and the rest give her a roar of laughter that she didn’t expect.

The laughter dies down as Rio talks about having a scar. Something that both Agatha and Y/n know to be false. The younger of the pair can’t help, but glare as Rio spins a tale of a woman. Someone that Y/n knows to be Agatha.

A trick to rile the woman up. It works as Agatha storms off. Rio tries to go after her.

“I think you’ve done enough,” Y/n stands to stop her.

Rio raises her hands in defensive before gesturing them in the direction Agatha ran off in, “By all means then, you go after her. Just remember at the end of the road, your soulmate will be waiting for you.”

“Fuck you Rio,” Y/n goes after Agatha.

She finds Agatha just standing in a field. Y/n approaches her, moving to stand in front of Agatha. The powerless witch doesn’t look at her.

Y/n takes Agatha’s face in both of her hands. Agatha’s expression has a million facets to it. Sorrow, regret, anger, but most prevalently Y/n sees a plea.

“Death has a nasty way of lingering doesn't she?”

A single tears slides down Agatha’s cheek. Y/n wipes it away with her thumb.

Her laughter is shaky, “You didn't have to come after me.”

“Agatha, I wanted to be here,” Y/n reassure her.

“I don’t deserve you,” she leans into Y/n’s touch.

It’s like Y/n’s says it to herself when she speaks, “ I decide what I deserve.”

Agatha’s crystal blue eyes meet Y/n’s, “And what about your soulmate?”

“This isn’t about that.”

Agatha’s holds Y/n’s in place against her face, “What if it is?”

Y/n’s eyebrows furrow, “What are you saying?”

Agatha steps out of the woman’s hold. Her hands move wildly as she talks, “Don’t you feel it? When we locked eyes, I saw our souls mixing. I know that you're too good for me. I’m this no good evil hag, with a reputation that makes dictators seem like saints. I don’t deserve to have a soulmate, especially one as good as you.”

When Y/n looks into Agatha’s eyes she feels it. She sees what Agatha saw when they first met. Their souls coming together, in what is certainly the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

Tears form in Y/n’s eyes. She strides over to Agatha, again cupping the woman’s face in her hands. Y/n smiles through her tears.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

A smile fights it's way onto Agatha face, “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Agatha I’ve dated the physical embodiment of death. I don't care,” Y/n tucks a piece of Agatha’s hair behind her ear.

“I’m no good-”

Whatever Agatha had planned on saying didn’t matter to Y/n. The younger girl plants her lips on Agatha’s firmly. The older woman melts into the kiss the words dying on her lips.

“You’re good to me,” Y/n breathes out as the kiss ends.

Agatha hugs Y/n’s waist, keeping her close. Their foreheads rests against each other. The brunette’s eyes slowly open. There’s fire behind the blue orbs

“I will be, I promise.”

The road wasn’t finished and Agatha had yet to regain her power. However, she already felt more complete with Y/n in her arms. A part of her restored upon connecting with her soulmate.

[msbigredmachine]

Handsy (Roman Reigns)

When the OTC asks for help and you oblige him, he’s very happy to return the favor. 

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Shy!Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut, fluff, possessiveness...the usual, lol

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: This is the first of a number of "Possessive" one shots lined up. Hope you enjoy them. Looking forward to all your amazing feedback! 😁

Song inspos are below:

A work of art. You could stare at him all day.

Sure, you came off like a voyeur sometimes, but the view was too glorious to pass up. Observing (not stalking) him from his little designated space next to a couple of equipment crates in the bowels of the arena. Working with the wrestlers as Talent Assistant entailed long hours and not-so-glamorous moments, but it was all worth it simply because you got to see the Roman Reigns up close and personal.

You always had a front row seat to the occasion, being in charge of his itinerary, and that included his wardrobe. Bringing over his ring gear, new Bloodline merch or a tech fleece for him to wear before slinking away to allow him some privacy. Yet tonight was different as this was his first match back in months and you couldn’t help but hang back, keen to witness his majesty up front, keen to see him in action again.

Just see him.

“You gon’ stand there and watch me all night, pretty girl?”

The rumble of his deep voice startled you out of your daydream. The big man himself was inching towards you, his hair down and damp, his rippling muscles and the intricate tribal tattoos gleaming beneath the backstage lights. His black cargo pants were tucked into his red and black boots and he looked ready for war, the ensemble somehow magnifying the power of the man. The Adonis. The…god.

Shaking your head sharply, you fidgeted with your horn rimmed glasses as you struggled to regain your bearings. “I’m…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. Umm…are your gloves okay? I made sure to get the specs right.” It was almost suffocating to be in his presence at times.

“They’re fine.” His gaze bored into you, a knowing smirk tugging his lips as he put them on, the long digits of his fingers wiggling and teasing. You had to tear your eyes away as you imagined just what those fingers could do and where you wanted them...

You recalled the earlier days when he would address you only in passing, inquiring about an assignment or a quick update on something you were working on…the butterflies fluttering in your stomach whenever he spoke to you. Ever perceptive, Roman picked up on your nervousness and went out of his way to flirt with you while somehow maintaining the utmost professionalism. It was like he knew you were crushing on him and was rubbing it in your face. As familiarity grew, the tone of your interactions began to shift. Friendlier, lighter exchanges as you got used to him and his natural charisma. 

Then, the nicknames started trickling in. Pretty girl. Sweetheart. Beautiful. You could feel your walls—literally and figuratively—crumbling, and it always took an insurmountable effort to build them back up. His six-month hiatus was a reprieve of sorts as you tried to sort out your feelings for him in his absence. Yet, said absence made your heart grow fonder. You thought about him every day and you wondered, quite unwisely, if he thought about you too.

“Like what you see, baby girl?”

The new nickname forced you back down to earth, and it was then you saw he was now standing right in front of you. Bringing your gaze level with his broad, glistening chest. Fuck. “Umm...Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was asking if you could help me out with this.”

Glancing down at the hand he extended, your eyes widened. A bottle of baby oil was in his grasp. You raised your eyebrow, defying the terror that surged through you at the mere thought of putting your hands on his body. “Isn’t that the trainer’s job?” you asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“It is. But tonight, I prefer a more…gentle touch,” Roman suggested, chuckling at your wary expression. “You’re so innocent. It’s cute. But don’t worry, I won’t bite,” he winked.

He was enjoying this; enjoying the reaction he was evoking from you and taking pleasure in messing with your sanity. But your mama didn’t raise no punk bitch. You were strong. You could do this without spontaneously combusting.

Taking the bottle from him, you slowly applied some oil to your hands and rubbed your palms together to warm it up. Moving behind him, you started with his shoulders and with gentle pressure ran your hands along his neck, down his back, rubbing in rhythmic strokes along his spine. Your fingers gently massaged the honed, taut muscles, easing out any tension you could feel there. As you moved to his lower back, you winced when your hands accidentally slipped down his pants, grazing his backside. "Shit. I’m-I’m sorry," you rushed, grateful that he couldn’t see you.

"You’re fine. Keep goin’," he said with gritted teeth, his tone significantly deeper. Rougher. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, a nervous cough escaping your throat as you squeezed some more oil onto your palms. “Turn around,” you instructed him, your voice surprisingly steady despite your shot nerves. As your hands glided up his chest, you did your best to focus on your task and avoid any other mistake. You oiled up his arms and his abs, ignoring the tiny little sounds you could hear in the back of his throat, ignoring his burning gaze on you.

"Your hands are like magic, sweetheart," Roman murmured appreciatively, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine. You felt your breath hitch as your fingers worked over the tension in his hard muscles, each touch leaving you more breathless than the last. Despite the storm of emotions building inside you, you managed to finish with steady hands.

“All done,” you said softly, stepping back to create some much-needed distance.

“You did great. Thanks.”

His praise made your heart swell with a mix of pride and something more dangerous. “You’re welcome,” you replied, your voice quieter as your gaze lingered on him. “Your tattoos are beautiful… your skin is beautiful.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, emboldened by the intimacy of the moment.

Roman’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Kissed by the sun, I’ve been told. Though I wouldn’t mind being kissed by someone else…” His hand reached out, his thumb brushing lightly across your bottom lip, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the gentle contact, your mind reeling. “Roman, we… we can’t,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, betraying the internal conflict raging within you.

“Why not?” His tone was calm but insistent, his dark eyes searching yours. “We both know there’s something here. I feel it, and I know you do too.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. If only it were that simple. “Because… we’re at work,” you replied, trying to summon a rational argument despite your racing heart. “We shouldn’t…fraternize. And…” You hesitated again, your voice faltering as the words hung in the air. “I might have a man…”

The rebuttal that accompanied his snicker was smooth as silk. “And he still won’t be a fraction of the man I am. Besides, I know for a fact that you don’t have a man.” His haughty stare remained on you. “One thing I always do, baby, is my research on things I’m interested in.”

Was there a counter for that? You weren't sure. And even if there was, it would have been hard to find with the way he was staring you down, his head cocked to the side, tongue darting salaciously over his bottom lip. Goodness…

“Let me return the favor,” he said.

Oh fuck. You played dumb. “What?” 

“I enjoyed your massage. A lot. It’s only fair I give you one too. Not here, though. After the show, somewhere more private. You got a ride to the next town?”

You shook your head. “Well, not yet, but I was going to ask Jade and Bianca if I could-”

“Scrap it. You’re coming with me,” he cut you off. “I got somewhere much more comfortable than some itty-bitty car.”

Jade never went in ‘itty-bitty cars’, but you were sure Roman wasn’t trying to hear it. The moment stretched out, a lifetime of tension and unsaid words. You’d been on his bus once, and not unaccompanied. This would be wayyyy different.

Roman closed the last of the space between you, and pulled you into his chest. Big and rock solid and tempting. All of him. Including the bulge that pressed against your lower belly that made you lightheaded. His hand came up to gently cradle the side of your face. 

“I’ll be good. I promise.” His thumb brushed your cheek, and you wanted to hate how your skin tingled beneath his touch, how easily your resolve crumbled. You really did.

But right now, there was nothing in the world that you wanted more.

“Okay…”

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

Roman’s hands were a wonderful contradiction: strong yet surprisingly soft, their warmth matching the cozy temperature of his bedroom on the bus. The electricity of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how easily you succumbed to it. You wanted to resent the ease with which he disarmed you, your body surrendering before your mind could catch up—but the truth was, you didn’t care. Not in this moment.

The soft glow of scented candles illuminated the space, their aroma blending with the soothing notes of Force MD’s 'Tender Love'. The old-school melody was a familiar comfort, a gentle background to the scene unfolding. Draped in nothing but your panties on his plush king bed, you felt utterly exposed yet oddly safe. Roman's promise to help you relax was fulfilled tenfold as his skilled hands worked magic with warm essential oils, massaging away every ounce of your tension.

You struggled to stay still as his hands ventured lower, his palms kneading the soft, plump skin of your butt with deliberate care. The sensation set your skin aflame, and despite your best efforts, a quiet, unbidden moan escaped your lips. He chuckled at this, his touch remaining gentle yet commanding as he boldly gripped both cheeks and wiggled them together, the waves making him groan his approval under his breath. As he turned you on your back, your eyes met, the flicker of heat in his gaze unmistakable. For a brief moment, embarrassment threatened to creep in, but the desire surging through you washed it away.

Taking charge, you pulled his head down to brush your lips together—tentative at first, testing the waters, but quickly growing more certain. The kiss deepened, melting away any hesitation that had lingered between you. His taste, the warmth of his lips, and the press of his oil-slicked hands against your skin were overwhelming.

As his fingers skimmed the underside of your breasts, a shiver ran through you. Instinctively, your hands found their way to his broad back, pulling him closer, earning a soft, breathy groan from him. The sound sent a thrill through you, a small grin playing on your lips. But the grin quickly dissolved into a moan as his mouth found your nipple, igniting sensations that left you breathless.

“So soft,” Roman murmured, his lips teasing the sensitive peak. The gentle suckles along with the firm kneading of your breast left you trembling in his confident grasp. He released your nipple with a wet, audible pop, trailing kisses down your body with a reverence that made you feel worshiped.

His fingers traced a path along your skin, their touch featherlight but insistent, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When he reached your thighs, his mouth followed suit, pressing kisses to the tender flesh. You flinched when his teeth grazed the sensitive spot near your core, a teasing bite that made you gasp. Every nerve in your body hummed with anticipation, leaving no room for second-guessing. All that mattered was him, and the way his touch unraveled you so completely.

“Roman…”

“Hmm, baby? Should I stop?”

The mere thought of him bringing this divine pleasure to a halt brought tears to your eyes. “N-no.”

“I know you don’t want me to. It feels good.” Sitting back on his heels, he peeled your thong down your legs, tossing it into his open suitcase landing among his clothes. Something told you you would never get it back. “I’ve been waiting on this since I first laid eyes on you…I think about you a lot, ya know…”

You bit your lip, shaken by the electricity that crackled at his words, at the rush of this erotic moment. There was definitely no turning back now, and you could only look on as he wrapped his arms around your thighs and buried his face between them. A startled moan burst from you, clutching his hair to steady yourself as his tongue caressed your flesh. Long, fat and warm, it lashed around and around inside you, his lips pulling and sucking, the sloppy slurps filling the room with your gasps and moans pitching higher. 

“Oh, damn…” you whined, attempting to regain the upper hand in this trap you ensnared yourself in. “You said…you said you’d be good…”

Roman’s eyes flitted to yours, wide with feigned innocence. “Oh, I’m not? Lemme try this then…”

By the time you realized what he was talking about, you were too late. “Wait! That’s not what I mea-…Ohhhh!” He had spread your thighs wider, French-kissing your folds with those soft lips, his expansive mouth widening to lick you all up. His head moved up and down, his strong jaw working every inch and every crevice. Heat bloomed through your body, making your lower half squirm and twist from sensations you’d only read about in erotic novels. "Shit...." 

"You like that, baby? Like me eating this pretty ass pussy?" Roman hummed against your core, his voice knowing and arrogant. 

You would have given an articulate answer if you could think straight, but right now moans and whines and whimpers were the only languages you could speak. You felt your pussy pulse on his tongue as he made you feel high, your arms sprawled out on the bed as your orgasm and your body temperature climbed until you felt like you were overdosing from pleasure. 

“You taste incredible, baby. I want you to come in my mouth.” 

His commanding voice, his moans against your pussy, the rapid speed of his licks, had your eyes watering. Your body couldn't control itself as it detonated, releasing inside his mouth, his triumphant moan vibrating against the sensitive bundle of nerves causing you to groan out loud again as he caught your nut effortlessly with long, lazy laps of his tongue, licking you up until you were all emptied out. 

"Oh my god..." you gasped, your eyelids fluttering from the shock of such a powerful climax. "You made me come so hard," you breathed, collapsing on the pillow.

Releasing your thighs, Roman wiped his mouth, his chest glazed with oil and beard gleaming with your juices. “Pretty pussy that tastes this good? I’m in trouble, baby,” he sighed happily, like he’d just feasted on the most delicious gourmet meal.

You could feel the tension kick into high gear, knowing full well what was coming next. You shifted nervously, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

Ever attentive, Roman noticed your change in demeanor. "You good?" he asked, his voice low and soothing, searching your eyes with a tenderness that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, your gaze flickering away to avoid the weight of his. "Sorry I'm just...a little nervous," you admitted.

His head tilted curiously as he gave you a long, pensive look, a hint of amusement in them. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

“No.” Your cheeks burned, yet, feeling obligated to elaborate, you pressed on. “But…I’ve only ever done it once. In college. It was…alright.” The less said about that, the better. He definitely didn’t make her come this hard with just his mouth.

Roman’s brow lifted slightly, his smile morphing into something wicked and possessive. “Once? Only once?” He kissed his teeth, the sound reverberating through your body. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles on your over-sensitized skin as he reached inside the bedside drawer. “Baby girl, I’m ‘bout to ruin you for anyone else.”

The confidence in his voice was intoxicating, and yet there was no arrogance - just a fact that he could and would do exactly what he said he could do. You couldn’t take your eyes off him as he tossed the condom on the bed in front of him, eyes widening as he slowly shed his boxers like it was some kind of grand unveiling, and boy, was it a spectacle. 

You gasped softly when you finally saw him, too long and too thick, rising menacingly from a neatly trimmed nest of dark silky curls. “I…oh my…”

Roman chuckled darkly at your stunned expression, rolling the Trojan down his length. "Don't panic, baby girl. I'ma make it all fit."

