#insert notes in excel

[ladyelainehilfur]

(me, a bitter soul whose rewatching 2521 even though the ending broke me) the fact that them having a happy ending would've made more sense/been more realistic for them, than them being apart and never speaking a word to each other again... like??? even if it was realistic for them to break up (which it wasnt in this case), they def would not have been the type to avoid each other. they would've been those people who would've stayed in touch and still wanted the best for each other even if it they werent with them while actively being in their lives cause they meant SO much to each other. i'll never forgive the writers for literally making yijin and heedo be out of character so hard just to follow the narrative that "young love doesnt always last" like pls you're telling me yurim's superficial relationship stood a chance + being long distance, while baekdo, who literally been through that as friends, couldnt??? WHAT? god here i go again...

no bc I went to bed SEETHING!!! I couldn't even bring myself to watch the last two episodes!! I thought Heedo was acting all shy and awkward during her live interview with Yijin because he was her HUSBAND by then </3 I literally yelled "WHAT." when he congratulated her on her wedding 😭

When I googled the ending and learned that not only do we never meet her husband, but that Yurim and Choi Hyunwook's character ended up married, I was so confused 🙁😩 it's cute that Popular Guy is so ride or die for his girlfriend and they end up tying the knot, but it's so unfair that the main pairing got paid dust by comparison! It doesn't erase all the wonderful, stomach-butterflies moments Heedo and Yijin shared and I can definitely say this is the only slice-of-life kdrama that's kept me hooked, but mannnnnn...way to fumble the bag. I've never been this disappointed with a kdrama's ending. If I ever rewatch it, I'll definitely just watch the first 13 episodes and leave it at that :'(

[teaboot]

Due to a long history of [REDACTED] I have a chronic anxiety of doing something “wrong” and having [INSERT ANY PERSON HERE] get “mad at” me, and in trying to get over it I have developed a calming method that has worked rather well in extreme flareups if you don’t mind appearing a little unhinged

Step 1: Get a scrap of paper

Step 2: Consider the thing you are about to do

Step 3: Write down what you are about to do and why it makes sense

Step 4: Put it in your pocket, tape it under a desk, in your bra, wherever- Somewhere nearby so that it will be there when you need it

Step 5: If someone DOES “get mad at” you, retrieve the note and give it to them

Whether the “angry” person is reasonable or not, you can rest assured in the evidence that your actions made sense and were the best you could do with the information you had at the time.

Also, because it is always very very funny to have a handwritten response to something very specific that a person hasn’t even said yet, you may find your anxiety lightened by the possibility of pulling off an excellent bit, so even if the bad thing DOES happen, you’ll still have something to laugh about later

*I am aware that this is a trauma thing. Yes, my clothes are full of paper. No, I don’t intend to stop. Yes, it has happened. No, they don’t always laugh. Yes, it’s still very funny every time

[libraryleopard]

Adult standalone urban fantasy novel

In an alternate version of present-day Vancouver inhabited by the reincarnated Knights of the Round Table and other figures from myth and folklore, a college student from an Arthurian family and a valkyrie both become entangled in a murder investigation

Gay autistic main character with anxiety; bi ace main character; M/M + F/F romances; Chinese Canadian trans girl side character

[balioc]

Looking at the world from a manager's perspective, you can productively model the pool of workers as being divided into a few basic groups, which are defined and characterized by their driving motivations.

Insert all the usual disclaimers for this sort of thing - this is the roughest type of rough typology. I pulled these categories out of my raw intuition, and possibly a few more would crop up with some additional thought. In reality, the boundaries of these categories are incredibly fuzzy, and almost every individual is actually going to be motivated by a complicated mix of all the relevant motivations; we're talking REALLY SIMPLE HEURISTICS here. Etc.

There have been other well-known worker typologies that share a lot in common with my thoughts here; this is mostly not novel, it's mostly meant to refine a few ideas for particular purposes.

Hustlers are motivated by concrete personal advantage. Most commonly, and most straightforwardly, they want money - as much of it as they can get. They may also be interested in fame, idiosyncratic perks, etc. They do whatever they have to do in order to get what they want.

No surprise: you see huge preponderances of these guys in fields that provide outsize concrete rewards, e.g. finance, the upper echelons of management, etc. But not every natural-born Hustler is in a position to enter a glitzy high-paying field, and in fact you find Hustlers all throughout society and all throughout the economy, finding or making hustles wherever they go.

Having Hustlers working for you is mostly pretty great. They get shit done. They can be induced to work incredibly hard - probably harder than anyone else, under most circumstances - and they'll shank their own mothers if the price is right. If you need anything really important from them, anything at all, it's just a matter of bribing them enough.

...they will also, of course, cheerfully shank you if the price is right. Hustlers aren't the only wellsprings of institutional politics and infighting, but they're the most dangerous ones; they're always potential rivals to everyone around them. Also, you need to keep the tangible rewards flowing in a steady stream in order to get anything out of them, or else they'll put most of their effort into jumping ship (one way or another).

Craftsmen are motivated by the desire to do good work in their chosen fields, for its own sake and for the sake of their treasured self-image as people who do good work.

As you'd expect, for the most part, they're excellent workers and should be prized. But they're not perfect workers. Common weaknesses and downsides include:

They tend to have their own ideas about How Things Should Get Done; they're often resistant to externally-imposed product/service requirements or process changes (and bad at implementing those things) (no matter how important or well-conceived they are), and they're very resistant to "just get it out the door, right now done is better than good."

Being driven chiefly by internal motivation is great, but sometimes it's useful to be able to push things along with external motivators, and Craftsmen are pretty resistant to those. They don't like working more or harder than they're naturally inclined to work, they mostly sneer at carrots, and sticks make them sad and unproductive.

It's important to note that, while noteworthy skill within a field correlates with having a Craftsman temperament and motivation suite - for obvious reasons - those things are not identical at all. Plenty of Craftsmen are bad at their jobs, or just average, and plenty of the best workers are most motivated by things other than the Excellence of the Work Itself.

Fanatics are a relatively rare and specialized group, whom you find mostly within a few specific sorts of culturally-valorized fields. They're motivated by a desire to be part of something Important and Good in a Broader Sense: to Save the World, or some smaller-bore version of that.

They make amazing front-line soldiers, in the sorts of institutions that have "front-line soldiers." They work super hard, and you don't even need to bribe them, you just need to keep them hopped up on inspiration.

The big problem with them is that they're mostly motivated by a feeling - the feeling of Being Righteous - and it's not easy to control where they get that feeling, in any kind of precise way. They're just as resistant to external motivators as Craftsmen are, or even more so, but they're also not being guided by an ideal of effective quality. (No, not even if their chosen cause is theoretically all about an ideal of effective quality, hem hem.) They will happily waste vast amounts of time and money doing useless things, or even counterproductive things, so long as they're engaged in tasks that hit the right psychological buttons for them. There's also a constant risk that a Fanatic will decide that his employer is unrighteous, or that one of his coworkers is unrighteous, and start an internal conflict; the risk scales in a more-than-linear fashion with the number of Fanatics you keep around.

The biggest group, unsurprisingly, is the Normies. In most fields, it is much the biggest group. Normies are motivated by the desire to be members in good standing of their communities, to have positive relationships with the people around them, and to live up to basic norms and expectations.

Managerial skills, in the traditional sense, are incredibly important with Normies. If you want them to do good work for you - and you should want that, as a manager, you've almost certainly got a whole bunch of them - not only do you have to keep them pointed in the right direction, you have to make sure that they're supporting each other. With Hustlers, you just have to throw money at them (and avoid their power plays); with Craftsmen, you just have to let them do their thing, and occasionally badger them into giving you what you need; with Fanatics, you just have to be inspirational; but with Normies, you have to lead, and construct a productive community. You have to set reasonable, achievable norms and expectations that will get you what you need.

This wouldn't be complete if I didn't talk about the Defectors. The Defectors are motivated by not working. They don't want to be there, they resent having to do their jobs, and their primary goal is to shirk as much as possible. They will, by default, put much more effort into shirking than into their assigned tasks.

Obviously, managers don't want to have to deal with them, for good reason. But they're out there, in large numbers - not always in the places and fields where you'd expect to find them - and learning to manage them is sometimes more viable than trying to get rid of them. ("Moving Heaven and Earth to find them jobs that will change their attitude" is often a good plan, although of course it's not always possible and not always worth it.)

Crucially, Defectors are not Normies. If you start with the assumption that the average baseline worker is lazy and sour, you will make some incredibly stupid decisions. There are some fields where, for structural reasons, you can expect that a very large number of your workers will be Defectors; this is a huge and complicated challenge, well beyond the scope of this post, and good luck to you if you have to handle it, but it's not the default.

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

Once you have those categories in your head, and can play with them, a number of obvious-seeming ideas present themselves. Just a couple, for now:

Most high-level executives are Hustlers, or have strong Hustler tendencies, for obvious reasons. Most of the people around them are Hustlers, or have strong Hustler tendencies. This means that they tend to overweight the Hustler outlook, by a lot, when they try to model what their workers are like. More specifically, I'd wager that a lot of them intuitively divide the world into "good workers" ( = Hustlers) and "bad workers" ( = Defectors). This will lead to a heavy overreliance on tangible rewards, a systematic shortchanging of community-building, etc. Which is in fact just what we see.

In particular - crucially - Hustlers and Defectors are the only worker types who ever become more productive under heavy stress. Hustlers actually benefit from it, because it raises the stakes of the game that they're already playing. (If you succeed, you'll be king of the world! If you fail, you'll be shark food! Go go go!) Defectors suffer terribly from stress, of course, but they can sometimes be spooked into doing their jobs as opposed to doing nothing, and sometimes that's the best/easiest way to get something out of them. But stress is terrible for everyone else. Craftsmen lose their focus. Fanatics lose their hope. It's worst of all for Normies, because they take all their cues from the vibes around them; they're productive when they learn to associate work with comfort and happiness, and when you fill their working world with frantic desperation, you just put them in a permanent cringe state.

stop trying to pit your Normies against each other in competitions for status and rewards dear God what are you stupid

To some extent, you can control your institution by controlling what types of workers you have. But only to some extent. There are only so many Hustlers and Craftsmen to go around, and if you want them, you will have to (a) be able to identify them reliably on little information [HINT: you are probably very bad at this], and (b) provide them with what they want [tangible rewards / comfortable security and interesting work]. "We are going to employ only the good special people" is feasible if you're an outfit of four workers; at a dozen, it's already become a stretch; at a few hundred, uh, pfffffffft. If you want to operate at scale, you need to be able to make Normies do good work, there is no substitute for it.

[verstappenalty]

asking as a newbie max/f1 enjoyer, what races can i rewatch that show Max's skills/are entertaining/he wins? i know he was dominating the 2023 season and i plan on watching it already, but what else should i watch?

obviously he was showing his skills even during last gp, but it was painful when mclarens inserted themselves into Max's race and i want something where he is the it girl the whole time

hopefully it's okay to ask you of this :>

absolutely love this question thank you for asking!! I completely understand wanting to watch max HAPPY races, I'm simply never in the mood to watch other drivers succeed 🙄

this is a bit from memory so I will absolutely forget some banger races sorry (if people want to chime in their suggestions then please do so!!)

putting it under a readmore bc uhhh. it got long.

spain 2016: teen max holds off wdc kimi raikonnen on older tires for like 30 laps and becomes the sports youngest race winner. baby 🐐 showed off his tire management skills excellently here

brazil 2016: not a max win but he is absolutely the main character of the race. pits onto full wets with 16 laps to go, drops to the back of the grid and makes his way up. everyone and their mother thought this would be the best display of skill ever shown at a wet race in brazil. little did they know 😎 highly recommend watching the onboard on youtube of this - gp and max working together so beautifully is everything to me

2017 and 2018 I'm so sorry babes I'm skipping you guys to keep this list from being "every max verstappen race win ever" (that being said, 2018 austria is a race I enjoy rewatching)

austria 2019: max has anti-stall on the first lap and then HUNTS down the win and proves he is the hottest bitch to ever do it. truly just excellent racing from maxy

germany 2019: this is austria's flashy cousin. I just recommend this race bc it's so chaotic. everything happens all the time

brazil 2019: this is a max vs lewis race before we had THEEE max vs lewis races and wow it's so good. very cool strategy plays throughout the race too. honestly interlagos ALWAYS delivers

silverstone 70th anniversary 2020: this is the race where martin brundle famously says "thank god for max verstappen" bc he was the only one serving cunt against the mercedes that year. insanely overpowered car vs a max verstappen who refuses to give up (note there are 2 races in silverstone in 2020, this is the 2nd one)

2021 I could recommend basically every single race but I'm going to suggest just two:

sochi 2021: NOT a max win BUT he comes back from p20 to the podium and the last 5 laps of this race are absolute chaos. he is so superior in wet weather it is insane

COTA 2021: we know now that max was having vision issues at this point in the season and that COTA was particularly difficult for him. and he popped his whole pussy on track. he hunted lewis DOWN. the rest of the grid were nowhere, it was these two going toe to toe and FUCK it hits

okay this is getting very long im just going to choose one from each of the next years

hungary 2022: max starts p10, has a full 360 spin during the race, and STILL wins. very fun time

zandvoort 2023: this was the race where max was up for matching seb's 9-race win streak, and it was chaos from the very first lap. any other driver might have lost it. not maxy. not here.

brazil 2024: literally race of all time. my comfort race. I watch this whole thing in FULL more than I should probably admit to. max is a class above everyone else the entire time, and he is having FUN. bonus points for the happiest cooldown room and podium ever

and recently - japan 2025 was max demonstrating an absolutely flawless race. he didn't put a foot wrong the ENTIRE time. just a metronome of perfect laps.

okay this was um. VERY long but that is because max is MAX and keeps winning incredible races. there are definitely LOTS more but hopefully you enjoy watching these ones!!

ALSO for serotonin I would obvs recommend watching every race where max wins a championship but like. abu dhabi last 15mins onboard is the best thing in the world

[whizzing-fizzbee]

Tickle the Ivories

Ominis Gaunt x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit / MDNI (smut, language); all characters are adults Words: 4,473 Tags: second person POV, reader insert, no y/n, smut, aged up characters, adult characters, post-Hogwarts, friends to lovers

Summary: Ominis Gaunt needs some inspiration to finish writing his novel. You suggest he play some piano for inspiration; instead, he plays you.

Notes: I've always headcanoned Ominis as being an excellent pianist, which is mainly what inspired this — as well as that scene in the 1990 film "Pretty Woman." This is literally just shameless, silly smut.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Ominis Gaunt didn’t miss his eyesight — at least not most days. 

He’d lived like this for years and, like most aspects of his grim childhood, he had learned to adapt. 

The only times he truly missed his vision was when you came around. 

You stirred something special and secretive in Ominis. You always had. In fact, the first time he met you — the morning you wandered into the Slytherin Common Room to meet your housemates on the first day of fifth year — Ominis could feel the air change. 

