#how much does it cost to pay someone to check these

[redrosecut]

Just reading through the trivia stuff in the X-Ray section of Good Omens season 02 and they are sometimes translated into German in such a hilariously bad way I'm pretty sure it was either done via Google Translate or someone without any context knowledge did it.

Like the one about the Davidson-Tennants in one scene. The last sentence in English is probably something like "David Tennant as well as Peter Davidson played a doctor in Doctor Who" which is great. Well the German version is "Sowohl David Tennant als auch Peter Davidson spielten in Doctor Who einen Arzt." It is technically the a correct word by word translation BUT it entirely loses the pun by using Arzt instead of Doktor and is factually incorrect because neither played a medical professional in Doctor Who.

[quatregats]

Honestly I think everything would be much better if I could think about everything much more and also much less

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ 01. NEW CONTENT DROPPED

warningsᝰ.ᐟ masturbation, unprotected sex, soft praise kink, noona kink, light crying, degradation kink, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 1/9 completed!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro

──

you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the number on the page blurs in front of your eyes. the red ink bleeds through the letter like it’s been branded there on purpose, like it’s taunting you. bold, underlined, and cruel: payment past due. the amount is higher than you thought. higher than last month. higher than what’s sitting in your checking account—and your savings? nonexistent. your fingers twitch around the edges of the paper, and you stare at it for a few seconds longer, as if maybe if you look hard enough, the numbers will shrink, change, disappear entirely.

but they don’t.

your hands move slowly, almost disconnected, as you place the letter down on the edge of the kitchen counter. the paper crinkles beneath your fingertips, the sound sharp in the quiet of the apartment. you rake your fingers through your hair, dragging your nails gently across your scalp, trying to ground yourself—trying not to panic. it’s not working.

you don’t have time for this. not now. not with finals looming, two shifts left this weekend, and rent due in five days.

the sound of approaching footsteps makes you flinch.

“everything okay?” nari’s voice is soft, cautious, like she already knows the answer. she probably does. she always does.

you don’t look at her. not yet. you feel her presence behind you, hovering by the counter, hesitating. she picks up the letter carefully, and you hear her breath catch as her eyes scan the contents. there’s a beat of silence before she speaks.

“it’s more than last month,” she says, barely above a whisper.

you nod, still not meeting her eyes. your throat feels dry, your heart pounding behind your ribs like it’s trying to escape. the shame tastes bitter in your mouth.

“i can’t pay it,” you finally say, voice flat. “i barely made it through last month’s bill. and now they’ve added more fees.”

it’s not new. this has been happening every few months. random charges. late penalties. service increases you never agreed to. and no matter how many hours you work or how much sleep you lose, it never seems to be enough. you thought you were managing. thought maybe you were finally getting ahead, even just a little. but here it is—proof that you’re still drowning.

nari places the letter back down and moves to stand beside you. she doesn’t speak right away. her eyes flick toward you, soft with concern. she’s been your roommate for over a year now—someone you met through a shared thread on social media venting about overpriced meal plans and the bullshit cost of dorm laundry. back then, you were both strangers trying to navigate the mess of college life with nothing but broken bank accounts and coffee-stained syllabi.

now, she feels like family.

you’ve always admired how gentle she is, how thoughtful. she worries without smothering, helps without asking, gives even when she barely has enough for herself. you hate how easily she sees through you.

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” she says gently. “let me help. i mean it. just this once.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you’ve had this conversation before. more than once. every time the bills show up with too many zeroes or your bank app sends another low balance alert, she offers. she always offers. and you always refuse.

because this is your responsibility. your education. your choice.

you never wanted to drag her into the mess you made just trying to survive.

“nari, no. it’s fine,” you say, brushing it off the same way you always do, even though nothing about this feels fine. “i’ll figure it out. i’ll… find another job or something.”

another job. the words sound ridiculous even as they leave your mouth. you’re already balancing two. your body aches at the thought of adding a third, your schedule stretched so thin it feels like one missed alarm could unravel everything.

nari doesn’t argue. she just stands there, looking at you with wide, worried eyes that say more than her words ever could.

you turn away.

you don’t want to see that look. don’t want to see the guilt in her expression or the way her lips part like she’s about to say something she knows you won’t let her finish. instead, you press your palms flat to the cool countertop and try to slow your breathing.

you can’t keep doing this. living check to check. sacrificing sleep, time, your sanity—only to still come up short.

“let me help find you one, y/n. at least let me do that…” her voice was quiet but firm, laced with the kind of gentle urgency that made it hard to ignore. she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside you, her knees bumping yours softly as she reached for your hands.

her fingers curled around yours without hesitation—warm, grounding, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

“you’ll get out of this before you know it,” she said, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “just hang on a little longer.”

the words should’ve felt like encouragement. to someone else, maybe they would have. but to you, they barely registered. her voice echoed distantly in your ears, dulled by the weight pressing down on your shoulders. you wanted to believe her. you really did. but there was only so much hope could do when your brain felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

you were tired.

not just physically—though that part never seemed to go away—but mentally, emotionally, in a way that left you hollow at the edges. your thoughts were messy. loud. overwhelmed with numbers and due dates and rejection emails you didn’t have the energy to open.

you’d always wanted more for yourself. a degree. a real future. stability. success. the version of adulthood that didn’t involve counting coins at the bottom of your purse to buy groceries. being able to chase something you loved without sacrificing everything just to survive.

and yet… here you were. still stuck. still drowning.

“i’ll talk to my friends,” nari added, her voice picking up as she stood again. “i’ll ask around, see if any of their jobs are hiring. you don’t have to do this alone, okay?”

you blinked up at her, too tired to protest, too drained to offer anything back. you barely nodded.

she didn’t wait for an answer. instead, she gently tugged you to your feet and led you toward your room, her hands guiding you like muscle memory.

“just hurry,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “get ready before you’re late.”

you let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet space, and leaned back against it for a second too long—breathing in slow, like maybe it would help ease the burning behind your eyes.

but it didn’t.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you can’t hear yourself think anymore. the noise presses in from every direction—muffled conversation, the beep of the register, shoes skidding across tile, the mechanical whirring of the blender as it screams through another drink. the scent of syrup, espresso, and sweat mixes into something you’re far too familiar with by now. it clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, follows you home every night and lingers even after you’ve scrubbed your skin raw.

your apron feels too tight around your waist. the name tag keeps flipping over, catching on your shirt. your hands ache from repetition. your back stings from bending, twisting, reaching for things without stopping. your legs burn, but you keep standing. because if you stop—just for a second—you don’t know if you’ll start again.

you’ve lost count of how many customers you’ve helped. they blur together—faces that don’t really look at you, names that repeat too often, voices that never say please. someone spilled a drink ten minutes ago and just stared at you like it was your fault. someone else snapped when you misunderstood their order and then smiled like it never happened. you’re used to it. too used to it.

the blender screams again, and you find yourself zoning out, eyes on the flashing light of the machine, ears ringing. you place a sweaty cup down on the counter just as your coworker brushes past you, muttering something, her voice barely registers.

“we’re out of cold brew, can you let the manager know?” she says, breathless.

you nod without thinking and duck into the back, weaving past crates of milk and mop buckets that haven’t been moved since your last shift. you find her—your manager—hovering near the inventory shelf, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. she looks up when she hears you but doesn’t say anything. just waits.

“we’re out of cold brew again,” you say softly.

her sigh is immediate. clipped. already annoyed. “i told the morning crew to prep more.”

“they didn’t,” you reply, just as soft.

she exhales again and gives you a glance that feels like a warning. “make a new batch. and try to keep the line moving—we’re backed up out there.”

you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure if now’s a good time. but you don’t have a choice. not really.

“hey,” you begin, voice lighter than you feel, “i was wondering… if you had any extra shifts next week? i could take one. or two. anything that opens up, i’ll take it.”

you see it the moment her expression changes. not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it in your gut. she blinks at you once, slow. “you already have four shifts on the schedule.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i just… if anyone drops or calls out—”

“i’ll let you know if something comes up,” she interrupts, sharper now. “but we’re fully staffed right now. you’re already lucky to have the hours you do.”

lucky.

that one stings.

you nod like it doesn’t bother you. “okay. thanks anyway.”

you turn back toward the front before she can see the heat crawl up your neck. the shame, the frustration, the quiet burn of helplessness that never seems to leave you alone. it coils tight in your chest as you slide back behind the counter, the overwhelming noise greeting you like a wave to the face.

you move through the orders on autopilot—pour, cap, swipe, pass. your body knows the motions. it always does. even when your brain doesn’t catch up. your arms are heavy. your thoughts are too loud.

your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

technically, you’re not supposed to check it during a shift. but you do anyway, slipping your hand inside just enough to pull it out, eyes flicking to the screen beneath the counter.

nari: i have something to tell you.

you pause.

your breath catches in your throat.

the message is short. way too short. there are no emojis, no dramatics, no little additions she usually throws in to make you laugh. it’s clean. intentional. unsettling.

you type back fast.

you okay? what’s up?

your fingers hover over the screen, waiting. no immediate reply. no typing bubbles. just silence.

you slip your phone back into your apron, heart racing now—not from caffeine or exhaustion but from something else. dread, maybe. anxiety. it curls low in your stomach and spreads like smoke, slow and sickly.

the hours bleed together until they don’t feel real anymore. it’s like you blinked and suddenly the sky was dark, the register was silent, and your shift was over. you don’t even remember clocking out. your body moves on instinct as you grab your things, slinging your bag over one shoulder, feet dragging slightly with every step. you’re too tired to even complain out loud. exhaustion sits heavy on your shoulders, weighing down every bone like bricks. every joint aches. your eyes sting from the fluorescent lights. your muscles are tight, sore, stretched too far. and the worst part is knowing you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

the walk home is a blur. you barely register the passing cars or the hum of traffic. your legs are on autopilot, your thoughts too noisy to settle into anything coherent. by the time you reach your building, your fingers fumble with the key from how badly they’re shaking—whether from fatigue or stress, you’re not sure.

the moment the front door swings open, you’re greeted by a sudden, high-pitched sound that makes you flinch.

“oh my god, y/n!”

nari’s voice rings out before you even step fully inside. she appears from around the corner, practically bouncing on her feet as she rushes toward you with wide eyes and a wild grin.

“i think i’ve secured something for you!” she announces proudly, reaching to help you with your things without waiting for permission. your bag slides off your shoulder with her help, and she carefully sets it down on the couch before turning to face you again.

you blink at her, too tired to match her energy, voice low and worn. “how so?”

the contrast between your tone and hers is stark—hers bright and excited, yours soft, raspy, touched with exhaustion that even you can hear.

“okay, so,” she starts, already walking toward the kitchen like she’s been waiting all day to spill this. “i was talking to one of my classmates earlier—casual stuff, whatever—and she would not shut up about this app she’s using and this guy she’s obsessed with on it.”

you follow her slowly, the smell of something warm and savory pulling you forward. dinner is already set out, steam curling up from the bowls on the counter. she’s cooked again. you don’t even have the energy to thank her properly, but it sits in your chest like a quiet comfort.

“she said it’s this platform where you can post content—videos, mostly—and people follow you, tip you, subscribe to see more. apparently, it’s easy money if you know how to catch attention,” nari continues, grabbing utensils and placing them gently next to your bowl.

you lean against the counter, brows slightly furrowed as you try to keep up.

“what kind of videos?” you ask slowly.

and that’s when she pauses.

her hands still for a second, and you notice the subtle way her eyes flick to the side—toward the fridge, the floor, anywhere but you. she busies herself wiping down a clean countertop, her mouth tight, like she’s carefully choosing what not to say.

the silence stretches just a little too long.

you narrow your eyes. “nari?”

she still doesn’t look at you, her fingers now fiddling with the corner of a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting.

and that’s when you know—whatever she’s about to suggest, it’s not exactly a regular part-time job.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you just watch her fidget—her hands smoothing the same wrinkle over and over again, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but can’t figure out where to start. her excitement from earlier has dimmed slightly, not completely gone, just… more careful now. the shift is subtle but it’s there, and you feel it tighten something in your chest.

your voice is quieter this time. gentler. “what kind of videos, nari?”

she glances up at you for a split second, then looks away again, reaching to stir a pot that isn’t even on the stove. she’s stalling.

finally, she exhales, turning back to you with both palms pressed to the counter.

“okay, so… don’t freak out.”

you stare at her.

“it’s… kind of a subscription thing,” she says, slow and cautious. “like, you post content—just whatever you’re comfortable with—and people tip you for it. sometimes a lot.”

you don’t speak. not yet. you just let her keep going.

“my classmate told me she made almost five hundred dollars in one weekend. literally just from one post. and this guy she follows? apparently he makes thousands. like, thousands. maybe even millions.”

your mouth is dry.

“what kind of content?” you repeat, even though you already know the answer.

nari bites her lip. her eyes finally meet yours. “sexy stuff,” she admits. “but it doesn’t have to be all out. it can be suggestive. artistic. faceless, even.”

you blink at her. once. twice.

the silence between you stretches until it’s not silence anymore—it’s tension. thick and heavy, sitting right in the center of the kitchen with both of you tiptoeing around it.

“it’s not as intense as it sounds,” she adds quickly. “she said she started small. built her page up over time. and no one from school found out. not even her roommates.”you sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your arms resting limply in your lap. you don’t say anything yet. you’re not even sure what you feel.

nari’s eyes soften as she watches you. “i know it sounds… out there. but i just thought—i don’t know, maybe it’s something you could look into. just to hold you over until things get better.”

you nod, but it’s slow. not agreement—just acknowledgment.

you’re too tired to argue. too drained to pretend the idea isn’t already crawling under your skin, planting itself somewhere dangerous.

because the truth is, you’ve heard of it. everyone has. whispered about in late-night dorm conversations, on private stories, in anonymous confessions posted on spam accounts. girls making rent money in a weekend. boys going viral for being faceless and filthy and addictive.

you never imagined doing it yourself.

but then again… you never imagined being this broke, either.

you stare at your untouched bowl of food, heart thudding softly in your chest.

you’re not disgusted. not even shocked.

you’re just… thinking.

and that scares you more than anything else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you tell yourself you’re just looking.

that’s it.

just a little more scrolling. just a few more profiles. you’re not doing anything. you haven’t made an account. you haven’t posted. you haven’t committed to anything except curiosity, and that—well, that’s harmless, right?

you open your laptop again. it’s sometime past midnight. your room is dim, the only light coming from your screen and the soft amber glow of the lamp tucked in the corner of your desk. it casts everything in that moody, late-night hue that makes the whole world feel quieter. heavier.

you pull your knees up to your chest, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders as the homepage loads. it’s different now. you’re not looking aimlessly anymore. you know what to search for. you type top creators, and a list appears almost instantly.

you click one.