His mouth found yours again as his hands slung your thighs around his waist. The movement brushed his wide thick tip against your core, and your head tilted back as he nuzzled the groove of your neck, placing a wet kiss there.

“Roman,” you gasped, trying to summon some kind of resistance. But he silenced you again with another kiss, his voice low and commanding.

“Stop overthinking, I can feel you tensing up,” he murmured, “Just feel me. Feel us.”

And you did. His touch, his kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world—it consumed you.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice rough with desire.

You nodded, breathless.

“Then stop worrying,” he said, “Because right now, I’m only thinking about one thing. You. And how good you feel.” He shifted closer, slowly pushing his thick dick inside you. His arms and chest flexed around you, the tendons and muscles rippling and dancing as you reflexively lifted your hips against his, sliding him deeper into you, the initial discomfort of his thick length gradually easing away.

“Shiiit…” 

“I got you,” he assured you, hissing at the feel of your pussy fluttering around his length as it reached your hilt. “Damn, baby, you sure you’re not a virgin?”

“No…you’re just…big,” you pointed out matter-of-factly.

He smiled wide at that, and then moved in earnest, hitting hard and deep, his sheer power and his pulsing heat ramping up the pleasure ravaging your body and compelling you to hide your face in his shoulder to muffle your moans. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered soothingly, kissing you softly, growling in your ear, “I can feel you, all tight and dripping. Fuckin’ incredible.” Grabbing your right leg and hooking it over his shoulder, he powered deeper inside of you, glancing down at his long, thick shaft spreading you wide. You had a clear view of that big-ass dick plunging into you, making you feel every single inch. Each time he slid in deep, your pussy made this crude, squelching sound while squeezing him, causing your head to rock back into the pillow with a loud moan. “Aww, fuck, Roman…” 

Roman’s hand found your chin and steered your face back to him, his sturdy grip enough to make your heart pound in tune with his pounding strokes. “You’re mine now,” he murmured, kissing you again, whispering against your mouth, “Anytime I want it, anywhere, you give it to me, you understand me?”

“Yes,” you managed, drunk on the myriad of sensations he was literally fucking into you. It hurt too good, maybe too much, his big dick seemingly rearranging your insides, forcing you to push at his abs to make him slow down. But Roman wasn’t having it, gently grabbing your neck to pin you down, fucking his dick into you until tears sprang to your eyes. He turned your body sideways, trapping your lower leg between both of his and holding the other one down before burying himself back inside your heat. Slipping inside you was much easier now, that pussy was leaking. Gleefully, he watched your ass cheeks ripple against his strong pelvis every time it smacked against you, the sounds of your wet pussy permeating the air. 

“I wanna feel you nut on this dick…let go, baby, come for me,” Roman said, his voice a command and a plea in one sexy package.

“Unnnh my god…” Your eyes rolled in the back of your head feeling him switch it up by winding his hips, his dick in the back of your pussy, dragging throaty, high-pitched noises out of you. Waves of sinful, primal heat bloomed into an explosion that had you cursing to the heavens and shaking beneath him. You never knew you could experience such indescribable ecstasy. This was Heaven, it had to be, to feel this euphoric, this rapturous. Or maybe it was just Roman Reigns and the magic he clearly possessed, plunging you headlong under his spell. 

Roman watched you undulate with a cocky, borderline evil smile, licking his lips as he reached for your breast, squeezing and kneading in his palm. "Mmm, that’s my good girl, you look so beautiful, baby…So fuckin’ good." He didn't stop, didn't slow down, clutching handfuls of your soft ass as he stroked in and out of you with increasing aggression. “Gimme another one, baby, come on,” he ordered, smacking your ass, a husky groan and curse emitting from him as right on cue, your walls clamped around him yet again, as you squealed and shook and squirted on his dick, gushing all over his sheets. 

“That’s it, that’s exactly what I wanted…” He bit his bottom lip, his hands braced on your thigh and ass like an anchor as he felt his control start to slip. “Fuck…Where you want my cum, babe? In you or on you?”

You clung to the pillow for dear life, moaning weakly as his thrusts became messier and choppier, making it difficult to think straight. “On…on me,” you whimpered.

Your pussy throbbed and quivered around his dick, the sensory assault shattering the OTC into a thousand shards. Guttural groans spilled from his lips as he pulled out with a harsh grunt, ripping the condom off. You shivered as you watched him stroke endless ropes of his seed on your ass, the milkiness contrasting almost beautifully with your rich melanin skin. The sight should probably have repelled you, but never have you been more turned on. Roman kept his pulsing member pinned between your bodies as he dipped down to kiss you, your heavy breaths evening out as you lapped and sucked on each other’s mouths.

“Hol’ on, let me rub my cum all over you,” he said, pulling back to let his large hands smear his sticky mess all over your ass cheeks, massaging you just like he did earlier. The care and gentleness in his caresses mixed with the nastiness of the act was shockingly arousing to you.

“Mm-hmm. Witcho sexy ass,” he smiled at his handiwork and finished with a light smack of your ass. He lay down beside you and gathered you in his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. 

“You okay?” His voice was a soothing rumble, a contrast to the intensity of moments before. "Was it too much?"

“Not at all. It was...amazing,” you admitted, your head resting on his chest as his heartbeat thudded steadily against your ear. “This feels really nice.”

He tilted his head, gazing down at you. “What does?”

“You, holding me like this.” Your voice was soft, almost shy. “You're cuddlier than you look.” The words spilled out before you could stop them, and you quickly glanced up, worried he might take them the wrong way.

But instead, his lips curved into a small, teasing smile, and he kissed your forehead tenderly. “Cuddly, huh?” His hand brushed over your back, grounding and protective. “Guess I’ll take that.”

Your cheeks warmed, but before you could reply, his voice dropped, rich and husky, sending a shiver through you. “Get some sleep, baby. I ain’t done with you yet.” His lips pressed to yours as he added, his tone full of wicked promise, “I’m gonna wake your pretty ass up and fuck you all over again.”

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

It was probably the quietest you’d ever gotten dressed up. Not wanting to risk making any noise, you skipped showering, choosing to wipe yourself down instead pending when you got to the arena. One quick peek into the bedroom showed Roman was still fast asleep. Good. All the better to make your escape.

Gathering your belongings, you crept to the front of the bus. The driver was kind enough to tell you the name of the town you were currently in. It was still a couple of hours to your destination, but you hoped to find a rental car service, or a bus, maybe a Lyft if you could. Anything to make sure you were out of Roman Reigns’ hair before he woke up and discarded you himself and acted like last night never happened.

It was going to be extremely difficult to forget though…to get over the feeling of his big, strong, talented hands on you, using your body all night, that skillful tongue of his that made your eyes water…his big ass di-…

Yeah. Your mental well-being and productivity levels advised strongly against dwelling on that part of him.

You also couldn’t deny how beautiful it all was. His care and attentiveness, making sure you were feeling as good as he was…The softness in his pretty eyes as he took you again and again…Okay, perhaps you were overthinking the emotions. Even you were not that naïve to believe you were the only woman he’d been intimate with on this bus, in that same bed. Said and done the same things to them. You were not that special. The last thing you wanted was to be embarrassed for looking for what wasn’t there, and, as you checked your watch for the time, for overstaying your welcome.

“Any particular reason you’re sneakin’ outta here?"

His deep voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding, freezing you mid-step. You spun around, your pulse skyrocketing as your eyes landed on him. Standing at the other end of the bus, he looked like something out of a dream—or maybe a very specific kind of nightmare. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. Marble-hewn muscles. That towel slung low on his hips, hinting at more than you dared to look at directly.

You swallowed hard, the words getting stuck in your throat before you managed, "I didn’t want things to be awkward."

"Awkward?" he repeated, advancing toward you like a predator closing in on its prey. "You think you can just walk away from me after the night we had and call it awkward?"

He loomed over you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. The scent of him—whiffs of cologne and sweat and massage oil—wrapped around you, reigniting every memory of what had transpired hours earlier.

"I know what this was," you said, trying to sound confident even as your voice wavered. "It was just a one-night stand. I’m not expecting anything else."

A grin spread across his face, slow and taunting. "Is that what you think?" The towel shifted slightly as he leaned closer. "You’re mine now, baby girl. I made that real clear last night. Or did I not do enough to convince you?"

Your breath hitched as heat crawled up your neck. He wasn’t just talking about his words. No, your body still remembered each and every way he’d claimed you, left you gasping and begging and sore down there. And now here he was, making it clear he wasn’t letting you go so easily.

"I—I thought..." you stammered, your bravado faltering under his intense gaze.

"Thought what? That I don’t mean what I say?" His hand slid to your waist, the warmth of his palm seeping through your thin shirt. "Baby, when I say you’re mine, I mean that shit. When I want something, I get it. And I want you."

Your heart stuttered at the unexpected softness in his voice. This was Roman Reigns, the stoic, untouchable force of nature you worked for. And yet, here he was, looking at you as though you were the most important thing in the world. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide the way your fingers trembled. 

“Roman, I can’t—I can’t lose this job,” you reached for another excuse. “I worked too hard to get here. People already talk, and now this? It’ll only make things worse.”

Your verbal monologue was stopped by his hand cupping your chin, tilting your face so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They burned with a quiet intensity, unshakable.

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that silenced crowds in an instant. “I’m the face of WWE. You think anyone will come for you without dealing with me first? You think I’d let them? That’s not how this works.” He cupped your cheek, the gesture soothing, even as his words made your pulse race. “I protect what’s mine. Always.”

Your breath hitched, the conviction in his voice making it impossible to look away. Still, doubt clawed at you. “But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs’,” he interrupted firmly, but not unkindly. “You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. You’re here because you’re damn good at what you do. And as long as I’m breathing, no one’s touching you. Not for this. Not for anything.”

His words settled over you like a shield, equal parts infuriating and reassuring. You wanted to argue, to push back, but deep down, a part of you believed him. Trusted him. And maybe…maybe that scared you even more than the risk.

So, against all logic, against every instinct screaming at you to keep this professional, you felt yourself nodding. “Okay.”

"Good girl," he said, his smirk widening. "Now, let’s get one thing straight. You don’t walk away from me, ever. Got it?"

You nodded again, your voice failing you completely.

"Good," he said, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. "Now, there’s a nice little breakfast diner a couple blocks away that I’m gonna take you to after. But first, come shower with me. It seems I’ve got some things I need to remind you of."

And just like that, the suitcase you’d been clutching slipped from your grasp as Roman took your hand and led you toward the back of the bus—and toward a future you would never have seen coming in a million years...but you liked, anyway.

THE END

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

So glad this is finally out. Took me nearly 2 years, lol.

How was it? The smut is a lot, I know 😬 But I often try to ensure there's a story behind it.

Please leave comments! I love comments 😁😙😊

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[rcmclachlan]

8x15 spec fic (like, how does tommy get involved with the big emergency? but also i just want tommy to have people, too.)

+

Once Buckley starts begging for help—"please, please, if there's a-anyone out there, if anyone's listening, I'm... please, they're my family"—over an open channel through deep, heaving sobs that sounded like they're being dragged out of his belly and drawing blood on their way out, Dana figures Kinard's probably already in the air and halfway to where they're holding the rogue scientist at Fort MacArthur. But to her surprise, he's still on the ground, standing apart from everyone currently clustered around Captain Melton's desk. He's aging fifteen years before her very eyes, looking like someone's stuck a pitchfork in his gut and is starting to turn it.

Kinard values privacy more than anything and would be mortified if anyone saw feel a single emotion that wasn't humor, so she looks away.

The entire crew has been glued to the radio for the last twenty minutes as though Orson Welles is the one delivering the dramatic relaying of the 118's impending doom and how it's the only thing keeping them from being charged with domestic terrorism. For the life of her, Dana will never understand how it's always them getting into these situations. There are 106 fire stations in Los Angeles; 105 of them somehow manage to avoid getting caught up in Armageddon on the regular. She's dying to know what their insurance premiums look like.

Movement out of the corner of her eye startles her into looking up again just in time to see a large, tall flash of blue storm out of the hangar and onto the tarmac.

She has to give Kinard credit. He lasted much longer than she'd expected: almost a full minute.

Dana is at least a head shorter than everyone else on the team, so it's easy for her to slip away without being noticed. Although Lucy does, of course, and Dana gently taps her fingers against the small of Lucy's back as she goes, tilting her head a little at Nico, who's standing to Lucy's left.

Lucy has always operated on Dana's wavelength, which makes working with her a genuine pleasure, because Dana never has to waste time with talking, with explaining her reasoning for anything. Lucy just seems to know what Dana needs from her. Nico's convinced they're able to speak telepathically, and sometimes Dana can't argue against the possibility.

Even now, Lucy just inclines her head slightly and disguises it by acting like she's leaning in to hear the radio better. Before Dana leaves the office, she sees Lucy nudge Nico. 

They've been grounded ever since Captain Nash disobeyed the order, and the silence that has befallen the hangar fills Dana with dread as she walks out onto the tarmac, because a quiet base means trouble. A quiet base is death.

By the time she reaches the Bell 505 that Kinard's apparently chosen for whatever he's planning, he's strapped in and about to shut the door, but she slides into the doorway before he can.

Kinard opens his mouth, most likely to tell her that she can't stop him from what he's about to do, which is patently untrue, but she beats him to the punch.

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean? Of course I'm—"

"I mean are you sure."

She puts a little firmness into her voice, which is hard. She's not soft-spoken by choice. Her vocal cords were already weaker than normal before she joined the LAFD and fighting fires has certainly not helped. 

"It's—" Kinard swallows. "It's him. I have to."

She thinks of the Tommy Kinard from last October, who walked in every shift with a literal bounce in his step and smiled for no reason when he thought no one was watching, and how a different Tommy Kinard started coming to work mid-November. It took him weeks to start eating normally again, to lose the look in his eyes that reminded her of dead trees in standing water, to trust himself enough that he was comfortable being back in the air. 

He'd finally been on the upswing, and everyone on the A-shift had breathed a collective sigh of relief, and then last month it all seemed to come crashing down again. He'd gone home one day smiling and making jokes, and then he was back in Melton's office at the start of his next shift asking to be grounded again. 

"You'll know they'll take your wings for this," Dana says, and he nods. "Is Buckley really worth losing the sky over?" 

Dana had never been a fan of Evan Buckley's even before he took up with Kinard. He was so desperate to be liked by everyone at every scene that it made him impulsive and, quite frankly, annoying. She'd worked with him on two calls and it was like trying to wrangle a very competent puppy. 

When Kinard finally admitted he was seeing the 118's very own walking, talking billboard for Murphy's Law, Dana had been the only one at Harbor who didn't slap him on the back or offer their congratulations. She'd known exactly how it would go, and she didn't relish being right. 

Early on in the new year, she saw Buckley in Vons. He'd been loading an enormous bag of flour into his cart, and although she's certain she didn't make any kind of noise, Buckley had looked up and spotted her. After a moment that felt like a decade of staring, he lifted a hand and attempted a smile that looked painful even from where she'd been standing. She thought about returning the gesture, if only to be the polite lady her mother had desperately tried to raise her to be. Then she thought of how Kinard hadn't so much as glanced at the sky in weeks, and she turned her cart around and walked away. 

Evan Buckley has fought against his own house, the LAFD at large, and seemingly the world for everything he's wanted. The fact he didn't bother fighting for Kinard tells her everything she needs to know. She's certain about Evan Buckley.

"He is." Unfortunately, Kinard is more certain. "I'm sure."

"You will be charged with something none of us will be able to get you out of."

At that, he turns a bewildered smile on her. "Dane, why would you—I'd never expect any of you to try."

Apparently working and defying death together, not to mention countless trivia nights and dinners out, don't make a friendship. It hurts to hear.

"I know you're very attached to your whole lone wolf thing, but you do have people in your corner, Kinard." She holds his gaze and refuses to drop it. He's not going to happily walk into a federal jail cell without hearing what she'd thought was obvious all this time. "You have people who will go to bat for you."

He swallows and jerks his eyes down to his lap, then huffs a wet laugh. "Dane—"

"Which is why Nico's starting a fire in the locker room." 

That gets him to look up. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed. "He's what?"