The common room was always cool, the windows casting shadows from the Black Lake’s frigid waters across the floors. Even the spot in front of the fireplace felt abnormal, as if the crackling flames were fake.

So when you approached Ominis near his favorite spot near the far windows, his guard went up. The air became oppressive; heavy like morning dew but warm like steam bursting from a kettle. But Ominis greeted you with kindness. Despite the polished, poised demeanor that often made him appear pretentious, he was a soft person. He only became hardened with life reminded him of its cruel capabilities. But in spite of his own arduous memories, he preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt. 

Of course, that nearly changed when you befriended Sebastian Sallow. At first, Ominis thought it might be good to welcome a new friend to their severed trio. Sebastian hadn’t been the same since Anne was forced to leave Hogwarts. Ominis was hopeful you might distract him from his relentless research for Anne’s cure. He didn’t realize you’d be the one to encourage it. 

Still, something about your presence intrigued Ominis. You made his porcelain cheeks flush and the milky whites of his eyes glimmer. You took that pale, ghost of a boy and breathed new life into him. 

So even after Sebastian initiated you to the Undercroft, even after you elected to allow Sebastian to use Crucio on you in the Scriptorium, and even after Sebastian’s downward spiral led to Solomon’s demise, Ominis couldn’t shake the feeling that he should appreciate you despite all the agony that occurred since your arrival. 

He wanted to hate you; wanted to blame you for the ways his fifth year unraveled. But you weren’t perfect. You tried your best to reason with Sebastian, and that was your common thread to Ominis — you were both too good to know how to stop something so sinister. 

So despite the devastating manner in which you failed Sebastian, Ominis understood, and he did not blame you. Especially once he saw your efforts to help Sebastian resurrect himself. 

When Ominis had wanted to turn Sebastian in, you thought of Anne. And you reminded Ominis that Sebastian was still good; he had acted out of love that manifested into desperation. Neither you nor Ominis understood that. Your family abandoned you as an infant. Ominis’ family robbed him of any chance for affection. You were both strangers to the pull of unconditional love. 

You stuck by Sebastian and helped your misguided friend remember the person he really was. You showed him empathy and understanding, but you also inflicted him with tough love when he needed it. You made it clear he’d lose everything if he dared to ever dabble in dark magic again. 

Since then, Sebastian had returned to his former self. He graduated from Hogwarts and became an Auror. You and Ominis could not have been more proud of him. 

Meanwhile, you were a Healer at St. Mungo’s and Ominis became a novelist. The two men moved into a townhome together while you shared a flat with Natsai Onai. You spent more time at Ominis and Sebastian’s than you did your own home. The three of you liked it that way.

That was the case this evening, as you stopped by their townhome and let yourself in. You hadn’t planned to stay long — you were tired from work — but you wanted to hear how Ominis’ latest story was coming along. 

“Evening,” you greeted as you tossed your coat and bag on the kitchen table. You kicked your shoes off and settled onto the sofa as your eyes lingered on Ominis, who was seated at a desk pushed against the wall. Parchment was scattered over the desktop while a charmed quill hovered over an ink pot. 

“Evening,” Ominis sighed. You frowned as you shifted deeper into the sofa cushions to make yourself comfortable, your legs tucked beneath yourself. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you took in Ominis’ appearance. His eyes looked cloudier than usual, and even his skin appeared dull and parched. This wasn’t the man whose beauty could only be described as striking. This was a man who had been drained by life’s unrelenting demands. 

Still, he was stunning to you. You’d always been painfully attracted to him. At first, it was because you found him distinguished, albeit intimidating. You knew very little about the Gaunt lineage or its nefarious history when you met him. You merely wanted to learn more about the dignified boy who wore elegant robes and whose eyes swarmed with a thousand mysterious stories. 

Then you came to know Ominis on a much deeper level, beneath the pomp and propriety. You lifted his veil of assimilation and unmasked a boy who merely wanted nothing more than the chance to be good.

It made you love him even more.

Most people would have caved under Ominis’ circumstances. The other Gaunt children gave in and became just like their parents – cruel, conniving and driven by hatred. It would have been easier for Ominis to do the same.

Instead, he defied his family, and on his eighteenth birthday, he set himself free. You were thrilled for him – so much so, you and Sebastian threw him a celebration. It wasn’t Ominis’ style to party, but you’d never seen him smile so much as that night.

But now, Ominis looked exhausted. 

“It’s this damn fifth chapter,” he sighed. “I just can’t work my way through it.”

“Oh, come on now,” you encouraged, your lips curving in a knowing smile. “You always sort it out.”

Ominis’ writing also left you in awe. Perhaps you were a tad bit biased, but his prose was perfect in your opinion. He weaved sentences that sang off their pages. Every thought, every word was crafted with careful precision that only someone as perfectionist as Ominis could conjure.

It’s why you’d often commiserate over his work with him. You didn’t know why Ominis stressed so much – he’d already penned two wildly successful novels that catapulted him to the top of the wizarding world’s pyramid of esteemed writers. But you also knew Ominis cared so damn much about his craft that anything short of spectacular would be deemed an utter failure by him.

“Tell me, where are you at now? Last time we chatted, the main character was about to reveal the story of how he survived the drowning,” you recalled.

“Now I need to convey how that experience has shaped him to this point,” Ominis explained. You blinked. 

“Well, I imagine surviving something like that would be quite traumatic,” you mused. “And I surmise it might alter one’s outlook on life. You and I both know how surviving a perilous situation plays out.”

Ominis’ lips thinned. It was a combination of a grimace and smile you’d come to recognize often. 

“I just don’t want to be cliche about it,” he explained. “Everyone suffers trauma. Everyone deals with it differently. I don’t want to write another story about a bloke who survived something awful and used it to overcome whatever internal agony eats away at him.”

“But Ominis,” you said carefully. “Isn’t that what tends to happen? People survive, and then they grow from it? It’s what happened to me, to Seb, to you.”

“But doesn’t that feel a bit expected?” Ominis asked. You shrugged as your fingers toyed with the edge of a sofa cushion. 

“Perhaps it does,” you answered honestly. “But perhaps that’s what people want to read, Ominis. Sometimes it’s nice to relate to a character.”

Ominis considered your words carefully, but it was clear his mind remained at war. He groaned and pushed himself away from the desk, standing to pace the living room in search of answers.

“Where is Seb anyway?” you asked curiously.

“Still on assignment in Belfast,” Ominis answered absently. His shoes clunked against the wood floor as he paced lines, back and forth, with his wand guiding him in one hand.

“Maybe you should take a break,” you suggested as you studied Ominis’ manic state. This happened more often than he’d ever admit. He’d become frantic over his work, spiral until he was struck by some brilliant idea, and then all would be right in his world again.

“I can’t take a break,” Ominis sighed. “I need to get this done.”

“You need to preserve your sanity,” you laughed. “And mine. And probably Seb’s.”

Ominis pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers as if he were trying to squeeze the tension from his head. You gazed around the room, your eyes falling on the black piano tucked away in the corner. 

It was always a comical contrast to you – the sight of Ominis’ opulent grand piano positioned next to the old shelves that held Sebastian’s collection of faded, grubby books, strewn haphazardly with no sense or order. It was a fitting reflection of the two men and how their differences managed to coincide comfortably.

“Maybe you should play some piano,” you suggested. “You’ve always said it inspires you.”

Ominis stopped his pacing and turned toward the corner. His brows furrowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Yes, alright,” he sighed in agreement. “Perhaps that will help clear my head.”

You nodded in approval as Ominis paced to the piano bench to sit. Though he could not see them, your eyes sparkled with excitement.

You watched in silence as Ominis’ fingers hovered over the keys. He seemed to be quietly deciding on what to play until finally, the quiet ping of the first note rang throughout the room.

If writing didn’t work out for Ominis, you were certain a career in music would. He played beautifully, with a stunning command over the keys. They became an extension of his spirit; steadfast and smooth, yet peppered with intriguing obscurity. The notes started as slow chirps before they ascended toward a brisk pitter-patter that preceded a sweeping symphony that soared around you. 

Ominis sat at the edge of the bench, his back straight as a board, a sign of his classical training. But the piano portrayed his emotion with much more livelihood than someone merely moving in scripted patterns. The keys felt his every pulse and danced in response. 

Ominis played with his eyes closed. You typically listened to him with your own squeezed shut to savor the sound, but this time, you couldn't help but watch him.

The crescendo was clean and crisp, a dazzling declaration of drama that surged with rich power. Each note seemed to emphasize Ominis’ heartbeat. It raised goosebumps over your skin, and you wished he’d touch you with the same mastery as those piano keys.

When the song ended, the room stilled again. You smiled. Ominis remained stoic.

“That was beautiful,” you breathed softly. 

“Thank you.”

“What was it? I didn’t recognize it.”

“Just something that came to mind,” Ominis said quietly.

Maybe it was the way Ominis’ song had made your pulse race. Maybe it was the way he looked next to the piano – so handsome and refined – or maybe it was merely your waning self-control. Something made you rise to your feet and pace toward Ominis.

You slid carefully onto the bench next to him. It was built for one person, meaning you were far too close, the sides of your thighs pressing against his. Ominis inhaled sharply. You pretended you didn’t notice.

“Will you teach me to play?” you asked innocently. Ominis straightened as if he was holding his breath. 

“Of- of course,” he answered. You smiled at him, though he couldn’t detect it as his wand rested atop the piano. 

You reached for the keys, the pads of your fingers tracing gently over their cool, slick surface. “Show me,” you said softly. Ominis nodded and you were almost certain you could see the muscles of his throat constrict.

“Start here,” Ominis instructed, his fingers resting atop the keys at one end of the piano. He pressed down, drawing a faint clink. You reached across him to repeat the pattern and smirked as you felt him shift beside you. It triggered something much more sportive within you. 

“And what about this one?” you asked innocently, using your hand to guide Ominis’ over the ivory planks. You pressed his hand downward over a series of keys, though you couldn’t care less about the notes. Your palm was warm as it rested atop his. 

The contrast was nearly comical. Your hand was delicate, but covered in scars from the scrapes and scratches of your past; nails bitten down to the skin; cuticles dry and cracked from washing your hands so much at work. Ominis’ hands were smooth and elegant, unblemished except for ink stains on the pads of his fingertips.

Your hand controlled Ominis’ as you dragged it slowly across the key tops so that the piano sang an erratic scale. When you realized his hand was trembling, you released it. It clanged against the keys as you dipped your head.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, your eyes cast downward. A flush surged from the back of your neck to your cheeks as you contemplated a million different ways you could die. Your heart continued its assault inside your chest while your muscles seized in shame. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s alright,” Ominis said gently. “I just… you just…” He trailed off, leaving you both unsure what he intended to say. So you said nothing.

The silence seared within your skull and you scolded yourself for daring to believe Ominis might reciprocate even the faintest feelings for you. There was no mutual sexual tension, no unspoken declarations of desire. This delicate dance you dreamed up was exactly that – a figment of your own personal fantasies.

You rested your hands in your lap and remained rigid. 

“I’m sorry.” Ominis finally broke the silence and his flustered tone caught you off guard.

“No, it was my fault-” you started. 

“I didn’t mean for you to stop,” Ominis continued. 

You froze. Your fingertips pressed into the tops of your thighs while the temperature in the room spiked. Your brain began to fail you, all vocabulary vacating its Broca’s area.

“Oh,” was the best you could manage. You were desperate to look anywhere but at him. You couldn’t. This was your friend. This was Ominis Gaunt, the spitting image of virtue and sophistication. This was a man you admired and respected… and a man you wanted to ruin you.

When it became evident you were considering flinging yourself from the third-story window, Ominis sighed. 

“Give me your hand,” he said, holding out his own. 

You obliged, and your breath hitched as he guided it with a renewed quiet confidence. Once your hands were placed over the keys again, Ominis stood. You frowned in confusion until he shifted to stand behind you, his spine curving as he leaned over your right shoulder.

“Like this,” he said gently, his hands taking control of yours. The piano chirped beneath your hands, though it was clear Ominis had no particular song in mind. 

As he leaned in more to manipulate your hands over more keys, you could feel his breath against your neck. Your eyes fell shut at the warmth and your knees drifted closer together. Soon, you were clamping your thighs tight as you fought to steady your breathing. Your body was failing you.

“Ominis,” you breathed, your eyes still closed. His hands drifted slowly from yours, snaking their way over your forearms. His thumbs traced gentle circles across your skin as his lips brushed the notch between your neck and your collarbone. A traitorous whimper escaped your throat.

Ominis' hands were on you in an instant, pulling you to your feet. You spun around to face him and he knocked you backward against the piano. Its keys clanged against the backs of your thighs while Ominis stepped around the bench, moving past the remaining barrier – physical and metaphorical – between you.

You guided him toward yourself until you could wrangle your arms around him. It wasn’t the dignified first kiss you often envisioned with Ominis, but it was anything but ordinary. He didn’t seem to mind. 

His hands snapped to your waist like they were always meant to be there, and he kissed you until you had to crane your neck for air. He had you pinned against the piano, your ass pressed against the keys.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered as Ominis’ teeth grazed your earlobe. You screamed at yourself in silence, wondering how you could be stupid enough to say such things. This was all you wanted to be doing. 

Ominis left a trail of kisses down your neck to the exposed skin of your chest as he ignored your performative protest. Though he couldn’t see your breasts, you knew they were next.

His hands flattened across your back and edged their way upward to the hook and eye closures of your dress. He kissed you with composure as you felt his hands fiddle with every brass clasp until the fabric slackened around your torso. Your dress fell to the floor and you kicked it away impatiently. Ominis smiled at the sound.

His hands explored the curves of your waist, thumbs dragging over the ridge of your hip bones with care. He couldn’t see you, but my god, could he read you.

You squirmed beneath his touch as his palms drifted to your bare breasts, index fingers reading the braille of your nipples. He dipped his head to kiss your shoulder as his fingers peeled away the fabric of your panties. They floated to the floor, leaving you completely bare.

Though Ominis couldn’t see you, you’d never felt so exposed. He seemed to sense your vulnerable state, because he shushed you as he leaned in to circle his arms around you.

“Relax,” he murmured into your ear. “I’ll take good care of you.”

One submissive nod from you was all it took for Ominis to lift you backward, the piano banging beneath you as you became seated atop it. He sank into a seated position on the bench, his head between your thighs as he pressed a trail of kisses between them.

Your chest heaved and your core contracted in anticipation. This was a scene that far exceeded any expectation or reverie you could have imagined. No mirage could conjure the blazing ache between your legs.

Ominis’ fingertips skimmed the tops of your thighs, as if seeking confirmation to continue. You gnawed at your bottom lip and whined in response. 

The moment his tongue made contact with your clit, you unleashed the moan you’d been fighting to quell. Ominis would have deemed anything less a disappointment. Arms hooked around your thighs, he pulled you to the edge of the piano top, your legs dangling against the key fronts.

It didn’t take long for your heavy panting to become sharp gasps at the way Ominis’ tongue devoured your cunt. It flattened against your clit and rolled in brisk patterns until he was coaxing a climax from you. Your hands fisted his hair, making him a sinful paradox. You’d tamed the heir of Slytherin and turned him into your pet snake. But like most predators, he needed his prey.