@heefreakshow. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile loads, and it’s exactly what you expect. polished, but not too polished. his display photo is somewhat dark and grainy, a half-lit frame of his bare chest, chin tilted up just enough to be teasing without giving anything away. the banner across the top reads: “i don’t just talk dirty. i make you feel it.”

his content is locked, but the previews aren’t.

you hover for a moment, your thumb pausing above one of the thumbnails before tapping it without thinking. the video opens in a small window, looped, muted at first, but it doesn’t matter—what pulls you in is the way he fills the frame. it starts with a soft hum of music, low and bassy, vibrating faintly through your speakers as the camera tilts upward from a dark-lit bed.

his chest appears first—broad, smooth, glowing faintly under the moody blue light. he’s shirtless, his skin flushed, breathing slow but deep. the camera dips, revealing his thighs spread wide and relaxed, and the hard, unmistakable bulge straining through his pants. your breath catches. the fabric looks tight—too tight—like it’s fighting to contain him. you can almost feel the pressure through the screen.

his hands trail over his torso, slow and lazy, fingers dragging along the curves of his stomach, tracing the line of muscle before resting on the waistband of his pants. his face isn’t fully visible—just the faintest shadow of his jaw, a teasing sliver of his bottom lip. the only thing clearly captured is his hair: pink, messy, soft-looking and slightly damp, like he’s just run his hands through it too many times.

and then he moves.

his fingers slip down, unbuttoning his pants with quick, practiced ease. the zipper lowers with a soft click, and he pushes the fabric down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard, tip flushed and leaking as it rests against his abdomen. his breath stutters slightly, chest rising as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow—deliberate, like he’s savoring it. he tilts his hips toward the camera, giving you a better view, and you swear he’s looking straight at you even though you can’t see his eyes.

his voice comes in a beat later—low, raspy, thick with arousal.

“i couldn’t help myself, baby…”

you feel something warm twist in your stomach. the words feel too direct, too personal. his pace quickens as precum beads at the tip, slicking over his fingers as he groans, deep and breathy, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

his other hand rises, trailing over his stomach until it reaches his chest, fingers pinching at one nipple as his hips twitch upward. the reaction is instant—a quiet moan spilling from his mouth as his head tilts back slightly, lips parted in pleasure.

“fuck…” he breathes out, barely audible between sharp inhales. “i want you here with me, baby…”

you freeze, the weight of the moment crawling down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

you scroll down to the next name on the list.

@jayafterhours. verified. 5.3 million subscribers.

his banner is simple—black background, sharp white font. his bio reads: “don’t waste my time unless you can take it.”

you don’t hesitate. you click.

the video loads instantly, and the difference between him and the last profile is immediate. there’s nothing soft about it. no slow lighting, no teasing buildup. it opens straight into a scene already mid-motion—loud moans echoing through your speakers, fast and desperate, though none of them are coming from him.

the camera is perfectly framed, clearly placed on a desk, angled to capture everything without obstruction. a woman lies flat on her front, arms outstretched as her fingers curl over the edge of the wood. her legs tremble slightly, back arched, skin damp with sweat. behind her, jay moves with sharp, brutal rhythm—his hands gripping her hips like he owns them, fingers pressing deep into the flesh as he drives into her hard enough to rock the table beneath them.

“such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” he grits out, his voice low and full of gravel, each syllable landing like a slap.

his hand comes down suddenly to grip her ass, squeezing tight before delivering a sharp slap that makes her body jolt. the sound of skin meeting skin cracks through the room. she lets out a choked moan, broken and messy.

“d-don’t stop—j-jay!” she cries, voice high, shaking as her nails drag along the desk surface for something to hold on to.

but you barely register her.

your eyes stay on him.

he doesn’t look at the camera—not directly—but the angle captures enough. his head is tilted back slightly, the veins in his neck prominent, his jaw clenched. his lips are caught between his teeth, biting down like he’s holding something back. there’s a faint flush along his collarbone, sweat trailing down the side of his throat.

he isn’t shirtless.

somehow, that makes it worse.

he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, slightly wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. a black tie hangs loosely around his neck, the knot crooked like it was tugged halfway through the scene. it swings gently with the movement of his hips, adding to the rhythm, the sound, the image of him fully in control without even needing to try.

there’s something terrifyingly composed about him. like he’s done this a thousand times. like nothing surprises him anymore. like the entire scene is unfolding exactly how he planned it.

and yet, despite the chaos, the noise, the cries echoing off the walls—you can’t stop looking at him.

you don’t hesitate when your eyes land on the next name.

@jakeoncam. verified. 5.5 million subscribers.

simple bio: “i like being watched.”

your heart skips slightly as you click on the preview, already familiar with the routine by now. and yet, nothing about this feels repetitive—each creator you've looked at so far has had their own way of pulling you in, but jake’s feels… different.

the screen fades in slowly, no music, no buildup. just the soft creak of bedsheets and the low, wet sound of friction. he’s fully on display, his body stretched across a dark comforter, shirtless, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. the camera is placed at a low angle, perfectly capturing the curve of his back as he grinds down onto a pillow with messy, desperate rhythm.

his blonde hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, a few pieces plastered to his cheek. his eyes are shut tight, brows drawn in deep concentration, lips parted as he pants softly into the mattress. his hips roll in tight, fluid motions, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he presses himself down harder into the cushion.

“fuck… i’m gonna cum… fuck, baby…”

his voice is breathless—higher, whinier than the others—and it hits you unexpectedly. it’s not performance. it sounds real. wrecked. like he’s been holding back for too long and is just now letting go.

he gasps softly, his pace stuttering, body tensing as the pressure builds—but the clip cuts off just before the release, leaving you blinking at your screen with your chest tight and your legs shifting.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath until it escapes you all at once.

and you don’t stop there.

you move onto the next one almost instinctively, driven more by something primal now. not even out of curiosity anymore—need. something about each of them feels increasingly personal, like they’re not just performers, but something else. something closer.

@hoononrepeat. verified. 5.3 million subscribers. “if it’s not messy, i don’t want it.”

you click, the motion smooth and practiced now. part of you knows you’re getting too deep, that this is becoming more than just research, but you don’t stop.

his video starts mid-motion.

the frame is tight, focused completely on him—sunghoon’s hand gripping his cock, already soaked and shining with cum, sliding along the length with slow, deliberate strokes. his chest is heaving, his abs flexing with each movement. the lighting is dark, moody, barely enough to cast definition over his frame, and yet it still highlights every shift of muscle.

a silhouette appears at the bottom of the screen—a woman, faceless, mouth parted and positioned perfectly beneath him. her head bobs forward as he pushes his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

he groans, long and drawn out, his voice rough like it’s scraped from the bottom of his throat.

“fucking hell…”

his hand buries in her hair, fingers curling tight as he guides her down, hips jerking forward sharply. the wet sound of it echoes faintly, almost drowned out by his ragged breathing. she gags softly, hands pressing at his thighs, but he doesn’t let up.

he’s focused. lost. unrelenting.

“take it,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “take all of it, princess…”

the words hit hard. not because of what he says, but how he says it—low, commanding, almost personal. like he knows you’re watching. like the words aren’t meant for her at all.

you feel your pulse thud somewhere low in your stomach. your fingers curl tighter around the edge of your laptop.

you should stop.

but you don’t.

@watchmesunoo. verified. 5.4 million subscribers.

his page is simple—light pastel banner, soft text, almost misleading at first glance. but when the preview loads, there’s nothing soft about it. it starts mid-action, no intro, no setup—just raw, unfiltered need. his body fills the screen, the lighting harsh enough to highlight the tension in his muscles, the sweat slicking down his chest in messy trails.

his hand holds a small vibrator—slim, silver, and humming at a steady pace as he presses it along the length of his cock. it’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking, twitching visibly each time the buzzing toy runs over his slit. he slides it slowly, teasingly, from the base to the tip, circling it around the head before dragging it back down again. his hips jerk, his thighs tightening under the pressure.

his face is in view. fully.

his cheeks are red, tear-streaked, lips trembling with every breath. wet hair clings to his forehead in dark strands, and his eyes are glassy—shiny with desperation, the kind that makes your chest tighten just watching. he looks completely wrecked. beautiful in a way that shouldn’t feel this intimate, like you’ve caught him in something far too private.

“fuck… noona…” he whines, voice high and broken as his fingers curl tight around the bed sheets. “let me cum… please—noona…”

his hand trembles slightly as he lowers the vibrator, pressing it to the base of his cock as his other hand slides upward, two fingers dragging through the mess that’s already smeared across the head. he rubs the tip quickly, desperately, almost like he’s punishing himself for how close he is. his back arches sharply, the line of his throat exposed, jaw slack as more tears spill freely down his cheeks.

“f-fuckkk—i’m cumming!” he cries out, voice cracking as his body jerks violently, hips lifting off the mattress.

you can’t look away.

his cock twitches hard in his hand, and a thick wave of cum spills over his fingers, dripping down in messy strands that coat his palm and smear over his abdomen. his chest heaves. his thighs shake. he doesn’t stop moving until his hand is completely soaked and his voice has faded into soft, hiccuping breaths.

you’re still staring, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. the screen is glowing in the dark of your room, and all you can do is sit there, frozen, pulse pounding behind your ribs as the clip loops quietly again.

@wonsodirty. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile surprises you even more.

the name alone already catches your eye—bold, a little cheeky, a little misleading. you expect something bratty, maybe cocky, something playful or reckless. but when the preview loads, it’s none of that.

it’s quiet. intimate.

the camera is placed at a low angle, steady, fixed on soft bedsheets that shift with every subtle movement. the lighting is warm and dim, the kind that wraps everything in a golden hue and makes skin look like silk. there’s a soft rustling in the background, the sound of him breathing, uneven and slightly hitched.

he comes into frame slowly—first his legs, then his thighs, spread slightly apart as he settles against the headboard. he’s not doing much at first. just breathing. just existing. but even that feels heavy with tension, like something just below the surface is about to break.

he’s shirtless. not in a performative way. just bare. his chest rises and falls in shallow motions, skin flushed with heat, the faintest sheen of sweat glinting under the soft light. his hand moves slowly at first, fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking with careful precision. it’s already hard, already leaking at the tip, the kind of arousal that’s been building for far too long.

you watch as he closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip, his brows knitting together like he’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.

then, he whispers something—so soft you almost miss it.

“feels so good…”

his voice is high, sweet, breathy in the most fragile way. and it’s real. not loud. not dirty. just pure and cracked with something raw.

his strokes stay slow, almost too slow, like he’s punishing himself for how sensitive he is. his hips twitch every time he passes over the tip, precum smearing down the shaft and making his hand glisten as he continues.

you can’t help but watch his face—how red his ears are, how hard he’s trying to keep his composure. you notice how his legs tense, thighs flexing every time he lets out one of those quiet, needy sounds.

his strokes get faster, hips starting to lift slightly off the bed, his thighs trembling beneath him. he looks like he’s trying to hold back. like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he lets go too soon.

“i can’t… i c-can’t hold it, please…”

he cries out as his hand jerks up once, twice, and then his entire body stutters. his back arches just slightly, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as ropes of cum spill over his fist, painting across his stomach in messy spurts.

his breathing turns shaky. his head tilts back against the pillow, eyes fluttering, lips parted as a tiny, breathless whimper escapes him.

the clip ends with his fingers still curled tightly around himself, his chest rising fast, his body twitching as he comes down—wrecked and glowing and silent.

you move onto the last profile.

@nikiuncensored. verified. 5.6 million subscribers.

the name alone already tells you everything you need to know. it feels reckless. raw. unapologetically bold in a way that makes your pulse skip without warning. you hesitate only for a second before clicking on the preview.

the video starts without ceremony—no soft intro, no teasing buildup. just action. the camera is low, placed somewhere near the base of the woman’s stomach. you can’t see her face, not even her chest—just the lower curve of her abdomen rising and falling with every sharp breath she takes. her thighs tremble faintly at the edges of the frame, knees slightly parted, twitching every time his mouth presses in.

but she’s the background.

your eyes go straight to him.

ni-ki comes into view slowly—his shoulders first, broad and tense, then his head, tipped slightly as his mouth lowers between her legs. his tongue flicks upward in tight, rhythmic strokes, wet and steady, circling over the clit with agonizing precision. the movement is deliberate. practiced. his lips part to suck softly, then flatten again as he switches pace, building her up in waves.

his fingers move with the same energy—two of them disappearing inside her only to pull out again, slick and glistening before they’re thrust back in with a soft squelch that echoes in the low hum of the room. the air is heavy. the lighting is dim, warm enough to cast shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the flushed curve of his cheeks.

“fuck…” he breathes, voice strained with something between amusement and awe, “you’re so fucking wet…”

he groans as he presses in harder, his mouth practically consuming her now, lips wrapped fully around her clit as he sucks with loud, messy slurps. the sound is obscene, echoing in the quiet room—wet and desperate and hungry.

his eyes flutter shut, like he’s savoring the taste. like he could stay there all night and never come up for air. his free hand curls around the outside of her thigh, gripping tight, keeping her in place as his tongue works mercilessly. her moans are loud, cracked and high-pitched, but you barely register them. all you can hear is him—groaning, gasping, devouring.

he moves his head side to side slightly, mouth still latched to her clit, and the slurping sound becomes louder, wetter. his fingers curl up inside her and she screams, hips jerking toward his face, but he doesn’t back off. if anything, he doubles down.

he growls, low in his throat, sending vibrations straight into her core as his grip tightens.

and you’re stuck there—watching the way his mouth works, the way his muscles flex with every movement, the way he loses himself in it like it’s the only thing that matters.

the preview cuts off just as his lips part again, tongue dragging in a long, slow lick up her slit like he’s far from done.

and god—you believe it.

you’re completely breathless.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, lungs struggling to catch up with the flood of emotions coursing through your system. your skin is warm, flushed, your fingers twitching faintly from where they rest on your thighs. everything inside you feels electric. overstimulated. wired with something you can’t quite name—but it’s there.

now, finally, you understand.

you understand why this app—the one you opened on a whim—could stir something so heavy inside you. why it’s been sitting in the back of your mind like a spark waiting for oxygen. it’s not just sex. it’s not just content. it’s control. attention. power.

you shift slightly where you sit, the damp heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. your panties are soaked, your breath shallow, and despite the way your body aches, you force yourself to sit up straighter. you push the thoughts down, shake your head, blink yourself back into focus.

you’ve battled with yourself long enough.

without giving yourself the space to overthink it, your finger moves. you press the button—create account—and watch the screen change, your heart racing with each small confirmation box that pops up in front of you.

you type quickly. no hesitation now. @babydollx0.

the name feels soft. flirty. safe.

but the next part isn’t so easy.

you hesitate when it asks for a profile photo. you scroll through your gallery—old pictures, half-deleted mirror selfies, nothing that feels right. nothing that says what you want it to say. nothing that matches the version of yourself you’re about to become.

you toss your phone onto the bed and push off the covers, the sheets falling away from your legs in soft folds as you rise to your feet. your room is still quiet, dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, casting soft golden shadows across your walls.

you move quickly.

your drawer slides open with a soft clatter as you dig through the scattered mess inside—tangled bras, folded shorts, tucked-away lace. your fingers pause when they find it: a tiny, black thong. the skimpiest one you own. barely fabric at all.

you strip out of your shirt first, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. the cool air hits your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. there’s no hesitation now. no shame. just movement.

you tug the thong on slowly, adjusting it at your hips, letting the waistband hug your curves as you step in front of the mirror.