"Or setting off the sticks of dynamite he keeps in his glove compartment. Whatever he comes up with. Aiding and abetting domestic terrorism necessitates a distraction." She lets a reassuring smile sneak out. "You've got one."

Kinard's lip trembles a little as he stares at her with something like awe, like he's been given a gift he never once expected, but she watches him visibly bite it all back in favor of reaching for the skills and fearlessness that have helped make a name for him at AirOps. She steps out of the doorway and backs up as he turns on the Bell. The explosion of air tries to ruin her hair, but the snood she put her hair into this morning holds firm. 

Through the tint in the windshield, she can see him lift a hand at her. She doesn't hesitate to lift one right back. 

When he's at least 500 feet in the air, she goes to the other Bell and gets on the radio, tuning it for the right frequency. When she lands on the same channel the call had originally come from, she patches in. 

"Firefighter Buckley, please be advised: help is on the way. Keep an eye on the skies." She thumbs off the speaker and watches as Captain Melton comes storming out of his office. As he gets closer, she clicks back in. "And let me be clear, Buckley: if you fuck things up with him again, your very talented medics at the 118 won't be able to fix what I'll do to you."

Satisfied, she places the radio back into its charging port and slides out of the Bell, then heads in the direction of the hangar. It's been quite some time since she's been in the kind of trouble that ends with being put on leave, which she most certainly will be once her voice is identified.

As Captain Melton approaches, she thinks of all the shows clogging up her Hulu queue that she'll finally be able to get to, and smiles.

[resident-idiot-simp]

Ok but like what happens when Logan watches Wade absolutely lose it's one day.

Maybe he or Laura gets hurt, or maybe they run across some human experimentation stuff that brings back memories.

Either way Wade goes ape shit

~

Logan knows what he himself is capable is. He was made to be a weapon, he was born to be groomed into the was machine. It was what he was good at.

But Wade? It has never crossed his mind, sure somewhere deep in his mind he knew. He knew Wade was a spec ops soldier, he knew he was good. But knowing and seeing are two different things.

Sure he has watched Wade fight normally and it's impressive, but he's never seen him go silent, he's never seen Wade get truly pissed.

Wade had watched Laura go down then Logan and Logan knew he wouldn't be much use for a while the hit did a lot of damage. He was currently trying to make his way over to the still unconscious kit.

Wade however was dead silent and dead still. He'd only see it once in that Honda Odyssey. But even this seemed different.

Wade just tilted his head slightly as he readjusted his grip on his katanas.

The villain of the week? Day? Fuck if Logan knew they seemed to be coming more often now. Watched with a smirk, "Aww is that all it took to break you?" He crooned. Wade remained silent and Logan felt dread crawl up his spine and it wasn't because of the man who'd incapacitated them momentarily.

Wade took a step forward and the guy laughed seemingly thinking this was a good thing for him. Wade let out a low chuckle that froze Logan's blood. In the next moment Wade was moving. Quick and deadly dodging out of the way of any attack sent at him. The others man seemingly started to realize something was off too.

He was backing up trying desperately to get away from the charging mercenary. No luck however as Wade rolled out of the way of another attack before quickly lashing out and slicing the man's Achilles tendons.

He went down hard and Wade circled him like a shark. Wade finally crouched down in front of the man using a katana to force him to make eye contact.

The other man was shaking and Logan didn't know what to think, Wade was still deathly silent as he tilted his head in seeming though before quick as a snake driving a katana through one of his hands and into the floor.

The man screamed but was payed no mind. Wade just watched emotionless before pulling out his knife and placing it precariously on the side of his spine.

"I think it would be neat to cut your spinal column out and mount up to my wall, thoughts?"

Logan was fucking transfixed, but he also knew if Laura woke up this wouldn't be something Wade would want her to see.

"Wade." Logan called to him hesitantly unsure of what to make of this yet unseen side of his mate.

Wade looked over to him the motionless white eyes giving nothing away.

"You don't want the kit waking up and seeing this." He told his seriously trying to reason with the logic that he knew was just below the surface.

Wade said nothing as he watched him before turning back to the man and hissing low and hate filled, "You're so lucky the kit is here unconscious or not."

With that Wade stood up and raised his boot ignoring the building scream of the other man as he brought his boot down on his head.

Logan couldn't tear his eyes away

[pizzaapeteer]

lay all your love on me

Weee little blurb and moodboard for week 3, another little fluffy Mattheo but with more implied smut 🌙 @thatdammchickennugget & @finalgirllx for jinxed July challenge 💛

An: if you can’t tell I was inspired by ABBAs lay all your love on me, as well as used the prompt night swims. No warnings but swearing and f x reader. Prettty divider by wrathofrats!

Moonlight streaks down on the empty beach, waves lulling soundly against the shore side, a perfect night as you dance around to the sounds of ABBA. Picked clearly by you with a drunk protest that enforced Mattheo little choice but to please you at this early hour. The alcohol flows through you as you spin so dramatically, your hair whipping, spraying specs of sea salt everywhere. 

You hum along to the words of Lay all your love on me, lowering yourself down and with a slow crawl; move towards him imitating the movie's scene. His eyes never leave you and your playful movements, taking a sip of his beverage, his eyes greedily roam over your body at the now exposing a view of your cleavage. 

Fuck, you’re a goddess. The things he wants to do to you right now. He’s never been so in love with you, and the goofy personality you bring out. At any and all times. For instance, it’s currently striking one AM and your energy seems to be in no way ready to disappear. He finds himself matching your fun loving smile as you stand up and grab his hand to dance with you. 

He’s never been much of a dancer or a fan of ABBA, but for you, well, that’s a different story. There were no lengths he wouldn’t go for you. He twirls you around, becoming infatuated by the way your smile grows bigger. 

The private beach feels so welcoming when he has you in his warm embrace, and he scoops you towards him, lifting you up. Eating up the sweet giggles that rapture out of you as your legs kick into the night sky. 

“Lets go in!” An excited idea spurs from your mouth the moment your feet land back on the ground. With a tug of his arm, you're already tempting to lead Mattheo to join you in your new determination adventure towards the dark sea. 

“Seriously, you want to go swimming now? It’ll be freezing!” He protests, his heels digging into the depths of the sand, creating sunken caverns trying to stop your surprisingly strong pull. 

“Come on Matty.. We have the whole beach to ourselves, we can do whatever we want.”

Any hesitancy drops at the cheeky grin you throw his way, and with the extra revelation of skin. He cocks a brow, his lips curling up into a smirk, “Oh we can do anything huh.”

The removal of your bikini top excites his interest further, but he's quick to pout when you cover your goods before he can see. Watching, you ran away with a giggle towards the water, drunkly struggling to rip off the remaining clothes before you reach it.

Following behind, he discards his own shirt and catches up at light speed, bounding on top he submerging the two of you together. The tension of calm water is broken with his childlike jump, and he’s met with the invigorating coldness that seeps into his core, his skin stinging like needles. 

The shock of the water's temperatures pulls a sudden gasp from him as he emerges, his arms wrapping around you seeking warmth. “Holy fucking shit! This was a terrible idea.”

There's a slight tremor in his complaint, his bottom lip beginning to quiver. The closeness of your bare chest pressing snuggly against him does little to provide him warmth. He’d forgotten how badly he handles cold, having been stupidly tempted by your alluring self. 

“Let me warm you up.” The needed heat he had been craving soon welcomes him with a passionate kiss captured by your lips and he engages eagerly. The two of your lips guide meshing together like so many times before, your kisses becoming more hectic, fusing into a feverous make out. 

He hisses in pain as you bite his slowly numbing lip, a low whine falling from his lips, granting you the moment to slide your tongue in, taking charge. He groans at your dominance even if your intoxicated behaviour mostly fueled it. His hands wrap, moving, feeling every contour and curve growing his excitement. Too much to the point, his dick throbs hard in the wrong kind of way. 

“Okay, I love this it extremely hot but I’m so fucking cold, I fear my dick's going to fall off.” He states pleading, knowing he wants to follow whatever you have in mind, while not losing any limbs to frostbite. 

An adorable snort makes him grin lovingly. He loves when he can make you laugh. He’s happy you‘ve agreed to exit the depths of the frozen ocean. He watches how you whimper, complaining about how your tits are going to fall off too, having lost the pleasant heat from him and your shirt.

He takes great pleasure in covering them with his large hands, grinning slyly as he repeats your earlier words. “It’s okay. I know a way to warm them up.” His heart is already glowing with its usual warmth as he prepares to lay all his love on you in an unforgettable way.

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen. ©️pizzaapeteer 2024.

[harmonyrae]

Ivy League

Spring Semester: Sophomore Year🌸🌷☔️📚

Premise: Based on this post by PomeRinn aka @waterrinmelonn In this AU, all the boys are modern rich international kids going to a prestigious university. They’re attending Yale, an Ivy League University in the American Northeast. They're all the same age. There’s one FMC, she will end up with only one of them in the end. 

Content Warnings: Mildly Suggestive & Explicit Language. Some fluff. Some angst. Slow burn in its purest form. Depression, self-loathing, mental health, please be aware of your own triggers while reading. Mentions of the boys dating someone other than the FMC, this is an AU not a divergence from the game - there is no "MC" basically. 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 7.5k

Part One Part Two Part Three

“Pips? Are you there?”

Since getting home for the holiday break, Caleb’s visited everyday. While you’ve felt guilty making him sit in the hallway outside your bedroom, you couldn’t handle visitors. From dawn until dusk you would sit in your chair by the window and watch the day go by. Snow would fall, the kids across the street would have a snowball fight, Caleb would deliver his moms famous gingerbread cookies, nothing could get you out of your room. 

Your parents didn’t force you to go to any family gatherings or holiday parties. They cautiously asked if you would come out for Christmas dinner, but didn’t expect anything. Your brothers, however, didn’t treat you like broken glass. They barged into your room to bring you an actual meal. They didn’t badger you with questions, but they did each give you a hug. Acts of affection were rare when it came to your brothers, so as soon as they left you were sobbing. 

Tara stayed in touch, checking on you everyday. She facetimed and took you on a mini tour of Seattle, where she spent the holidays with her dad and sister. The boys kept in contact as well. Rafayel sent copious amounts of memes, Xavier shared his adventures (or rather misadventures) in baking with his aunt, Zayne sent a new picture of Galen nearly everyday with updates on his interests. Galen apparently has started climbing the curtains. Caleb would text off and on, preferring to come in person and sit outside your door in case you wanted company. But the one person you were most anxious to hear from was silent. 

After Halloween, everything went up in flames. Or at least it felt like it did. Sylus got out on bail, his arresting officers told him they wanted to drop the charges but the DA was insistent on cracking down on fraternities and their partying. At least Yale was willing to work with him once Zayne and Tara shared the full story with Student Affairs. Sigma Chi didn’t even need to vote on letting Sylus become a member.

“Anyone who defends their friends from a shithead like that is the kind of man we want.” Caleb quoted Finley. “Also, no, Chad is not a member of Sigma Chi. Never was. But he and Dylan are facing expulsion on top of their charges. You won’t have to worry about seeing him ever again.”

Somehow you held it together through finals. Your parents paid for you and Caleb to fly home rather than drive. As soon as you walked through the door to your family home, it was like the weight of everything that had happened finally hit you. You cried for the first time since the party. Everything that happened had been terrifying, but your friends had protected you. It wasn’t fear that crippled you, guilt had wormed its way into your head. Twisting facts and sending you into a spiral of depression. 

The day before you were set to return to Yale, you forced yourself to pack. Quietly trudging through the house to do load after load of laundry, cleaning your room, showering and shaving so you’d feel like a human again. When you opened your suitcase you realized you hadn’t even taken your makeup bag out. This might be the longest period of time you’ve gone without wearing a spec of makeup. You curled up on your bathroom counter and washed your makeup brushes. Might as well start fresh, right?

With your bathroom door left open, you could hear the knock on your bedroom door. It was probably Caleb making sure you were actually going back to campus tomorrow. You walked over and stood in front of your door, staring at the handle. 

“I’m packing Caleb.” Your voice was raspy, probably from lack of use. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

There’s silence on the other side. You waited for another moment to hear his footsteps retreat. 

“Kitten?” A familiar voice seeps through the door.

You grasp the handle and yank the door open without hesitation. Sylus stands there, hands in his pockets, his hair damp from the falling snow. You feel it, tears forming fast, but you hold your breath to keep them at bay. You back up, creating a gap for Sylus to pass through. He slides past you into your room and you close the door. If your parents are nearby you’re sure they’re arguing over whether they should open it. Their “no boys allowed” rule for your room applied in high school, but now, well… the door is still closed. 

Sylus sits in your chair by the window so you sit on the end of your bed to face him. It’s silent for a while, just the sound of the fireplace crackling and distant holiday music playing. Probably your mom in the kitchen, there’s a guest so she’s most likely cooking something. You stare at your hands, examining your cuticles. You’re glad you changed out of your stained sweatpants and high school hoodie.

“Caleb called.” Sylus says quietly.

“I figured.” You respond.

“He said you haven’t left your room.” He takes a moment to look around. “I was going to lecture you, but it’s pretty nice in here.” 

You blush, crossing your arms so you stop picking at your overgrown cuticles. 

“Why are you here?” It came out harsher than you intended, but you were too anxious to regulate your tone at this point.

“Because I was worried about you.”

“You could have called. Or texted.”

“My father took my phone as soon as I got off the plane.”

You grimace, remembering how ridiculous his father is. 

“The only reason Caleb got through is because his mom works for the airline that my mom flies with. I think his mom even flew her jet once. I know, small world. He apparently broke several laws to get her phone number.”

“Great, so Caleb almost got arrested because of me too.” You blurt out. 

“Stop.” 

You bristle, his tone was rough, but his expression weary. Your face feels hot, your throat closing up. Tears threaten to fall and you don’t have the strength to stop them. Sylus moves to sit next to you on your bed.

“I didn’t get arrested because of you. I got arrested because I broke that prick’s jaw. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Looking over, you see a scar across his knuckles. He had to get stitches, thankfully the doctor was careful. It could have been an ugly reminder, but it suits him in a strange sort of way.

“I don’t blame you, so stop blaming yourself.”

“You had to go home because of everything that happened. You had to see your dad and you have court and…”

“And I’ll deal with it. I told you once that you can’t fix everything. This is one of those things. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” You sob, giving up your attempt at keeping it together. “I should have –”

Sylus grabs your shoulders and turns you to face him.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t play that game. There’s no should-haves or would-haves with this. You did nothing wrong and it’s not your fault for the shit I’m in.”

He lifts his hand to wipe away a tear with his thumb, letting his hand linger to trace your jaw.

“Just be here with me. That’s all I need.”

Sniffling, you offer a small smile. 

“There she is.”

You chuckle and push his shoulder lightly. He lets you go and leans back, propping himself up with his hands behind him on your bed. 

“I didn’t think your dad would let you come back. How’d you convince him?”

“I threatened to sell all my shit, go off the grid and he’d never find me again.” Your mouth falls open. “He knows I could do it too, so he gave in. Told me if I get into any more trouble he’ll take the risk.” 

“So if you stay out of trouble, you can finish at Yale?” He nods. “And you aren’t facing any penalties for what happened? With the school at least?”

“They’re not exactly happy, but they’re letting me off with a warning. The courts however…”

“Do you have to actually go to court?”

“I have a lawyer who’s trying to keep that from happening. He said it’s likely I’ll get a deal and just plead out.”

“Wait, you’d take a deal? But Ch- ahh… That dick is the one who is at fault!”

“I still assaulted him. I still have to deal with the consequences of that.”

“But…”

“Hey, it’ll be fine, okay? I’ll hear from my lawyer in a few weeks. Now, let’s focus on you.” He stands. “Come on. Get some shoes.”

“What? Where are we going?” 

“We’re going on a walk. Caleb said you’ve barely left the house, so we are getting you some fresh air while the sun is still up.”

The walk is slow, frigid, but refreshing. Snow crunching under your boots, Sylus commenting on your neighborhood's poor taste in holiday decorations, the sky turns orange and red as the sun sets, the clouds rippling like fiery waves. By the time you make it back to your house, Caleb has arrived. He instantly hugs you and thanks Sylus profusely for coming. Caleb stays for dinner, which, sure enough, your mother went all out for. It’s like the moment Sylus arrived, she went into turbo mode and made a second holiday feast just for him. You’d told your parents about what Sylus did, so that’s probably exactly what she did. 