He continued to feast on you until you squirmed and squealed beneath him, your hips bucking and feet fidgeting in response to his mouth’s every movement. When he sucked against your clit, you cried out, fingers tugging his hair taut while you threatened to fall apart. He hummed his praises for you, refusing to break contact with your salty, slick flesh.

And when you finally snapped, your back arching off the piano and your strangled shriek signaling the spasms coursing through your nerve endings, Ominis didn’t relent.

He left you a whimpering, sensitive mess as he stood, calmly loosening his tie while he allowed you to recover. Ever the gentleman – for now.

His tie gone and his shirt unbuttoned, Ominis offered you his hand. He eased you from the piano to your feet, where you stood with a hazy head. But the vision of Ominis looming over you, chest exposed and hair now a tousled mess, made you lick your lips with lust.

Your hands raked over his torso and chest as you slid his shirt from his arms to the floor. His skin was fair and pale, dabbled with a scattering of beauty marks. You wanted to study them, memorize them until you could point them out as easily as Orion in the night sky. But not now. Now was the time for a different kind of intimacy, one that was much more unchaste.

Ominis stirred quietly as you fiddled with his belt buckle. It had barely clinked apart before you were shoving his pants and undergarments to the floor in haste. His smile told you he was enjoying your frantic state.

You weren’t quite the epitome of composure like he was, but he certainly had never seen you like this. He didn’t seem to mind, judging from the erection that was presently aching in your hand. Ominis’ chest caved as you stroked him, your eyes studying his every expression.

“Fuck,” he moaned as your thumb rolled tiny circles across his tip. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.”

“Pretty sure I do,” you murmured into his ear.

“What kept you for so long then?” he groaned, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“You aren’t exactly the type to wear your heart on your sleeve,” you noted with a smirk, your hand pumping faster around his shaft.

“This house doesn’t need two emotional and impulsive men. One Sebastian is enough,” Ominis muttered. You grinned in response as you leaned in closer, your hand still tugging at his length. “You’re sure about this?” he asked gently.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“I’ve heard that too many times from you and Sebastian to be genuinely convinced,” Ominis noted. You smirked into his eyes, certain he could sense it.

“You know, with all this talking, you’re starting to sound like Seb.”

“You take that back right now.”

You laughed as you pulled Ominis into a long, slow kiss. His hands were everywhere, drinking in every bit of your skin available until his cock was twitching with greed. 

Soon, you were pinned against the piano again, this time with the keys digging into the fronts of your thighs. You gasped as Ominis fisted your hair with one hand, shoving your head forward. The piano clanked as you bent over, your hands catching your weight as they pressed against the piano top.

“I’ll show you what it means to really make some noise,” Ominis growled in your ear. Your arousal swelled instantly.

Ominis’ hands held your hips as you could feel the tip of his cock searching for your slick entrance. It nudged its way past your folds until Ominis sank his hips forward, filling you slowly as you held your breath.

“Shit,” Ominis hissed from behind you as he stretched you apart. Your eyes watered and your teeth clenched, your cunt already threatening to tremble at his mere intrusion. Once he reached the hilt, you could hear him sigh with satisfaction. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed. “You take me so perfectly.”

You bucked your hips backward in response. Ominis understood your message. His hips pulled back, drawing his cock from your passage until only its tip lingered in your entrance. When he rocked forward again, you moaned as he drove into your walls. 

The piano unleashed a barrage of scattered sound, an ode to the ongoing debauchery happening above. You paid no mind, your focus solely on the bliss that currently bewitched your body. Your fingertips pressed hard against the piano top, leaving fingerprints from your crime. 

Ominis’ cock found a steady rhythm that soon left the piano singing along with your sins. Its keys rang out with each slapping thrust while your moans provided the vocal component. Together, the two of you created a symphony for your seventh heaven. 

“Ominis,” you panted. “Ominis, please. Don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t dream of it. Not when you looked so fucking euphoric laid out before him, your bare backside curved over his precious piano while your skin rippled with its melodies. 

You squeezed yourself tight around his cock, the strain causing your walls to quake until you could feel your body reaching its own high note. You wailed Ominis’ name just before your rigid frame relaxed, your orgasm rolling within your walls until it left you flat across the piano top, your knees threatening to give out. 

Meanwhile, the surge from your core sent Ominis hurtling toward his own climax. He grunted as he slammed into you, spearing your core with his cock once more until he pulled your hips flush with his to fill you with his release. 

When it was over, he collapsed above you, his hands splayed against your back for support. 

“Alright?” he asked once he had the strength to straighten himself up. The moment he did, you missed the warmth of him pressed against your back. 

You nodded in confirmation and straightened, too. Your sweaty body left streaks on the dark piano top, one last imprint of what you’d done. As Ominis pulled himself from you to gather his clothes, your eyes lingered on the piano. 

A bashful blush crept across your cheeks as the reality of your act settled with clarity. You dressed in silence, averting your eyes from Ominis as you searched for the right words to fill the silence. 

Ominis appeared to be doing the same. Once you were both decent again, you decided the rug was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen. 

But Ominis moved toward you, an act of reassurance and affection, one hand finding your waist as the other brushed your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. 

“Are you okay?” he asked so gently, you almost couldn’t believe this was the same man who had just defiled you on a piano. You smiled softly at him and reached for his hand to give it a gentle squeeze. 

“I’m fine,” you said reassuringly. “You?”

Ominis smiled, his eyes bright and clear now.

“Much better,” he said. “I’ve never been so inspired in my life.”

[reallyromealone]

Title: accidentally kidnapping the mafia boss

Fandom: haikyuu

Characters: kuroo, bokoto

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: kuroo x reader, akaashi x bokoto

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, slow burn, readers oblivious, choking, threats, bleeding

Notes: want bam

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

(Name) Hummed as he dragged a cool vintage luggage chest home on his dolly-- an amazing investment he will always treasure-- having seen it on his way home and running to grab his dolly to get it "damn this things heavy..." (Name) Grumbled as he pulled it carefully up the stairs as to not damage the stairs or break the chest though it seemed sturdy.

"Ok... And into my apartment..." (Name) Mumbled unlocking the door and bringing it in excitedly before moving it to the ground "easy..." He whispered to himself and marvelled at the amazing chest "let's see what's inside" grabbing his trusty chain cutters he kept after neighbor put a lock on (name)s mailbox-- he was still mad at that old fart.

Cracking it open he carefully lifted it to see... "Holy fuck that's a person" (name) noticed the stab marks in the side for air as the man was sweating and exhausted "sir?!" He panicked as he noticed bruises "fuck..." The black haired man was disoriented before looking at the man before him and immediately (name) was on the ground with a hand around his throat "who fuck are you?"

"I... Can... Ask the same..." (Name) Wheezed as he gripped the man's tattooed arm desperately to get it off and the man glared but loosened his grip and (name) gasped "where am I?" The man seethed, looking around the room at the tiny apartment "my apartment, I thought this was a cool trunk and took it home... Wasn't expecting you"

"Shit..." The black haired man stood up slowly and hissed in pain, (name) looked alarmed "dude you're bleeding! Let me get my med kit!" (Name) Immediately scurried off to grab said item as kuroo stumbled to the couch, brief thoughts about its comfort as he rested a bit and tried to sort his thoughts. "ok, so I have hello kitty and pokemon gauze, which one you want" (name) asked and kuroo looked confused "what? Regular gauze is lame"

(Name) Helped him remove his sweaty and tattered shirt before beginning to clean his wound "thankfully they missed any important bits, I can stitch you but you may need a shot of vodka or something" (name) teased as he began patching him up the best he could with the finite skills he had, humming softly as he worked. Kuroo was staring at him intently, why was he so calm? He just found a dude in a chest he brought home! "Aaand there!" (Name) Seemed pleased with himself as he patched up the other, a grin on his face "you should rest for a bit, do you have anyone to call?" (Name) Asked while getting up to walk to the kitchen only a few feet away "uh, yeah..." Kuroo was awkward to say the least.

(Name) Put a few rice balls on a plate and a cup before walking back, setting them infront of him. Pulling out his phone he pulled the call screen up and handed it to kuroo "here, to get your strength up"

Kuroo quickly dialed his right hands number, tapping his foot as it rang a few times "speak"

"Bokoto, it's kuroo" the mob boss said simply and bokotos tone changed "where are you?! I have been looking for you for two days!" The owl like man yelled worried and kuroo looked to (name) "what's your address " (name) perked up at the question"(address)!"

"Who was that?"

"My accidental captor, don't worry the kittens as harmful as a daisy"

"That's good, we will be there in 30"

"Excellent, bring me a new shirt"

"On it!"

Hanging up kuroo signed and (name) let out a small laugh "what's so funny?"

"This is such a weird day!"

"Yeah... It is pretty weird" Kuroo chuckled lowly as he looked at the other "you're weirdly calm for finding someone choking you out" (name) shrugged "I would have been pretty hostile if I was stuck in a trunk for god knows how long and in an unknown place" kuroo looked at the bruising around (name)s neck and frowned, he was too cute to have bruises like that... Well at least in the context they existed in.

Kuroo leaned and gently touched (name)s Adams apple, the reddish bruise forming on his neck in the shape of kuroos hand "sorry about this" he whispered and looked into (name)s eyes as the other man looked back at him. The two were close, very close and kuroo decided he wanted to kiss his little kidnapper.

BAM BAM BAM

"YO KUROO, ITS ME!" Bokoto called from the apartment door, and kuroo grumbled and pulled away "One minute!" The buff man got up and walked to the door, swinging it open to reveal another buff man. "Whose this?" Bokoto asked seriously as he nodded to the cutie on the couch "oh this is... Fuck I forgot to ask your name" kuroo said to the other who just smiled "I'm (name)! Sorry for accidentally kidnapping you!" Bokoto now understood why kuroo called him a kitten, sweet smile and no regards for the dangerous men in the room that could kill him.

"Would you like something to drink?" (Name) Offered and kuroo wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this all as bokoto shrugged and sat on a chair.

"Accidentally got kidnapped by a twink with a nice ass" bokoto teased as he looked at the man preparing drinks and snacks "better grab him before Akaashi spots him" his husband loved cuties like this, kuroo glaring at the concept of his best friend and right hands husband touching (name).

Wait what.

Why did he care?

And that grin on bokotos face said it all, kuroo was into the dumb pretty boy who came in with snacks and drinks.

Kuroo took a bite from his rice ball with a sigh, this was gonna be troublesome.

[evilminji]

Broadway :3c

And I hear ya. (Insert spooky joke here) There is a sprawling WEB of central hubs, for The Arts. For trade. For getting drunk and having a good time. The Zone is large and it is endless. You'll NEVER reach the far end. It can never reach you.

All things, in gentle sweeping waves, across eternity.

So when folks want to have "a market" or "a movie theater" or "the waterpark"? You gotta PICK a point on the endless map. Figure if you are close or far enough away for others like it, to make it worth the effort to build.

You might even be the first to do it for GALAXIES in any direction! People might fly for WEEKS to come to your place! Move their Lairs to be closer too it. Like dust gathered by gravity, slowly creating planets and stars. A mega Lair. A CITY.

They rise, they fall, the Zone shifts all the while.

But!

Does the dead starlet stop singing? Does getting gunned down, stop the show?? I think NOT! Where is her STAGE? What musicals? What dramas? What operas and tragedies and forms unknown to human kind??! Ballet dancers who CAN defy gravity! Singers who have no NEED for air! The haunting blend of instruments, that could never in life have met! From empires long turned to ASH!

The greatest show in DEATH!

Ember was a world wide hit. Yes, her voice was hypnotic. But that could be FOUGHT. It was SKILL that carried the game. And she was hardly "I was Literally The Greatest My Planet Ever Produced" skilled. She was good, great even. Not "I was Born For Greatness" Excellence.

And like?

.....eventually? Danny's gonna ask after "cultural-y" Culture stuff. Clothes and food. Music and the arts. To help his parents get used to the whole "our son is half-dead" thing. To show he's not some mindless monster now.

And? Ghostwriter? Probably an absolute legend. Does he know where you can find some CULTURE? Oh THANK ZONE! He thought you'd NEVER ask! You unsophisticated-! *fist fight in a library* Still a dick, though. Always and forever.

And just? Imagine Broadway stretched out into a floating city. That never sleeps. Never stops. Shows ever changing. Some on a cycle, some only once. Dream-like. Beautiful. Eye catching.

And yeah, Danny didn't think he LIKED musicals. It was more of a Jazz thing. But? This was important! Gotta get the whole family in the Speeder. We're going to see a play, guys! We'll pick when we get there! Family road trip! Educational! We can make notes!

His parents are trying to be supportive. Big, fixed, strained grins. Trying to pretend to be excited. But they... DO seem reluctantly intrigued? And Jazz is all but vibrating in her seat. It's basically her "before you go away to college" present. And she is THRILLED.

The longer she excitedly speculates? The more into it she gets their folks. This IS gonna be new! Exciting! Never before seen Ghost Culture! Music! As a FAMILY! Think we could find souvenirs? Ooooh, wonder if they sell CDs??!

Then? They GET there. And it's... it's like seeing the Las Vegas strip for the first time, except multiplied into a city. Made of even MORE styles and eras. At angles gravity would never allow.

The air filled with laughter and excitement, people rushing to shows or humming bits of tunes. Street stalls. Fountains. Flowers growing everywhere.

They could stay for months and not even reach a fraction of these buildings. His parents are taking countless photos. His sister squeeling with joy as she races for an information kiosk like they just arrived at Disneyland. He, at least, remembers to lock up the Speeder. Grab their day bags.

When did HE become the responsible one?

The argue over shows. Obviously. Wouldn't be Fenton's otherwise. HE wants to see the alien one. It's from mars! But it's his sister's trip, as his dad points out, so she gets to choose. She picks a musical set during the Fall of Krpton. He's... reluctantly kinda interested. I mean, EVERYBODY likes Superman, right?

It's... it's amazing. Terrible, but amazing. I mean? A coming of age story cut tragically short? Oof. Hello, massively projecting then getting FEELS about it! Yeah, sure, rip my heart out why don't you? He's fine. No, really! Just drowning in his own emotions over here. The refrain of "A Life Well Lived"? *gargling dying whale noises* he's FINE. Not grappling with anything! Go on without him!

Thankfully?

They DO sell CDs.

He... he may end up, kinda, getting a bit of a collection. Going on the weekends, hoping show to show. Wandering to whichever catches his eye in the moment. Buying the CDs for one's he likes. Which? Honestly is a lot of them. Even though there's all sorts of genres and languages. Cause it... it RESONATES you know?

The grief. The anger. The "I have died but I wasn't FINISHED. It isn't FAIR.". And? Something about ghost speak flows so BEAUTIFULLY in song? It's hard to explain. But he... he needs them.

A pair of headphones, a CD, and a clear night sky? Nothing touches it. It's like a trance made of light. Like he can just drift.