you pose without overthinking it—back facing the mirror, head turned slightly over your shoulder, your front angled just enough to tease without revealing everything. the lighting does the rest. it casts your silhouette in soft shadows, highlighting the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips. everything else remains hidden—blurred in the low glow of the lamp.

it’s just enough to make someone want more.

you lift your phone, frame the shot, and for the first time in a long time…you feel powerful.

you set your phone carefully on the edge of your desk, adjusting the angle until it captures only what you want it to—the lower half of your body, your thighs parted slightly, your stomach rising with shallow breaths. your face is out of view. there’s no light beyond the soft glow of your desk lamp, and the shadows cast across your skin make everything look muted, quiet, secretive.

your thumb hovers over the record button, trembling slightly. you're not nervous because you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re nervous because you do.

your mind is cluttered with noise. doubt swims through you in thick waves, crashing hard against the edges of your resolve. your chest feels tight. you can feel the fear circling in your gut, whispering things like what if you regret it? what if someone finds out? what if you can't take it back?

but the fear isn't loud enough to drown out the truth.

you think of the letter on the counter, the rent due in less than a week, the account notifications warning you that your balance is low—too low. you think of the long shifts, the missed hours, the denial from your manager. you think about how you’re out of options.

and then you press the button.

the recording begins. the red icon glows faintly in the corner of your screen. it’s happening now. you’ve officially started.

your breath catches as your hands move instinctively, dragging down the curve of your stomach with a slow, deliberate rhythm. you let your fingers tease the hem of your thong, playing with the waistband, pulling it slightly before letting it snap back into place. you don’t say a word. there’s no script for this. you let the action speak for itself.

you shift in your seat, angling your body just enough for the camera to catch the soft curve of your ass, arching your back to deepen the shadow and leave the details to the imagination. it’s subtle. sensual. controlled.

then, after a pause that makes your heart pound harder, you bring your fingers to the front of your thong. with one smooth motion, you pull the fabric aside.

just enough to reveal yourself.

your folds glisten, slick already gathered between them from the buildup of watching, waiting, and wanting all night. you’d been trying to ignore it. trying to focus on the mechanics of the process. but your body never really forgot. not after what you’d seen. not after the way they sounded.

your fingers move without hesitation now, sliding between your folds and gathering the wetness. you exhale slowly, letting the feeling settle, letting the camera keep rolling. your touch is gentle at first—small, slow circles around your clit, nothing too fast. you don’t want to rush. you want it to look natural. sensual. you want it to feel good.

and it does.

your body shifts. your back arches slightly. your thighs tense. your fingers grow bolder, faster. not by much—just enough to feel it start to build. your breathing grows uneven. soft, audible. you hold back the sound in your throat, biting your lip hard enough to feel the pressure.

and then you think of them.

the teasing smirk from the one who never broke eye contact. the groans that scraped low and rough from behind clenched teeth. the soft, desperate whimpers that bled through clenched fists and sweat-slick sheets. the sharp snap of a hand against skin. the steady rhythm of fingers soaked to the knuckle.

you remember the flushed cheeks. the breathless pleas. the soaked mouth of someone who looked ruined just from giving. the thighs that trembled under the weight of restraint. the tongue that moved with unshakable precision, curling into someone’s heat like it was instinct—like it was art.

your fingers speed up.

your hips jerk slightly, your body reacting without permission. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as your clit pulses beneath your touch.

“fuck…”

the word leaves you in a low, broken whisper. it’s almost inaudible. almost too quiet to catch. but it’s there.

your chest rises with effort as you force yourself to stay quiet—to stay in control. nari is just a few feet away, asleep or scrolling in the room next door. you can’t let her hear. you can’t risk that. so you press your lips together tightly and breathe through your nose, letting your hand do the talking.

your fingers move in tighter circles. your stomach contracts. your legs pull in slightly as the pleasure curls deeper inside you, hot and electric. you don’t stop. you can’t stop. not now.

you don’t need to speak. the way your body moves is enough.

the video keeps recording, and for a second, everything else disappears—your exhaustion, your guilt, your fear. all of it fades into the rhythm of your own breathing, the slick sound of your fingers working between your thighs, and the realization that this isn’t just a performance.

it’s power.

and for the first time in a long time… it’s yours.

your fingers work faster now, soaked and steady, slipping in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that’s grown almost frantic. the sound of it—slick, wet, obscene—echoes low in the quiet room, barely masked by the rapid stutter of your breath. your body moves with instinct, hips rising to meet your hand, legs spread wide as you chase the heat that’s been coiling deep in your core since the moment the video started.

you start with two fingers, curling them up just right to press against the spot that makes your stomach tighten. your lips press into a thin, trembling line as you try to keep quiet, forcing yourself to muffle the moans that threaten to spill out with every thrust. your walls clench tightly around your fingers, greedy, hot, desperate for more.

and you give it to yourself.

you let out a ragged breath as you push in a third finger, the stretch making your thighs tremble. the pressure is overwhelming now—blinding, almost painful in the best possible way. you shift in your chair, back arching as you press your heels into the floor, legs falling open wider to give yourself more space. your body is flushed and burning, skin damp with sweat, nipples tight from the brush of cool air and lingering adrenaline.

your chest heaves as you move faster, harder, fingers curling deep into yourself as the pleasure builds fast and sharp like a scream stuck in your throat. your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a split second, you forget about the camera. you forget about the fear. you forget about everything but the feeling—

“fuck… oh my god…”

the words tear from your throat, broken and low, muffled by the force of your own clenched jaw. your legs start to shake, your body twitching with the effort to stay upright as your orgasm rushes up and crashes through you.

“fuckkk—i’m gonna cum… shit…”

your voice is higher now, cracked at the edges, as your hips jerk forward and your muscles seize. the pressure bursts all at once, your cunt clenching around your fingers as you gush hard, soaking your hand and the inside of your thighs. the release is hot, messy, completely overwhelming—wave after wave rolling through your body until you’re panting, twitching, slumped over the desk with your mouth open in a silent gasp.

your other hand scrambles toward your phone, shaking as you fumble to tap the screen. the camera is still recording—still capturing every shudder, every twitch, the flushed glow of your skin and the shine slicked over your thighs.

you end the video with one shaky movement, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

your hand is drenched. your skin is burning. your thoughts are scrambled.

and you don’t hesitate.

you upload it raw, unfiltered, untouched.

you don’t trim the edges. you don’t add a caption. you don’t even blink before pressing the button.

you want it to speak for itself.

you want them to wonder.

you watch the screen as the upload bar slowly completes, your profile still blank, still new, still waiting to be discovered.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

the soft chirp of birds cuts through the stillness of morning, gentle and rhythmic, floating in through the cracks of your half-open window. golden sunlight pours across your sheets, casting long shadows along your floor, warm and soft against your bare legs. your body is sprawled out lazily across the mattress, limbs tangled in the fabric as your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away the blur of sleep.

your room is quiet except for the persistent buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand beside you. it hums every few seconds, faint but constant, like it's trying to get your attention. you glance at it, brows furrowing slightly, but you don’t reach for it. not yet. your body still feels heavy with sleep and something else—something deeper.

you push the covers off your legs, the cotton sheets rustling as you sit up and stretch, your spine arching with a soft crack. you move slowly, stepping onto the cool floorboards and making your way toward the bathroom, your legs stiff, your joints still waking up with you.

just as you reach the door, nari’s voice floats out from the hallway, warm and familiar.

“good morning, girl,” she calls casually, emerging from her room with a yawn, her hair tied up messily and hoodie falling off one shoulder. she looks at you for barely a second before launching into what’s clearly been sitting on her mind.

“so,” she says, tone direct, “are you planning on making an account?”

you pause.

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a second, the hallway feels too quiet—like her question has taken up all the space. the thought hadn’t left your mind, not really. it was still there, tucked into the corner of your chest like something that needed to be dealt with eventually. she had brought it up before. multiple times. her voice always hopeful. her offers always kind. and you always deflected.

your throat tightens. not painfully—but just enough to make you hesitate.

you turn to look at her, your expression unreadable. the memory of last night creeps back in, vivid and electric. the video. your fingers. the way your breath had caught in your throat when you hit upload. the warmth that still lingered between your thighs. the weight of what it meant.

“i’ll look into it,” you say, voice hoarse. “but i don’t know, nari… does it really even work?”

she crosses her arms gently, leaning her shoulder against the wall. her gaze softens as she watches you.

“i can’t really speak from experience,” she says slowly, “but from what i’ve heard… it’s definitely something you should consider. especially with how much you’ve been struggling. i know it’s not what you’re used to. i know it’s different. but y/n… it’s real money. quick money. and you wouldn’t have to break your back for it.”

her voice stays gentle, but her words hit hard. your shoulders drop slightly, and her eyes flick down to your expression, reading you the way only she can.

“just think about it, okay?” she continues, her tone still light. “i’m heading out in a bit, but whatever you decide, just let me know. i can look around for other stuff too, if you don’t want to go that route.”

your chest tightens again—this time from emotion.

you don’t say anything. you just step forward and wrap your arms around her, pulling her in tight. the words rise up in your throat before you can stop them.

“thank you so much, nari,” you whisper. “what the fuck would i have done without you…”

your voice cracks on the last word. you bury your face in her shoulder and hold her a little tighter, your body warm against hers.

you don’t thank her enough.

not for the rent reminders. not for the quiet way she pretends not to notice when you come home late and fall asleep in your work clothes. not for the soft leftovers she always leaves out with a sticky note. not for the way she never once judged you when you admitted you were coming up short again.

she just showed up. over and over.

and you couldn’t be more grateful.

“i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” she murmurs, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

when you finally pull back, there’s a single tear running down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice—but she does. she always does. she doesn’t say anything this time, just gives you a gentle look before stepping away.

you clear your throat, trying to shake the emotion from your voice.

“you can go ahead,” you tell her softly. “i… i just have something to check really quick.”

she nods, disappearing into her room.

you stand there for a moment, your feet unmoving, the silence returning like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you exhale through your nose and turn around slowly, walking back into your room and closing the door behind you.

your phone is still buzzing on the nightstand.

and you’re finally ready to see what it has to say.

you close the door behind you and pause for a moment, letting your fingers linger against the wood. your room is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. it’s weighted now—thicker, charged with something unspoken. your steps back to the bed feel heavier than they should. your body isn’t sore in the traditional sense, but there’s something beneath your skin that hasn’t left you since last night. like your muscles remember what you did. like your skin is still humming from the heat of it.

you sit on the edge of your bed, your blanket half-pulled down, the air cool against your bare legs. your phone is where you left it—face down on your nightstand, completely still. the buzzing that had filled the room earlier has stopped, like it’s holding its breath. waiting for you to be ready.

you reach for it slowly, with both hands, like you’re afraid you’ll drop it if you don’t steady yourself. the moment your fingertips brush across the screen, it lights up.

and everything changes.

1,462 new notifications. tips: +$1,951.76. new subscribers: +863.

you sit there, frozen, as the likes roll in by the second, stacking in waves across the screen. every few seconds, another tip comes in. ten dollars. twenty. fifty. a hundred. your balance is growing so fast it doesn’t feel real.

you open the comments, and the words hit you all at once.

“this is art. actual art.” “i’m obsessed.” “i came without even touching myself. that’s how real this felt.”

you read them with wide eyes, your thumb scrolling slowly, like dragging through honey. it’s too much to take in all at once. too many voices. too many people who’ve seen you now—really seen you—and want more.

you click over to your inbox. there are dozens of messages, all timestamped from the early hours of the morning. most of them are praises, offers, begging. a few are bold. graphic. unfiltered. and buried among them—at the very top, a verified profile—is the one that makes your entire body still.

@heefreakshow.

you’re completely taken off guard.

nothing could have prepared you for this—none of it. not the flood of attention. not the numbers still rising. and especially not him. not the quiet, effortless way one of the creators you watched last night—half in awe, half with your hand buried between your thighs—has now turned his gaze on you. messaged you. noticed you.

you stare at the notification like it might disappear. like maybe your phone glitched and it’s not really him. your thumb hovers just inches above the message, heartbeat loud in your ears, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on your chest.

and then—before you can overthink it—you press.

the message expands across your screen in one clean, perfect line.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you go still.

your throat tightens. your lips part, but no sound comes out. your entire body feels like it’s pulsing—heat rising from your neck, crawling down your spine, settling low in your stomach. your eyes read the words once. then again. then again.

you’re speechless.

not because it’s crude—though it is. not because it’s confident—because of course it is. but because it’s him.

you sit there, phone trembling slightly in your grip, and all you can think about is how none of this would’ve happened if nari hadn’t pushed you. if she hadn’t looked you in the eyes and told you she believed in you. if she hadn’t said the words you were too afraid to say out loud.

you owe her everything.

because now? now you’re more than okay. you’re not just surviving—you’re starting. you’re in it.

and you have absolutely no plans of stopping.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ first episode is done! honestly i'm excited to see how this will play out because a lot more is coming, i hope you all enjoyed!

[timmydraker]

During a patrol in Gotham one night, Red Robin comes across a strange sight.

A young woman stands over a crumpled body with a sling shot primed and ready, aimed a man with a rather large hand gun. It’s clear she’s protecting the woman who looks like she’s been hit over the head and had her bag nabbed, as it’s ripped and contents are spilled everywhere.

The girl sits shaking, she isn’t scared at all, standing strong with a shard of glass aimed at the man’s crotch.

Tim jumps down and disarms the man smoothly before turning to the young girl, who upon closer inspection seems to be around thirteen years old.

“Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head and stares at him for a moment with awe in his eyes before her eyes widen and she turns to the person behind her, “But she is! That guy was cornering her and I tried to help but he hit her and-“

“Alright, I understand. Would you like to help me get her to the ER a few blocks away?”

The girl nods with a determination Tim remembers seeing in Dick and Jason in their Robin days and he smiles.

He doesn’t ask her what her name is because side he knows he’ll follow up and find something to feel guilty about, but the girl seems to have her own plans.

She shows up a couple of days later, standing on a tall building with a cheap Robin outfit on.

Tim is confused before he drops down and she gives a big grin and mock salute, “How can I help?”

Tim smiled a little before shaking his head, “Taking the title of Robin, are you?”

She nods, now more bashful, “Well, I want to help people. I don’t want to fight exactly, but… well, sometimes you bats are too busy with the villains to notice the little guy and- bro to say you’re a bad hero-“

“You’re right, it’s okay. We can only do so much and sometimes preventing more damage being done saves more lives, but there will always be a cost.”

She smiles, bright orange, and impressively curly, hair getting in her eyes and sticking to the poor quality glue of her fake domino.

“I want to help. I… can help, please.”

Tim answers after a solid minute of silence, “What is your name?”

She frowns, “Aren’t I supposed to have a secret identity?”

He smiles in answer, “Yes, but I know what you look like and I can find out, I’m asking out of politeness.”

The girl looks like she could pout and Tim feels strangely old at the sight, even if he’s still got a few months before he can even legally drink.

“Carrie. Caroline to be specific.”

Tim smiles, “Well, Carrie, here’s the deal. I will meet you here or somewhere like here every night and until, and only until, you can land a hit on me will I agree to let you help.”