Eating dinner at the dining room table was odd after eating so many meals in your room. But you could tell your parents were relieved you were finally coming out of your shell. Caleb checked Sylus’s flight for the next day, confirming his mother pulled some strings to get him on the same flight as you both. Your mother made up the guest room for Sylus. She just shook her head when he claimed to have a room at a hotel. 

“No, you stay with us. Please, it’s the least we can do.”

Your mother can be very convincing when she wants to. Sylus conceded and settled in for the night, checking in on you once more before getting some sleep. His hug lasted a little longer this time, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. When his lips brushed your cheek you gasped, making him smile while his ears turned red. He wished you sweet dreams before strolling to the guest room. You leaned against your bedroom door, giggling like a smitten school girl. 

🌸🌷☔️📚

As soon as you got back to campus you went to the Registrar's Office to officially declare your major. Are you sure this is what you want? Will you end up going back to college in 20 years? Maybe. But for nearly a year, you’ve been thinking about only one major. You declare yourself an English major and grab a course outline so you can plan your final two years. When you tell the guys, Rafayel is thrilled he’s not the only Bachelor of Arts student in the group anymore.

Sylus and Rafayel move into the Sigma Chi house as soon as they get back to campus. They rally the gang to help them move in and you immediately get a glimpse at what life will be like for them as roommates. As soon as they finish arguing about who gets a desk in front of the window, they are arguing over how messy the other is. 

“You’ve been in the room for less than 30 minutes and there’s already paint on the fucking floor!”

“At least I’m not dropping nuts and bolts with every step I take! Where are they even coming from?! No no no! Do not put that monstrosity right in front of my closet!”

Poor Mephisto. Sylus had just about finished him over the break, finally naming him as well. Seems he avoided his father by locking himself in his room to finish ironing out the CAWing issue. He was sitting like a real bird on a bird stand that served as a charger. He blinks at Rafayel. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was judging him. Hell, maybe he is. 

“Do not call him a monstrosity! And this is not your closet, that is your closet.”

“That closet is too small. I need that one.”

“Well tough shit.”

“Why are you such an asshole? Zayne, how did you survive living with this?”

Zayne taps Mephisto’s head, almost petting him. He looks over his shoulder at Rafayel. 

“He has his moments.”

Rafayel huffs and storms out of the room to grab another box from Caleb’s car. Sylus turns to Xavier, who is almost asleep on Rafayel’s bed. 

“Xavier? Same question.”

Xavier opens one eye to look at him. 

“Stock his minifridge with the honey-dew yogurt smoothies from the dining hall and he’ll stay out of your hair. And if he’s really mad, compliment his art. Calms him down pretty quickly.” 

Sylus looks around the room at the various canvases leaning against the wall. Rafayel is talented, there’s no doubt about it. They may not be Sylus’s cup of tea, but they are incredible nonetheless. When Rafayel returns, Sylus tries it out and is pleasantly surprised with the results. They come to an agreement to share the window space and Sylus lets Rafayel have his closet as long as Mephisto’s bird stand is left untouched in the corner.

Look at your boys compromising, they grow up so fast. 

After the boys move in, the whole gang assembles for dinner in the Commons. Gideon has officially joined since he doesn’t seem to want to be apart from Tara for even a second. She’s eating it up, the flirting and giggles making you a little jealous and curious about where you stand with Sylus. Neither of you have denied flirting with each other, but there’s nothing official and you’re too shy to ask. 

“Wait, does anyone else have English Literature with Professor Morris?” Xavier asks.

You check your phone, recognizing the name. 

“Yep, I do. Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10am.”

“Same.” Sylus adds as he turns to you, stealing a dumpling off your plate. “And since you’re an English major, you can tutor us for a change.” 

“Not crazy about literature, are we?” You tease.

“I built a robotic bird who can fly for over 1000 hours on a single charge and record upwards of 72 hours of footage at the highest quality. But if you ask me why Shakespeare wrote Hamlet, I’ll be as useless as that carrot on Zayne’s plate.” 

You give Zayne a critical look.

“Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging us to eat our vegetables, Doctor?”

“You’re one to talk.” He points to your neglected broccoli florets.

“Who puts broccoli in stir fry?” Caleb, Xavier and Rafayel discover they all have Art History together. Now Rafayel is in a similar position to you, thrust into a tutoring role he didn’t ask for. Of course Caleb would leave his humanities class for the last semester before his courses turned grueling. He’s a glutton for punishment it seems. 

🌸🌷☔️📚

As the weather warms, the walks to your classes become more enjoyable. The sun peeking over the treetops as you climb the hill to the Linsly-Chittenden Hall. You looked forward to your literature class, not just because you got to sit sandwiched between Xavier and Sylus, but because room 102 is simply stunning. Stained glass windows, worn wooden floors and the acoustics were tasty. It felt fitting to study “Beowulf” in a vintage building like this.

While you simply enjoyed listening to Professor Morris’s lectures and doing your best to understand some of the old English, Sylus was completely lost. Not only did he give up reading the original text to look up simplified translations online, he also was the first to start a debate about its content. Eventually, you stopped trying to shush him and let him run wild.

“Okay, so this guy kills this quote unquote ‘monster’ and then, surprise! Its mom shows up to seek revenge - which seems like a perfectly rational thing a mother would do. So he just decides to kill her. It sounds like he just killed two members of an endangered species and got rewarded for it.”

“Sylus…” Professor Morris grips her podium. 

“And then some fuckhead stole from a dragon. What did he think was going to happen?!”

The class laughs at his enthusiasm, but he doesn’t stop his tirade.

“And instead of finding the fuckhead and returning what he STOLE, he decides to go kill the dragon? When he’s an old man? Who has probably been sitting on his ass on that throne he earned through MURDER for a couple decades? I don’t know Morris.” 

“Professor Morris!” You poke his arm, urging him to be respectful.

“You’re saying Beowulf’s character is supposed to represent Heroism and the good in Good vs Evil, but he just sounds like a dick.”

“Alright! I will see you all on Thursday for your exam covering ‘Beowulf’! Have a lovely afternoon everyone.” 

Professor Morris swiftly ends class and climbs down from her podium. Xavier leans forward to look at Sylus.

“I think you broke her.” 

You break down laughing and pretty soon Xavier and Sylus are joining you. Sylus seemed to enjoy poking holes in any story covered in class. He just about lost his mind when he finished “The Scarlet Letter.” When he spoke up about sexism and religious hypocrisy you applauded his critiques. There were more females sitting around Sylus after that lecture. Not that he noticed.

🌸🌷☔️📚

“You’re on your way to your study group, right?” 

Pausing, you take a moment to smell the flowers budding in the garden outside the library while you finish your call with Caleb. The tulips are growing taller by the day.

“I am, why?”

“My schedule is so hectic I haven’t been able to grab Sylus for a talk. He still hasn’t told me his pick for a community activity. It’s due by Friday, can you please tell him to text me his choice?”

“Community activity?” 

“Everyone in Sigma Chi has to be involved in a community activity. Volunteering, tutoring, doesn’t matter. I gave him a list of options a few weeks ago.”

“I’ll remind him, but if he doesn’t text it’s not my fault!” 

“Thanks Pips, I owe you. You’re still coming to my basketball game tomorrow, yea?” 

“Xavier and I will come right after practice. You’ll be at our tournament Saturday, right?”

He hesitates.

“Xia Yizhou.”

“Oh god… Not my legal name, Pips please…”

“Then say you’ll be there!” You try not to sound like you’re begging, but you’re definitely begging. “It’s the semi-finals and I actually have a shot this year.”

“Okay okay, yes, I will be there. I might be a little late.” You groan. “I have to take Arya to the airport, she’s going home for her aunt’s funeral.” 

Well now you feel like an asshole. Caleb is taking his “not girlfriend” to the airport because she has a funeral to attend and you’re complaining. 

“Oh, sorry. How’s she doing?” 

“She didn’t know her that well, but her mom is taking it pretty hard. She says hi by the way.”

“Oh you’re with her?” You can feel the awkward tension rising.

“Yep, just finished dinner. She’s dropping me back at the house for practice.”

“Ahh, right. Well, tell your girlfriend I said hello. I’ll text you later.”

“Pips…” 

You can tell he wants to say something, but he can’t outright deny their relationship right in front of her. They might not be official, but that would certainly ruin the potential. You give a rushed goodbye and hang up. You’re happy for him, truly. Arya is so fucking nice and crazy about him. But with them and Gideon and Tara, you’re starting to feel just a tad bit lonely. 

The library is warm, the smell of books that almost never get checked out is oddly comforting. You can’t believe it took you so long to realize you’re meant to be an English major. You literally find the smell of books comforting and prefer libraries to parties. You’re a nerd and proud. When you spot Xavier and Sylus, you rush over and grab the final coffee cup in the carrier at the center of the table. 

“Thank god, I’m freezing.” Holding the coffee for a full minute before taking a sip, you slowly thaw from your walk. “Have you guys started on the flashcards?”

“I was about to.” Xavier looks up from his laptop to pick up the brightly colored flashcards.

“Oh, Sylus, Caleb wanted me to remind you about the community activity thing. You need to text him your choice before Friday.”

“Fuck...” He taps his pen on the table. “I was actually… hmm…”

Glancing up from your notebook, you catch him looking away. You lean forward on the table, resting your chin on your palm. 

“You what?” You’ve fallen into his trap.

“I was going to work on improving urban meadows. Plant more flowers, fix up the benches, build some bird feeders. I know you haven’t had much time outside of classes and practice, but if you wanted to join me, I could use an assistant?” 

There’s not a thought in your pretty little head at this very moment. Not one. You can’t really visualize planting flowers with Sylus, but the idea is certainly captivating. Xavier pokes you.

“You’ve been staring for like 2 minutes.” 

You love Xavier, but sometimes his laidback attitude borders on aloof. If you hadn’t caught the mirth in his eyes, you would have thought his comment was just an observation. Damn, does everyone in your friend group know you can’t talk to Sylus without short circuiting? 

“Sure. I’ll help. When were you going to start?” 

“How about Sunday? I know you have a tournament on Saturday.” You raise a brow, surprised he knew. “It’s a big one for you, right?” You nod. “Then I’ll have to make a sign.”

You don’t absorb a single literary fact that night. 

🌸🌷☔️📚

The day of the basketball game a snowstorm blew in and classes were cancelled. To pass the time before fencing practice you decided to visit the boys at the Sigma Chi house. Visiting during the day has helped reduce your anxiety over what happened at the party, so you were making an effort to come around more often. 

When you arrived you were greeted by Finley, who was trying to find a location for the basketball game since the outdoor court was covered in snow and ice. You knew the mats for the fencing match were being set up tomorrow, so the student rec gym should be empty. He gave you the biggest hug and sprinted out of the house. 

As you passed the stairs leading to the workshop, Luke and Kieran emerged. They immediately called out for you to wait. You were surprised they remembered you. 

“What do you mean? Sylus talks about you all the time?” Kieran hits his brother over the back of the head. “Ow! What?”

“He said not to mention that…” Kieran whispers out of the corner of his mouth, still loud enough for you to hear given your close proximity. 

“Oh! Right. Nevermind, he never talks about you. Hates you even.” Again, Kieran slaps his brother. “Dude!”

“Sorry about him, he’s been breathing in fumes. In the workshop. Fumes in the workshop.” Kieran stutters and smiles weakly.

“Ahh. Gotcha. Have you guys seen him today?” Trying to hide your amusement was proving to be very difficult with these two.

“He left a little while ago, I think to get more parts for Mephisto.” Luke offers.

You thank them and continue up the stairs, listening to them bicker as you walk away. The door to Rafayel and Sylus’s room is open, so you walk right in. It’s not as messy as you expected. Rather clean given the sheer amount of canvases, paint bottles, coffee tins of mechanical bits and various tool sets. You’re about to call out, but hear something clatter to the floor in the bathroom. You knock on the door lightly.

“Rafayel, you in there?”

He opens the door and you slap a hand over your mouth. His hair is sticking straight up, some parts clipped back, others falling down in slimy strands. His neck is a bright shade of purple and you can’t help but stare. He smiles and points a gloved hand at you.

“You are the first person to ever catch me doing this.”

He lets the door drift open as he turns back to cleaning a purple splotch on the tile floor. You tip toe past him and look at the variety of products on the counter. 

“You’re dying your hair?”

“Yup! It’s been fading like crazy. This house has a sauna, so I’ve been leaking purple for days.”

You couldn’t really tell, but you nod in agreement to appease him. He turns back to the mirror to dip his fingers in a bowl of dark violet mush, spreading it over his hair until every strand is saturated. You put down the toilet seat and step up to sit on the tank, feet on the lid. Avoiding the open cap, you pick up the bottle and examine it. 

“Mauve Smoke? That’s a pretty good description.” He chuckles. “Have you dyed your hair any other colors before?”

“I’ve always stuck with cool tones, I don’t know if red or orange would suit me.”

Any color would suit him and he knows it. 

“I had navy hair for a while, but it was too dark. Lightened it to a cobalt blue. Then I wanted to add teal to the ends, but it came out green. I finally leveled it out to a mint, but I hated it. So, using color theory, I cancelled out the green with a reddish purple. I’ve been purple ever since.”

On the counter, there’s a bottle of bright pink dye. You point it out.

“So why do you have pink?” 

“I was going to try something new, add some pink to the ends, but I don’t think it would really show up the way I want it to. And I am not bleaching my ends, they’ll melt off.”

You chuckle at the thought of Rafayel having to cut his luscious locks like one of those bleaching fail videos. The longer you stare at the bottle the more concrete your little idea becomes. 

“What if… you use it on me?” Rafayel nearly drops a glob on the counter. “I’ve never had colored hair before. Just highlights. Maybe…”

“Maybe it would be fun to live a little?” You nod. “Hmm… you have a lot of hair and I only have one bottle. We could do some strands of pink? You’d see it better when you curl it or wear it up.”

“Yes! Yes. Would you…?”

He gives you a devious smile.

“I’m so happy I’ve corrupted you. Yes, I’ll help you. Let me get this shit on my hair first ” 

You chat with him while he finishes applying the dye then he disappears into his room, when he returns he tosses you a t-shirt telling you to change to avoid ruining your sweater. Once you’ve changed, he cleans off the counter and you sit mere inches from the mirror. He sections your hair and mixes the dye in a clean plastic bowl. 

“It actually smells like bubblegum!”

“It’s a vegan formula that’s semi-permanent so it doesn’t have as many chemicals. That also means it won’t last as long. It’ll fade after a few washes. If you want it completely removed we can do a bleach wash in a few weeks.” 

You give him a terrified look in the mirror.

“That just means I’ll dilute the bleach and apply it with your hair wet. No reason to damage your hair to hell and back just to get a little pink out.” 

The process is relaxing, Rafayel works quickly and efficiently. After a little while, the door to the bedroom closes and Rafayel kicks the bathroom door open with his foot.

“Sylus! We have a guest, don’t get naked!” He leans forward. “Unless you want him to be?”

You thrust your elbow back into his stomach and he groans. Sylus pokes his head into the bathroom and you watch his eyes widen.

“Oh, you’re… is that my shirt?” Your smile falls, glancing down at the pink stains. 

“Rafayel! I thought this was yours!” Rafayel wheezes, dropping a strand of your hair to back away from an approaching Sylus. “Oh my god, I’m sorry Sy!”

“Yeah Sy! She’s sorry!” Rafayel teases. 

You keep forgetting you’re the only one who calls him Sy. Your cheeks turn a bright pink, almost matching the dye in your hair. Sylus just glares at Rafayel, but he retreats, leaning against the doorframe to examine you. 

“It’s a good look for you kitten.” You lock eyes with him in the mirror. “The hair too.”

He strolls out of the bathroom, leaving you stunned and speechless. Rafayel pokes your forehead so you’ll face forward. He lets you sit in silence, reveling in your embarrassment. 

“You guys are so cute. It’s disgusting.”

He finishes your hair an hour before practice starts, even drying and curling it so you can properly see how the pink weaves throughout. Xavier is rendered speechless. He still makes you pull it back so you won’t get distracted, but that just makes it worse and now he’s distracted. You win every bout tonight.

The basketball game is chaotic. Sigma Chi’s sister sorority are cheerleaders, you spot Arya among them and wave. She’s cute, petite, olive skin with big brown eyes, her wild curls framing her angelic face. You watch her hug Caleb after he scores another point. You expected to feel a twinge of jealousy or even sadness, but you feel… okay. Maybe this is acceptance? 