The problem? Is the CDs are kinda... Zone made? They're radioactive, for one. Nothing a Fenton CD player can't handle. But... they? Also? Kinda fuckin GLOW? Like... very, very noticeably. And not in a "ha ha, cool glow in the dark paint!" Sorta way.

.........but like FUCK is he leaving his music behind when he goes to college. Gotham will have to deal. It's already a burning shit-nado, it can handle this. Probably. He'll put um in a lead lined box. Actually, speaking OF.... he needs to get a few more of those... *goes back to packing*

Which? Is how? The Bats are treated to some of the most HAUNTING music they've ever heard, belted and crooned from Some Guy's speakers, out an open window, on the "stop for a mid-patrol drink of water and a snack" building. It's one of the intersections of their patrol routes. And THAT? That is some dude listening to a Romani ballad about death and the circus. Now it's a musical about the trenches of an obscure war.

Okay, that was DEFINITELY Kryptonian. Like... coherent Krypto- *Bruce gets a call from Clark on his "work" number DEMANDING to know where that is coming from. Who is that voice Bruce?!* huh.... Well Then.

@hdgnj @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @babbling-babull @spidori @mutable-manifestation @the-witchhunter

[nanamineedstherapy]

Controversial Opinion: The Anti-Sugar Baby Manifesto

Okay, so... does anyone else not want to be Nanami’s sugar baby, Gojo’s dependent, Sukuna’s servant, or insert your favorite emotionally unavailable man’s sidekick?

I’ve read (and loved!) plenty of fics where the reader is in one of these roles. And honestly, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying them—power to you if that’s your vibe! But if we’re talking canon or even slightly realistic scenarios… yeah, I just can’t.

Before you start throwing tomatoes 🍅, hear me out. I promise this isn’t a hate post—just my thots.

Alright, buckle up because I’m about to destroy your sugar baby and servant fantasies with my unsolicited, unhinged takes.

Nanami Kento:

You wanna be Ken Doll’s sugar baby? Cute, but be serious. This man is one passive-aggressive comment away from throwing himself into traffic because he hates capitalism that much. He chose exorcisms and certain death over Excel sheets. Excel sheets, babe. If you think he’s gonna work overtime to buy you Versace, you’re delusional.

If I were with him, I’d work harder at my job (I hate corporate too, but not more than I love Nanami) and funnel my salary straight to him. He’d handle it responsibly because I’d just blow it on expensive pens, another PC, and iced tea. But also? I’d keep an emergency fund. Trust no one. Not even your man.

Let’s not forget the workplace romance trope. This man is the epitome of professionalism. He’d never date his coworker, let alone his secretary. Not because you’re not amazing, but because the power imbalance would haunt him. Like, he’d wake up in a cold sweat thinking about HR policies. And I respect that about him bcs same.

Also, please don’t get involved with someone who promises love and then runs to HR if his job’s on the line. (Not Nanami but in general advice.)

The stats don’t lie, and I’m not about to become the next cautionary tale in a LinkedIn post.

Gojo Satoru:

You wanna date Gojo? Cute. Except he wouldn’t date you, let alone spoil you. He wouldn’t date anyone. He’s emotionally constipated, a walking trauma fest, hyperfocused on being the strongest sorcerer alive™️, and allergic to vulnerability.

Most fics turn him into this suave flirt, but let’s be real—canon Gojo struggles with human interaction beyond being a troll. He’s a nerdy dork, so his game is shit even if he wanted to date you.

Y’all write him as this rich sugar daddy, but in reality? He’d spend your entire relationship trolling you, gaslighting you into thinking he’s a “normal guy,” and then disappearing for weeks because he’s busy babysitting teenagers and battling his inner demons.

Also, sugar babies love his money, but be honest—you don’t even like him; you like his black card. Gojo deserves better than being your walking ATM, and you deserve better than a man who’d eat your last snack just because he can.

Gifts are cute, but if he’s doing all the work while I’m chilling? That’s just freeloading.

I'm yet to come across a fic where he takes the time to realize he even wants a relationship, instead of being a pre-established fuckboy who suddenly changes because he found the 'right person.' Let’s be real, that’s not how it works. We shouldn’t glorify men for changing after finding the right person or excuse their past behavior, including any STDs they may have/had.

(Note to self: In future fics, explore his struggle to admit he wants a relationship and the challenges he faces in figuring out how to be in one.)

Haibara Yu:

So, you’re thinking about dating Haibara? Buckle up, ‘cause you’re signing up for a rollercoaster ride where the tracks are constantly under construction. Haibara’s got the energy of someone who just found out about sarcasm, but also the emotional depth of a puddle.

This guy’s all fun and games until you realize he’s like a cat that wants attention, but only on his terms. He’ll say the most unbothered things with that sunshine stare of his, but don’t be fooled. That’s his way of hiding his entire emotional baggage.

One minute, he’s sarcastic and aloof, and the next, he’s unexpectedly clingy, wanting to know if you still like him (even though he’d never admit it). You’ll spend half your time wondering if he actually likes you or if he’s just in a perpetual state of "I’m too cool for this."

Does he care? Absolutly. Expect texts like "I'm fine" followed by a cryptic emoji and zero context.

Dates? Don’t hold your breath. He's too busy trying to be taken seriously.

He’s not a millionaire either. Don’t expect a big grand gesture. His idea of spoiling you? Buying you a drink from the convenience store, giving you stale candy and maybe, just maybe, sending you a playlist of sad songs that “remind him of you.” Yeah, romantic, I know.

He’s not gonna spoil you with gifts, but he’ll share his last pack of gum like it’s the greatest act of love ever. Don’t expect consistency, just an occasional burst of affection sandwiched between long silences and sarcastic banter.

Would he be loyal? Absolutely. Would he constantly second-guess himself and need reassurance that you're not going to leave him because he doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings? Definitely.

Prepare to give him more emotional support than you ever signed up for. Would he adore you? Yes, but he’ll probably think it’s too much work to actually show it. But hey, if you’re into emotional chaos and not knowing where you stand, Haibara’s your guy.

You probably only like him because you know nothing about him.

Ryomen Sukuna:

The “servant/concubine” trope is insane. INSANE. You think Sukuna, the literal King of Curses, is gonna treat you like anything more than a chew toy? The power imbalance isn’t sexy—it’s electric chair. You’d either die mid-hookup (his hands alone could snap you in half) or be tossed into a volcano because you sneezed too loudly.

Be fr—he’d accidentally (or on purpose) kill anyone he sleeps with. The man’s a giant sadist, naturally rough, and has zero chill.

Romance? Nonexistent. Sukuna’s idea of flirting is probably something like, “You’re less annoying than most humans. Barely.” That’s not romantic; that’s verbal abuse with extra steps.

Toji Fushiguro:

This one hurts because Toji’s hot but this man has no money. None. Zero. If you want to date him, you better be ready to cover rent, groceries, and his “post-mission beer fund" because his entire paycheck goes toward sharpening his sword, buying protein powder, and gambling.

Let’s not forget he has a dead wife, and he went off the deep end after her death. Even if you could somehow 'fix' him like the unlicensed therapist you are because you have nothing better to do, he’s a vengeful widower who would leave you randomly for missions—and might not return because he’s driven by the insecurity of proving the Zenins wrong, which would get him killed.

Plus, he’d bring up his dead wife in every argument, saying things like, “She wasn’t this nagging; she didn’t do this or that.” People tend to glorify the dead, and he’d be the prime example of that. How could you compete with the memories of someone his mind has declared perfect?

He’s everyone's wet dream, sure, but do you really wanna date a guy who’d ghost you and leave you with his kid?

And don’t even get me started on his love language. It’s probably, “I killed a guy for you.” That’s cute until the cops show up at your door asking questions.

He might toss you a bone (not like that, calm down), but the idea of me paying for someone who might not even text me back? Pass.

Kamo Choso:

Sweetest man alive. Too pure for this world. But dating him would be like adopting a sad, traumatized puppy who cries every time you leave the room. You’d spend your entire relationship comforting him and Googling “how to help my boyfriend stop mourning his 17 dead brothers.”

He’s too busy laser-focusing on Yuji and going through an identity crisis to even think about being in a relationship. I’d want to protect him, not date him.

Also, his skincare routine is probably better than yours, which is cute until you realize you’ll never be the pretty one in the relationship.

Geto Suguru:

Ah, Babygurl Suguwu. Love him to death (pun intended), but dating him sounds like lifelong therapy.

Do you really wanna date a guy who’s juggling a cult, unresolved trauma, and genocidal tendencies?

His love language is probably “eliminating humanity,” and unless you’re down to join his pyramid scheme of sorcerer supremacy, this is not gonna work.

Also, you will forever be second place to the Gojo-fucking-Satoru.

Be serious. You will never win that chase. He'll leave you mid-sex to go see his 'one & only' babe.

Kashimo Hajime:

Kashimo would date you for the sole purpose of fighting you. He doesn’t want love; he wants violence—he’s looking for someone who can throw hands.

Imagine coming home after a 10-hour shift at work, exhausted, and this man’s standing in your living room like, “I’ve been waiting to test my new technique on you.” No, sir, I want a nap.

And don’t think you can just say no. He’d follow you to the grocery store, the dentist, your grandma’s funeral, like, “We fight now!”

Hiromi Higuruma:

Now, this man’s tempting. Responsible, classy, knows how to argue (a lawyer, duh), but... he’s also on the verge of a midlife crisis.

Do you really wanna date someone who’s one bad day away from snapping? You’d spend most of your time convincing him he’s not a terrible person, and honestly, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that. Therapy is expensive, and I already have PTSD from my ex.

Also, he’d probably start arguments just to win them. You think you’re ready for that kind of intellectual warfare 24*7?

Shiu Kong:

Do you like mafia drama? Because that’s what you’re signing up for. Mafia life isn’t sexy—it’s stressful.

You’d be dodging bullets, interrogating his “coworkers” about his whereabouts, and wondering if he’s about to betray you for a promotion.

Also, he's an asshole who's going to disappear after he's done with you; go see the scene before Toji died. Hard pass.

Kusakabe Atsuya:

This man is the king of doing the bare minimum. His love language is probably “napping,” and while that’s cute in theory, it’s less cute when he cancels date night because he “forgot” he had to sleep.

Honestly, he’d be a great friend, but as a partner? You’d be babysitting him.

Takuma Ino:

You wanna date Ino? Adorable. But let’s be real, you’re signing up for 24/7 unpaid emotional labor. Ino’s a golden retriever boy who desperately wants validation, and you’d basically be his therapist, hype woman, and emotional punching bag all rolled into one.

He’d shower you with attention (cute, right?) until you realize he’s also incredibly insecure and needs constant reassurance that he’s “doing a good job.” You’d be his number one fan and his HR department.

He’s not rich either. Like, at all. His idea of spoiling you would be buying you snacks from the konbini and taking you to the movies with coupons. Don’t expect luxury here—expect a man who puts in effort but forgets anniversaries because he was too busy stressing about being a sorcerer who no one takes seriously.

Would he adore you? Yes. Would you want to be adored by someone who still Googles “how to ask her out” while you’re already dating? I’ll let you decide.

Final Thots-

At the end of the day, I’d rather have my own independence than rely on someone else to “take care of me.”

I want a partner—not a sugar daddy, not a servant-master dynamic, not a walking red flag, and definitely not a paycheck.

I'd rather have a househusband who's retired and relaxed than an overworked sugar daddy—or worse, a dead one. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, this is just my opinion!

If you love those tropes—go off; that’s totally valid. I’m not yucking anyone’s yum. We all have our preferences, and that’s what makes fandom fun.

No hate, just vibes.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. I’ll see myself out. 👋

If you still wanna fight, my comments are open, although I will reply like the guy you are fighting for.

[witchofthesouls]

I'm going to follow up on the fantasy-horror thoughts to be expanded Transformers, so-

Medical/Biological Horror

I haven't really seen takes about established Cybertronian medical biology and the complications with the "humans into Cybertronians" trope.

Like we see the heavy emphasis on T-cogs across the iterations and how it's deeply connected to independence, identity, and person-hood, so how about an ex-human that lacks a T-cog?

Ironically, T-cogs have a lot of emphasis on that particular organ is similar to human hearts in terms of emotional, cultural, spiritual, and physical capabilities and significance. Similar to how humans are capable of donating hearts to others, Cybertronians can perform an equivalent procedure with T-cogs. (On a related side note, the phenomenon of 'cellular memory' has to be extremely appalling to the mechanical species. Not in the sense of upcycling parts, but in the sense that the organs, frame, and equipment still retain the echos of the last person to the point that it influences the new body.)

Imagine that once human inside a medbay as the medics tutted and sadly inscribe their new medical file about their new monoformer status. What a shame, they said. They could have been an excellent addition to (insert whatever frame kibble visible that correlates to a function), they said. Poor thing! With that kind of extrasensory equipment, they'll be a walking target, they said.

So that monoformer with no kibble or those visible beastformer traits without the means to completely escape... What. A. Shame.

Until a random Cybertronian sees that monoformer casually wheeling around with heelies. It's easy to wave away as a reinvention of training wheels, but then they notice those heelies disappear back into the monoformer's frame. The ex-human still has no T-cog. Sweat breaks out because said ex-human had done the fucking impossible.

They're paying closer attention now. They're seeing little micro-transformations happening. The subtle signs of a frame shifting to accommodate an area or space, the way fingertips would sharpen too easily with a file or with a raw cut as a tip is used to scrape away at something, the seams expanding and contracting, so something is happening, they just can't tell...

While this can overlap with the body/psychological horror aspect, I say we should take it more extreme. There had been takes with dysphoria, particularly with the play between mechanical parts and human organs, the differences in senses, and if 'sticky sexual interfacing' is part of it, then sexual hardware of both sets.

However, what about acceptance? The exploration of feeling truly at home in your own new skin? Even if it's high-tech and something out of a sci-fi film/video game with a platform that's incomprehensible because you don't understand the language it uses, but guess what? You can download a packet to fully comprehend a new language. You may not be fluent or comfortably at ease with speaking, but you can read and understand what's being said. A possibility of delving into human disabilities that translate into something easily curable or nonexistent or have well-established accommodations in a Cybertronian framework. Something like hormonal disorders or gastrointestinal issues due to upset gut biome would be wiped clean. Poor/limited eyesight can be compensated with a visor that can't be easily removed or taken away or the additional sensors that provide environmental data. Cybertron has a form of sign language with chirolinguistics where communication is done "by stimulating the nervecircuits in the fingers, wrist and palm of their conversational partner. It seems to be fairly common to know at least a little hand." TFWiki page And it pairs well with internal comms that double as cell phones or an unique user on platform where a Cybertronian can live chat or text another.

A massive tradeoff for this kind of comfort? You now have a visible soul.

Think about it, your soul can be directly handled, as in someone can physically go mess with your most distilled sense of self.

Humanity had long debated the existence of it via philosophy, spiritually, scientifically as well. The heart is the most recent popular choice, but major historical contenders had been the stomach and the mind as well as arguments of the soul isn't found in one specific organ but rather the bridge between them.