While Carrie doesn’t look pleased she nods, a clear sense of hope in her eyes even as she looks nervous.

She looses the first fight, and the second and third and fourth, but she gets better and better.

Tim doesn’t tell anyone about Carrie Kelly, nor does he tell her that he does end up doing a back ground check and finds two dead beat parents more focused on weed than their incredibly skilled daughter.

When she proves to be relentless in her desire to save lives he sends her to a teacher to help her stay hidden and safe. He’s not like Bruce, he doesn’t send her overseas to some dangerous people, but close by and to someone he trust to not hurt her nor tell anyone else about the strange young girl whose managed to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Selina Kyle is more than happy to take in the girl when she watches her sling shot fire crackers at muggers.

When Carrie comes back and meets Tim on a rooftop, she not only manages to hit him but knocks him off his feet.

Tim grins at her, pride filling his mind and making him understand Bruce just a little more.

But unlike Bruce, he isn’t throwing her into the fight at all.

Tim Drake is the one who pays for her school pills while her yippie parents refuse to work or spend money on her, and sends her real time footage of medical lectures in various collages across the country.

Carrie doesn’t become Robin, nor did she even wear that suit after the second night and he gave her a basic training outfit that properly covered her eyes and hair, but she does become something else.

She becomes Cardinal, the vigilante that swoops in to save civilians and provide the medical care that saves hundreds of people and allows the ambulances and hospitals to have a chance.

When she makes her debut the other bats worry about a new kid making bad choices, probably inspired by them, but Tim ignores it if only because he’s actually proud of her and trust her in a way he hasn’t trusted teammates in years.

After a year of this, a young girl asks for a meeting with Mister Tim Drake at his company and, purely so he wouldn’t have to do more pointless numbers, he lets her in after she passes the security check.

The girl who comes into his office is barely ten, cute little clips in her dark bob hair and a big book bag almost half her size behind her.

Tim recognised her instantly once he sees the bright yellow shoes she’s wearing.

This little girl, name Mia Mizoguchi, has been stalking him and Carrie for a few months now.

After he enrolled Carrie at Gotham Academy, the young girl nicknamed ‘Maps’ had been asking Carrie a lot of questions. Carrie had been good at avoiding incriminating answers, but had fallen for the younger girls clever trap as she casually spoke out infomation that could help with cases and Carrie delivered it back to Tim.

As soon as he realised that Maps had done exactly what he had done and figured out who Carrie was he was impressed. Because even if Carrie was new to the game, she had a skill for tricking people into looking away from her and had done well to stay low.

Maps had made the connection back to Tim, apparently.

Luckily, unlike Bruce, he wasn’t ignorant to their little stalker and actually knew her family from a few galas and charities. To be fair, Tim also wasn’t clouded by grief, but as he lets the girl explain how she totally doesn’t know who Red Robin is but if she did know who he was she would want him to know that a new drug trade route was actually being covered by a cotton candy company and she has over sixty pages worth of proof.

When he shows up to The Nest (named by Carrie) with Maps behind him, he finds Cardinal waiting with an excited gleam in her eyes.

Due to her being so young, Tim doesn’t allow Maps to go into the field until she’s the same age as both he and Carrie were, but she’s quick to show her worth taking over coms and doing an insanely detailed level of detective work that Tim can’t help but be a little jealous of.

Just like Carrie, who has been trying with Selina about only becoming Catgirl if Catwoman stops being a criminal for a few weeks now, he sends her to someone else for mentor ship.

Maps is a sweet girl, but she loves to talk and has a lot of friends who have most of the same interest, so he sends her to the one bat member he trust most.

Cassandra Cain immediately tells Tim that he has to adopt both of them and can’t quite understand why them both having living parents matters.

It’s Cass who gives Maps her vigilante name, Sparrow.

[were--ralph]

why exactly do you dislike generative art so much? i know its been misused by some folks, but like, why blame a tool because it gets used by shitty people? Why not just... blame the people who are shitty? I mean this in genuinely good faith, you seem like a pretty nice guy normally, but i guess it just makes me confused how... severe? your reactions are sometimes to it. There's a lot of nuance to conversation about it, and by folks a lot smarter than I (I suggest checking out the Are We Art Yet or "AWAY" group! They've got a lot on their page about the ethical use of Image generation software by individuals, and it really helped explain some things I was confused about). I know on my end, it made me think about why I personally was so reactive about Who was allowed to make art and How/Why. Again, all this in good faith, and I'm not asking you to like, Explain yourself or anything- If you just read this and decide to delete it instead of answering, all good! I just hope maybe you'll look into *why* some people advocate for generative software as strongly as they do, and listen to what they have to say about things -🦜

if Ai genuinely generated its own content I wouldn't have as much of a problem with it, however what Ai currently does is scrape other people's art, collect it, and then build something based off of others stolen works without crediting them. It's like. stealing other peoples art, mashing it together, then saying "this is mine i can not only profit of it but i can use it to cut costs in other industries.

this is more evident by people not "making" art but instead using prompts. Its like going to McDonalds and saying "Burger. Big, Juicy, etc, etc" then instead of a worker making the burger it uses an algorithm to build a burger based off of several restaurant's recepies.

example

the left is AI art, the right is one of the artists (Lindong) who it pulled the art style from. it's literally mass producing someone's artstyle by taking their art then using an algorithm to rebuild it in any context. this is even more apparent when you see ai art also tries to recreate artists watermarks and generally blends them together making it unintelligible.

Aside from that theres a lot of other ethical problems with it including generating pretty awful content, including but not limited to cp. It also uses a lot of processing power and apparently water? I haven't caught up on the newer developements i've been depressed about it tbh

Then aside from those, studios are leaning towards Ai generation to replace having to pay people. I've seen professional voice actors complain on twitter that they haven't gotten as much work since ai voice generation started, artists are being cut down and replaced by ai art then having the remaining artists fix any errors in the ai art.

Even beyond those things are the potential for misinformation. Here's an experiment: Which of these two are ai generated?

ready?

These two are both entirely ai generated. I have no idea if they're real people, but in a few months you could ai generate a Biden sex scandal, you could generate politics in whatever situation you want, you can generate popular streamers nude, whatever. and worse yet is ai generated video is already being developed and it doesn't look bad.

I posted on this already but as of right now it only needs one clear frame of a body and it can generate motion. yeah there are issues but it's been like two years since ai development started being taken seriously and we've gotten to this point already. within another two years it'll be close to perfected. There was even tests done with tiktokers and it works. it just fucking works.

There is genuinely not one upside to ai art. at all. it's theft, it's harming peoples lives, its harming the environment, its cutting jobs back and hurting the economy, it's invading peoples privacy, its making pedophilia accessible, and more. it's a plague and there's no vaccine for it. And all because people don't want to take a year to learn anatomy.

[mariasont]

hiii, more bimbo!assistant!reader calling hotch, daddy, pleaseeeee😁🫶🏻💖😇

ilyyy!! <3

Bought & Paid For - A.H

summary: you push hotch's buttons just to see how far you can take it, and today, you finally find out pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: suggestive content, reader calling hotch daddy, hotch blatantly staring at r's ass, established relationship, slight brat taming undertones perhaps? wc: 0.6k

You’re talking about almond milk.

Or, at least, you were talking about almond milk — now you’re on some tangent about how store-brand oat milk is never as creamy as the one from that overpriced cafe near your apartment. He has no idea how you got here. He’s not even sure you know.

Your face is full of conviction — deeply invested in a topic that no rational person should have these many feelings about. It’s… impressive. Baffling, but impressive.

Hotch should be paying better attention, filing this long-winded dairy dissertation for the next time you inevitably guilt him into fetching your morning sugar bomb like some kind of begrudging personal assistant.

He’s not oblivious to the irony.

Instead, he’s watching you slide into the passenger seat, and instead, he’s having a private moment of reflection about how you absolutely cannot wear those jeans in public. 

Because they were almost pornographic.

Because they make it very, very clear what’s beneath them which makes it very impossible to think about anything else.

Because they make him look stupid.

He had told you. Repeatedly. Jeans should not cost that much. They were jeans — denim, mass-produced, entirely unnecessary at that price point. You could buy three pairs for half the cost, and no one would know the difference. 

He looked you in the eye and declared, with absolute authority, that he would not enable this behavior.

And then you pouted. And he pulled out his wallet like an absolute disgrace to his own principles.

He was actively experiencing the consequences of his own actions in real time.

Because you’re wearing them to go grocery shopping now and he’s going to spend the next hour fighting the very real, very primal urge to knock out every man who so much as glances at what he paid for.

He hands you your purse once you’re settled, barely paying attention, already running through the mental checklist of things that need to be done before he can call this errand over.

And then you flash him a quick, unassuming smile. “Thanks, daddy.”

His fingers still on the door handle, entire body seizing, breath catching mid-inhale as his brain tries — and fails — to process whether he actually heard you correctly.

His pulse goes from stable to needing immediate medical attention in a matter of seconds.

He straightens like someone just pulled a gun on him, adjusting his watch even though it does not need adjusting. Forces himself to level you with the most unaffected look he can manage. 

“Sweetheart, that’s not appropriate.”

You blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence that he knows is fake. “Why?”

His fingers drum once against the car before curling into metal, grip bordering on savage, white-knuckled tension bleeding into every line of his body, the only outlet for something too risky to be voiced.

It doesn’t help that you look exceedingly gorgeous in daylight. That the sun — a merciless accomplice in your destruction of him — has taken it upon itself to illuminate every detail.

That you decided today was the day to try a new blush. That you had stood in front of him this morning, asking if it made you look pretty like you didn’t already know how impassioned he felt about that answer.

Like you weren’t a loaded weapon wrapped in silk and perfume, soft where you should be sharp, lethal in ways that have nothing to do with intent.

And now, here you are, stacking problems on top of problems, and he has to somehow be the one to keep himself in check.

He exhales sharply, glancing away for a second — a brief, necessary reprieve — before settling his gaze back on you. “Because you know exactly what you’re doing, and I strongly suggest you stop.”

You bat your lashes. “I really don’t know what you mean, daddy.”

He doesn’t think — there’s no room for thought, no time between your words and his reaction. One second, you’re in the passenger seat, smirking, and the next, you’re hauled up and over his shoulder, one arm locked around your waist, and the other gripping your ass, fingers digging into the denim that started this whole damn mess.

You squirm, thrashing in the most unconvincing, unserious way imaginable, laughter spilling from your lips in delighted, unrepentant little bursts, and he knows it down to his very core that you are enjoying this far more than you should. 

And despite his better judgment, so is he.

“Hey! The groceries —,”

“Groceries can wait.”

Hotch doesn’t even pretend this trip is still happening. The moment the words left your mouth, the destination changed, the entire purpose of this errand replaced by something far more immediate and deserved.

So he spins on his heel and carries you straight back to the house with the ease of a man handling something he fully intends to deal with. 

Because this is about balance, about the fundamental laws of action and reaction, about the way you tip the scales just to see what it takes to tip them back. 

And because, if nothing else, you’ll think twice before calling him that again.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[lotties-ashwagandha]

(nsfw, mdni)

all of my anons got me thinking about being lottie’s younger girlfriend, with an incredible career ahead of you and all of the opportunities in the world, all of which you throw to the side when you hear about an ex cult leader who just tried to kill someone at her commune in the woods.

you’re smart, though — you should know that nothing good will come of agreeing when lottie matthews asks you to keep her company for a night out in the city. but she offers to pay for dinner, and she offers to pay for all of the cab rides you take together, and when she shows up to meet you in a fur coat that costs more than all of the things you’ve ever owned in your life combined, you realize the rumors of her wealth are true. and not that it’s the most appealing thing about being around her, but her riches are welcome when after dinner she takes you back to her penthouse and pours you a drink. it’s when you realize dinner was a formality, and what she really wants is to keep you for the night and discard you in the morning — and you find yourself playing along.

you let her persuade you, let her back you up against some surface that you have trouble seeing with how dimly lit the penthouse is in the night, and you let her pick you up and place you down onto it. maybe you’re on the dining room table, maybe it’s a kitchen island, maybe you’re about to be sacrificed to the wilderness like the rumors about her would suggest. maybe you’ll disappear and never be found, but that doesn’t occur to you when lottie pulls away your clothes inconveniently keeping her from you. any other reservations disappear when she reaches down and starts circling your clit, savoring your gasps and the soft noises she pulls from you and encouraging them with every whispered praise. she tells you how much more perfect you look like this, how beautiful you sound whining at her touch, and she tries to play it off when she slides two fingers into you and gasps at how easy it is. if there’s a next time you meet, she will try to humiliate you for how wet you get for her — tonight, it’s treated as a gift. she needs this as much as you do, she needs to forget.

you become the distraction. her beautiful, clueless distraction that doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t pressure her for more than she wants to tell you about what she’s done. not just for the night, but in the time following. you wake up next to her in the mornings and watch the sunrise over the city horizon, its rays peeking through even when the horizon is blocked by skyscrapers and the ambience below you is honking taxis and the murmur of the city. you get ready with her and listen to her complain about the chaos of the city as she does her makeup and braids her hair. lottie tells you that someday she’s going to rebuild her wellness center. she tells you that you are going to be there with her, and you’ll live in a cabin at the edge of the woods, and you will enjoy the peace of the forest much better than the noise here.

then she gets a bit distant. her voice takes on a different tone, more drained. she has delved too deep into the past again — and you are meant to be distracting her from it, so you help lottie finish the braid in her hair and then you get on your knees and ask her to tell you exactly what she wants from you. and if you do a good enough job she’ll give you her credit card after you fuck and tell you to go out today and buy something pretty to wear for her tonight.

and as for your bright future — the high level career you’re more than qualified for, the opportunities — they can keep waiting. for now, you have all of the money in the world, and all of the love to balance it.

sexy yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @cassioo @marleymarleymarleymarley

I haven’t checked my google forms since the last fic I posted so if you submitted a form and you’re not on here I will tag you in the next fic because I’m not home!

[sillystarwrites]

You ever play Hell Divers? If not how would the TADC cast react to a reader who is super willing to get whatever objective they're given done....no matter the cost, which includes running into danger without a care in the world, getting ragdolled or hurt but still willing to do Caines assignment and overall being a super loyal idiot.

A/N: no clue what helldivers is but I LOVEEE this idea!!!!!! :D

Type: I’ll add this later I’m tired

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🎩Caine🎩

☆He’s overjoyed, honestly

☆ having someone, ANYONE enjoy his adventures is a dream come true

☆ especially after ep 3

☆ he probably begins to make more dangerous/risky adventures, taking note that you seem to enjoy the risk

☆ he literally doesn’t realize how dangerous it is for you and the others

☆ you can’t exactly get hurt, but you’re probably hella sore and in pain from the adventures 

☆ mans does not care, as long as somebody has fun he’s HERE FOR IT!!!

☆ loves you tho, your feedback is the first (and only) he goes for after adventures cause you’re the only one w/ good feedback

☆ anyway you’re his bestie. Can’t speak for you, but you are to him

♟️Kinger♟️

☆ typically he never pays too much mind to it, but he’s never seen someone so dedicated 

☆ sure, when he first entered, he tried to get the adventures done too, but not to this point

☆ he’s especially concerned when you immediately bolt in after him to get gangles mask in the mildenhall manor

☆ you barely even care, or notice Angel and the other freaks, dragging him along quickly.