Sylus nudges you, offering some of his nachos. You happily take one before you start to overthink again.

“Zayne’s at the shelter tonight, right?” Sylus asks and you nod. He leans closer to whisper in your ear. “He hasn’t brought home any more strays, has he?” 

“No, but he could probably get away with it. Since he doesn’t have a roommate this semester.” 

 “I’m sure he’s looking forward to break, Galen misses him.”

“And you know this, how?” He stretches and drapes his arm over the back of your seat.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty good with kittens.” 

His smirk is so cocky. How does he keep getting away with this?

You don’t stay for the after-party, you’re still not ready for that. Tara told you she plans to stay the night with Gideon and Xavier left the game early. You should really talk to him about taking more iron or vitamin D with how tired he’s been lately. So Sylus offers to walk you back. He drops you off at your dorm and this time, when he kisses your cheek, you don’t make a sound. 

🌸🌷☔️📚

Xavier picks you up early for the tournament on Saturday morning. Even with the sabre bouts scheduled towards the end to keep the crowd, you wanted to be there for your team. You try your best to remain calm, stretching often to keep your limbs from tensing. But by mid-afternoon you can’t stop fidgeting.

Your team is doing well, even for a club sport Yale fencing is known for being ruthless. The captain makes his rounds every five minutes to provide moral support. Xavier won almost every match by a landslide, only his final bout proved to be a challenge. His competitor was taller, longer arms and, just like Xavier, professionally trained before ever attending university. 

Watching Xavier leap and parry for so long fried your nerves. You weren’t even nervous for your bouts anymore. Audiences were usually not too rowdy at fencing matches, but as soon as Xavier started to tire you heard a familiar voice cheering him on.

“XAVIER IF YOU DON’T WOOP HIS ASS I SWEAR TO GOD!” Rafayel has never been so passionate about sports in his entire life. 

If you could see Xavier’s face behind his mask, you’re sure he’d be red as a beet. But Rafayel’s cheer, or rather his threat, worked. The judges had to deliberate if his move would count as cheating, but they were so impressed they allowed it, securing Xavier’s title as champion for the Épée rounds. Now it was your turn.

“Sabre competitors, 5 minutes!” The announcer called out. 

Xavier sank into the chair next to you, yanking off his helmet and grabbing his water bottle. 

“I see you finally took my advice.” You giggle.

Xavier squints, but quickly lifts his hand to his head. You grab his arm.

“No! Leave it! They’re cute!” 

He glares at you, but stops struggling for the moment, leaving the bejeweled star clips holding his hair back alone. You’d gifted them to him for the holidays claiming they’d be his lucky charm. But mostly because he kept complaining about his hair falling over his eyes making bouts more frustrating. He refused to get a haircut and you were ready to scream at him the next time he took off his helmet and flicked his bangs, sending sweat droplets into your face.

“You ready?” He reached down and grabbed your sabre for you.

“I’m nervous.” You fumble with the straps of your gloves and he stops you, taking your hands in his to fix them himself. “Thanks…”

“I know you want to win. I want you to win. But more than that, I want you to have fun.” 

“But if I don’t win I’ll be a miserable bitch to everyone I know.”

“Then get up there and kick ass.” He hands you your helmet and you stand, marching towards the mat with determination.

You flew through the first few rounds, gaining more confidence as you’re declared the victor. Some of your opponents are definitely more skilled, leaner, faster, but thanks to Xavier’s patient training you remain undefeated. You make it to the finals, your opponent just so happens to be the captain of the team from Harvard. Of course, a good ole fashion Yale vs Harvard match, bring it on. 

Names are read out, lights narrow and the referee nods to each of you. With your mask lowered, you close your eyes to get into the zone, imagining you’re just at practice on the lawn outside Lawrance Hall. Breathing deeply, you open your eyes. The referee stands back.

“En garde!” 

You each take your positions.

"Pret? Allez!"

Your opponent lunges forward, instantly catching the edge of your blade as you parry. Leaping high, you feel her blade tap your leg and you grin, your jump height has become so much better. Repositioning, you take initiative, striking with ease and pushing her back. She recovers quickly, but your feint succeeds in throwing her off. Your sabre strikes true, poking her abdomen. 

“Point! Yale.”

The dance continues. She remains on offense for a considerable amount of time before you finally parry, taking the right of way to make your attack. Your breathing turns shallow as your chest tightens, each match having taken its toll. Flunge! Your favorite term still makes you giggle as you hear it in Xavier’s voice every time. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’d be disappointed if you lost. After all the effort he put in to train with you. Would he be angry? He wouldn’t stop training with you, would he?

“Point! Harvard.”

You hadn’t even felt the hit. Looking down you see the tip of her blade pressed against your chest. Dead center. Fuck. You take a quick glance at Xavier, he just nods, his face neutral. 

Positions, allez. Another missed opportunity to engage first. She’s too fast. She swings low, forcing you to jump. You bring your blade down, anticipating a strike, but it never comes. Instead, she leaps herself, soaring into the air, ready to roll on impact. You move to take a step, but don’t know which way she’ll go. Before you get a chance to decide, she strikes.

“Point! Harvard.” 

You swear under your breath. You’re tired, bruised, it’s been a long day and you’ve been training harder than ever to prepare. All your friends are here to support you, Caleb arrived earlier than expected, Tara and Gideon brought you lunch even though you were too nervous to eat it, Rafayel drew you accepting a trophy weeks ago, and Sylus wasn’t lying when he said he’d make a sign. Even Zayne showed up and he hates sporting events. 

Attempting to bottle your nerves, you grit your teeth and roll your shoulders. Get one more point, even it out, accuracy over speed. Your logical brain repeats these facts over and over, but that little voice that you’ve spent over a decade trying to ignore keeps butting in. Unknowingly, you’ve been feeding that voice, helping it get stronger as the years pass. You never realized how damaging your self-deprecation has been to your psyche. It was just sarcasm, but your developing brain hadn’t processed it as such. 

If you choke for even a second, you’ll let everyone down. You’re about to fail, like always. Where will you hide when you inevitably lose this bout?

As you shake your head to clear your mind you hear the referee shout. 

“Allez!"

If someone was timing the match, they could reach out to the world record book - get your picture for ‘the shortest fencing bout in history.’

“Final point! Harvard takes the win.” 

Goosebumps rise along your arms and your throat begins to close making it hard to swallow. You politely shake your opponents hand, thankful fencing requires a helmet and you can hide the way you’re falling apart. The Harvard girl removes hers, her face marked by tears of joy. She’d worked just as hard to get here. Turning, you hop down from the mat and walk straight to the locker room. Xavier calls after you, but you break into a sprint, reaching your destination before he can catch up.

🌸🌷☔️📚

You’re not sure how long you sit in the shower stall. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Your teammates came to find you, but quickly realized it’s probably best to let you cool off. The tournament was held at Yale, so it’s not like you’re missing a bus. When the locker room is completely silent, you emerge from your hiding spot to change.

After peeling off your uniform and storing it in your duffel bag, you stand, half naked, holding the clothes you brought for after the meet. They were meant for a celebration. Your favorite pink corduroy skirt, a fitted white turtleneck, lace tights and matching white heeled boots. The gang was going to go to Modern Apizza with the rest of the fencing team. You’d already planned what to order. The Bruschetta first and then the Margarita pizza to share with Tara. You’d been so confident you didn’t bring your usual extra set of clothes. 

Pulling on your skirt, you forgo the sweater and just zip up your coat. You just need to get back to your dorm, so you put your court shoes back on. The sweat in your hair has dried, leaving your hair sticking to your face, a few pink stains on your neck from where the dye bled out. You don’t bother to retie your ponytail, just let it be, you’ll shower soon. 

Opening the door to the locker room as slowly as possible, you look back and forth. You wouldn’t be surprised if your friends had waited for you. Before fully stepping outside, you dig your phone out of your duffel and scroll through the messages. 

Tara🐝 Babe, where are you?  Xav⭐ You did well, the final bout is always the hardest  I’m worried about you Pls call me Falafel🎨 i know ur upset & everything… but ur high jumps were really fucking impressive… Dr. Z🩺 (meme of two kittens hugging) Caleb✈️ Where are you hiding?  Come on, talk to me. Pips… Sy🐦‍⬛ You fought well, kitten.  Don’t beat yourself up.

Keeping your head down, you go out the side entrance and slowly make your way back to your dorm. When you get there, you brace yourself, Tara might be back by now. The lock clicks and you open the door carefully. All the lights are off, only your salt lamp glows faintly in the corner next to your bed. You’d been hoping the whole walk back that no one would be here. But now… A fresh stream of tears spill over and trickle down your cheeks while you gather your shower caddy and a towel. 

You take your time, have a good cry, exfoliate. Curling up in bed to sleep away the frustration sounded like the best idea. Wrapping the towel around yourself, you stare in the mirror for a moment. You’d trained for this, been so ready and you barely understand what happened. Squeezing the excess water from your hair, you clip it back and grab your shower caddy. You stare down at your feet as you open the bathroom door and enter your room, trying to massage a sore spot on your shoulder. 

“Oh shit…”

Your eyes snap up and lock with Sylus’s, who is sitting on your bed with a pizza box beside him. You freeze momentarily, half convinced this is not real life. When you realize it is very much real, you drop your caddy and wrap your arms around yourself. He lowers his gaze.

“Sorry, kitten, I didn’t–”

“Why are you here?! How did you get in here?! Oh my god, I’m naked…” 

You race to your dresser to get underwear and use your closet doors to hide as you dress.

“Tara gave me her key. And I’m here because even though you’re upset you still need to eat.”

Pulling on sleep shorts and a tank top, you close the closet doors and cross your arms as you approach him. He cautiously looks up and points to the pizza box.

“Half a Margarita pizza. And I stole a few pieces of Bruschetta from Rafayel.”

Every fiber of your being is telling you to kick him out. He’s not invited to your pity party. But the way he’s looking at you, his brows drawn together, lips pressed in a thin line. He’s worried. 

“Thanks.” You mutter under your breath.

He opens the box and you nearly start salivating the moment you smell the sweet tomato and garlic cheesy goodness. He kicks off his boots and starts to get comfortable on your bed, even grabbing your starfish plushie to hold in his lap.

“You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.” 

“So we’re lying to each other now?” He squints, head cocked. “Sit, eat. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Again, you’re torn between telling him to leave or replacing that plushie with yourself. Instead, you grab a slice and unceremoniously stuff half of it in your mouth. As soon as you swallow the first bite, your snarky attitude fades to a simmer. You sit and avoid his gaze as you continue eating. He leans back, watching you.

“What were you thinking about?” 

“When?” You say with your mouth half full.

“During the match.” You shake your head like you don’t know what he’s talking about. “Kitten.”

“I doubted myself for one second and it bit me in the ass.”

“It was more than that.”

“Okay, how did you come to that conclusion?” Your glare could freeze hell over. “I had a mask on, you were up in the stands, so please, enlighten me.”

“You tremble when angry. When you’re frustrated. And when you’re sad. Even when you’re tired, you don’t let it affect you like your emotions do. So, what were you thinking about?”

You might struggle to read him, but he has no trouble reading you. Drawing your legs close to your chest, you close your eyes to ward off the tears. You’ve cried so much lately. 

“I’m really mean to myself, you know? Without really trying. I just… I’m really mean.”

You don’t have it in you to elaborate and he doesn’t ask you to. He closes the pizza box and scootches over to sit next to you. You feel his arm wrap around your shoulders and without thinking, you lean into his warmth.

“If someone was saying those things to Tara, the things you tell yourself, what would you do?”

Probably end up in jail.

“I get your point.” He rests his chin on your head. 

“We’ll work on it together.” 

He doesn’t share a plan or why he wants to help you, he just stays by your side. You don’t talk about it anymore that night. When you’re full, he tucks you in and watches silly videos with you until you fall asleep. The next morning when you wake up curled up beside him, your cheek on his chest, you feel more at peace than ever. 🌸🌷☔️📚

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: (If you'd like to be added to the Ivy League taglist comment a🎓) @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @klmpun @ariallaisawesome @spidy-spider01 @ankitavminkook @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmutm0 @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @bubbleteakittyy @stellar-seas @babylilxc @havenhope-art @lly5duck @freddy-2002-blog @sylus-hunter @plzdonutpercieveme @saybeyonce @red-f1sh-blue-f1sh @am-drawings @thechaoticarchivist @booklover99988755421 @szafficat

AN: I know, I know. Rafayel dyes his hair?? This is a real life AU so natural purple hair can't really be a thing. Plus it's a nice addition for FMC to give it a try. Also, I know the idea of Caleb dating might not be something everyone likes, but like I said, FMC will end up with only one of them. And I want all the guys to be happy. Summer special up next, cuteness overload incoming.

[evermoredeluxe]

How Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour Took Over the Entire World

By Chris Willman

By Alissa Gao for Variety

On the morning that Taylor Swift’s “Eras Tour” is about to begin a three-night stand in Dublin, the older gentleman taking charge of my passport at airport customs has clearly had his fill of Swifties, probably processing them by the hundreds already today. When I reveal myself to be one too — despite being arguably the wrong gender, inarguably old and lacking a telltale “Lover” mascara star over my right eye — his disdain is palpable. Suddenly, I’m getting way more screening questions than anyone not on a watch list should. “What do you like about her?” he sneers, peering up over specs.

This is probably the wrong time for me to point out Swift’s Irish heritage, or to assert that she is this generation’s James Joyce. (The original king of the Easter eggs, right?) I wouldn’t really go that far — I’m only on record as doing my best to certify her as this century’s Beatles. Trying to figure out how to answer him, the past 18 years of extolling Swift in print flash before my eyes. I end up murmuring the bare minimum: “Um, her songwriting.” This seems to disturb him further. He snaps back: “Aren’t they all the same song” — a slight pause, and I know what’s coming next — “about her breakups?” Then, abruptly, he stamps me through, sparing me a detour to Interpol for more grilling.

In the cab into town, the driver is blasting a local talk-radio personality sharing his dismay about the fans of an awful superstar taking over his country. The host reads an email sent in from a hater who says, “A year ago, when tickets went on sale, my partner and I made a reservation to take our kids out of the country this Friday morning. … Thank you for creating a safe space with your show.” I start to wonder if Swift might have met her match at the Cliffs of Moher.

But from my drop-off forward, the next three days are like living in a Swift-topia. The mile and a half to Aviva Stadium each night is like Disneyland when it shuts its doors early for an affinity group. Whether stopping in the pubs or walking through the charming neighborhood of Victorian brick homes adjoining the fancy new stadium, there’s that warm feeling of people who are united by one quality: They are all super in touch with their feelings — or else they wouldn’t be Swift fans. And they all are happy to stop on the street or over pints to talk about poetical expression. (Well, except for the occasional taciturn, invariably straight young male who has signified his supportive-plus-one status by wearing a jersey bearing the name of Swift’s Super Bowl beau, Travis Kelce.)

So it is that I end up chatting with a middle-aged gay man in a sequin-covered shirt whose female companion whispers to me, while he steps away to trade friendship bracelets with a 10-year-old girl and her mum, that Swift’s music just helped him through a difficult breakup. The girl then runs off to trade her homemade bracelets with a pair of high-helmeted Dublin policemen loaded up to their own elbows with friendship swag — unexpected accessories for long arms of the law.

All the stories about American Swifties swarming overseas to catch “The Eras Tour” turn out to be true: You couldn’t swing a neon golf club around here without hitting a Yank. Approximately one out of every five fans I approach is visiting from the States — and the jubilation they’re feeling about the night’s impending concert is compounded by the fact that nearly all of them financed a European vacation and a concert ticket for roughly the same amount they would have paid on a secondary ticketing site for a typical four-figure ticket to one of last year’s predatorily repriced U.S. shows.

Remember the venerable stereotype of the Ugly Americans, brusquely trampling over refined Europeans in their travels? Thanks to Taylor Swift, who has a gift for laying out global welcome mats, this is the summer of the Spangly American.

At the stadium on night one, just down the row from me are a group of millennials from New Jersey, several in glam unitards inspired by the “Lover” or “1989” portions of the career-spanning show and looking like they were costumed by Swift’s own designer, with fake jewel-encrusted microphones to match. I ask how many hours went into perfecting these nearly pro-grade outfits.