People swear by souls and the afterlife. There are many myths and legends that involve souls. Even the most doubtful had been deeply raised in a cultural framework of the concept via media usage, figurative speech, religious imagery, and depictions in art.

That has to be the most mind-blowing and deeply unsettling reality a former human must accept.

I see the comparisons of sparkeaters to vampires as they both prey on the living, but the more apt description should be the product of Harry Potter with Dementors as those Dark creatures eat souls.

So this touches on another genre-

Supernatural Horror

Human adaptability combined with the Earth transformation myths/magic would deeply terrify modern Cybertronians as those new cybered beings don't fit the established medical reality they function with.

This can easily tie very well with expanding Cybertronian folklore of otherworldly beings of their version of fae, demons, spirits, or yōkai. Beautiful, terrible beings that mimick Cybertronians too well... unless to look closer: the shadow missing or not matching (can be tied to Unicron), conflicting kibble, EM fields too wild with a chaotic rhythm no one else can match, colors that change to suddenly, a strange wardrobe (made of dead creatures) that ripples and warps without a breeze, an mechanimal with too much intelligence glittering in its optics...

I'm not even fully delving into the rampant chaos of ex-humans having a host of adaptations suited for tolerating far more ranges of environmental stress and disease-resistance due to the rapid evolution by organic life compared to Cybertronian fauna. Remember, humans are animals. Highly intelligent apex predators that specialize in endurance/persistent pursuit with strong social and communal behaviors, and the cleverness to suit the environment from aquatic to deserts to wetlands to forests to grasslands to tundra. Humanity found ways to not just survive but to thrive in those biomes.

This opens a potential storyline where cybered humans become Cybertron's extremophiles, so that can easily translate into those beings capable of manipulating their own selves to a multitude of frames and shapes.

The example above with the human to monoformer was a show in how transformation mechanisms could be different between the species. If T-cogs are an inherently modern Cybertronian biological trait, then cybered!Earth natives should be either throwbacks or have another approach to it.

And that's the more muted fuckery, but what about straight-up transformations that were deemed unthinkable? Where unnatural formations keep twisting upon themselves, collapsing just to rise higher and higher? The sudden appearance of not one or two extra limbs, but dozens, even hundreds without a sequence as they try to compute how the hell they pull all that mass from nowhere? Armor plating, sure and steady, then turning into a substance that swallows everything and anything as a solid becomes a liquid.

The repression technology may or may not even work as it targets the frame's T-cog. What can it do to a mecha that doesn't have one?

Another aspect overlooked is the animal-human relationship in domestication of wild animals or how communities form symbiotic relationships with different kinds of wild fauna. Combined humanity's collective love for highly dangerous creatures... Wouldn't it be absolutely sick as hell if cyber!human got a sparkeater as their companion? It's still a wild 'animal,' not a fully tame one like a domesticated animal, so they're trying to tedtalk on a human's approach to curating a stable relationship with a predatory species while the rest of the Cybertronians are basically dead-white from sheer fright.

Or on the opposite yet equally delightful spectrum of said exhuman caring for orphaned creatures that reminds them of human pets (like a bunny or a mouse), but those 'cute babies' usually cause massive structural damage to city-states and a known mech-killer. Something like a Scraplet (because, let's be real, deep in your heart, you know a person that would try to keep it as a pet and succeed at it), so their tedtalk about behavioral training, 'reasonable precautions,' and emotional/physical fulfillment is filled with scientists who's curiosity (slightly to completely) overtakes any sense of self-preservation.

[monstrouslyobsessed]

stop censoring your tags!

normally, i don't like to write these kinds of posts, but i kept seeing a certain issue on this site—a very worrying issue, that genuinely upset me to a degree.

if you do any of the followings below

all are edited to protect their privacy and are only meant to be used as examples, so please do not look for those responsible!

please stop. i am begging on my knees for you to stop.

the whole point of using trigger warnings (TWs) is for other people to filter them out from their dashboards. what you're doing is putting more burden on your readers to add unnecessary tags to their filter list. you're also running the risk of triggering your followers and viewers.

even if your hashtags are uncensored, there's always a chance of missing one that was already listed in the introduction—especially with the limit of 25 tags. most filter lists i've tested consider what's already in the post too, even if it's untagged.

plus, any accessibility tool the reader may be using (such as screen reader and translator) may not be able to read the censored tags! considering that the (presumably uncensored) hashtags are at the very end of the post, these tools won't read the said hashtags until that point, making any initial warning moot if they are impossible to read or translate.

please keep your TWs as is, without all the excessive censoring.

tumblr is NOT tiktok or facebook. tumblr does not look for your posts to censor them (unless it's imagery) and/or to ban you off the site. as long as it is properly marked as mature, tumblr literally does not care and even said they are okay with any written post being explicit [link]. i am begging you, for the sake of people here, to properly tag your works PLAINLY.

DO NOT DO THESE: #tr!gg3r w4rn1ng, #c10ud$, #𝔭𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔲𝔭𝔭𝔶, etc. for the hashtags at the bottom.

these does NOT work with the filter, regardless of where they are in the post.

DO USE THESE: #trigger warning, #clouds, #pet the puppy, etc. even with #tw (ex. #tw pet the puppy) is fine too!

i included a link below which give a more in-depth explanation about how using #tw (insert trigger) is okay.

once again, while i know that tagging trigger warnings as is may seem like something you could get flagged for, it is not. tumblr's tagging system exists so that people can easily filter out content that they are not comfortable with.

by censoring your tags or content, you are actually making it harder for people to navigate through tumblr, as your censored tags or content do not work with the filter.

i encourage you to please think about how your content and tags may negatively affect others when they are censored.

the only exception i know of that would've impacted the visibility of your post(s) is the use of n'sfw due to the widespread abuses via the pron bots (and we all know how wonderful of a job the tumblrs staffs are doing to combat that issue /s). however, that's often easy enough to bypass via using examples such as, 'not safe for work', 'not sfw', 'n/sfw', etc. i personally recommend you to experiment to see which would work the best for you. generally though, they all should be fine/safe to use and be picked up by the accessibility tools at least decently.

additionally, on a still related note, please be consistent with your colors, sizes, and formats in your writing, especially in your heading area with tags and other important notes. we do have readers with vision and sensory issues who would not appreciate reading contents with too many colors and an excessive amount of bold and italics.

simplicity is best. consistency is excellent.

if it's something like the following,

CAUTION: trigger warnings, pet the puppy, handholding, clouds

that is, in my opinion, fine. personally, i'm okay with one or two bolded TW's to especially emphasize the major warnings, but not all of them. everyone have their preferences; however, again, i must stress the importance of simplicity and consistency for easy and smooth reading, especially for most readers, and it helps with accessibility too.

just please don't do what the first screenshot did (red and green texts). the inconsistency in sizing and coloring, like the aforementioned example, makes it hard to read and harder to enjoy.

lastly, please tag your works properly! a friend of mine was understandably upset when they ran into a content with an untagged trigger. the whole point of tagging is to allow everyone to curate their internet experience. it's considered extremely rude not to tag your works appropriately, especially with major trigger warnings. if it contains non/con, tag it. if it includes in/cest, tag it.

please. be kind to your readers and tag your works properly and clearly.

that is all.

thank you.

other useful links for tags

https://bihelel.tumblr.com/post/627963320709906432/how-to-properly-tag-trigger-warnings the in-depth explanation of tagging system https://trigger-warnings.tumblr.com/tags/ it is not a *complete* list of common TW's, but it's still a good handy guide to have on hand and it's pretty comprehensive.

[gamesetattach]

That One Night

Jannik Sinner x Reader After being introduced at an event, reader and Jannik Sinner seek to resolve their immediate chemistry. They do, it's brief but magnificent. And they're both left wanting more... too bad that's unrealistic... they'd need a miracle for that to happen... Warnings include... steamy scenes, allusion to smut that might as well be smut, minor bike accident

The venue was dazzling, a shimmering blend of opulence and power, brimming with high-profile names from sports, entertainment, and beyond. You’d been to your share of high-stakes events working as a part of Lewis Hamilton's personal staff, but this gala—a celebration of global athletic excellence—was something else. Maybe it was the shift in Hamilton’s career, his dramatic switch to Ferrari drawing attention from every corner of the room. Being in the same space as some of the most impressive figures in the world was never something you could get used to.

You adjusted your drink in your hand, standing among your coworkers, who were animatedly chatting amidst the event’s grandeur. Lewis, ever the charismatic centerpiece of any gathering, stood nearby, surrounded by admirers and journalists. It was then that you noticed him—Jannik Sinner, the tennis prodigy who seemed to be everywhere these days. Tall, composed, and unmistakably confident, he approached Lewis with an easy grace.

“Congratulations on the move to Ferrari,” Jannik said, extending a hand. His tone was warm but earnest, with the kind of deference and understanding that only a fellow, high achieving athlete could channel.

“Hey, man. I'm a big fan of yours,” Lewis replied, during the swift clasp of their hands, his signature grin in place. “And yeah, thank you. It’s been an adjustment, you know how it is. New team, new dynamics.”

Jannik nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a big step, and very exciting. Ferrari’s history speaks for itself, but so does your own.”

“Thanks, mate, appreciate it” Lewis said, kind eyes twinkling, and then turned slightly to gesture toward your group. “By the way, these are some of the people who make my life run smoothly.”

Lewis introduced everyone by name, and when he got to you, Jannik’s gaze lingered just a fraction longer than it had with the others.

“Nice to meet you all,” he said, offering a polite smile to the team, though he was angled towards you as he did.

“Likewise,” you chimed in along with the other greetings of your group, eyes flicking up and down his tall stature with an obvious spark of interest. You smiled into your drink when you saw he noted your appraisal with a quiet smirk to himself.

---

The group conversation that followed was lively, filled with laughter and the kind of lighthearted banter that couldn't be faked. It wasn't uncommon for nights like this one to be filled with forced niceties and social obligation, but you found yourself surrounded by genuine company throughout the night for once. Jannik withstood the camaraderie of you and your team's established dynamic well, easily following the quick back and forth that bounced between your co-workers. Your own insertions in the conversation earned more than a few chuckles from his direction, and you found yourself meeting his eyes first at every instance of laughter. He wasn’t the loudest in the group by any means, but his subtle wit, dry humor, and ability to hold his own didn’t go unnoticed—especially not by you.

At one point, Jannik leaned slightly toward you after you’d made a particularly sharp and clever comment that had your co-workers open-mouthed with shock before they keeled over with laughter. “Do you always keep everyone on their toes, or are you just on a mission tonight?”

You grinned, meeting his gaze. “I mean, it depends on the company.”

His small smile widened just enough to feel like a win.

---

Hours later, as the event began to wind down, you and your team decided to head back to the hotel before the night got stale. It seemed everyone had the same idea.

The lobby was bustling with other guests from the gala, all waiting for the elevators in their shared hospitality. You stood near the back of the group, watching as people crammed into the small space. Jannik appeared beside you, his own team just slightly ahead.

“Looks like we’re not getting on this one,” he remarked as the doors closed, the elevator packed to it's maximum volume.

“Probably for the best,” you replied. “I’m not sure I have any social capacity left for that level of crowding.”

He chuckled, his relaxed demeanor infectious. “Guess we can only hope the next one is less full.”

Only a few others joined you in waiting for the second lift, and you and Jannik fell into easy, hushed conversation. The elevator dinged and opened, and you filed in first with Jannik's gentle hand on your lower back. He positioned himself next to you in the corner, allowing space for the others, his shoulders square to your own with your hip brushing at his leg. You stood in silence now, sharing the small space with guests before, one by one, they exited on the lower floors and left you and Jannik alone.

The silence persisted despite the clearing of others and grew to fill the air as something comfortable, but palpable. It felt hopeful, expectant—like maybe the tension that built naturally between you both through the night was about to be expended somehow. Like maybe something would amount from your hyper-aware orbit of each other that started within your short time of meeting.

You realized you were standing closer to him than necessary, still where you first positioned yourselves to accommodate the now-departed crowd. His arm brushed yours as the elevator ascended, and neither of you moved away, the small space between you unchallenged but charged.

When the elevator dinged once more, you glanced up, startled to see your floor already on the display.

“This is me,” you said, stepping away from the rail, and you saw this floor was the last one pressed on the array of numbers, "Oh, are you on this level, too?"

He shook his head, his gaze heavy-lidded and steady on you. "Must've missed mine."

He didn’t move to press his floor, and the doors began to close again.

You hesitated as you stepped through them, then looked back at him. “Why don't you come back to my room instead.”

The invitation hung in the air, sounding bolder in the silence than you intended, but you held off on regret as you waited for a response. Jannik’s eyes searched yours, something stirring beneath his usual, cool reserve.

“Lead the way,” he said.

---

The walk to your room was quiet, the tension building with every step. When you finally opened the door and stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The casual banter of earlier was gone, replaced by an unspoken understanding that neither of you felt the need to question.

“Nice place,” he said as he entered your hotel room, voice low, but he had barely glanced around. His eyes stayed trailing after your every movement.

“Thanks,” you replied, closing the door behind you. “Picked the decor out myself and everything.”

You turned to face him, his expression unreadable but his eyes giving him away. Slowly, he stepped closer, the gap between you shrinking until there was almostnone left at all.

And then it happened.

There was no formality, no careful consideration—just heat, just urgency. His lips were on yours, and it wasn’t soft or timid, like he’d been waiting all night for this moment. It was hungry, a breaking point neither of you had time to speak into existence but one that you both had felt coming all along.

His hands found your waist, fingers curling into fabric as if anchoring himself. You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, pressing closer, the moment swallowing you whole. The air buzzed between you, your heart hammering against your ribs, every touch igniting something more.

Somewhere in the haze, he pulled off his blazer and you tugged at his shirt, needing him closer, needing something solid to hold onto as your back hit the door. His breath was ragged when he finally pulled away, but only for a moment before his lips found the curve of your jaw, then lower, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to your skin.

He exhaled against you, voice hushed, breath uneven. You felt the sharp edges of restraint still present, the weight of something unspoken.

Then, your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly, and any hesitation that remained between you unraveled completely.

His hands, warm and steady, moved over your back, pulling you off the door and fully against him, as if closing the last bit of space that existed between you. His mouth found yours again, slower this time, and deeper, as if savoring the impermanence of it all.

When he finally pulled away again, his forehead pressed to yours as you both caught your breath. There were no whispered questions, no reassurances about what this meant.

Because it didn’t have to mean anything, and it didn't—at least, not yet.

So, your hand found his, fingers lacing together in a silent understanding.

And when you moved, guiding him to the bed, he followed without a second thought.

Faintly you heard the late night gusts and the rush of cars, a window left open, air cool and crisp, but the heat between you was unmistakable. The time stilled, no urgency or expectation left, only the slow unraveling of barriers that had been introduced already half-torn down. His hands moved over you with intent, like he was memorizing the feeling of you, the weight, the warmth, the way you shivered at the smallest touch.