☆ tried to warn you about the hall but you immediately ran down…and got possessed

☆ it was horrifying, to say the least

☆ he had to beat you with the gun, but at least the possessor was gone

☆ you barely even took a break, about to run down to try again and he forced you to sit

☆ when he tells you about Queenie, you’re empathetic but then immediately are like “okay but we gotta go, cmon.”

☆ he’s a bit…hurt, to say the least, but understands. He also wants to leave as soon as possible

☆ when you two make it back, you realize you somehow forgot Gangle’s mask.

☆ you attempt to find a way back to get it, but Caine brings you all back before that can happen

💜Jax💜

☆ he thinks it’s funny to be honest

☆ you get easily frustrated too, so he’s gonna bother you the WHOLEEEEE time if he can

☆ but you also just carried him like a briefcase on one adventure, just to annoy him back 

☆ he made gangle drive on the candy canyon adventure because he knew you’d want to

☆ gangle would’ve handed it over to when you protested, but Jax stopped that from happening 

☆ he couldn’t bug you as much as he’d liked to at Spudsy’s since the, y’know, ‘employee training’

☆ but he tried to anyway, you just shooed him off

☆ he was almost impressed by your work ethic.

☆ key word almost, because it mostly pissed him off

☆ anyway, seeing you go so far as to somehow injure yourself on adventures was hilarious to him

☆ all he had to do was convince you it’d help, and you’d do it

☆ even if it accidentally hurt the others

☆ he’s also really annoyed how you’re basically Caine’s favorite 

☆ like really?

☆ he’d poke at you about it though, just to annoy you

☆ but maybe sometimes he does get worried after adventures when you don’t even stay for whatever reward there could be

☆ he’d never admit that he’s worried, but you get the point 

🧸Ragatha🧸

☆ do something barely even risky and watch her PANIC

☆ she is worried from the get-go

☆ like during the gloink adventure, did she literally watch you try and wrestle a goddamn gloink WTH

☆ or in the candy kingdom, where you’re ready to jump into the chocolate 

☆ she has to hold you back A LOT

☆ like a lot a lot

☆ you also insisted on taking care of her during the spudsy’s adventure

☆ you did crash out at a customer so you still got a B+ though

☆ anyway, she does appreciate that you try your best on every adventure

☆ she hates that you put yourself at risk though

☆ she checks on you a lot, especially after the mildenhall manor adventure 

☆ she’s seen you get overly beat up in other adventures a lot, which always scares her

🎡Pomni🎡

☆ you scare her, honestly 

☆ she can’t tell if you’re so dead-set because you mess with people, or because you’re just determined 

☆ either way, it’s concerning

☆ despite the few adventures she’s been on, she’s seen how risky you can get

☆ she doesn’t like it at all

☆ you also seem to get really competitive, so she doesn’t get in the way

☆ when you’re not on adventures, you seem nice, but she’s still a bit scared of you

☆ you’re hyper and a go-getter, neither of which she feels that comfortable around

☆ once again, not that she doesn’t like you, just she’s really intimidated 

☆ I feel like someone like reader would just be desperate to escape, thinking if they tried hard enough they’d be free. Maybe they’re just so desperate and scared it’s the only way they can think of

☆ if Pomni is met with this revelation, she’d try to help in some way

☆ even if it’s not much, she could talk with Gummigoo, Kinger, and tried with Gangle, so the least she can do is try for you too

☆ even after the talk, you’re still just as persistent and idiotic, but at least she tried

🔶Zooble🔶

☆ deadass, they hate you

☆ they think you’re a total suck-up to Caine

☆ on the few adventures they were forced on, they’ve seen you get thrown, kicked, or flung a few dozen times

☆ they tried not to laugh

☆ key word tried!!!!

☆ they still don’t like how peppy you get, dragging them with

☆ they’ve lost more limbs than they can count

☆ they think it’s cool that you’re so dedicated, but oh my lorddd does it irritate them

☆ they still don’t like you

☆ you seem to try your best, but that’s too much

☆ they just don’t like you

☆ what’s the point of trying so hard if you’re just gonna get so injured?

☆ it’s annoying.

🎭Gangle🎭

☆ honestly, you scare her

☆ you remind her of Jax, just a bit less ill intented

☆ she mainly appreciates you during the spudsy’s episode, as you’re not violently dead set on doing…whatever

☆ during the mildenhall manor adventure, she is also a bit amused at your dedication to getting her mask, but more worried than anything.

☆ like Pomni, she’s not exactly comfy around you, but doesn’t hate you either.

☆ in your fits of bolting after the goal, you have probably tripped on her several times and broke her mask on accident 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: sorry that it’s so short, and this took so long 😭 I’m really tired rn

[deadhands69]

The Exorcism

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

ShigAFO fix it fic, exactly what it sounds like

There's a man inside of your boyfriend. 

Not in the way that there are two wolves or some metaphorical chrysalis waiting to awaken in all of us. No, there's a man inside of your boyfriend and he needs to get out now. 

When Tomura Shigaraki went into the hospital, you expected an adjustment period afterward with the amount of quirks being dumped in his body at once. It’s a huge change but he was committed to it. So, you all made preparations. It wouldn’t be easy, but you’d manage and you’d get through it together.

Unfortunately, the powers came with an extra passenger. A parasite. He’s settled into his body unwillingly, taking over when he wants. That’s not a cost any of you are willing to pay, especially not when it's happening to Tomura. So:

He. 

Needs. 

To. 

Get. 

Out.

Now.

While All For One is off on some mission, abusing Tomura’s body for his own selfish reasons, you’ve called this meeting of close friends. The few of you who were available on such short notice sit in a circle on your living room floor. It’s an odd group, consisting of a few League of Villains members and your old neighbor Mrs. Shuzenji. She never retired, so she doesn’t get out much other than work, meaning she never has time to watch the news at the end of the day. Because of this, she has no clue who Tomura is (or the others) and simply thinks he’s “a sweet boy” who is at your apartment all the time. She has, however, heard of All For One and holds a special kind of hatred towards him. Especially now, All For One doesn’t bring her newspaper to her door like Tomura used to. Considering that she’s a healer, her quirk may be useful in this situation. She sits on your old armchair, sucking on a lollipop.

Spinner sips tea out of an oversized mug while Toga sits to his left, texting someone. There’s a knock at the door and you jump up to let Magne in.

Perfect, you’re all here.

It becomes clear very quickly that none of you have ever done an exorcism before. Fortunately, you’ve all seen movies and you have the internet. It can’t be that hard, right?

After a brief google search, Spinner finds something useful.

“It says here that quirk exorcisms are possible, especially if the person wasn’t born with it.” 

“That’s kind of what we’re looking for,” you say, “and we won’t even have to get rid of the whole quirk – just the vestige attached to it. What else does it say?”

“Well,” he considers, “there’s a reason people don’t usually do them. It’s not the easiest process for anyone involved.” He passes his phone around, allowing each of you to glance over the instructions. After, you check a few more sources but they all say more or less the same thing.

“So,” Toga breaks the silence, “it’s decided.”

“Yeah,” agrees Spinner. “Here’s a list of the supplies we’ll need.” 

“It’s best if we keep them hidden,” you add. “This guy’s been around for a while – there’s no way he doesn’t know how this works.”

Mrs. Shuzenji offers her place for storage. It makes sense, as a space Tomura wouldn't go and there's no way All For One is ever setting foot there. 

The plan is decided quickly and you all disperse so AFO doesn’t sense you plotting against him. You need him to trust you all, at least somewhat.

A few days later, your opportunity presents itself. It’s not easy sneaking up on someone with so many sensing quirks so you’ve waited for the perfect time. AFO just got back from some solo mission he refuses to tell you all about and needs to rest. Regeneration quirk or not, healing takes time. Seeing the massive slashes scattered over his body sends a tidal wave of emotions over you. You're upset. You want to save him, protect him. Make sure nothing ever hurts him again. But mostly, you're fucking livid. 

Fortunately, that works out in your favor. The overwhelming feelings work wonders to hide your true intention so he never notices when you stick him with a tranquilizer. 

Spinner jumps in to help as Tomura’s body slumps onto the floor. The two of you soften his fall as much as you a before loading him onto a skateboard and pushing him out the door. 

When you arrive at Mrs. Shuzenji’s house, the others are already waiting for you. 

As you carefully move Tomura to the middle of the room, Magne and Toga run in to make a circle around him. 

“It's a special kind of salt mixed with a few chemicals they use in quirk canceling handcuffs,” Magne explains as Spinner looks back over the notes he took. “It wasn't easy to find, but the combination should absorb any quirks that are activated inside. It should also keep any quirks from crossing unless one of us sweeps it out of the way from the outside.”

“That’s important,” Mrs Shuzenji notes from her perch on a floral patterned chair, “quirks can go in but they can’t go out unless we open the circle.”

“Wait,” Toga asks, “so why isn’t the plan for one of us to just push Tomura out of the circle if that’s all it takes?”

“Well,” Spinner starts, “with the amount of quirks he has in him, we aren’t sure that he would even fall out of the circle. If he’s holding onto them, he’ll probably just be stuck in there. Especially since there’s another, uh, entity reliant on keeping them. He’ll fight it.”

“Plus,” you add, “do you want to climb into that ring with All For One when he realizes what we’re doing?” She shakes her head.

Each of you takes a seat around the edge and waits for him to wake up. You need him conscious for this or you won't be able to access the quirks. Taking advantage of the extra time, you begin passing out some of Tomura’s belongings. The ritual requires that each person involved in the quirk exorcism has an object belonging to the subject in order to form a connection. Fortunately, Tomura has been leaving his clothes all over your apartment from the day you started dating. Spinner picks up a sock from the pile with a disgusted look on his face.

After a few minutes, Tomura begins to stir. That's enough to begin. 

“So,” Spinner reads from his notes, “next we need to draw the quirks out and into the barrier.”

His voice is enough to wake AFO, who instinctively shoots off an attack at the barrier while opening a warp gate. One of his arms shoots towards you, sending a shock wave in your direction, but it never makes it. Instead, the quirk hits the invisible barrier above the circle and is yanked from his body. The portal melts too, sucked across the room and into the side of the circle before it disappears. He grimaces slightly as the jolts bring him to his senses. 

The next one isn’t so easy. Now that he knows what to expect, he holds his meta abilities closer to himself.

Still, there’s a way for you all to forcibly activate his quirks and you came prepared to do so. This part gives you pause. You remember watching AFO use a quirk to do this a few times and it never looked comfortable. However, he also doesn’t need anyone to be conscious through the process so clearly his ability differs a bit, which makes you think that if one part varies so much maybe the whole experience could be completely different. You hope so, at least.

Spinner reads from the sheet in front of him, before you all join in. “The incantation is ‘meta facultates exi.’” You all repeat it in unison, holding his belongings. After a few tries, something happens. His fingers twitch, beginning to change form. You all continue, louder and with more force. 

Red tendrils explode from his body, shooting out of his spine and fingers like lightning through the room until they hit the barrier and are wrenched away. Tomura jerks in all directions from the force of it before he crumples to the ground. Everything in you wants to comfort him, but you can’t. 

“So,” Toga begins to say what you're all thinking, “if we're doing this for every quirk, how many are there?”

None of you have an answer to that. Tomura’s eyes flicker from a beautiful red to muted white. AFO smiles from inside the circle, sending chills down your spine. 

“I've been around for years, collecting quirks much like this one used to collect pokemon cards,”he says, far too calm for the situation. “You'll never know if you got them all. Even if you do make it to the end of this, you'll always wonder if you missed something. And there will be no way to know. You're fighting a losing battle, so if you wouldn't mind I'd like to end this now and not waste any more of your time.” 

His words and emphasis in Tomura’s voice makes you want to scream. Throw up. Instead, you pull yourself together. 

“I will know. I'll know because you are not my boyfriend.” Looking at the group around you, you continue. “Again.”

“Everyone settle in, it's going to be a long night,” Mrs. Shuzenji says across the room. 

She's not wrong. 

The five of you repeat the words, putting all of your energy into it. Some of the quirks go easier. Others put up a fight. 

Much of the time, you see them flicker in advance and know you're on the right track. Muscles twitching, flames sparking, lights forming in his palms. 

Sometimes nothing seems to happen at all and you're not sure if it's working until his body pulls with the exorcized quirk. 

After one particularly concerning moment when you forced him to activate a quirk and were met with bloodlet, you all decided to take a brief break. 

“I forgot about that one,” Magne murmurs quietly while shakily sipping a cup of tea Mrs. Shuzenji made her. “He lost a lot of blood on that go.”

“He's still breathing though,” you say, knowing you couldn’t open the circle now to help him if you wanted to. You kneel down at the edge, “Tomura.” 

White eyes glare up at you. “I'm not talking to you and you know that.” Eventually his eyes shift back to red. 

“Hey,” you try to reassure him, “you're doing great.” He nods in acknowledgement. “Are you okay to keep going?” He nods again. 

The cuckoo clock on the wall announces that it’s 3am, taunting you. And to think, you used to find it cute.

As everyone reassembles, you toss a water bottle in the circle to keep him hydrated, but AFO throws it back out at you. That's his loss. You don't know All For One very well but you definitely know Tomura. 

Unlucky for the possessor, you've witnessed Tomura go longer without anything for much less reward. Once, you dropped by his apartment to find him having been glued to an online game for three days straight without eating or sleeping. If it comes to endurance and suffering, Tomura will win hands down. 

You hate that it's come to that though. 

“Again,” you whisper, voice growing hoarse. Your fingers twist into his shirt, gripping it like it's the only piece of him you have left to hold onto.

This time a series of spikes erupt from his body, much like unicorn horns. One pierces straight into the barrier and they all lurch out with a snap. Tomura crumples to the floor, laying on his side while he catches his breath. 

The end is growing near and you can sense it. 

The next doesn't go so well. 

“meta facultates exi,” you all chant. You've said it so many times the words no longer feel like words. You try again. And again. But nothing happens. AFO stands in the circle, quietly laughing. 

“You won't take that one,” he says and you realize this is it. You're down to the last quirk, the only one that really matters to him. 

The five of you continue with the incantation in unison, voices growing louder and louder until they finally crack. Eventually, the words feel dry in your mouth. Everyone's shouts turn to a feeble murmur and you stop. 

It has to work, you tell yourself. The group looks exhausted, Toga is sprawled on the floor near Magne’s feet. Mrs. Shuzenji looks like she's melted into her arm chair. Spinner's head hangs in his hands as he stares at what once was his friend. 

An air of sadness fills the room, but it's not over. Not yet. You drop the shirt you've been clutching all night.

Out of options, you do the only thing you can think of: jump into the circle with him and hope you can bait All For One into trying to steal your quirk. 

Magne audibly gasps, everyone's eyes grow wide. Now that you're in here, you're not sure if this was the best idea but you've committed. 

“You're almost out of quirks,” you taunt, “sure you don't want to try for another?”

AFO’s eyes flicker, but he makes no move to act on it. 