“About 80 hours for mine,” says Megan McLaughlin. “Hers probably longer,” she adds, nodding toward one of her sisters, Margo Steinberg. “She knows all the glues and the best gems.” Indeed, confirms Steinberg, “I was working on mine since January. And, yes, I did quit my job to finish it!” She adds, when I ask if she cares to share any secrets to a particularly good look, “You have to use the B-7000 glue.” (A third sister, Amelia McLaughlin, admits she resorted to buying her spangly dress off Etsy — “I was doing a PhD, but I had to match these girls’ enthusiasm” — while a fourth, Carolyn McLaughlin, skipped the glitter and went for a red dress that matches Swift’s from the “I Bet You Think About Me” video.)

Certainly, there is an element of cosplay to many of the fans’ outfits. Some have seen footage of the new segment Swift added to the tour beginning in April 2024 — devoted to her most recent album, the 31-song “Tortured Poets Department” — and have managed to manufacture gowns that look like they’re made of paper and feature lyric excerpts printed on them in script, à la Swift’s custom-made Vivienne Westwood dress. I meet a group of American women who became friends as literature majors in college who have “Tortured Poets”-themed outfits, one duplicating the Westwood dress and the other with handmade printouts of the latest album’s lyrics pinned all over her black dress, as if she were literally pulling pages out of Swift’s playbook.

It’s the devotion to lyrics, even more than glitter, that is most impressive about the bespoke outfits fans have concocted for the occasion. There are scores and scores of Swifties wearing homemade T-shirts — sometimes singular, sometimes matching with a friend, like walking Burma-Shave signs. Some of the messages are obvious, like the dozens of laddies wearing “It’s me, hi, I’m the husband/boyfriend/father, it’s me” shirts. (Bet that seemed really original at one time.) But a lot of them refer to more obscure songs or stanzas, as if every nearby street or stadium loge section is full of human Easter eggs, begging to be unpacked. It’s hard to think of any other superstar in the history of stadium tours who could have inspired as much fan-crafted clothing rooted in the power of words.

Combos of middle-aged mothers and their teen or 20-something daughters abound; some of them have seized on Swift’s mentions of her own mother, Andrea, to come up with their T-shirt ideas. On Lansdowne Road, I talk to a mum whose red-on-black shirt says, “Had to listen to all this drama,” accompanied by a daughter bearing the legend, “And here’s to my mama.” (This is a reference to Swift’s song “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.”)

Later, in a stadium Guinness line, I chat up a pair of thirsty locals, the daughter’s shirt reading “I call my mom, she said …,” with the mom’s shirt completing the thought: “It was for the best.” (Damn it, I had to Google to recall that’s from a “1989” Vault track that came out last year.) I ask the daughter if she had to explain to her mom what she was wearing. “She’s 52,” she replies. “I don’t think she knows.”

Age is really no guarantor of not getting it — the popular #SwiftieOver50 hashtag on X proves that. Although outnumbered, plenty of older people are unaccompanied by a minor, or by anyone who has been a minor in the past 20 years. I approach a middle-aged couple, Jean Sebastian Conley and Natasha Gagne, again bidden by their matching shirts — “Who’s Taylor Swift?” and “Who’s Travis Kelce?” They turn out to be French Canadians who found their 206-euro SRO tickets to be a steal compared with the extravagant resale prices they briefly considered back home after being shut out of the initial on-sale. I ask what attracted them to Swift since, unlike so many others here, they didn’t grow up with her.

“I really fell in love with her with the ‘Folklore’ album,” Conley says, referring to her low-key Grammy-winning album recorded during the early months of the pandemic. “I think different audiences and older audiences found her through that and ‘Evermore’ because they were more singer-songwriter, a little bit rougher indie music, and that’s what we like most. So that’s how I got hooked.” For her part, Gagne says, “I like everything she represents. And when she redid all her masters, that’s where I thought she was a lady boss.”

It’s a reminder that, for however many mini-narratives Swift packs into the three hours and 20 minutes of an “Eras” show, there are really four or five years of backstory that feed into the audience’s shared awareness. When she sings the ominous ballad “My Tears Ricochet,” accompanied by a coven of stone-faced dancers, at least some fans will understand it as a distant reflection of her very public feelings about the men she considers her business bêtes noires, Scooter Braun and Scott Borchetta, who bought and sold (respectively) the rights to her first six albums, spawning much vitriol as well as four “Taylor’s Version” rerecorded albums to date.

When the dancers put their grins back on, Swift plays an ebullient excerpt of a very recent “Poets” bonus track, “So High School,” which every person in the crowd will know is inspired by Kelce. There are some breakup songs of recent vintage too — yes, Mr. Customs Man! — like “The Smallest Man in the World,” which may or may not have cost Matty Healy, the 1975 frontman and former Swift paramour, a night of sleep.

The whole tour is themed around not just the newer records but the rerecordings that have made every older album in her catalog feel improbably fresh. It was, quite possibly, the single most baller move in the history of the record industry … and led to the career-retrospective concept for what is already unquestionably the biggest tour in the history of popular music.

Any discussion of the charms of fandom isn’t meant to forestall discussion of “The Eras Tour” as big business. The numbers are fuzzy because Swift’s camp does not release grosses from her shows, unlike nearly every other artist at the stadium or arena level. Even when the tour wraps after 20 months on Dec. 8 in Vancouver, it seems likely those numbers will continue to be guarded with a zeal on par with the government of North Korea’s. Many industry experts believe the gross will approach or even surpass $2 billion.

What is known for certain — even without a confirmation from Swift World — is that she broke the all-time tour-gross figure when she hit the $1 billion mark, whenever exactly that might have been. The two trade publications that specialize in the touring industry have slightly differing estimates: Billboard calculated a cumulative gross of approximately $900 million when she took a break at the end of 2023, figuring that she would crack $1 billion shortly into the tour’s resumption in April, while Pollstar estimated that she had passed $1 billion by the conclusion of last year. Any way you guesstimate it, Swift took less than a year to break the previous record of $939.1 million, which Elton John grossed with his “Farewell Yellow Brick Road” tour across nearly three years of shows.

One source close to the production said early in the “Eras Tour” era that her average gross each night is $14 million. Others believe that is a highly conservative estimate, with a possible total that on at least some nights edges closer to $17 million. One remarkable aspect is that this does not include the revenue from any inflated resale tickets — which, as anyone who has tried to get tickets through Vivid Seats or StubHub knows, mostly have gone for several times their face value. It was little publicized, but Swift had “dynamic pricing” turned off for her ticket sales, possibly to avoid the controversies Bruce Springsteen encountered when the face value on some of his tickets leaped to the four-figure range upon their first sale. Swift left money on the table by not participating in the scalping of her own tickets, which had an average price of around $230 and topped out at $499, excepting VIP packages, which zenithed at $899 — all well short of what some other superstars ask nowadays. Of course, neither Argentina nor anyone at Wembley Stadium ahead of Swift’s opening night performance in June will be crying for her when she’s in reach of $2 billion without the resale inflation … not to mention the hundreds of millions of dollars in merch.

(This is extraordinary also because Swift hasn’t done any press to promote the tour, except for when she was selected as Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in December. But she doesn’t need to — the tour is constantly being celebrated on social media with every outfit change. And it’s also become so huge, it’s featured more A-list sightings than the Oscars, from Julia Roberts to Tom Cruise to Stevie Nicks, who had the surprise song “You’re on Your Own, Kid” dedicated to her in Dublin.)

Benson Boone, whose “Beautiful Things” is the most-streamed song of 2024 in the U.S. and the world, says he felt dwarfed when performing as the opening act at one of Swift’s seven shows at London’s Wembley Stadium. He has forever committed to memory the exact attendance figure he was given for the night: “89,497,” he says. “Just her stage alone is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen — 300 feet of it!” he says. “I took in every moment. It was cool for me to experience another artist’s world and learn from it. I want to work that hard and be the captain of my ship.”

Although it’s maddening to a media that likes official box office reports and can’t get them, it’s easy to see the wisdom in not flaunting those figures if you’re a superstar artist who counts on being seen as relatable. Swift certainly is proud of breaking records — she posted a tweet when “The Tortured Poets Department” spent its first 12 weeks at No. 1 on the album chart, one of only three albums in history to do so. But she’d rather count fan impressions than dollars. By the same token, she doesn’t publicize or confirm acts of generosity that leak out, like the sizable food-bank donations she makes in every city she tours, or the $100,000 bonuses that the tour’s 50 truck drivers reportedly got for Christmas.

An addendum to all this is how the “Eras Tour” film — released last fall, less than halfway through the actual tour — grossed just over $180 million domestically and $261 million globally, beating the records set by Justin Bieber’s concert film in the U.S. and Michael Jackson’s globally. Massive big-screen spoilers only heightened, rather than diminished, resale demand for the shows yet to come on the 152-date tour and helped precipitate the movement among Americans to head overseas, to make up for the supply found sorely lacking at home.

“She is the torchbearer for the live industry,” says Andy Gensler, editor of Pollstar. “It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before, and it’ll be a long time before we see it again. Her timing was exquisite: The pandemic created this yearning and hunger for live entertainment like nothing else in our history, so she couldn’t have picked a better time to go out.” Pollstar called last year a “historic golden age” for touring, as the top 100 global tours collectively surpassed $9 billion — up 46% from 2022 — with Swift obviously contributing a significant chunk of that total. (This year, the trade reports that overall tour attendance is down, with flat grosses, representing a slight reckoning for the live industry that, obviously, isn’t impacting “Eras.”)

“What my partners and I talk a lot about is how it’s one thing to have a big tour in North America. It’s another thing to have an equally big tour wherever you are in the world and to do doubles and triples in these markets,” says Bernie Cahill, an Activist founding partner and manager of acts including the Grateful Dead and the Lumineers. “It’s an anomaly. It’s not normal. And don’t forget, you’re going into what I call asymmetric venues, which are venues that are not really built for music; these are venues that are built for football games or soccer games and can be very challenging to do music. And they get it right every time — Louis Messina [Swift’s tour promoter since her earliest days] and his team are world-class.” But for all that globe-trotting, he notes, “there are some artists that you see do a show and you know they don’t even know what city they’re in. I always feel like Taylor knows exactly where she is. She has a relationship with that city or that market and those fans and she’s connected to them in ways that are very authentic, that you can’t fake.”

The one big snafu in the rollout of “The Eras Tour” occurred in November 2022 when the Ticketmaster system melted down after too many North American dates went on sale at once, causing thousands of fans to experience long delays. The on-sale broke the all-time record for tickets sold in a single day at 2 million, but it also nearly broke the world’s largest ticketing platform. Swift herself was Teflon in this situation, as the blame fell on a ticketing system not capable of handling so much of the Swift-loving world at once. And although most of the problems people have with Ticketmaster are different from what fans faced in the “Eras Tour” debacle — mainly, hidden fees and monopolistic practices — it could have big legislative consequences anyway. Dean Budnick, co-author of “Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped,” believes that the Swift hullabaloo was the main catalyst for Congress enacting reform. “There’s no question that perhaps there’s gonna be some meaningful change in ticketing as a result of what people experienced with that on-sale.”

That sense Cahill spoke about of the singer making it clear to an audience she knows exactly where she’s at is in full force in Dublin. Swift introduces the “Folklore”/”Evermore” segment by suggesting that she had a spiritual locale in mind when she started writing that more intimate material, locked in during the first part of the pandemic. “It keeps me up at night all year long: Which era is the most Irish?” she half-jokes to the crowd. “I’m gonna make a case for it being ‘Folklore’ … This album’s imaginary world had a whole aesthetic — like I lived in this cabin in a really green, nature-y, moss-covered landscape. You see where I’m going?… Another thing that I think makes it more Irish than the other eras is, ‘Folklore’ was all about storytelling. And I know you hear this a lot, but you guys are naturally gifted storytellers, right?”

Later on, Swift will cement the local connection by playing, as a “secret” surprise acoustic song, “Sweet Nothing.” She doesn’t have to give the crowd any explanation for that: From the first notes, Irish Swifties will immediately recall that the lyrics reference to the coastal town of Wicklow. The real cherry on top of the show for locals at any international Eras Tour stop, though, comes with a customized moment each night during “We Are Never Getting Back Together” when the spotlight is put on backing dancer Kameron Saunders for a couple of seconds, as he blurts out something locally appropriate, and cheeky. One night in Dublin, it’s the Irish catchphrase “the neck of ye!”; on another, he yells out “pog mo thoin,” meaning “kiss my ass!”; the massive, knowing laugh that inside joke gets makes it clear this isn’t entirely an audience of American tourists after all.

But the basic theatrics and emotional currents remain consistent from show to show. If Swift is surprisingly reticent to make her “Eras Tour” numbers public, that may be, in part, her desire to keep the focus primarily on a personal fan connection. Music industry veterans are taken aback by Swift’s ability to be giant and intimate onstage. “She’s a master marketer of herself — and she is not afraid to be vulnerable to her fans,” says Michele Bernstein, who runs a consultancy that works with stars like Drake. Bernstein could almost be quoting the lyrics of “Mastermind,” where Swift describes herself in almost comically omniscient terms, then dives into a bridge about how no one would play with her as a little girl.

People like my guardian of the customs gate may complain about Swift’s songs centering on her romantic splits, but that subject matter magnifies her own insecurities and weaknesses, expressed in genuinely eccentric wordplay, in ways that keep the audience in thrall to someone they perceive as a humble underdog as well as a veritable cage fighter. She could do a $10 billion tour someday and still keep the crowd enraptured by how she measures up to, or rallies to exceed, the smallest man — or men, or Kardashians — in the world.

This plays out in the “Eras” show in all sorts of symbolic ways, like the new segment in the “Tortured Poets” section where she seems to have fainted from the vapors of failed romance. Dancers in tuxedos try to revive her while a swing version of “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” plays over the PA. A pair of women dressed as nurses fit her with what looks like a majorette’s uniform — or, with all its off-white stripes, is it really meant to resemble a straitjacket? The resemblance is probably not coincidental. Swift fans know there’s nothing like a mad woman.

The most exhilarating moment that has been added to the show this year has her gliding down the ramp on a platform, appearing to anyone at floor level like she is levitating like the witch she makes herself out to be in “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” Taylor Swift: She was Agatha all along!

Yes, there is much to unpack. But in Dublin and in every other city where “Eras” has alighted, there is also pure inspiration for those who maybe haven’t always felt like they’ve had a voice, whether it’s her LGBTQ+ fan base or, well, women. It’s a modern transmutation of Beatlemania in which Swift manages to be all four Fabs, and a mirror, as well as object, of that gaze. You don’t have to be a woman to experience the explosion of pure female joy that takes place on a mass scale at an “Eras” gig, but for men, it doesn’t hurt to have a healthy sense of where you might sit on the female spectrum.

Outside Aviva Stadium, two young Londoners have formed their own two-woman straight-gay alliance: One is wearing a shirt with the hand- drawn words “You’re obsessive and crazy,” and the other’s shirt has the phrase “You’re gay,” each with an arrow pointing to the other. This echoes the original lyrics to Swift’s 2006 oldie “Picture to Burn,” which was rerecorded after some were offended by “gay” as a possible teen epithet. “I am obsessive and crazy, and she is gay,” laughs Zoe Gibson, pointing to her friend, India Day. “We want to bring back the original lyrics. We never found them homophobic — we want to reclaim it.” Day adds, “We’ve listened to her since we were 4 years old, so obviously there’s the nostalgia factor. But for me, she speaks on quite a lot of issues like gay rights and feminism, and all of her songs perfectly sum up the experience of being a woman.”

Some of the shirts are apropos for Pride Month. Seeing a boy of no older than 15 or 16 wearing a homemade “But Daddy I Love Him” shirt (the title of a “Tortured Poets” fan favorite), it’s easy to imagine some courage was required to don that apparel. Along the same lines, I spot any number of women making their own statement in shirts with the modified exclamation “But Daddy I Love Her.”

Gay or straight, 6 years old or 60-something, female or just female-allied, the crowd inside gets its sway on early in the show, with the arrival of the gentle, waltz-time “Lover.” It’s not one of the big set-pieces of this nonstop Broadway-style production — the spotlight is just on Swift and her acoustic guitar — but it might be the one where the entire audience feels like it’s at a four-minute campfire. No wicked witchiness here, just winsomeness.