You found yourself laughing softly against his lips at one point, the absurdity of it all—this place, this timing, such need after only one introduction. Jannik smiled too, a sweet one, and he moved his face from yours to nudge into your neck.

And then, just as quickly, the laughter faded, overtaken by something heavier, deeper. You pulled him back up to you, fingers dragging over bare skin, every inch of space between you erased until nothing else existed but this.

No past, no future.

Just here. Just now.

---

You didn’t sleep much. Not that night.

Every time your breathing leveled, every time the air settled between you, Jannik would shift closer again, fingertips tracing slow, aimless patterns along your skin, reigniting the heat that neither of you could seem to temper.

The sheets were tangled between your legs, the warmth of his body wrapping around you, the weight of his hand pressing against the small of your back, grounding you. His lips found the space beneath your jaw, lingering for a moment before trailing downward once more, his breath a quiet whisper against your skin.

His touch was exploratory, desperate, as if learning something new that he only had limited time to perfect. The slow drag of his fingers, the way he murmured your name against your collarbone, sent shivers up your spine.

What started so quick had become slow and unhurried as the night went on—a mutual unraveling, an indulgence in something spontaneous and momentary. Each kiss, each sigh, each press of fingers and hands and lips savoring all that was fleeting.

He wasn’t in a rush. Neither were you.

One night could be enough.

---

When you awoke late into the next morning, the sun streaming through the curtains, Jannik was already up and in his suit from the night before, sitting on the edge of the bed as he laced up his shoes. He glanced back when he noticed you stirring.

“Morning,” he said, his tone soft but steady.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice still heavy with sleep.

There was a beat of silence before he added, “Last night was… unexpected.”

You sat up, pulling the sheets around you. “But, was it really though?”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “No, maybe not.”

As he stood, you watched him hesitate, his hand resting on the back of a chair. “You mentioned last night that you’re only here for the event. How long are you in the area?”

“Not long at all,” you admitted. “This was just a short work trip. I’m based in London, so I’ll be heading back after today.”

He nodded, absorbing the information. “London… that’s not too far.”

You smiled faintly, flattered at his effort to pretend and humor this. “I guess. Not if you’re motivated.”

His lips curved into a subtle grin. You both knew what this was, this was goodbye. ��See you around, maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe,” you replied, trying to keep your heart from fluttering and latching onto the few, unlikely possibilities packed into that single word.

He held your gaze for a moment longer before turning toward the door, he called your name out once more. “Take care.”

“You too, Jannik,” you said softly as he walked out, leaving behind a room that suddenly felt much quieter—and a connection you couldn’t quite shake.

---

The Italian countryside was like something out of a painting, with rolling hills, ancient stone buildings, and skies so blue they almost seemed unreal. You’d been traveling from town to town for weeks now, helping Lewis Hamilton’s team gather material for his upcoming launch into first season with Ferrari. As his creative director, your role was to define the visual identity of this new chapter in Lewis’s career—a challenge you decided to cover by making a series inspired by the unique range of beauty offered by the Italian landscapes. And so, you'd immersed yourself amongst the Italian people up and down the country.

Today’s destination was a small, picturesque town tucked away in the Dolomites and bordered by Austria. You hadn’t thought much more of it as you packed your camera and sketchbook that morning, already suspended in awe by the setting during your arrival the night before, but as you wandered its sloped streets, you began to notice something: Jannik's face was absolutely everywhere.

It wasn’t unusual to see Italy's favorite tennis player and the World No. 1 featured in promotional materials across the country, but this was different. There were even posters of him at the local cafés, a mural depicting his likeness near the town square, and framed photos of his visits at every place you checked out for lunch. The ghost of him and that one night was already haunting you throughout Italy, but now it especially felt like the universe was conspiring against you.

You sighed into your espresso, thinking back to your brief but memorable encounter with him months ago. You often needed to remind yourself that it was just a one-time thing, a spontaneous meeting that would never align again. But apparently, Italy—and your own mind—wanted to encourage delusion.

Curious, you asked the barista about the abundance of Jannik’s imagery.

“Oh, he’s from here,” she said in accented English, beaming with pride. “Jannik is our treasure.”

Your stomach flipped. Of course, he was from here. You’d managed to land yourself in his birthplace without even realizing it. It was probably only a matter of time, but, even in all the time you spent trying and failing not to think of him, you hadn't really considered that you'd end up in his hometown sometime during your extensive travels of his country. Figuring he was off on tour or training somewhere far away, you tried to push the thought aside and focus on your work. You'd long since persuaded yourself to accept that you were unlikely to see him again. Still, as you moved through the scenic countryside that afternoon, your mind kept drifting to the idea of what it would be like to be in a place like this with him. The daydream felt too perfect, too impossible to entertain for long.

You don't actually know him, you reminded yourself.

---

Later that day, while riding your bike down a quiet rural road, you were so taken by the stunning view that you didn’t notice the dip ahead. Your front wheel went in and caught, sending you flying forward. You landed awkwardly, your camera bag cushioning some of the impact but your ankle was angled and throbbing.

“Oh, are you okay?” a voice called out in accented English.

You looked up to see a middle-aged woman rushing toward you from her car, concern etched on her face. She helped you sit up, clicking her tongue as she inspected foot.

“That hole gets everyone,” she said with a shake of her head. “You’re not the first.”

You couldn’t help but laugh despite the sting as you shifted. “Good to know I’m not alone.”

“My name is Siglinde,” she said, smiling warmly. “You?”

You replied with your name, wincing as she helped you up to your feet. “Thanks for stopping to help.”

Through a mix of your patchy Italian and German, and her limited English, you managed to explain that you were in town for work and researching the area as you walked your bike back to town beside her. Even before your mention of Italy's revered Ferrari, Siglinde had lit up about your project, insisting that she knew the best places to see.

“I live here my whole life,” she said proudly. “I show you the real town.”

---

Over the next few days, you and Siglinde struck up an unlikely, but fast friendship. She took you to local spots that weren’t in any guidebooks—a secluded meadow, a historic church, a family-run lodge. She spoke often of her family, particularly her children, whom she described as hardworking and kind.

“You would like him,” she said one afternoon after telling another story about her youngest son, as you walked through the market together. “You both work so hard. And you are very pretty.”

You smiled and humored her, brushing off the compliment. It was one of many not so subtle hints letting on that she thought you'd be good for her son. “I’m sure he’s great.”

“He is,” she insisted. “Handsome too! And such a good boy. Too busy for girlfriends, though. But maybe you can change that?”

“Siglinde!” you said, laughing at her persistance.

She grinned. “Just saying! You are a good match.”

Another time, as you hiked through the countryside with her, she pointed out landmarks and told stories about her family. “The boys loves this area,” she said wistfully. “My youngest, he is away so much, but when he comes home, he loves to be where not much has changed. He misses it here, you know.” She glanced at you, her eyes twinkling. “I think you would understand him. He needs someone who understands.”

You weren’t sure how to respond, so you just smiled and let her words hang in the air.

---

After about a week in town, Siglinde invited you to dinner at her home one evening. She insisted it would be a proper South Tyrolean meal, made by her husband, Johann, a long-time chef. You couldn’t say no to her, especially not to such an enticing offer.

When you arrived, Siglinde greeted you at the door, her face alight with excitement. “Come, come! Johann is still in kitchen. But my son, he is home! You will meet him.”

You smiled politely, stepping inside and handing her flowers you got from the market before she led you through the cozy house. She disappeared into the kitchen to find a vase, leaving you to admire the family photos lining the walls.

You did a double take at a small framed photo of a little boy obscured in snow, and you stepped forward to inspect closer. Smile wide and trophy lifted high, your heart rate picked up as you took in the pictured boy's toothy smile and the flash of long, orange hair peaking out of his helmet.

---

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Siglinde was speaking in rushed German to Jannik as she filled a vase. “The girl I invited tonight,” she began, her tone conspiratorial. “She is so nice! Hardworking, smart, and very pretty. Perfect for you.”

Jannik, used to his mother’s matchmaking, rolled his eyes with a smile. “Mama, you said on the phone already. Many times.”

“You must see,” Siglinde insisted. “You will see. She is special.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he replied lightheartedly. “At least your English will improve with someone to practice with around.”

---

Before long, Siglinde reappeared to usher you into the dining room. She had found you at the height of your disbelief, mouth still agape at the picture of Jannik on your new, kind friend's mantle.

At least now you know what's coming, you thought to yourself as you sat down at the dinner table, barely registering the beautifully prepared food plated in front of you.

You felt him enter the room before you saw him.

Jannik appeared in the doorway beside you and immediately stilled, recognizing the tilt of your head and the curls of your hair from just the one night spent together.

“Ah, you meet!” his mother exclaimed as she moved past him carrying a steaming bowl of soup into the room, leaving him behind in his state of shock that was now slowly morphing into one pleasant surprise and amusement.

You had turned to face his direction at Siglinde's entrance, and your eyes immediately found his. You couldn't help the slow smile that grew on your face in time with his.

He said your name softly, voice warm, tone incredulous. You took in a sharp breath, you didn't think you'd ever hear your name from his mouth again.

“Jannik,” you greeted, struggling to find any words to follow.

“Ah, you already know each other?” Siglinde beamed, eyes darting between the two of you with a knowing look. “...Perfect! Dinner will be even better!”

---

The meal was a whirlwind of flavors and conversation, with Siglinde and Johann enthusiastically sharing stories and dishes. You and Jannik tried to act natural, normal, but your time together flashed behind your eyes each time you looked over at him. And you had trouble focusing on top of processing the serendipity of this unexpected reunion between the two of you.

Every so often, your eyes would meet across the table, and you’d both look away, trying to suppress smiles. You knew what he was thinking, and you were sure he knew you were thinking the same.

After dinner, Siglinde all but pushed the two of you toward the door. “Take a walk! Show her the stars, Jannik. It is a beautiful night.”

“Mama, I—”

“Go!” she insisted, shooing you both outside.

The cool night air was a welcome contrast to the warmth of the house. You walked in silence for a while, your first time alone in the night. Your first time alone in months, though the last time was the first time as well, you supposed.

Jannik let out a soft laugh, and broke you out of your thoughts.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head. “Of all the places, of all the people my mother adopts…”

“I know,” you said, smiling. “She's amazing, by the way. She helped me after I was thrown off my bike.”

He raised an eyebrow, chuckling a little. “You were thrown off your bike?”

“It’s not funny,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “There was this ditch and—Apparently, it gets everyone, okay?”

He laughed again, his gaze soft on you. “I’m glad she found you. And I’m glad we… ran into each other again.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Me too.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Then, with a smile that made your heart stutter, Jannik asked, “What are your plans tomorrow?"

“Just spending more time around here,” you said.

“Good,” he replied. "Then maybe I can show you around... because I’d like to get to know you properly."

"I mean, you were pretty thorough the last time we met." You said, and he smirked at that and looked down at his feet. You continued, voice a little softer, "But yeah, I'd like that."

He smiled, nodding a little to himself, and as you continued down the moonlit path in the mountains, you let your pinkies brush against each other. Because you both knew, that one night was always meant to be the first of many.

---

And sometimes a one-night stand sticks with you and you have to like fucking exorcise it out and that's my truth. But not reader's, fortunately. Okay, steamiest one yet, hope you like xx

[blackenedsnow]

IT'S ME AGAIN DON'T ASK WHY AM I HERE AGAIN?!?! I LOVED THE WAY YOU WRITE LIKE OMG?!?? I HAVE 3 IDEAS TODAY YOU CAN CHOOSE ONE OF THEM, OR YOU CAN CHOOSE ONE AND THEN WRITE IT DOWN, YOU CAN DO THE OTHER. IT'S ALL UP TO YOU!!

1-Do you remember the song Guess by Charli XCX and Billie Eillish in Collab? Yes, I have a request for it sooo reader we're so popular singer and shadow was her bodyguard he was her protection yk what I mean who hung out together all the time when they're alone anyway one day at a concert of hers when a group of guys tried to attack the people at the concert and tried to attack her and what was she going to do when shadow wasn't there, she couldn't run away because there were already a lot of people wounded, and suddenly a sword stabbed in behind her, and at that very moment shadow come to the shooting concert..but he was too late. (The man who stabbed reader was sonic and his team btw)

2-yk the comic the hungry hero which is sonic? Okay, I have an excellent second opinion because you can't convince me, that sonic was constantly eating human flesh, especially after Tails died, but after meeting the reader, his desire to eat human flesh increased his desire to eat meat for some reason..was he falling in love with her? but it couldn't have been possible! he couldn't have fallen in love with anyone! He changed his mind until the reader found herself eating human flesh in his house when he intived her and he fell even more in love.

3- Reader and shadow were created for Maria, but Professor Gerald had never paid attention to the reader,maria couldn't convince her grandfather to make reader spend time with her, but the reader was kept in the big glass all the time, and shadow cast doubt on that, After Maria's death, the reader had finally been freed by GUN, she had attack the city which is sonics team and shadow. She had begun to attack the city where the rain and thunder did not stop in the sky...But the color of the sky was mixed with purple and black. Finally, the reader showed herself on top of a large building.. pale skin, purple eyes with light blue pupils, and long, dark violet hair that becomes lighter at the ends,she also has a beauty mark below her right eye.. (The reader a game character named raiden shogun by genshin impact) she said "Inactivity serves no purpose whatsoever." sonics team tried to talk to her but not q moment later they found themselves a dark domain and she was the owner of that domain, she Said "we meet again,shadow." Would he be able to convince her?

project Raiden Ei,her purpose was make people feel safe and loved, after marias death..project failed to save the people and her beloved sister.

forgotten project

WARNING: Violence, emotional conflict, hurt/comfort

PAIRING: Shadow the Hedgehog x Raiden Shogun!Reader

NOTE: You again!! I absolutely love your ideas—thank you so much for trusting me with them again! As for your requests, I’m not super familiar with the first two (though they sound amazing!), but since I’m somewhat familiar with Genshin, I’ll go with the third idea. I know this isn't what you asked for, but instead of "Raiden" I made the reader Y/N. That way if anyone wants to self insert they can. But all of reader describes Raiden!!

SUMMARY: After Maria’s death, you, a forgotten project created alongside Shadow, are freed and seek revenge on the world that failed you. As you lay waste to the city, Shadow steps in, hoping to remind you of your true purpose before it’s too late.

The sky above the city churned violently, dark clouds swirling as rain lashed against the streets below. Thunder boomed in the distance, shaking the windows of the few standing buildings, while purple lightning split the heavens with terrifying force. Chaos reigned in every corner of the city, and in the center of it all stood a figure—cold, unmoved by the destruction that unfolded around her.

You stood on top of the tallest building, the storm your perfect companion as you watched the streets below. Your hair billowed in the wind, the tips glowing faintly as they lightened in color. Your eyes scanned the city as if searching for something—or someone.