“I know you want my quirk,” you continue, “I see the way you look at me every time I use it.”

“I know what you're doing,” he replies, “and it's not going to work. I'm a patient man, I can wait. And now, you're stuck in here waiting with me. They'll give in and let you out eventually. You're my path to victory, so I believe I should be thanking you.”

His words make you nauseated, but you're used to that by now. In the entirety of your life, you can't remember ever hating someone this much. Every fiber of your being loathes this man and everything he stands for. You want nothing more than his destruction and wouldn't stop at anything to make it happen. 

Tomura looks tired, thirsty. In his current state, he’s barely able to stand upright. His eyes briefly flick between red and white, irises wavering. When the red returns, he smiles weakly across the small circle at you. 

That's all the time you need.

Before he can even think to brace himself, you jump on him. Your body feels like a rubber band being snapped as something is pulled from deep inside of you. Both of you land flat out onto Mrs. Shuzenji’s hardwood floor, outside of the circle. Your friends stare down at you in shock. 

While you're aware of what you did, the reality of it doesn't quite set in. Instead, you sit exhausted on the floor holding Tomura’s hand while Mrs. Shuzenji looks over his injuries. 

“He doesn't have much stamina left in him so I can't do too much, you'll have to come back when I’m off work tomorrow.” She leans in, giving him a tiny peck on the cheek. You notice some color returning to his skin. 

“So,” Toga says, looking closely at the salt ring on the floor, “he’s just in that now?”

Spinner steps in, pulling her back a bit. “Possibly. It’s uncertain how long quirk vestiges can survive outside of a host. Probably best to not touch it, just in case.”

“Hmm,” she considers, “what do we do with it then?”

“He can haunt my vacuum cleaner for a while,” says Mrs. Shuzenji, bumping everyone out of the way as she comes through with her oversized pink vacuum.

After everything is cleaned up, you all thank her for the use of her space and make your way to your respective homes. Spinner helps you move Tomura back to your place (he said he could walk by himself but proceeded to stumble around, too exhausted to figure out where to go.) 

The sun is just coming up as you make your way to your next door apartment. After Tomura is tucked into your bed, it’s decided Spinner should stay on your couch given how tired he is. You grab him some blankets before making your way back to your bedroom.

When you finally lay your head down, it all hits you. The pain, exhaustion. How much you sacrificed tonight. Both you and Tomura are quirkless now and you’re not entirely sure what to make of that yet. It’ll be a massive shift in your life, but now’s not the time to figure that out.

Tomura sleeps soundly by your side, long white hair piled around his face. He looks so peaceful for the first time in a long time. Whatever life changes come tomorrow, you’re absolutely certain it was all worth it.

bnha masterlist

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @vaval3ntin @ykyouluvme 

@dummi666 @lotus-flower420 @nonominchan @softnfuzzy @mysticalhills 

@reireitaka @crwavee @baby-pink-flowers @drlucichen @frieren-imposter

 @lou-the-naga-queen @multifandomidk @love-for-yoosung-kim  @xytraxpy @venom-barf 

@shiiigaraki @thetinas21 @spam-1 @kitkat13001 @kennys-partner

@amira-44820 @its-evee16 @thesecond2demonking

[eatmangoesnekkid]

I don’t live my life thinking a lot about money, trying to ‘get’ more money, or not having enough money yet I am not motivated by money either. The act of receiving more money does not make me rush to hurry up and finalize my books or open up my school. I can’t remember the last time I worried about money because having money is an intimate frequency and energy of FREEDOM. You have to break the frequencies of constantly penny-pinching, being stingy, allowing how much money you have in the bank to dictate your mood or living afraid to buy the very things that you need that will expand or evolve you, which is not the same thing as shopping all the time as a coping mechanism for being human, incurring consumer debt or being irresponsible and reckless with your money. And your life force will never thrive when you are a slave or prisoner to money.

The Practical and Spiritual Journey to Making More Money —You Must Enlist Your Warrior and Your Energy

You have to look at earning money like a game and enjoy growing your money and playing the game or else you never win. Not just saving or hoarding it away in your bra but allowing your money to work for you while you sleep like putting it in stocks. I have a degree in Accounting and have always believed that women were born to be skilled in financials but we are socialized to perceive ourselves not. But when you were born with a womb, you are naturally gifted at multiplying a seed into something much larger and intelligent like a whole baby. You are a natural amplifier, nourishing and growing what has been received. Be willing to look into investments and not be afraid of accumulating “healthy debt” and learn to move your money around in order to grow it. Look to investing part of your earnings into different funds, even if it is just cutting back on buying coffee and putting that money you would have paid for a daily coffee into a savings that will accrue and be used to invest in the future. If you already have cash flow, getting rental property to airbnb or sell (everyone I know that is quietly wealth-oriented owns at least 2-3 homes) which can be overwhelming to think about when living pay check-to-pay check but just beginning to think about how you can earn more money from your own money passively gets the ball rolling in your consciousness like what would it be like to open up a laundry mat, build it up and sell it in a few years for huge profit? Laundry mat ownership is such a fast lucrative business, just like what you see in the hood in movies. Or buy a raggedy house, build it up and sell it for a higher cost and incredible profit. Some of you straight and bi women entrepreneurs who are ready for good lovers must find love and attraction with lovers who are builders and handymen and can help to upscale and modernize your home that you can then resale for great profit and stop messing with dusties who have zero skill sets and create more stress on your life. 🙏🏿 Because when you live a highly stressful, parasympathetic, flight or fight life, the first thing you lose is your sexual desire or libido i.e. your umlimited creative power. No thank you!

If you have a spiritual business like me, you can do deals underneath the table but also work towards a LLC to legitimize your company which gives you tax breaks and allows you to earn more money. Something about going through the channels to make something official moves it from just being a hobby to a legit business. As magical spiritual woman, your power move is to attract someone willing to invest in your work as a start-up. If you do, you must cherish this person, love this person with all your heart, hips and soul (if the relationship is romantic but of course it can also be platonic or familial, either way, love this person), adore them deep and true. The person, this angelic being, this God, is saving you massive stress and headache. Their presence in your life serves a larger purpose —you must help them to understand this because our world teaches us to be so fearful and suspicious of being helped or helping someone rather than gracious and honored. Too many people are missing out on great blessings of interdependence because they live afraid and suspicious of the big heart of another human. So sad that many amazing beautiful people are stuck in their little corners hoarding away and missing out on healing, thriving, and experiencing the gifts and/or talents of another human because of how we have been wired to perceive the desire to meet one another’s needs and desires by status quo culture. To be a woman who can love someone in ways that relax their body so deeply that they can finally get out of their head and rest well and regenerate their tissues at night is incredibly priceless.

**This is not the same thing as looking for a handout, walking around broken like the world owes you something or hoping someone will help because you tell a victimization story. It is about being mature and resourceful and consciously manifesting what is needed and not simply what would be cool or cute potentially through love and loving.

But not every woman is ready or qualified for the aforementioned experience because you do have to develop skills that will be greatly useful, nourishing, nurturing, decompressing, relaxing or expansive or beneficial in other ways to another person. You can’t just be attractive or whatever. You have to be a woman who has developed a certain ease and peace in her body and life first and and that is what joining my school and online temple will help you master. And I personally believe you must also really love someone if the harmony is right because 1. love is incredible and healthy for the body to experience for however long it lasts 2. love is essential for the brightest sustained outcome. I’m not talking about the “sprinkle, sprinkle“ foolishness being promoted online. I am advocating for more love between people and all that comes with truly loving someone.

Be so skillful in your mature womanhood that you don't run from challenges, but face and engage them head on, and refine, recalibrate, and evolve beyond them. Never lose the boundaries that you are running a business albeit a spiritual one but still a business. Stay devoted and disciplined, both are essential. Work towards hiring people who can help you scale and grow eventually.

The Spiritual Journey to Making More Money—You Must Invoke Your Lover

The key to having more money is to learn to surrender and trust and truly allow the universe to be your provider, which is not an intellectual idea but a frequency of feminine energy. This is less about gender and more about the willingness to live a little bit beyond the egoic surface layer of reality of urgency that tells you to hurry and produce, to hoard or take or trigger you to constantly need to check off a to-do list, always needing to plan or to cross your t’s and dot your i’s which will allow you to buy that nice house and cute car eventually, but could greatly inhibit your energy from flowing where you never really can feel the joy of a simple moment pulse up your spine because you live in stress and overwork for external things that never make you fully truly happy.

No matter what stage of life you are, the undercurrent of your reality must feel like more relaxation and freedom if you want to have more money but not exhaust yourself in rigorous pursuit and constant labor for it.

I had to learn to draw in the frequency of freedom—to laugh at myself, to play, to rest, to relax, to do silly shit like twirling throughout my day —when life was very stressful, drama was high, and money was low. Neighbors would see me twirling. I would sometimes twirl for customers whose shopping totals were over 200 dollars. Because changing frequencies or weaving new realities is most potent when life is hard. You have to discover strategic ways to do the things you really want to do in life but was told you couldn’t afford. You must also have this hunger and desire to play the game of life to win while laughing at yourself along the way as you refine more and more and develop intimacy with the currencies of relaxation, love and freedom, which naturally include having more money.

But do not just copy and paste and take from others. Give. —India Ame’ye

Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.

Kahlil Gibran, Mirrors of the Soul

Chapter: The Money Drop (unedited)

[emperor-kumquat]

Sincere suggestions for commissioned artists, from a client's perspective

I am an artist myself, but I don't do commissions.

However I do commission artists and pay them $1000s of dollars USD every year! My project Transformers: Mercy has included around 100 artists and I look for new ones all the time on Tumblr. After all, I just couldn't complete my project without some help. In the Transformers fandom, I guess I could be a top fan artist employer! Screw AI art, right?!

(Feel free to DM me if you would like to be commissioned by me or volunteer art for my big Transformers: Prime sequel game.)

When everything goes well, I am a repeat commissioner and you have me as a permanent client. But what might turn me or another client away from commissioning you initially or a second time?

If you...

... Ask for email-only communication/ have any barriers to direct and fast communication [X]

If we're on Tumblr, I would just like to message you all the details for my comm and get quick updates here. Emailing is not swift! Or sometimes, you have a setting where only blogs you follow can message you. I'll try to leave a comment or an ask, but I might not be seen and the opportunity passes. Consider turning DMs on if you are looking for commissions!

I am also not a huge fan of downloading a comm question sheet, filling it out, and sending it back. It is so much faster for me to just dump all the details of my request (and by now, I know how to be specific). If anything is unclear, I would like the artist to just reach out and ask.

2. ... Give no regular communication and updates [X]

If someone has paid you for a service, please respect that. Give an estimated time for completion and if something comes up, update the client. Clients get nervous waiting days or weeks without updates and they should not have to reach out to ask about what they paid for. Give progress updates too... sketch phase, line art, flats, rendering, what have you. If the client wants changes, it is less grief for everyone to make the change before too much effort goes into the comm. Please, reassure your clients!

3. ... Don't refer to given instructions and reference pictures [X]

I give very specific instructions and reference pictures for my artists. Sometimes, time passes. They forget what the instructions were and send me a work in progress that is not what was requested. It's frustrating when with a scroll up, they would have seen all the instructions again. Please look back to your instructions constantly throughout the process, not just once. Double-check for details as you work.

Client story: Sometimes it's as silly as me asking for a night scene and getting sent a day scene. Sometimes it's characters doing the wrong action. Sometimes it's the wrong angle from what I asked for. Sometimes it's forgetting that I wanted a character to be holding a certain item. All the instructions were given, and the chunk of text which describes the scene, but they were not carefully read.

4. ... State "no changes" or "limited number of changes" in your comm sheet [X]

This worries a client like me. What does that mean, I wonder? What if I perfectly expressed my request but the artist didn't get it right? Will they get upset if I request a small change? I have come to understand some people mean "no major changes from the original request", but it can sound like I don't have a say in the production phase and I could be stuck with something I don't like.

Client story: One time, an artist forgot a piece to a character's arm. It was a wing and blaster, clear on the reference sheet. I only noticed later after the comm was done, so that was on me. I reached out, hoping they could add in the missing piece even for a reasonable quick price because it took me so long to notice. They told me it would cost $40 USD to add in the piece of the arm. I declined. $40 USD, for a piece of an arm?? It was unreasonable. Because of that, I have not returned to this client and otherwise would have.

5. ... Ask for payment up front [X?]

It's a stand off! Because no one wants to be scammed. The artist is afraid of spending so much time and effort to not be paid; the client is afraid the artist is a fraud and will run away with the money.

Now I haven't been scammed yet and I have paid many artists up front many times. But I saw their blogs and they seem trustworthy. Whereas those bots on fanfiction.net, never trust them. But it is still uncomfortable as a client to pay upfront. Sometimes I pay an artist, then 6 months later, I get my art. If you need a lot of time to finish a piece, inform the client and consider getting your payment after. Care for your client and ease their worries. It isn't fun to pay someone then get radio silence for a quarter or half a year... imagine being in that position!

The best solution I've seen? The client pays full or half the payment after the rough sketch phase. The artist hasn't committed too much time yet and the client can see if the artist is capable or not of completing the request. I think it makes us all feel more at ease.

6. ... Are strict/inflexible with pricing [X]

An artist can decide their prices. This isn't about how to value art. But consider this story for nuance:

Client story: This artist I was working with, like most, had set prices per added character. However, I wanted some very tiny background characters who would be lower detail. Characters about the size of a pencil eraser. They wanted to charge full price for each character as though they were like those in detail in the foreground. We tried to negotiate a lower price, but I felt it was still ridiculously high for tiny background characters (around $25 each, if I recall). Because of this, I didn't return to this artist.

7. ... Want to be paid by the hour [X]

Look, I understand wanting to be paid minimum wage for your work. Art is a worthy job! Unfortunately, I have no way to monitor how many hours you actually worked on something. And what if you are slow on purpose? What if you personally are slow at art and not improving on your speed? I am not an employer at an animation studio or anything like that. This is too uncontrollable (and their estimated prices jump up to around $200+ USD for a scene that on average would otherwise cost me $50 USD). I think you should set your prices how you want then let people decide if that price suits them.

8. ... Want a signed contract [X]

Once again I understand not wanting to be scammed. I think the "pay upfront or pay after sketch" thing could protect you as an artist. Maybe you believe the contract comforts us both, but to me, it feels too suspicious or accusatory. No one wants to be treated as a scammer if they are sincere, right? It makes me too uncomfortable and the interaction too business-like. I prefer working with artists who are passionate about Transformers like me, which is why I only commission Transformers fan artists. That way we have real heart in the project. Let's not make it strictly about the money or a tight suspicious business interaction. If I see a contract to sign, I don't commission.

9. ... State "no posting or using the art" [X]

I commission art so that it can appear in my story game. If I pay an artist to make something that I can't show to others, it's a no go for me. I would like to reblog our commission or post it on social media while crediting the artist properly. Your clients are probably very excited to show their commissions (but the clients should never post the art without the credits and never sell that art for their own gain). I let my artists know what the art will be used for, but if I see a statement like this in a comm sheet, I don't reach out initially. It makes me think we'll have a conflict and aren't compatible.