Down on the floor, I’m seeing what amounts to a Taylor Swift mosh pit: gangs of two or three or five young women, ignoring the fact that Swift herself is just yards away from them on the ramp. They’re singing and acting out every last line to each other, as if the superstar isn’t even towering right over them. A waste of their euros? Hardly. Swift will capture their full attention again as the show proceeds, but in the moment, she isn’t just a superstar — she might be the world’s greatest community organizer.

[rooshappy]

Things I would do if I was directing Newsies! (Act 2)

Medda is with the Newsies at Jacobi's the next day - I think they would have gone to her for help and she would be right there, sorting out their injuries and looking after them.

Some of the bowery beauties would be there also and one Nun. (One Nun being there I think would be important because she would be acting alone and not with the order - who hand out food in the mornings, yes but the Newsies are still struggling and there is so much they could do. This one Nun genuinely being there to help the boys I think would show a small and important act of defiance. Solidarity with the kids!

Jacobi would be giving them cups of water and seltzer (for free!)

All of the newsies are visibly injured: bruises and bandages and cuts, bloodstains.

"The world is your Erster" - a key moment of Race taking charge as leader in Jack's absence. He is trying to cheer up and encourage the others.

Race and the other Newsies - Specs, Romeo, Finch, Elmer, Henry, Albert are looking after Crutchie's crutch. One of them always has it.

King of New York is FUN, they are all showing off their tricks all a bit of an effort to cheer up Les - who onstage is the smallest Newsie and has his arm in a sling. He was scared and shocked by the strike. Davey really steps up here: He is a Newsie now. And so is Katherine.

Medda and Jacobi joining in with King of New York and the one Nun!!! - Rather than the boys all trying to get Katherine to dance, it's the kids getting the adults to dance (Not that Medda needs encouraging! MY HEART ) Also random Nun dancing would be great.

Davey and Katherine are besties now. (Also we see later that she is trusted to be with Les when Davey goes to find jack)

Letter from the refuge - Crutchie is alone - I imagine he's crawled off somewhere to try and write his letter. He's using the pencil that Les had in the Strike plans. He's really beaten up and doesn't have his crutch with him.

At the end we see Specs is the one to move the scenery, and collects Crutchies' note while he does this.

Medda and Jack's heart to heart : THIS IS SO IMPORTANT. -We get the feeling that Medda has reminded Davey where Jack goes to hide.

When Katherine says "Pulitzer's had me blacklisted from every news desk in town" she almost says "Father" - same sort of stopping and starting as when she introduces herself as Katherine Plumber.

"Specs brung me a note from Crutchie." conversation : We get serious now. Les hugs Katherine, Davey looks away. Jack, fighting back tears. He is angry.

Davey as he sings his part of the watch what happens reprise we see how this effects Jack, Katherine and Les. Like how Jack was able to encourage the other Newsies during the world will know! "We've got FAITH" "We've got the plan." "And we've got Jack!" I know it's done but we have the spit handshakes: Last of all Davey and Jack - Davey so different from his original "That's disgusting."

When Katherine is in Pulitzer's office, we see a real change in her stage presence - she is trying to make herself smaller. Maybe she is afraid of her father.

Hannah quietly trying to comfort Katherine. (She's always been on the Newsies side?)

When Jack is being led away by the Delancey brothers, Katherine is trying to get to Jack but he won't look at her. Kathrine runs to her father as if begging him to stop this. When he does nothing, she runs away.

Delancey brothers clearly punch Jack when they mention the brass knuckles. He is already lying on the ground and they throw the cover from the printing press over him.

BROOKLYN arriving is the sign of HOPE! - Walking through the audience with their signs.

Katherine and Medda standing together at the Rally (Kathrine like Jack, now runs to Medda's theatre when she is upset or in trouble) They nod encouragingly to Davey when he starts speaking.

Katherine leaves when one of Pulitzer's men arrives to pay Jack - she's figured out. She and Specs leave - this is when they go to Jack's penthouse.

I love the kiss before something to believe in but I think honestly a hug could be more meaningful. They are two upset and scared kids. They are alike in a lot of ways. This is more than just a silly flirtation. This is a true friendship that might turn into something else. They just hold onto each other for a moment.

They believe in each other. They believe in the Newsies.

Bill and Darcey are BACK and they have a lil group hug with Katherine because they're all friends.

Really wanna stress that Kathrine is standing among the Newsies for Once and for all. Jack, Davey, Les, Katherine, Race, Spot all standing together. We need a "Friends is more like family" vibe.

Now is the time to seize the day - Newsies back out in the audience. I'm a fan of that hahaha.

Crutchie is carried in by some other Newsies or maybe is pushed in a wheelchair - blowing his whistle of course. As Race shouts "Hey Jack, look it's Crutchie!" he hands him back his Crutch and gives him a hug.

Jack RUNS to his Bro?! like he is pushing past everyone to get to his best friend.

Crutchie is still scared of Snyder :( We see him flinching. But then he has Jack, Davey, Les and Race near him and he gains his confidence and asks Teddy Roosevelt if he can do the honors of arresting Snyder. tells Snyder he'll be laughing all the way to the pen LITTLE MAN. SO LONG SUCKER

"New York's got us and we're family" - Can we take a MOMENT please. We have group hugs between Crutchie, Jack, Katherine, Davey and Les and we look around at the other Newsies and MEDDA.

"They don't much matter if you ain't with me" is more directed to all of the Newsies and Katherine - his family.

Jack gives Katherine his hat and Paper bag to wear and they all dance as Newsies together.

THE END!

[coimbrabertone]

The State of American Open Wheel Racing in 2025.

This Sunday, on March 2nd, 2025, the NTT Indycar Series will begin. This will be the eighteenth season since reunification in 2008 and it will be the fourteenth season running some version of the Dallara DW12 spec car.

The 2025 season will consist of seventeen races: four street circuits, seven on road courses, and six on ovals. Iowa, however, hosts two races on the same weekend, therefore, it's really five ovals.

Iowa is just under a mile long, Milwaukee is at a mile long, and Gateway is just over a mile long. Nashville is a little on the short side for an intermediate, but I'll count it as such nonetheless. Indianapolis is the only superspeedway on the schedule. More on that a little bit later.

On the face of it, however, this is a pretty good calendar. We have a mix of road courses, street circuits, and ovals, we have some classic Indycar venues like Road America, Milwaukee, Laguna Seca, and Portland back on the schedule after having fallen victim to the split, and we no longer have a month-long gap between Thermal and Long Beach.

Instead, we only have three-week gaps between each of the first four races. Which...well, it's progress at least.

We also have Grand Prix of Arlington scheduled for March 2026, which not only helps fill in the gaps early in the season, but it marks a return to Texas.

I won't pretend that a street race around a stadium parking lot is the most exciting race for Indycar, but Texas is too big a market for Indycar to ignore at Texas Motor Speedway wasn't drawing the crowds.

Maybe partnering with the Cowboys and Rangers to race in Arlington will produce better results.

So that's the positive side to the calendar, let's talk a few more positives:

Indycar has a new broadcast partner in the form of Fox, and while a lot of people have some reservations based on Fox's mediocre NASCAR broadcasts, the signs so far look good. Everyone loves James Hinchcliffe in the booth, Will Buxton has shown passion for Indycar before and he's a name familiar to any disillusioned F1 fans looking for a new motorsport to fall in love with, and Townsend Bell...is also there.

Jokes aside I don't hate Townsend Bell as much as most Indycar fans. I find his glazing of Santino Ferrucci annoying - and just a tad unethical considering he doesn't disclose the fact that he's Santino's agent - and some of his reactions are over the top, but I'd much rather have him around than Fox trying to shoehorn in anybody from their NASCAR coverage.

I'll take Townsend Bell over Clint Bowyer any day of the week.

More importantly, I'd say Fox has brought out the big guns in terms of promoting the series. Indycar got three ads during the Super Bowl, Indycar ads play all the time during NASCAR coverage, and this morning I saw Fox air an Indycar ad in the middle of the morning news, implying that Fox is now airing Indycar ads throughout the day. That's good.

Another good thing is that these ads are about the whole series, not just the Indy 500. That's good - people watch the Indy 500 just fine, now we need them to tune in for the rest of the series.

Another place where Indycar is in a good place is on the competition side. There were some stale moments last year, I won't pretend otherwise, but in the second half, the season came alive:

The first hybrid race at Mid-Ohio? Pato O'Ward snipes the lead from Alex Palou and holds off a charge from the reigning champion to take Arrow McLaren's first on-track win since Iowa 2022.

Iowa? The double-header opens with a thrilling Saturday night race where Scott McLaughlin takes his first oval win, while race two unexpectedly turned into a battle between Will Power and Alex Palou, with Power winning out. Not bad for a doubleheader that Josef Newgarden was expected to dominate.

Toronto? Andretti takes a 1-2, Colton Herta over Kyle Kirkwood, with Herta snapping a winless streak going back to 2022. Meanwhile, it's drama at Penske with McLaughlin and Power making contact.

Gateway? Josef Newgarden wins another short oval race over Scott McLaughlin, sure, but we also got a dose of chaos to stir things up with a weird, botched restart that saw so many cars get damaged that Linus Lundqvist took a shock third-place.

Portland? It was shaping up to be Alex Palou vs. Will Power in the championship at this point and we got to see them battling for the win, with Will Power taking the win, but Alex Palou following him home in second, collecting points and preserving his lead. It looked like the year would turn into Palou's consistency versus Power's speed.

Milwaukee lived up to that promise, with a wonderful race featuring high tyre wear, busy traffic, and numerous drivers coming in and out of contention. Pato O'Ward won the first race, Will Power finished second, but Alex Palou was still in fifth, another good points day, but it wasn't as infallible as Palou's previous performances. Was the pressure getting to Palou and the #10 crew?

Milwaukee race two suggested that maybe yes, with Palou's car running into an issue in the opening laps and getting stuck on pit exit. Just as it looked like disaster for Palou, we saw him rally back to nineteenth while Power, in tenth place, failed to capitalize. Meanwhile, a win for Scott McLaughlin was enough to keep him in contention, but only just.

Alex Palou and Will Power both made the start in Nashville, which was enough to knock Scott out of contention, but it looked like Power would have the pace over Palou. All of that was until Power's race was undone in mere laps when his belts came loose. Power dropped out of contention, while an eleventh was enough to win the championship for Palou.

Power was the only one who could've beat Palou, but that didn't mean that Power was safe in second place, quite the opposite. A win for Colton Herta and a fifth place for Scott McLaughlin was enough to move them into second and third, respectively, knocking Power down to fourth in the standings. Pato finished second at Nashville to finish fifth in the standings.

A Ganassi, an Andretti, two Penskes, and a McLaren.

If 2025 can live up to that promise, then we should have a pretty good season in front of us.

If Fox can bring that good season to new audiences, then maybe the series can have some life breathed into it...and it needs it too, because the bad news is that Indycar has some pretty big problems.

The biggest problem, by far, is that Honda is threatening to leave the series. Honda says the return on investment isn't there and is demanding that Penske either reduces costs tremendously or does something to raise the value of Indycar.

The hybrids are here to stay - and even if they weren't, it's Honda that demanded the hybrids, so taking them out might be the one thing to push Honda out even quicker - and the engines are staying the same, which means costs aren't likely to change.

Side note, but initially, when the hybrids arrived, they were supposed to be paired with a new 2.4L V6 engine, one which Honda is believed to have significantly developed, but between problems for the hybrid unit and Chevy's comparative lack of interest, we kept the 2.2L engines instead.

Honda now runs a 2.4L V6 twin turbo in its Acura ARX-06 GTP car, which I doubt is a coincidence.

Honda spent a lot of money developing a new engine just for the series to drop it and stick with the old engine with a token hybrid unit jammed between the engine and the gearbox. I don't blame Honda for being angry about that.

On the other hand, if Honda leaves, Indycar becomes fully a spec series. Just twenty-seven cars all running a dinosaur Dallara chassis with a spec Ilmor engine - scratch that, if Honda left, Roger Penske would no doubt use that as a justification to reduce the field to twenty-five cars, because, you know, less is more, right? Right?

...No? What do you mean less cars makes for less variety and more boring races? What do you mean that the charter system has no benefit to fans and only serves to inflate the value of teams with artificial scarcity? And what do you mean that value would collapse anyway if Honda left because a series with only one engine manufacturer is inherently less enticing to invest in?

We cannot afford to have Honda leave the series.

Indycar is stagnating with not enough money in the series and an increasingly localized series going back and forth between a few midwestern venues. If Honda leaves, the limited about of money there is in Indycar plummets even further.

There will be no money for a new chassis, no money for going international, hell, there will be no money for new races in the United States.

Speaking of, that brings me to my next topic: international expansion. I've written a whole blogpost about this, so I'll keep it brief here: NASCAR beating Indycar to Mexico City is frankly embarrassing. Indycar used to have multiple races in Canada and Mexico, a race in Australia, a race in Brazil, in Japan, and even a couple of races in Europe over the years.

Now Indycar acts like going to Mexico City is some kind of massive hurdle.

We went to Surfers Paradise, Australia every year from 1991 to 2008.

Finally, let's talk about another problem: the big ovals. This is a damned if you do, damned if you don't area, because Indycar has its best racing at the Indianapolis 500, but whenever Indycar has tried to put on a similar show, it failed to draw in crowds.

Fontana 2015 is the best race that literally nobody watched.

The same can be said for Texas 2023, Pocono 2014, Homestead 2009, Michigan 2001, etc, etc.

I understand that Indycar superspeedway racing is dangerous, so it's pointless to do it if you're just gonna get 20,000 people in attendance, 700,000 people watch on TV, and a trophy with no historic significance, but look at any Indycar commercial or highlight reel.

The kind of spectacular high-speed racing that Indycar does at the Indianapolis 500 is what draws eyeballs, what draws attention...and we only do it once year.

And what really hurts is that at Pocono, it was starting to work out. Attendance was really bad in 2013 and 2014, yes, but by the time we got to 2018 and 2019, the race started to pick up some steam. It was one of the highest attended races outside of the Indy 500. When you come back to a track after having last raced there in 1989, it takes time to grow an event again: Pocono was growing again.

Unfortunately, Wilson died in 2015, Robert Wickens got paralyzed in 2018, and Felix Rosenqvist's 2019 accident was eerily reminiscent of what happened to Wickens the year before.

Ironically enough, that's not what killed the race.

ABC Supply Co. cut their sponsorship, which led to Richmond taking Pocono's place on the 2020 calendar. There was some suggestion that Indycar might return to Pocono in 2021, but, well...the entire planet kinda shut down for a little while there in 2020.

We never returned to Pocono, and we never wound up going to Richmond either.

Indycar's map remains confined to the Great Lakes area with a couple trips out to the southeast and the west coast. The series needs to be doing better than that.

If you won't give me a Michigan or Pocono, at least give me a Homestead.

If traveling's too much for you, how about trying to get something going at the vacant NASCAR venues of Chicagoland and Kentucky Speedway? Both held races in the IRL era and can provide us some real intermediate racing. It won't be a perfect replica of the Indianapolis 500, but we'll get to see these cars at speed. Chicagoland in particular has a good shape and banking that might provide spectacular racing without letting the speeds get too out of control.

If we can get a solid three of these races on the calendar, 1.5 mile plus, then I think we'll truly reach a golden mix of road, street, small oval, and big oval.

Build up these races as crown jewels, give us flashpoints in the season to look forward to after the Indy 500 ends.

We've seen the Indianapolis Motor Speedway go from strength to strength under Roger Penske's supervision, now what I want to see is this Fox deal lift up the rest of the series. I don't want to be negative about Indycar, I want to see Honda stay, I want to see Scott McLaughlin and Pato O'Ward and Alex Palou fighting for wins across multiple different disciplines of racing from tight streets to sweeping road courses to short little bull ring ovals to 200 mile per hour superspeedways.

I want Indycar to make me smile.

That's what I'm hoping for out of the 2025 season most of all.

[katsona-the-katsequel]

Persona Fun Facts Pt. 2

Everyone seemed to like the last entry so here's the sequel. Reminder that all these facts were taken from Atlus' fanbooks and novels (and some even from the Persona Stalker Club).

Another reason Mitsuru worried about Minato was because he had a tight schedule, was pale, and never complained about anything nor mentioned if something was bothering him 🥺

Iwai likes to watch reruns of old Western films (I wonder what's his favorite movie).