“Inactivity serves no purpose whatsoever,” you muttered to yourself, your voice calm despite the chaos. You weren’t here to cause destruction for its own sake, after all. Your purpose was clear: make the people feel safe and loved. But after Maria’s death, that purpose had become twisted, lost in the storm of grief and confusion that overtook you. Your project—your existence—had failed.

And now, you were ready to make them all pay.

Far below, Sonic’s team had gathered, the weight of your presence pressing down on them like a physical force. They’d been trying to contain the damage for hours, but it was clear that this wasn’t just an ordinary disaster.

“What do we do?” Knuckles muttered, scanning the sky as another bolt of lightning flashed overhead. “Who is she?”

Tails shook his head, his eyes wide with worry. “I don’t know, but she’s powerful. We’ve got to find a way to stop her before the entire city gets leveled.”

Shadow stood a little apart from the others, his expression unreadable as he stared up at the building where you stood. Unlike the others, he recognized you immediately, even after all these years. His heart clenched in his chest as memories flooded his mind—memories of you trapped in that glass, forgotten and left behind while he was free to roam the ARK with Maria.

You were a project, just like him. Created for Maria, meant to serve the same purpose: protecting her, keeping those on the ARK safe, loved. But Professor Gerald had never given you the same attention, never let you experience the world outside of that containment. Maria had begged her grandfather to let you out, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

After her death, everything had fallen apart. Shadow had been freed by GUN, but you—had remained trapped, your potential left to fester in the dark.

Until now.

Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles were still trying to reason with you. Sonic stepped forward, holding up a hand, his usual cocky grin tempered with caution. “Hey, look, we get it. You’re upset, but wrecking the city isn’t going to bring anyone back. We can help—”

He didn’t get to finish. The moment Sonic spoke, the entire world around them shifted. The bright city streets, the wreckage, even the rain—all of it was swallowed in darkness. The sky above became a swirling void of black and purple, and the ground beneath their feet felt unreal, like they were standing on the edge of an abyss.

They were in your domain now.

You stood before them, your form as solid as the storm, yet otherworldly in the way you seemed to command the very space around her. You raised a hand, and the air itself trembled with power. “We meet again, Shadow.”

Your voice was colder now, distant, as though you were speaking not just to him, but to the shadow of a past you had long left behind. Shadow stepped forward from the group, his crimson eyes locked on hers. Memories of the ARK flashed through his mind—of Maria, of the years spent protecting her. But you had been kept from all of that, trapped in isolation, your purpose unfulfilled.

And now, here you stood, the embodiment of a failed dream.

“Y/N…” Shadow’s voice was steady, though tension rippled through him. He could feel the power you held, and it was vast—far more than anything he had imagined. “What are you doing? You weren't created to destroy.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly, the storm above rumbling in response. “You speak of purpose as though you understand it, Shadow. But you—just like me—were created to serve. To be a tool. And like me, you were cast aside when you no longer served a purpose.”

Shadow clenched his fists. “That’s not true. Maria—”

“Maria is dead!” Yourr voice cut through the air like a blade, and the entire domain around them shuddered. “I was meant to keep the ARK safe, just as you were. But Professor Gerald never allowed it. I was left to watch from behind glass as you, the favored creation, failed everybody.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, heavy with grief and fury. For so long, you had been nothing but a failed experiment, a project abandoned after the one you were meant to protect was taken from you. And now, in your eyes, the world had to pay for that failure.

Shadow stepped forward, undeterred by the crackling energy that surrounded her. “I didn't fail her. I understand your anger. I understand the loss. But this… this isn’t what Maria would have wanted.”

Your eyes flashed, your hand raising as a bolt of lightning struck the ground between them. The force sent the others reeling, but Shadow stood firm. “I didn't even know Maria as well as you did.,” you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. “You were given the chance to be with her. I was left to rot in that glass prison.”

“I’m not the one you’re angry at,” Shadow said, his voice softening. “It’s not me. It’s not this world. It’s the people who kept us apart. You’re lashing out because you’ve been hurt, but you don’t have to keep doing this.”

Your expression faltered, just for a moment, before the steel returned to your eyes. “It’s too late for that. There’s nothing left for me now. Nothing except this… this power, and the destruction it brings.”

But as you spoke, there was a flicker of doubt in your gaze. Shadow knew that beneath the fury, the pain still lingered. He took a step closer, his voice low. “You don’t have to be alone anymore. I couldn’t save Maria. But maybe I can save you.”

For a long moment, you stood still, your eyes locked on his. The storm above raged on, the dark domain around them swirling with tension, but there was a shift in the air. The anger that had fueled your destruction began to waver, and for the first time, Shadow saw something other than fury in your eyes.

He saw fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of failing again.

And in that moment, something broke.

You lowered you hand, the power that had been crackling around you slowly dissipating. The storm above began to calm, and the purple and black sky started to fade into a dull gray. The domain, you domain, began to unravel, and the familiar cityscape of rain-soaked streets around them.

But you didn’t move. You stood there, your eyes staring at Shadow, as if searching for something—something you hadn’t found in years. “What am I supposed to do now?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rain.

Shadow stepped forward, closing the distance between you. “We can figure that out together. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

The others—Sonic, Tails, Knuckles—watched in silence as the tension in the air finally broke. You, the weapon once created to protect, stood before Shadow, your power still immense but no longer driven by rage. And as the storm slowly died, there was a sense of quiet between you, as though the two of you had finally found some measure of understanding.

For the first time since the fall of the ARK, You weren't alone.

[v88sy]

Lmao but for real. Idk if it's bts drama with Ryan or something but it's getting more and more obvious. Bobby, his captain just died and the guy is just over there offering a cookie to Ravi in these trying times like an extra on set with a blank expression on his face.

I refuse to feel bad for enjoying this situation. Bvddie shippers have made their own bed. I don't like Ryan at all, but even I can admit there's only so much toxicity an actor can take. Buck was at least allowed to exist in his own right in their eyes even if they couldn't stand him canonically dating a man (so much for being LGBT warriors and caring for representation!). But the way they're obsessed with Eddie and try to bring every plot he has back to him being "gay" is exhausting and weird as fuck.

Imagine being an actor and being excited for the storyline your character is getting that season and your fans are just like "we don't care, when are Buck and Eddie going to fuck on screen tho?" Not saying Eddie's plots have always been exciting at all, lord knows they've done some stupid shit with the character, but still. Eddie arguably had the most interesting SL in years while trying to mend his relationship with Chris and they could not have cared less because it meant he was in Texas and not bending over for Buck. I wouldn't blame Ryan if he wants out, if his acting in this ep is any indication, his heart just isn't in it anymore.

I didn't mind Eddie at first, I really didn't. But, it kind of feels like after Shannon died, the writers just...didn't know what to do with him. His entire existence became about grief without any real action to address it or deal with it. I get it, grief never really goes away, but you can't just Fight Club your way out of it either.

I often wonder if the writers intended to write him as insufferable and selfish as they have. He says things to hurt others and never reflects or takes accountability. It's been talked about ad nauseum here, but his friendship with Buck is incredibly one sided. Again, I don't know what's more scary...to think this was all by design...or that it wasn't.

And, since we're just going for it here, Ryandrew Tateman absolutely hasn't done himself any favors here. I know what he did. You know he did. And I wish I could say that was the only thing, or even the most recent.

On a personal note, I've worked in healthcare for 20 years, including the height of covid, so being an anti vaxx/anti covid vaxx is an instant 'fuck off' from me.

And the memes he's been sharing about Pete/Bobby? Salty edgelord.

You make excellent points about anything and everything being boiled down to Gay Eddie™ in some people's minds. Not even bi or demi, or any other shade of queer. It has to be gay, and Buck has to serve as the trad wife self insert surrogate. Which, really makes me question their motives, because it ain't representation. We already got that, and have since day one. Not that they'd ever know.

Look, it's very clear by now that I'm not his biggest fan by a long shot, but it's absolutely disgusting that people want to disregard his body autonomy by saying things like "it doesn't matter what he wants, they're gonna force him to do bddie anyways because it's what the people want".

No, they don't, and honestly, that makes me wonder about your views on consent. The role would involve, at the very least, kissing Oliver, (not that I'd mind myself, but that's another topic for another day) so...yes. It absolutely is his choice, as it should always be when engaging in contact with someone, acting job or not.

And yeah, I'll give it to you that he's probably tired as fuck about being reduced to nothing more than "the guy who absolutely must be gay because *insert harmful stereotype here.*"

And that's in addition to having every. single. interview. harp on the ship that he has said repeatedly that he doesn't want to do, for actually valid reasons, assuming those are the real reasons and he's not just blowing smoke up our ass.

So, yeah, I don't blame him for wanting an out, but I also don't think we should be blamed for wanting to be able to enjoy our show and the fandom as a whole once again.

All that being said...are you trying to put me in jail, katey 😂

[gay-dorito-dust]

could you write something like the reader is taking college classes, but they struggle to keep focus on their studies (ex.: talking to stan, picking at their nails, watching tv, doodling) so ford sits down at the table with them and helps

(this is a major self insert 😭 psychology is gonna be the death of me)

While college had opened up a lot of opportunities for potential career prospects, which was amazing and all, but you had troubles prioritising your studies like you probably should.

The course you’ve taken was one you’d like to pursue as a future career but you couldn’t even find yourself able to focus on what what being said to you. You’d either be more engaged in writing secret notes with Stanley, throwing it across the room to him with the professor has his back to you and vice versa, doodling within the margins of your note book or just doing anything other then paying attention.

Ford noticed all of this and so would carry a secondary notebook on him for you to write down the things that you missed out on via disassociating or other distractions. He knew that you wanted to focus but everything was going against you from doing that and he didn’t blame you.

He just wanted what was best for you and instead of babying you through the entire course, Ford would set up some study sessions to catch you up on bits and pieces when you started to find passing notes to Stan more interesting, instead of progressing through the course. (He’s totally not salty that you were passing notes to his brother and not him. Totally not.)

He makes sure there’s nothing within his room that could cause you distractions, so that you could better focus on your studies with him, which meant that Stan was banned from disturbing you both just to say something stupid and silly. Ford knew there was a time and place for everything, however the constant distractions in your studies had been nothing but the biggest obstacle in your life thus far, and Ford could tell that it was affecting you and wanted to help you however he could.

He had cue cards prepared and somehow he managed to fit a whole paragraphs worth of information within those small cards thanks to his cursive writing…you think he may or may not understand the primary use of cue cards but you were more then happy Ford was going out of his way to make sure you didn’t fall behind in classes. So you didn’t say anything and tried to decipher his cursive handwriting.

He’d even do some double page spread revision pages filled with doodles, highlighting the important aspects of the course, annotations and so much more which only made you appreciate Ford even more when realising just the amount of effort he went through just for you. It was really sweet and you couldn’t help but be touched by everything he had done for you that by the end of the session you gave him a massive hug.

‘What’s all this about?’ He’d ask as he hugs you back wholeheartedly.

‘Just to thank you for helping me study and everything when you didn’t have to.’ You replied as you burrowed your face into his neck.

‘It’s not a problem my dear, I just want you to excel at your college courses, and I know you can’t help in getting distracted but I would advice you to try to the best of your ability.’ Ford said as he rubbed your back soothingly.

‘Like doodling what I see on the board and annotations?’ You asked.

‘Exactly, turn your distractions into a form of studying, anything you see or hear that’s related to the course or future examinations, write them down instead for future reference.’ Ford encourages. You were really happy to have someone like Ford to talk you into taking your distractions and making them beneficial for you and your studies.

‘Thank you Ford.’ You said.

‘It’s not a problem my dear, not at all.’ Ford says in response.

[jokeringcutio]

Art the Clown x Reader (WARNINGS) Halloween smut.

AN: Follow me for more Halloween Reader Inserts. More stories will follow this month.

Drabble. Please read ALL warnings. Pairing: Art the Clown x Reader Rating: Explicit Summary: It is Halloween when you bump into a clown and, embarrassed, apologize. Later that evening, your roommate Meri seems to have invited that very same clown into your house for a bit of fun. But that fun turns quickly into a nightmare.

Warnings: Mention of Murder, Cannibalism, death of a friend, Sexual content, dub-con. Reader is scared of clowns. Implied Virginity/First Time. Mention of Blood. Coulrophobia.

1.

The streetlights cast eerie shadows as you hurried home on Halloween evening, arms laden with bags of candy. It was the right atmosphere for it, you thought. All the shadows seemed longer, and in the dark, the ornaments of the houses seemed to come to life. Pumpkins, fake skeletons… Your heart pounded in your chest, the brisk autumn air chilling you to the bone.

As you turned the corner, you collided with a man dressed as a clown, gasping in shock. His attire immediately sent shivers down your spine; black and white suit divided vertically down the middle, large ruffles at his collar and cuffs. A tiny black hat perched atop a white bald cap, while his face was painted with stark contrasts of black and white makeup. The pointy nose bore a black dot, and his eyes were as dark as the abyss.

"Sorry, I didn't see you," you stammered, feeling your pulse race. As if it wasn’t bad enough that you accidentally walked into someone, he had to be dressed as a clown. And you had an irrational fear of clowns. You could not help but tremble and blush in embarrassment. Come on, you thought to yourself, it’s just a grown-up man wearing a costume. Clowns are supposed to be funny. Don’t be so scared.

Art the Clown stared at you silently, unblinking. It was unnerving, but you thought he took offense to the way you had reacted to his outfit. He probably had spent a lot of time getting dressed up, you thought, when you saw all the makeup he wore. And when people put a lot of effort into their costumes and looks, they want to be complimented. Not for some stranger to freak out and insult all of their hard work.

"I-I have coulrophobia,” you stammered, trying to explain your weird reaction to him. God, this was all so embarrassing. You wished you could just fade away. “I'm scared of clowns."

He tilted his head, a cruel smile forming on his painted lips. Nope, that definitely freaked you out again. You had to force a smile on your own, praying he did not see how much effort it took you to be kind and polite to him.

"Nice costume, though," you whispered while you let your eyes rove over his form shortly, just enough to note once again how oddly this man was dressed. Most clowns you met were colorful. But this one, he was grim. A true horror clown, you realized. He fits the theme of Halloween excellently.

“You’re going to enjoy yourself tonight,” you shyly mumbled, embarrassed by the entire encounter. You couldn’t wait to get away. Clutching the candy closer to your chest, you quickly bid him a good evening before stepping away from him and resuming your hurried pace toward home.

You felt the man’s eyes stare at your back until you rounded the corner.

2.

A few hours had passed and children from all over the neighborhood came trick-or-treating at the door. Their laughter and excited chatter filled the air. You glanced at the clock. Just one more hour before the party started. Meri, your roommate, was already wearing a nice blue dress with a  very short skirt. Deliberately. You knew she wanted to score tonight. Meri was like that, always eager for a nice time with a willing man.

You glanced down at yourself. You hadn’t really had the time to come up with something nice, but you knew that Meri had more than enough dresses in her closet. You’d borrowed some of her before.

“Yeah, you can borrow one of mine again,” you heard Meri say, and when you looked up you caught her looking at you with a grin.

“As if you can read thoughts,” you whispered, earning a chuckle from your friend.