10. ... Argue about how a scene or character should look [X]

This is an odd one, but here are two examples:

Client story: There were two characters in a scene. I asked if one of them could be smaller. The artist insisted they wanted the character to be larger (by this, I mean in height) because they liked big robots. I explained that this character wasn't particularly tall. For some reason, I had to push to get the character the height I wanted him for my story. It was unpleasant.

Client story: I like TFP Starscream without fangs. Some people like to add fangs. No biggie, until I'm the client paying you to draw him for me. They added fangs, I requested no fangs, it turned into an argument on why he should have fangs because he had jagged teeth in RID2015. Whatever it is, respect the client's preferences. Isn't the picture for them?

Please make your client happy and fulfill their requests.

11. ... Are rude or snappy! [X]

Client story: One time I reached out to an artist intending to do a huge commission. But I like to make the commission as fun as possible for my artists so I ask who their favourite Transformers characters are and if they prefer action or calm scenes. That way I can select a good scene for them off my giant list. And for this artist, I explained I had lots of options because it was a big story game. The artist demanded I just give my request, they said they just wanted to make money, then went on a rant that I was poorly organized. Well, we didn't do a commission and they missed out my $100 USD request.

Other suggestions to help you attract and retain clients:

Have someone proofread your comm sheet for typos and grammar (I have never turned someone down for this, it's just an idea)

Provide invoices that don't require addresses

Have a fun and positive comm sheet without passive aggressive statements. Do's and Don'ts are ok, but please don't seem bitter/fierce about something that may have happened in the past. Some terms and conditions really seemed to treat me like a troublemaker or threat!

Have a positive/non aggressive blog that avoids foul language

Appear open to discussion, flexible, and reasonable

These are just my suggestions: the suggestions of a client. It's up to you to accept or reject them as a paid artist. We all have our reasons. They are however, my secret reasons for not returning to certain artists or initially reaching out to them!

[gudfornuthin]

The Baker and the Ballerina

Chapter five

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader (au)

Summary: the reader is having trouble with the workers. Frank is having trouble with his old man. They find peace in a new menu item for the bakery.

Word count: 2k

Series warnings: slow burn, cliché tropes, mentions of PTSD, mentions of abusive relationships, (eventual) smut, violence

A/N: is it bad I’m most excited about writing the one-shots for this series? Long way to go until then though. Thank you for reading and feedback is appreciated :)

Y/N feels like she's close to reaching her limit. The studio is barely halfway complete, and the workers are taking her for some idiot that they can walk all over. Time is running out, and she can't afford to keep pushing back the opening date. She also knows she can't bite back too much at said workers, as it will only cause more trouble for her down the road. For now, she remains courteous.

"You're telling me there's a mould problem?"

"Yep. A big one at that."

It's another early morning, and Y/N stands in front of the main worker she's been dealing with the past few weeks, her stomach in knots. His news is the last thing she wants to hear right now, and the cost that will follow it sounds so much worse.

"I don't understand," she continues. "I had a surveyor come in and do an inspection before I finalised the sale. He told me everything was fine."

"Sweetheart, unless you think I'm lying, your surveyor was full'a shit," the worker says, shrugging his shoulders as if it's no big deal.

Y/N purses her lips. Deep breaths. "Either way, l'm not sure if I can pay to get this fixed."

"Well you better call someone 'cause this is more than we were hired for."

She can feel the condescension pouring out of him, as she anxiously wrings her hands together. Y/N is not a pushover. She knows this. Everyone important in her life knows this. But some battles just aren't worth fighting.

She nods. "Right. I'll go, uh, see if there's anyone available soon."

Y/N walks away, not before hearing the worker chuckle under his breath. She closes her eyes and once more takes a deep breath. it's not worth it.

She makes her way downstairs into the makeshift kitchen and living room. Opening her laptop, she searches for anyone local who can deal with the mould, while also not costing an arm and a leg. Her head is pounding and the worry that the studio might never be completed takes over. It feels impossible and overwhelming, and all Y/N wants to do is scream. So she stops looking at her laptop, shifts all the furniture and boxes to the side of the room as to give herself enough floor space, and does the one thing that calms her down the most. Ballet. It's cramped and not exactly easy to perform all the moves properly, but she twirls and bends and leaps as if on stage in front of a mesmerised crowd.

Just as she's about to glide into a pirouette, her phone pings. Y/N calms herself down from the ballet high and reaches for the device.

The name that pops up elicits more of a high school girl reaction than she would have liked it to, as she feels the butterflies materialise in her stomach. The message itself, however, leaves her feeling more so confused.

'Are you allergic to nuts?" - Frank

She furrows her brow but tries not to dwell on it too much. He's a baker, that's a question he probably asks people quite frequently.

'Hello to you too. No, I'm not, why?'

‘Just wondering. How you doing anyways?’

Y/N huffs, unsure if she wants to load her issues onto Frank. However, it might be good to let some steam off on anyone willing to listen.

‘I've got mould.’

'Damn. Might wanna get that checked by a doctor.'

Frank's response causes Y/N to laugh and roll her eyes, glad someone is willing to make jokes about the whole situation. Her phone pings as he sends another text.

'Seriously though that's gotta be rough. The workers doing anything about it?'

She shakes her head as if he could see her through the screen.

'Nope. Hoping to find a guy who can get rid of it all. Might need to sell my soul to pay them though.'

The reality soon hits her again, as she rests her elbows on the counter and rubs her eyes. Maybe she is in over her head. Maybe it should've been a warning to her when she got the place for dirt cheap. Now everything is falling apart one after the other. She needs to lie down in a dark room for at least 20 hours. Another ping.

'Check the front door.'

Y/N is confused but goes along with what Frank tells her to do. She leaves the room and heads downstairs, opening the door. She looks down and spots a bag filled to the brim with baked goods. Ones, of course, from Bakehouse 31. A few of them with what appears to be almonds coating the tops. Her smile is wide, as she picks up the treats and glances across the street. She sees Frank through the bakery window looking at her. He waves and she does the same back.

Y/N can already hear Farah's sarcastic remark. Yeah, there's definitely nothing going on between you two.

--

It's the following day and Y/N is carrying two large pizza boxes, heading towards the bakery. She felt slightly bad with how often Frank gave her free stuff and thought this was the best thing to offer in return.

Thankfully Bakehouse 31 is quiet as she enters, spotting David behind the counter. He notices her too and finishes up with the customer he's dealing with.

"Hey, it's ballerina girl!" he spreads his arms out wide and smiles at her.

She smiles back. "Y/N is fine, thank you."

She places the pizzas down on the counter, David looking at them in shock and hunger.

"I thought since you guys kept giving me free pastries, I could give you pie in return." She shrugs. "You can just share it out with everyone."

"Thanks," David responds, moving the boxes to one of the counters behind him. "It's just the two of us working here though. But I don't like sharing so two pizzas is perfect." Y/N nods, glad her tasty gift is appreciated.

David takes a slice, shoving most of it in his mouth like he hadn't eaten for days. "I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you're also here to see the big guy?"

She proves him right by awkwardly looking down at the floor and shifting from one foot to the other. Yeah, definitely here to see Frank.

David shakes his head in amusement. "He's out back. You can go check on him if you want, been out there for a while now."

Y/N thanks him and makes her way towards the back where David directed her to go. The door is slightly agar and as she goes to open it, she hears a strained voice, gradually raising in volume. Frank.

"I can't keep talking about this shit with you, alright?" There's no response that Y/N can hear, so she assumes he's on the phone. "I got a lot of orders to do."

Another bout of silence, then Frank's voice gets louder and sharper, making her jump. "It is important! It's important to me and it means a hell of a lot to everyone who buys our shit."

Y/N risks opening the door wider, peaking her head around to get a proper look at the man. He's turned away from her, one hand holding his phone and the other stressfully raking through his hair. She can see the veins bulging in his neck and knows his face is showcasing his anger well. She hates to admit it, but it terrifies her slightly. She feels on edge and ready to run at any second if things get nasty. It reminds her too much of her ex-boyfriend, Jonah, and how he would lose his temper with her at the smallest things. Maybe Frank isn't like that, she doesn't think he is. But the way he's acting right now, she hopes to never find out.

Frank carries on talking. "I'm done talkin' to you, dad. I gotta go help David out."

He finally hangs up and turns around, spotting Y/N in her frozen state. She awkwardly smiles and says hi. As if by magic, his hard, tense exterior softens instantly.

"Hey," he says, the tone of his voice a complete contrast to what it was moments ago. "Wasn't expecting to see you today, you good?"

"Sorry, I was just dropping off some pizzas for you and David," she tries to cover the shake in her voice. "As I felt bad for all the free stuff you've given me."

Frank is quick to wave her off. "Sweetheart, you didn't have to do that. I'm happy to give you all the sweet treats you want." He moves closer. "Thank you though, I'm sure David's already cleaned up one of them."

Sweetheart. Hearing him say that compared to when the worker called her the same thing feels different. It's not said in a condescending way, to make her feel inferior or small. It makes her feel good. It makes her feel close to him, like he's comfortable giving her a pet name. She hopes to hear him call her that more often.

"Oh also," Frank continues. "I've got something for you to try." He makes his way back into the bakery and Y/N quickly follows. He leads her into the kitchen, almost every surface covered with different pastries and muffins and loaves of bread. It's chaotic, but it makes Y/N love it so much more.

"Here," Frank moves a tray of muffins in front of her, picking one up and holding it out to take. "Tell me what you think."

She breaks a piece off and bites into it, the moist, cakey texture being complimented by a tart, sweet goo. Raspberry to be exact.

"Your friend mentioned it was a favourite of yours the other day," Frank says, watching her face to gage her reaction. "I knew I had to make some straight away as we didn't have any on the menu."

Y/N doesn't want to appear dramatic, but she feels like she could burst into tears right in front of him. The thought of Frank making the raspberry muffins because he knew they were her favourite makes her feel shy and incredibly touched. Something so simple yet so thoughtful and she isn't quite sure how to show her gratitude.

She places a gentle hand on his bicep, hoping he doesn't notice how sweaty her palms are. "That's probably the sweetest thing anyone's done for me. And they taste amazing, not that that's a shock." They smile at each other, as Frank pats her on the back and starts packing up the muffins.

"I hate to dampen the mood," he says as he places some of the muffins in a separate pile for her to take. "But how's work going at the studio?"

Y/N almost forgets about the shit show she left behind, sighing and picking at some of the raspberry pieces. "Well, I got a mould guy to do another check. And the guy who's making my life hell has now said it'll be triple what I originally thought the work would cost."

Frank shakes his head as she continues talking. "Also, and I don't know if this is just in my head, but I don't exactly feel comfortable being over there when they are now."

Frank feels the need to speak up at this. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs. "The way they look at me, the way they talk to me. It's probably nothing but I just have that gut feeling, you know?" Frank finds it hard to hide his emotions, the thought of those men making Y/N feel uncomfortable, possibly unsafe, in her own studio. It makes him beyond pissed off.

He looks into her eyes, as she picks apart the muffin and eats it slowly. "I've said before and I'll say it again. You need me to go talk to them, just say the word and I'll deal with it."

Y/N incessantly shakes her head and swallows, not looking at him. "Frank, trust me, it's fine. I shouldn't have even brought it up!"

He takes her wrist and turns her to face him properly. His stare is intense as she finally meets his eyes. "You promise, sweetheart?"

That word again, sending her heart into overdrive. "Yeah. Promise."

- - -

Taglist: @nialhero-blog @luvrgirlsworld @britt217 @solstararis @legit9thlunaticwarrior

[moonwalkingprincess]

Mockingbird part 10: Machine gun jealousy

Summary: You start to date someone Eminem hates.

Warnings: Jealousy, cyberbullying...

Words: Idk i'm to lazy to check

Marshall had Hailee close to him as they walked into the jewelry store. He's dressed in his usual hoodie, cap pulled low, trying not to draw attention. He hated these kinds of places, growing up poor, he’d always be careful around expensive things like jewelry and he felt like he didn’t belong.

“This is stupid, isn’t it?” he mutters to Hailee, who had her arms crossed as she was thinking about what kind of ring you’d like. She glanced up to him. 

“No I like jewelry”

“What is it with women with jewelry?” he asked himself,

“They’re shiny.” she says, he rolls his eyes and looks at the displays. He looks at her glass display case before him. Jesus, how much does these things cost? Is this why his father left? He needed to pay off his mother’s  ring? Then he remembered, he’s a millionaire now, he’s not some poor guy in the southside anymore… he always forgets that. 

He gives Hailee a look. She sighs and nudges him toward it, some rings she liked. They were children's rings, mostly pink and had fairies on. 

“How about that one with Cinderella, that’s y/n’s favorite princess?”

He smiles at her.

“That’s not what adults wear honey.”

“Adults are boring.” she shrugged. 

Hailee eyed her father who kept looking at another display case. 

“You really think a ring fixes this?”

“Geez, I hope so.” He says quietly. 

The sales associate walks up — an older man with sharp eyes and a polite smile. She recognizes Marshall but doesn’t say anything.

"Looking for something in particular?"

“Yeah. Something that says, ‘I know I messed up, but you’re still it. You’re still mine, always.’” 

“Well, unfortunately that can’t fit on a ring, sir. Here we have a beautiful collection…” he said and showed him a display case that he hadn’t looked at yet. He leans over it, scanning ring after ring. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels like you.

Then his eyes land on a vintage ring — a ring you’d want. 

He points at it.

“That one. It’s got her written all over it. Beautiful and rare. Like her.”

“You sure she’ll even want to see you?” Hailee asks softly. 

“I’m not sure of anything... except that I still love her.”

He holds the ring box in his hand like it’s made of glass.

“She said she needed to be reassured that I’m over Kim. What says that more than a proposal?”

Hailee nods at his words.

“Do you think she will say yes?” 

He looks up at her. 

“I don’t know what she'll say.” 

He pays for the ring, and he and Hailee walk out of the store together. The ring is tucked in his jacket pocket. 

“Can we get some mcdonalds?” Hailee asks.

“Yeah of course.” he says and puts his hands on her shoulder, leading her to the mcdonalds.

__

Eminem wakes up the next day and checks his phone, he sees text messages from people in his team, then he realises he’s blowing up on twitter. What is going on? He makes a huge mistake and opens twitter, sees what the fuss is about. It’s about you and your date to american music awards. Your date… the problem wasn’t even about you being on a date, well, he wasn’t happy about that, but the problem was WHO you took.

Machine Gun Kelly.

He’s some loser trying desperately to get Eminem's attention and trying his hardest to be slim shady. He even used Hailee for attention. It ended badly, he released a song called Killshot and next thing you know, MGK switched to rock and started to dress in pink. 

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, the headline practically glowing like a slap in the face — “Y/N Steps Out With MGK at AMAs: New Power Couple?” It wasn’t the words, it was the photo. Her smile. The way she leaned into him like it was natural, like it wasn’t him she used to turn to. The rage came first — not at her, but at him. 

It wasn’t jealousy. He doesn’t give a damn about MGK, please why would he? He was past that. If anything, it was frustration. Disappointment. Not in her, exactly... just in the situation. MGK wasn’t doing this because he liked her — it was so obvious. The guy was still bitter and petty, still chasing clout, still trying to poke the bear. And she... she was walking right into it.