Ryuji's mother has the personality of a loud, older sister.

Lisa knows how to snowboard.

The necktie Adachi is wearing is probably Dojima's.

Shiho is "drawn to what she doesn't have".

If he won 700 million yen, Akechi would travel the world.

Tatsuya's handwriting is shit.

In his briefcase, Akechi carries a set of student supplies, food, water, and free samples of sweets and cosmetics people give him.

Yu was the type of person who wanted to be seen as wise beyond his years and more of an adult than he really was. He grew out of it by the end of the game by becoming an actually mature person.

Chihaya redesigns clothes.

The first thing Ulala did after realizing her ex was scamming her was call Maya to a restaurant where they got drinks.

Yusuke would be okay with crossdressing if he felt it would help him discover the secret of beauty.

Junes wages are 690 yen per hour for high school students and 900 yen per hour for the rest.

Jin was the member of Strega in charge of raising funds and taking care of meals.

Maruki is aware of the relationship between food and mental health, so he always tries to eat a balanced diet (with cheap ingredients that won't affect his mental health by being a financial burden).

Yukari's mother, Risako, was financially blessed and came from a good family associated with the Kirijo Group.

The Shiroganes have a butler named Yakushiji who has served them for three generations. He, along with Grandpa Shirogane, was Naoto's main caretaker growing up.

The place where Ken's house used to be is now a parking lot.

Junpei's father failed in business.

Akechi's ideal type of lover is "someone who can give [him] space".

Dojima bought Nanako's clothes at Junes.

Maya always keeps a can of crab in her purse... that's her lunch at work. 😔

Futaba is more specific when it comes to her ideal lover. I'm just going to copy and paste here: "Their specs must be just as follows: must be more of an indoors person more than an outdoors one, won’t barge selfishly into people’s room to clean without the owner’s consent, old fashioned romantic and can sing all the theme songs of Neo Featherman."

Yosuke and Kanji aren't the only ones who dye their hair. Chie also dyes hers.

Kandori sealed his deal with Nyarly by strangling his lover/coworker, Mayo Miyashita, to death. He seemed kind of in a trance while he did so (a lot was from Mayo's POV), so it's up to you to decide how much agency he had in that murder.

Members of Strega don't even know their real names (this won't deter me from the "Chidori is Natsumi's daughter theory"). They also steal household goods and clothes during the night.

Elly has twin sisters.

I can't remember if I included this one in the last post, but here it goes again. After Makoto pointed out how difficult taking care of lobsters would be, Yusuke ate them with tears in his eyes.

[mirensiart]

Wait the "Lorule-Hyrule soul bond is pain for literally just Legend and Ravio" combined with it spreading to the rest of the chain is so funny bc like imagine if after this they talk to Fable like "yeah, sharing pain sucks. I bet it's annoying for you too"

And she lets it slip that no, she and Hilda have telepathy

And now Warriors is frothing at the mouth because what do you MEAN they get telepathy that would've been so helpful actually but nooooooo Legend just has to get hurt and Ravio has to be angsty

Maybe if Ravio had a better childhood, then pain wouldn't be a common denominator and instead their connection would be about hoarding items like. Randomly in Legends head he gets the details of Ravios sales, and then Ravio one day gets like. A rundown of the specs of whatever magic item Legend has picked up from a chest this time.

Ok, but can you imagine having 8 guys' thoughts in your head all the time? That would be absolutely terrible lmaaaaaao

Imagine like you're Time and suddenly you get bombarded with these thoughts

"Ok, but what if I drop a bug in the stew, nobody will know, I've done it before and they didn't notice"

"Ah man, I wanna roll around in the dirt and sniff around, what if I turn into wolfie right now"

"I wonder if I give wolfie a hyoi pear I would be able to control him like a seagull???? Awww I wanna try that would be so sick"

"I swear to the goddesses if I come home and ravio sold one of my magic rods AGAIN I will start charging him double the rent"

"My zelda is so beautiful, so cute, I wanna kiss her pretty cute nose and hold her close and never let her go and oh I miss her so much, her beautiful golden hair and her pretty big eyes and—"

—insert jumbled unintelligible mashup of four's thoughts here, just a bunch of convos being constantly interrupted by the colors—

"If i turn into a fairy maybe i could snoop around the vet's bag, i bet he has some incredible magic items there"

"Ok so, if hypothetically an enemy were to attack right now, I could grab the sailor and the traveler and put them behind me in a second just in time to cover them with my shield...my shield that is right here, yes, and oh my dagger always have my dagger close. I can trust the old man to grab the others too, I know he's just a parano— no prepared PREPARED as I am, yes"

Time, thinking as loud as he can so it reaches everyone: PLEASE REMEMBER WE CAN ALL HEAR WHAT YOU'RE THINKING. also please don't add bugs to the stew champion, I'm watching you"

In another note lol ravio and legend having a sale/inventory bond is SO CUTE what the HELL

[love-and-deepspace-polycule]

My normal PSA:

I'm just posting my random poly relationship headcannons. I include MC, but I don't give many (if any) headcannons for MC due to the nature of the game being MC=you. These are just silly HC I thought of randomly. Hopefully you enjoy? I do occasionally swear in my Headcannons or make minor pop culture references. I also don't consider gender when using a gendered descriptor to get a silly point across (for example, Sylus is a wine Aunt. Aunt refers to a female individual, but used to portray a stereotype even though referring to a man). I think that really covers my headcannon style.

I do take requests, I will write for pretty much any lads ship, I will block underage accounts because I am an adult and I will post NSFW stuff.

Driving together/Who sits where? HC

Zayne:

- He is the driver... He knows he is the safest driver and will actually obey the street laws so he refuses to let anyone else drive when they are all traveling in a group.

- He is actually not a huge fan of driving, but he knows it's for the best if he drives

- kinda works out because he can get carsick, so having to focus on the road and driving helps him distract himself from the carsickness.

- buys a phone holder for his car because he can't trust Rafayel anymore to navigate.

- bought everyone phone charges that he keeps in the car

- "I'm the one always driving I get the final say in what car we buy" most interested in the actual specs of the car

- The few times he doesn't drive he and Sylus will swap and he will sit behind the driver seat.

- if he is not driving he will usually either be resting or watch Xavier play handheld games.

- he likes the windows cracked just a little bit

- keeps a spare blanket in the car for long trips

- phone is the second to die on a road trip, since now he has navigation pulled up the whole time

Rafayel:

- Passenger Princess. He sits front passenger side

- In exchange for the rights to the aux chord he has accepted his role as navigator. Although he is not good at it and it low-key drives Zayne crazy. He will pull Google maps up on his phone type in the address. Forget to start navigation before immediately going to his music app and plugging in the aux cord.

- mute Google maps so that it doesn't interrupt his music causing Zayne to miss the exit like 3 times

- but all is fixed now since Zayne got a phone holder.

- cannot sit normally in the car seat. Has the seatbelt tucked under is arm, leaning over the arm rest with one leg tucked under his butt. Or he is slouched so far down in the seat he can put his legs on the dash. Or he is leaning over the center console to talk to the boys in the back, fully twisted around basically not in his seat anymore with one leg fully on the seat propping him up over the center consult or the backrest FULLY turned around.

- constantly singing and dancing in his seat

- always showing Sylus and MC whatever dumb shit is on his phone (Xavier is usually asleep, when he isn't he will show Xavier)

- phone will always be the first to die on the car ride so he now just immediately plugs in when he gets in the car.

- only requirement for the car was heated seats

- usually the first person to get to the car and always has the car keys so he can just let himself in before giving the keys to Zayne when he gets to the car.

- he will leave his door open just so Sylus can shut it for him.

- Still calls "dibs" on front seat even though it's not a debate at this point.

- windows all the way down

Sylus:

- Sits behind Zayne on the driver side

- made sure that the car they got had a spacious back seat and cup holders. He was the second pickiest when choosing the car behind Zayne

- ended up buying a car for everyone because he can, and he wanted to appease everyone's desires

- Chats a lot with Rafayel since they are kiddy-corner from each other.

- will put his arm around Xavier so he can pull him over to his shoulder if he falls asleep so he doesn't slam into MC or crush MC

- sometimes it's just a sleep train MC on Xavier, Xavier on Sylus.

- The only one who can Sweet talk Zayne into switching so he can drive and give Zayne a break. "I promise I won't speed. Scouts honor. I'll be on my best behavior"

- holds the door open for the backseat crew and guides them in (like a gentleman), and closes the door for them when they settle in (he gets Rafayels door too) before he walks to the other side to get in himself.

- tinted windows all the way up, or maybe just a crack

- his phone will usually survive the trip unless he needs to make a lot of phone calls or watch a lot of secret camera footage that sent to his phone.

- casually just making huge moves in the the underground world on his phone. Like "oh yeah I just bought the whole stock of this underground auction." Just on a Tuesday afternoon car ride with the fam.

Xavier:

- He gets the back middle so if he falls asleep he can rest on Sylus or MC

- When he is not sleeping he will usually have some handheld game system he will play

- sometimes he gets a small headache which he can't ever tell if it is car sickness or if he is just dehydrated

- likes to look out the window sometimes and space out, so he is always waaaay in Sylus or MCs space

- tinted windows all the way up

- if he didn't bring a handheld game, he will play on his phone and his will be the third phone to die on the trip.

- the most chill passenger really. No notes.

MC:

- You get backseat behind Rafayel on the passenger side.

- You have full view of all your beautiful boys in this spot and you get to look out the window! Win-win

- it can get a little cramped if Xavier wants to look out the window or if he falls asleep.

- oftentimes Rafayel will turn all the way around in his seat just to talk to you.

- You also get full view of Zaynes frustrations... Poor guy

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sneak Peek🩸🌧️

last bit y'all get before the full thing is released!!

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 531

Warnings: cursing

Series: Leg's Tuna Tober

Logan was. Of course, the immortal, metal skeletoned, love of your life was doomed to enter the trap door before everyone else. You knew he couldn't get hurt, that worrying over him was pointless. Yet that lingering feeling of dread permeated your senses as the Wolverine tugged open the hatch.

Still air spilled from the yawning hole like dumping a mound of lukewarm slugs onto the ground. The scent of mildew and wet dirt filled the center of the circle. It was pitch black in the hole. A rusted, iron ladder rung was lit up by the four flashlights. Logan hesitated as he assessed the gap in the dirt.

"Having second thoughts, Logi-Bear?" Scott taunted with a snide grin. The remark was met with Jean's elbow jammed into his side, an "oof" coughing out of his mouth.

"Considering throwing you in, specs," Logan growled back. You heard a short laugh burst from Kurt next to you. The furrball quickly covered his mouth to prevent any further noises.

"The hole isn't getting any shallower, Logan," Storm said, hands resting on her hips.

"Would you all shut the fuck up for a second? I'm getting to it," he barked roughly. His glare shifted from his hecklers back to the ladder below him. A barely noticeable shudder rolled across his broad shoulders.

If the inky darkness scared the big, bad Wolverine, you felt a little justified in your ceaseless paranoia. A deep breath filled Logan's lungs. He waited a few moments, exhaled, then began climbing down the ladder. You got the brief, sinking feeling that you'd never see him again as his hair disappeared beneath the lip of the hole.

The group waited a few charged moments. It was unnervingly quiet. No owls hooting, no cicadas buzzing, no leaves rustling in the wind. Even the stars seemed to blink out one by one.

"Clear! Watch your step, the bottom few rungs are rusted through," came Logan's voice from the nearly palpable dark. It floated just under the mouth of the hole like a black lake. Not even the beams of the flashlights could break through the weighted shadows.

Storm was the next one to climb down the ladder. She threw you a reassuring smile before she sunk into this little patch of umbra. The vibrance of her alabaster locks was quickly snuffed like blowing out a candle.

One by one, the rest of your party followed suit. Scott, then Jean, then Kurt. All swallowed by the gaping void in the dirt until you were left alone at the mouth. You shivered as the night air suddenly seemed ten degrees colder. A brief glance over your shoulder soothed your mind as you spotted the brilliant, chrome Blackbird a few yards away. Light spilled from the ramp leading up into its belly.

"C'mon, slowpoke. It's a lot warmer down here!" Storm called from the hole. You tore your gaze away from the comforting glow of the ship to peer into the dark. It seemed to ooze into the dirt surrounding the opening. Threads of black wove between the dry blades of grass. The beam of your flashlight illuminated the first few rusted rungs at the lip.

AND THAT'S ALL YOU'RE GETTING UNTIL THE BIG DAY!!

taglist: @ripleyswife @venomqueen2002 @c1eepypas1a @yarrystyleeza @amphitrite-5 @lemurianstarship @theestorm @just-a-nightdreamer @www-interludeshadow-com

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[mistydeyes]

cardigans - "please don't go, please don't leave me" with ghost?? :,)

Thank for for submitting @corvusmorte ! Literally buckle up bc this is one of many angsty ghost prompts to come (y’all love seeing this man suffer)

link to the prompt list and 1k celebration!

prompt: cardigans - "please don't go, please don't leave me"

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, ANGST, VIOLENCE (emotional and physical), verbal insults, depiction of injury - you have been warned simon is a bad bad boyfriend in this

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

As you sat on the couch enjoying a bottle of wine, the last thing you expected was the rhythmic thumping on your door. Your merlot splashed in the glass as you rushed to answer. “Jesus I’m coming,” you yelled as the pounds grew louder. On the other side of the door, you were met with the tired and darkened gaze of your boyfriend. The air smelled of bourbon and cigarette smoke as you looked up at him. “Simon,” you gasped slightly as he pushed past you into the shared flat, “where have you been?” Your question was met with empty air as he slumped his large body across the couch. “Didn’t I tell you to never fucking ask me about work,” he angrily replied as you saw him grip your wine bottle and drink it like water. There were only two rules in your relationship. 1. Never leave fights unresolved (especially before deployment) and 2. Never ask about what happens once Simon walks out the door. It was as if he changed from the quiet, civilian Simon to the cold hearted and emotionally-charged Ghost, once he left.

“I’m sorry, I just was so worried,” you said as you locked the door and sat on the loveseat adjacent to him, “you hadn’t said how long you’d be gone.” “I just want to rest,” he mumbled and harshly drank from the bottle in his hands. “Do you want anything? I can go out and get you some food?” you offered but he gave you a pathetic flick of the hand which shut you up. Your fingers anxiously tapped on the frosted glass in your hands. You hated when he came home like this, you never knew how to react and he somehow made you feel at fault for every action you did. “Fuck can you just sit still!” he said through gritted teeth and you couldn’t help but jump in response and cause the crimson wine to coat your clothes. “God you’re such a mess,” he dryly laughed and you hoped this night would end in a drunken stupor. You tried to put your mix of emotions aside as you walked to the kitchen and cleaned yourself up. You couldn’t help but feel a few salty tears fall as you dabbed your clothing. You turned away as you could feel Simon’s presence in the kitchen. You said nothing as he cleaned the bottle to put in the recycling. Despite being drunk and angry, he still held onto his routines. “Do you have another?” he asked in a sudden kind tone but you were too preoccupied to answer.

Wrong choice as your indecision sent him on another drunken argument. “I fucking asked you a question,” he barked and as you turned, he furiously threw the bottle into the sink. The moment it fell, Simon could only watch as the shattered glass coated your hands and forearms. You screamed as your already stained white shirt flickered with more crimson specs. He moved closer to you in a moment of sobriety. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly but you were terrified as you reached for a rag. “Don’t come near me!” you commanded and he stepped back at your shaky voice. You were sobbing as you did your best to release the glass from your arm on the way to the bathroom. He stood silently as he heard your painful tears and the sound of drawers being slammed in an attempt to bandage yourself. Eventually, you emerged with two arms wrapped in gauze and you made a sprint for your phone and shoes. Simon was quicker than you and in an act of desperation, harshly grabbed your wrist. You let out a hoarse scream at the shooting pain and he dropped it as you fought against him. “Please, I didn’t mean to,” he tried to apologize but your ears rang with adrenaline as you pushed past him to the locked door. You fiddled with the lock as you fought through the cuts. As you finally got it open, you could hear him whisper a statement that made you almost turn around. “Please don’t go, please don’t leave me,” he whispered and you ran out the door without hesitation. First was rule two and now rule number one officially broken.