“I can and I am damn good at it,” Meri said. “I have a pretty red one that would fit you well. Show a bit of cleavage,” she winked at you. “Can’t do no harm.” She turned around and beckoned you to follow her to her room. Once inside, she took the dress out of her closet and showed it to you. You chewed your lip worriedly.

“I don’t know,” you said, earnestly concerned about how revealing that dress actually was. Then your eye fell upon a dress you had borrowed from her before. “Can’t I just take the green one?”

Meri rolled her eyes. “God, no. You definitely need some action, babe. This dress will give you that. I guarantee it.” She thrust the dress into your hands and started to push you towards the door. “Go on, get changed.”

You were about to protest when the doorbell rang and you could hear kids shouting "trick or treat!" from beyond the door.

“I’ll get that,” Meri said with a wink. She smiled warmly at you while she made her way to the door. “Now go get changed, princess. I can’t go to the party with you dressed like that.”

You glanced down at yourself to see what she meant by that. Comfy pants, a baggy shirt, wintery socks. All right, you did not look like any of those women in the magazines. She had a point. With a sigh of defeat, you turned around to head to your own room.

But that was when an idea hit you.

Meri was answering the door. You could quickly slip into her room and pick up the green dress. It would only take a second.

Seizing the opportunity, you slipped into her bedroom, rummaging through her closet where you’d seen the dress you wanted to wear. With a bright smile, you found it. But just as your hand landed on the desired green dress, the sound of Meri's voice reached your ears. “Come in, thing. We can have a bit of fun in my room.”

You froze. The sound of footsteps heading your way made your heart leap into your throat. Had she invited someone in? By the sound of it, she was not alone.

Panicking, you dove into her wardrobe, the scent of her perfume enveloping you as you hid among her clothes.

Your breath hitched as Meri entered the room, the wardrobe door cracked open just enough for you to peek out.  “Come on in, sweetheart,” Meri playfully said. You saw her beckon someone who was still on the other side of the threshold. Meri was horny, there was no doubt. You knew she had been so for a while now, hence why she insisted on going to the party tonight. But apparently, someone had come and offered himself willingly at your door. A friend? Someone you knew? Steve again? He would sometimes come around. Or Will?

But when Meri turned around, that excited smile still on her lips, you could finally see the man who wished to follow her into the bedroom. An oversized shoe appeared over the threshold, followed by a suit that was half black and half white.

The evening's events played like a twisted nightmare in your head, the clown’s haunting smile refused to leave your thoughts. It was him though. He was dressed exactly as before: black and white suit, pointy nose, black eyes that held a malicious glint. Fear gripped you, but curiosity kept you from fleeing. Was Meri actually going to have sex with this stranger?

Peeking through the crack in the wardrobe, you saw Meri lead Art the Clown into her bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Quite the costume," Meri purred, running her fingers over his ruffled collar. "I like a man who knows how to stand out."

She didn't seem to care about his silence, only growing bolder in her advances. The stranger sat himself on the edge of her bed and Meri purred again. You wanted to roll your eyes at the show she made. Slowly, she began to undress, exposing more and more of her flawless skin. Meri was beautiful like that. It had often irked you how easily some things came to her, simply because of her looks.

Meri moved her hips alluringly from side to side, unhooking her bra like a stripper before she let it drop to the floor. Her fingers pressed against her breasts, pushing them closer together while she let out a moan. Art's gaze never wavered, locked onto her every movement. Then she shimmied her panties down her hips, slowly stepping out of them.

"Want a taste?" Meri asked, lying back on the bed and spreading her legs. Your breath caught in your throat as Art moved closer, kneeling between her thighs. One bandaged hand was placed on her naked thigh. You could have questioned why the man remained in his costume, but you didn’t. Instead, you felt your breath hitch in your throat at the sight. Sensual, you thought. You felt your own body respond, slick gathering between your folds unbiddenly. And yet, you could not tear your gaze away.

The clown’s tongue darted out. You could see the pink coming from between the black of his lips. A slurping wet noise. "Y-yeah, just like that," Meri moaned, arching her back as he went down on her. Another slurp, another moan, another spark of arousal down your core. You pressed your legs shut, a hand firmly against your lower abdomen. You shouldn’t respond to this. You shouldn’t. "God, you're so good with your mouth," Meri gasped.

The clown gave no reaction. He continued to lick and slurp, his fingers folding Meri’s pussy lips aside so his mouth could easily reach her pearl. He was sipping, slurping, licking, and nipping and you could not tear your eyes away. It was a mesmerizing sight. Meri’s hand found his scalp, pressing him even deeper between her legs. He licked her now. Long, languid licks.

Meri shuddered in ecstasy, but after a few moments of the same, she started to catch her breath again. "Too bad my roommate isn't like this," Meri murmured, but you could hear it. "She's such a wallflower, probably never even had sex. Scared of it, I'd bet." You felt your face flush with shame, wondering if she knew you were hiding there, listening to her words.

“That’s it, baby,” Meri panted, the hand between her legs bobbing up and down faster now. “That’s it, make me cum.” The clown was working his magic apparently, because Meri threw her head back, lost in pleasure.

You bit your lip and clutched the green dress closer against your chest. You didn’t want to watch, knew it was supposed to be a private moment. But curiosity got the better of you, for Meri was right. You weren’t like her. You weren’t-

Suddenly, Meri screamed, her hands started clawing at the sheets. Her eyes turned wide, bulging, the screeching sounds of her screams were painful to your ears. It took you a moment to realize what you saw. The clown’s head kept bobbing up and down between Meri’s legs, but something was wrong now.

Those dreadful black-painted lips no longer glistened with fluids of passion, you realized with a shock. Instead, a darker liquid streamed down the man’s chin, and something large and chunky was caught between his teeth. Your eyes widened in horror as you realized Art was no longer merely pleasuring her.  He was literally devouring her, tearing into her flesh with his teeth. Panic surged through you, but you couldn't look away. Your hands itched for your phone, to call 911, but you had left it in your room.

All you could do was watch. Watch and listen and pray.

3.

Darkness surrounded the place. All you heard was your own heavy breathing, like a drum announcing a war. Your ears hurt, your throat was dry, your body felt numb. A horrible stench reached your nostrils.

It was over, had been so for possibly hours. You could not tell. You had not dared to move in case the clown had not left the house yet. But you had heard the door ages ago. Yet fear had kept you frozen.

An eerie silence filled the room. You stayed hidden in the wardrobe, paralyzed by terror until you were sure the clown must have left. Logic told you that you could not stay here forever. Shaking and weak-kneed, you slipped out of your hiding place.

Moving as silently as possible, you tiptoed through the dimly lit apartment, avoiding the gruesome scene in Meri's room. Whatever was left of her - and it wasn’t much – had dripped all over the bedroom walls and floor. Her bed was drenched in blood. All you wanted was to get your phone and call for help – you couldn't bear to look at whatever was left of your friend.

The door to your bedroom creaked open, and you stepped inside, the scent of lavender from your bedsheets a faint comfort in the midst of chaos. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for your phone. Hadn’t you left it on your nightstand? You felt around in the dark but found nothing. And so, with trembling fingers, you flicked on the light switch.

You looked at the nightstand first, but your phone was nowhere to be seen. Strange, you thought, and with a frown, you turned around. You’d closed the door upon entering, and it still was. But there was something odd about the shape of the shadow you saw that fell on it. Almost as if you had grown larger all of a sudden.

With eyes wide, you very slowly turned back to your nightstand. It was just as you had feared. There he stood, Art the Clown, grinning maliciously as he waved your phone in the air. Fear clawed at your throat, leaving you unable to scream or move. His black eyes bore into you, holding you captive.

"Please," you whispered, voice barely audible, "don't hurt me."

He didn't respond, his silence more chilling than any words could be. In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, overpowering you with ease. He threw you onto the bed, his bony fingers digging into your flesh, betraying his inhuman strength.

"Stop," you choked out, but he continued, undeterred. His fingers ran down your body nimbly as he tore off your clothes. Piece by piece. You heard the fabric rip and tear and had to squeeze your eyes shut. The sound reminded you too much of earlier. Of her. Your friend.

You hardly noticed how swiftly he had you exposed and vulnerable beneath him. Not until a cold puff of air made your nipples peak and you finally looked.

Pitch-black eyes bore into yours and you had to bite back a cry of fear. His face was very close to your own, hovering over yours. From this close, you could see the black paint around his eyes and lips, how there wasn’t a single crack in the white surrounding it. With a shock, you realized his teeth were a rotten color. Black, brown. But they weren’t ordinary teeth. As he grinned at you, you saw that something about his mouth was wrong.

Scary thoughts clouded your mind. Would he tear his teeth into your flesh like he had done with Meri? Would he torture you too? You forced yourself not to think back to any of it. Not to the pleasure you had felt at first, or the fear after, or the helplessness.

You became aware of the sound of fabric rustling and followed his movements with your eyes. His arm moved, his hand was doing something down below. Your eyes came to rest just below his abdomen. You had not thought his suit could open there, but it could. Something large and pale popped out of its confines. Flesh, you thought alarmed. Hard and large. Veins throbbed, purple and black. The head spilled a droplet of something white. Pre-cum.

This was his cock? This monstrously large cock was to fit inside of you?

Your mouth had been dry before, but it became impossible to swallow as you watched the clown position himself between your legs. You wanted to protest, say no, push him away. Your hands were upon his chest without thinking, but he was stronger than you. You stood no chance.

“No, please,” you gasped while he fumbled with his cock at your entrance. He looked down at himself as he tried to position himself and seemed annoyed when he couldn’t find your entrance. You felt the leaky head brush past your folds a few times and panicked. Your heart beat faster and your chest heaved rapidly.

“Please,” you begged again, your hands still pushing against his shoulders – to no avail. Then, you felt it. The head nudged against your entrance, parting your walls ever so slightly. But he had noticed it as well. Art’s sour expression made room for a smile as if he was relieved. His eyes darted up to meet yours again, silently telling you that this was going to be fun.

“It won’t fit,” you pleaded weakly, but your whispered words ended in a silent gasp when Art thrust forth, burying his large cock inside your deep warmth in one go. Too much. Your back arched, pressing your body up against his. Your naked breasts brushed past the coarse fabric of his suit. You didn’t care at this point that his clothes were riddled with spots of blood. Everything was focused on the feel of his shaft deep inside of you, hitting the depth of you mercilessly with a blunt thrust.

You gasped silently - as if the clown had ripped your voice away and had rendered you mute. Blood covered his shaft as he pulled out, making him smile even wider. Was that yours? You were pleading silently for this nightmare to end. But as he thrust inside of you, a shameful warmth began to spread through your body. Despite the terror, you found yourself responding to his touch, your heart racing for reasons other than fear. With your hands you tried to claw at him while his hands circled your hips, getting a good grip on your flesh before he started pounding into you in a steady rhythm.

That awful grin of his never seemed to leave his face. Not while he was treating you like a nice piece of meat, slapping your ass while he thrust inside of you. You could see his wicked teeth - black and brown and yellow - and had to force yourself not to think of what his mouth could do. His hips slapped against yours, hipbones prodding against your softer flesh. He was lean and nimble, but the grip he had on you with his hands was fierce and unyielding, certain to leave bruises.

A low moan threatened to spill from your lips and you rolled your head from side to side. What was he doing to you? The clown’s pointy chin brushed past your clavicle as he dipped his head forward, and then you felt his teeth brush past your skin. Scared that he would take a bite and tear out your flesh, you tried to arch your back away from him, but felt him respond by intensifying his grip and pushing you back down. As a response, you had earned a deep harsh thrust with his hips, feeling the head of his cock batter your cervix cruelly.

With each stroke deep inside, you felt your pussy lubricate the way for him. You felt your body respond to his wicked touch. Each slap against your ass had your walls squeeze down on him hard. Each thrust deep inside your core seemed to hit a delicious spot that made you see stars.

Breathlessly, you allowed him to rut inside of you, unable to stop him and unable to so much as make a sound while he pounded you into oblivion. You were helpless against the pleasure that threatened to consume you. He moved relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

It didn't make sense – how could you enjoy this? Was there something wrong with you?

A few times you tried to close your eyes, but a slap to your cheek had you open them again to gaze up into the black depths of hell. His devilish smile was above you at all times, grinning down, reminding you of the pleasure he derived from your body. And the pleasure he gave you in turn. Sickening as it was, the demonic man above you managed to bring forth feelings that made your body tremble in agonizing pleasure.

When you came, your walls clamped down hard upon his shaft, milking him in a silent plea for more. You bit your lip from crying out. No way you’d show him that you enjoyed this. You wouldn’t give him the pleasure of your moans.

The silence made the wet sounds only seem louder. Wet thrusts of his cock as he slammed it inside of you hard, despite your walls milking him for all you were worth. Noises of sin, of pleasure, of lust. And then, as he finished inside of you, a shudder ran through your body, your climax tearing through you like a wildfire.

You were still biting your lip, aware it must be bleeding by now, but you’d be damned if you so much as would let him hear your passion. You glanced up at him. The wicked clown’s smile had disappeared. In its stead, you now saw a pensive, almost endearing look in his eyes, as he cocked his head and seemed to study you.

A calloused finger tilted your head back, revealing your throat to him while you looked back at him through half-lidded eyes. He tilted his head to the other side again, dick still twitching inside of your tight cunt, and seemed to study the tears in your eyes. You hadn’t noticed they had formed there. Would have wanted to say they were out of fear or sadness, rather than the harsh truth that they were out of pleasure.

With bated breath, you waited for what he was to do next. Would he kill you now, you wondered? The clown moved, his cock slipping from your core limply, leaving behind a trail of dark blood and yellowish cum.

He surprised you by moving forward, leaning on his elbows, as he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead in a twisted mockery of tenderness. The contrast between his sadistic actions and this tender gesture only served to confuse you further.

You squeezed your eyes shut, thinking that surely this would be it. But the rustle of fabric against the bed indicated that he moved away. You waited and listened, heart beating wildly in your chest. But there was only the sound of another rustle. Plastic?

Curious, you opened your eyes to find Art standing several feet away. Picking up a garbage bag you hadn't noticed before, Art slung it over his shoulder and made his way to the window. Not the door, you noted. But the window. How odd?

He opened it. The sound of the window sent a shiver down your spine as you lay on the bed, watching the clown swing one leg over the edge and step outside. He turned around to face you. His black eyes glinted demonically in the darkness of the night – like little coals of fire. And then his smile returned once more. Seeing it, seeing him like that, made something twist deep inside of you.

And still, no sound could come forth from between your lips. The only thing you noticed was how warm your pussy felt at the sight of him, how your nipples peeked, and how your walls clamped down around his phantom cock, craving the real thing to be returned to you.

With a final, silent laugh, he blew you a kiss before disappearing into the night, leaving you alone in the aftermath of your orgasm, mind racing with a thousand unanswerable questions. ~ Fin ~

AN: Hope you enjoyed it :) ♡ Support me on Ko-Fi ♡ Love you all