"She really doesn't see it," he muttered to himself. That’s what got him. Not that she moved on — he could handle that. But that she might get hurt trying to prove she was over him. That she'd let someone like him get close. Someone who didn’t give a damn about her heart — just the headlines.

He shook his head, jaw clenched. “You’re better than this,” he said under his breath, even though she wasn’t there to hear it.

He moved on to the comments below to read his fans reaction.

emslilmonster

MGK??? Out of all the men on Earth??? Eminem wrote love songs for her 😭

hotgirlsloveseminem

Me watching Eminem pretend he's not about to storm the stage #AMAs

shadyqueen88

Girl really downgraded HARD. From the GOAT to the clown? Couldn’t be me.

notyourslimshady

Marshall deserved better anyway.

rapgodsfav

Y’all remember when she used to talk about loyalty? This is what “loyalty” looks like? 🤡

Mgksucks23

She’s just mad Em moved on and didn’t write another song about her. Attention seeker 101.

marshallmatters_313

She went from being with a legend to being with a joke. Imagine waking up next to someone who got bodied in one track.

Hailiesdad

Let’s not act surprised. She always looked like she wanted the spotlight more than the relationship.

slimshadyfan4life

This confirms it. She's dates whoever she wants for attention.

He scrolled through the comments without meaning to, they all agreed at one thing, this was betrayal and this was just attention seeking. He hated it. Hated seeing them tear her apart like that, hiding behind usernames with his lyrics in their bios like that made it okay. And yet... some of them? They weren’t wrong. Not entirely. She had made her choice. She had walked right into MGK’s arms like it wouldn’t come off as a statement. Still, he hated that his fans were the ones doing this to her. They thought they were defending him, but all he saw was her face, he moved on and scrolled down to see this other thing that they talked about. It was an interview with her and MGK.

The flash of cameras was almost blinding as Y/N stepped onto the red carpet in a sleek, champagne-colored dress, her hand gently hooked into MGK’s. (This made Em sick to his stomach). He leaned in and murmured something that made her laugh quietly before a reporter stepped up, mic raised and a little too eager.

“Y/N! Quick question — a lot of people are surprised to see you here tonight with MGK, given… well, his history with your ex, Eminem. Can you comment on that?” 

y/n leaned in to answer, but MGK leaned toward the mic, that familiar smirk curling across his lips.

“I am so over this feud and I’m ready to drop it” He said without hesitation and then he looked at y/n with a smile. 

“She helped me grow up.”

Her eyes lit up at his words. Without hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, the paparazzis went crazy.

Marshalls chest tightened, rage simmering just beneath the surface. Without thinking, he slammed his phone down on the table. It slipped, then with a sharp crack, it slammed against the wall. Pieces of shattered glass glittered on the floor like tiny shards of his patience.

He stood there breathing hard, anger coursing through his veins, but underneath it all was a twisting knot of something else — hurt, disbelief. He had to save her… 

Mohahahahaahaha...

Masterlist

[phaeton-flier]

So there's been some talk about workplace democracy recently and-

well it does sound good, and make sense, to have your company be ultimately run by an elected board. and there are plenty of organizations — including outright armies! — where the managers on the local level are elected by the lowest level. But what happens when these two organizing principles conflict?

Suppose you work a factory, and there are the line workers and the delivery drivers and the guys who load and unload the trucks and some people in sales and someone to manage purchasing inputs and the normal spread of HR and accounting and janitorial and such. What if accounting keeps sending out checks late, and the manager claims he's doing his best, and on the outside it looks like he's just running a shit ship?

If your department elects their manager and the rest of the organization can override that decision, you don't actually get to elect your manager: You just get to recommend one, and you can 100% end up with the same petty dictator. And they have to, because if the company as a whole cannot fire someone there is zero clear recourse if someone starts to just not show up.

And that only gets worse as the company scales: If you tried this on the scale of a US-state-sized enterprise, much less a multinational, you suddenly have to deal with this kind of thing from groups hundreds of miles away! And while you can get a board that is much more worker friendly, much less likely to vote to cut costs at the expense of the worker, you are still going to end up needing to justify your branch to the rest of the cooperative.

So I sorta don't think this is a magic bullet for the problem of "My local boss is a control freak", and in fact depending on how good you are at navigating office politics you can easily end up with the same sort of HOA type on a power trip. I think we just need better worker's rights and unions and good pay/hours. And much of the rest solved, most importantly, by a social safety net and an economy pointed at full employment. Ultimately, a job where you can leave without worrying about making rent in a month is one that minimizes the stress and bullshit you live under.

[endless-ineffabilities]

of perilous desire

chapter one - se mōris (the end)

vampire!Aemond x f!reader (modern AU)

story synopsis: the reader works the night shift as a receptionist at the local hospital. Someone comes in one night to drop off a patient, and she subsequently suspects that this person is pursuing her. Why is there no real trace of him anywhere? Why does she see him in her dreams? Here begins a craving that may be never be satiated, a desire so perilous it might cost her everything...

word count: <1k ▪︎ masterlist

The night is young.

You've just made your third trip to the personnel break room, filling up on a much-needed caffeine fix, slumping back in your swivel chair in a bored huff.

It's 3 in the morning, which means you have four more hours to go. Oh joy.

Working in the hospital is decent enough; it pays the bills, it keeps you from being unemployed. But it feels like it's supposed to be a transitioning - a jumping off point into bigger and better things. When you were a child, your dream certainly was not to be a night receptionist at a hospital. But it's been a year, and you are still here for some reason.

Were you stuck? Perhaps you have grown complacent? You're meant to be doing something else, something worthwhile, and you know this. Granted, you do help people to some extent, but nurses and doctors are the true heroes.

Anyone with a semi-decent high school education can do your job.

The coffee is stale, and it suspiciously tastes of the antiseptic that is always in the air. You drink it anyway, grimacing with every sip.

The tap tap tapping of your pen against the desk distracts you, and it must have kept you from noticing the new arrival.

"Excuse me."

You snap up, half in a daze, the coffee doing nothing for your alertness.

And you see him. Clad in all black - leather overcoat, leather shoes, well-pressed trousers. Long white-blonde hair flowing smoothly down his back, neatly kept away from his face. One eye a blazing purple, the other a ghostly white. He looked like something out of the gothic romance novels you used to read in middle school.

Unusual. Poised. Beautiful.

You have to swallow hard in order to find the strength to speak."How... how can I help you, sir?"

"My... friend," he says, coolly maintaining eye contact that it's almost unnerving. Or maybe it's the effect he has on people, looking the way he does. "She needs some assistance."

"Oh," you stand up, looking behind him and seeing the woman slumped on the bench in the waiting area. Leaning against one arm, with her black hair partially obscuring her face. She blinks as if in a stupor when the man glances at her, smiling goofily despite her state. "Is she alright?" you ask him, and he doesn't answer, only continuing to stare at you. You press on the paging system, calling on a nurse to come her aid.

You come over and crouch down in front of her. "What's happened? Can you tell me your name?"

She giggles wildly, like you just cracked the funniest joke. "My name is Alys," she says. "At least I think so." You notice her pallid complexion, her lips taking on a bluish tint. She appears to be awake but not truly aware of her surroundings.

The nurse on duty is taking a while, so you turn back to the man. "What happened to her? Does she have a concussion? Are you her husband or a relative?"

Seconds pass. You look at him expectantly, but he gives you nothing. He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing, like a predator sizing up his prey.

"Hmm," he finally makes a sound, though it isn't really a response.

Growing impatient, you stride behind your desk and recover the necessary forms. "I'm going to need you to fill these - "

When you turn to address him, he's gone.

One of the nurses, Patrick, arrives to assist the woman called Alys.

He goes through the motions, flashing a penlight in her eyes, checking her pulse, asking her simple questions to keep her conscious.

"She came in alone?" he asks you, as he waves another nurse to come help.

"No," you shake your head, "her companion was just here. A man - "

"What man? Did he run away or something?"

Did he? He had seemingly vanished in a split second, and you were sure you didn't hear him rushing out the front doors. You didn't hear anything at all.

"I don't know," you shrug, confused. "He didn't even fill in a form or anything."

The nurses manage to situate Alys in a wheelchair, the dark-haired woman still smiling and mumbling to herself. Just as they wheel her away, you hear her soft voice crooning, "Ae-mond, oh, my Aemond!"

"Well, shit," you mutter, the momentary commotion had come and gone. The coffee still sits on your desk, now cold. The air still smelled of sickening sterility.

You were still, as dramatic as it sounds, lost and adrift. You snort to yourself. What a thought.

If only you could have your head in the clouds, all blissed out, like the Alys woman. Though her state was likely brought on by hard drugs.

Or was it him?

Everything is the same. Except that the stranger has become ingrained your mind.

Who was he?

An hour later, you stand outside in the portico, cigarette balanced between your fingers. It's a nasty habit, sure, but people would probably be shocked at how common it is among the hospital staff. The nurses, even.

You're supposed to feel terrible about it, working at an establishment that champions health, but you justify it in that you're just a receptionist. Weren't the medical professionals the real hypocrites? How else will you keep awake?

The smoke billows out of your lips. You watch their shapes dissipating in the cold morning air, entranced.

Suddenly, you sense something shuffle from the corner of your eye. Shivers erupt all over your arms, your mind immediately grasping at the worst possible scenario.

"Hello?" This is how the side characters die in horror movies, quickly and unceremoniously, forgotten before the main act actually begins. Your shaking hand squashes the cigarette down on the wall-mounted ashtray.

It was probably nothing, likely one of the stray kittens running around. Despite that, you determinedly walk back to the entrance, fists bunched in your pockets.

Then there's something again. A gust of wind. A flash of pale blonde hair. A feeling like you're being watched.

Is the entrance so far? You're going to get kidnapped, you're sure of it.

The doors are in sight, those lifeless glass windows within reach, when you're spun around swiftly that you don't have time to think of anything at all.

You're floating, your feet had left the ground.

Pushed into something smooth, cocooned around your paralysed form. Leather.

He hushes you, brushing his lips against your cheek, featherlike, careful not to make full contact. You want to fight, you should fight, but you can't.

Something coaxes you into accepting this, so you do.

The painful prick against your neck is momentary. Followed by complete and utter bliss.

Your final thought is the word Alys was singing so sweetly. That strange name, which now exits your lips like a prayer.

"Aemond."

taglist*: @gwaynehightowerswhore @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @sprinklesprinkle888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @hotdismylife @itseunaimonia @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @zaldrizzes @all-for-aemond @ajantanijhum @angel6776 @different-tale-student @world-of-bitchcraft @teasweeter @raging-panda @rhaenys-nyra @gelacat0413 @simplymurdock @yariany02 @barnes70stark @stupid--person @lonan-hane @thescooponsof @donalesaa

*refer here to be tagged in hotd works; comment below to be tagged in only this fic.

a/n: me 🤝 running with new ideas before even finishing my ongoing series works!!! I've always wanted to do a vampire Aemond fic. Call this a tester/taster (literally, in Aemond's case). Let me know what yous think, and we'll see how it goes!

[im-not-a-ghost]

Mini PAC - Connection energy check

This reading is meant for you, whether you are enquiring about a romantic or a platonic connection, no matter the type of spiritual bond you share.

Images made by amariniaa_draws <3

Group 1 - Just the two of us

8 of cups, 7 of cups, Temperance, High Priestess, Queen of pentacles, Hierophant

You and this person may be in a separation or you are not as much in contact as you used to. I feel like for many of you we are talking about a romantic interest. You are feeling dissatisfied with the way things are going and you may be weighing your options, pondering whether you should give them a chance or move on once and for all. On their end, this person is doing their very best to hide the fact that they are already engaged. Either they have a partner that they are hiding from you or they are supposed to be with a specific person, as their family wished. I'm also picking up on the energy of someone being very dedicated to their work, so much so that they cannot see anything or anyone else. Religion / cultural differences may also be a factor here as to why this connection isn't progressing for now. This person does not show any sign of interest for you, though they may be attracted to you. I asked for a clarification to get further information about the High Priestess. I asked spirit "what are they hiding?". And you got the Hermit. So, this person may not be hiding another relationship but rather an engagement to an establishment or an institution. Again, I get religious or spiritual references here. This person may have vowed to remain single and chaste in order to get what they want from life. So it's not that they are not interested in you or that they do not care about you but rather that they made a promise that forbids them from interacting with you any further. Another thing I am picking up on is that they may not be in a very stable place emotionally and mentally. So it is hard for them to give room to their desires or feelings, if they have any. As for you, being left in silence and not knowing what is going on, you feel like this person is toying with you or that they have many options that they entertain. There may be several people interested into them but this person doesn't pay them any attention, for the same reasons as they do not pay you much attention either. So right now, the connection is at a status quo.

I asked spirit to give us clarification as to how they feel about you. We got the following cards : 8 of pentacles, knight of pentacles, 4 of cups. We have someone here that is very reserved and shy. All these cards are earth related cards. Which means there isn't much room for feelings. This person does not allow themselves to feel for fear of being hurt or disappointed. If anything, they view you as someone they wish to protect at all costs and work with. This person wants to be a pillar for you to count on. They want to be able to pave the way for you and keep you from harm. For some reason I took the 4 of cups card for the 4 of pentacles. So maybe this is an indication that this person is confused by you and feels wary of you because they think you are trying to trick them. If this person feels even just a little love for you, they wish to show you through their actions rather than their words. Because words may disappear but the consequences of their actions will remain. They may not know what you represent for them but they surely know they want to work hard to earn your trust and respect, to show you that you can trust them. They want to take their time getting to know you before jumping to conclusions.

Group 2 - Thriller

Cards : ace of swords, 6 of wands, The World, Strength, knight of cups, High Priestess

This is a very good energy group 2. The person on your mind has had an epiphany lmao They are realizing how important and precious you are to them. Their feelings and intentions are getting clearer as days go by. However, they are trying their best to keep it a secret for now. They deeply wish to communicate with you about what they've decided and found out. But they feel like now might not be the best time. They miss you dearly and would like to close the gap between you. On your end, you are also feeling very positively about this person. However you may doubt that the feelings are reciprocated. You do your best to hold on and hope for the best in this connection. In the meantime, as you don't wish to wait on this person, you are taking care of yourself and filling your own cup. You may isolate yourself and keep your doings away from this person's gaze to protect yourself. You also are trying to hide your feelings and pretend like nothing is happening. You don't want to show your vulnerable side to them for fear that they will take advantage of it. But this person only has good intentions and would never do anything to hurt you. At least not consciously.

I asked spirit what is the connecting energy between you and what can you hope for. And you got the Queen of wands, the 6 of wands again and the Queen of cups. I'm so happy for you group 2. You and your person are on the same wavelength and wish for the same outcome. Both of you want to see this connection work out. Both of you feel very lucky to have met the other. What you can hope for is a joyful and passionate connection, filled with chemistry, laughter, sweet moments of bliss and innocence. I don't know what more to say except for congratulations! I feel like many of you have waited for such a connection for years. Your time is now baby. So enjoy the ride. <3