#unity button start

[moonstruckme]

Who's That Girl

summary: after Peter moves out due to unspecified reasons suddenly, the marauders have a room to fill. Luckily, you've just arrived in the UK and are happy to sign the lease

cw: modern au, reader has a mother/maternal figure

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Okay, mom.” You rub your eyes, arm still sore from lugging your suitcase around half of London. “No, I really don’t think so. It’d be a pretty elaborate scheme just to kill me. Our names are all together on the lease, there’d be a paper trail.” 

There’s a quiet snicker from the doorway. You look over to find James, one of your new roommates, standing in the threshold of your room. You grimace, miming waving your mother’s concerns away. 

“Seriously, you don’t have to worry, I—fine, here. Listen.” You put your hand over the speaker. “I’m so sorry about this,” you tell James. “Can you tell her you’re not going to murder me, please?” 

“Why would we murder you?” he asks in an easy, jovial voice. It’s the sort of voice moms love, which is perfect for what you need right now. “We need you alive to pay rent, and anyway we’ve nowhere to hide a body. They started being rather vigilant about the Thames some time ago.” 

“He’s joking,” you say quickly into the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure. They do that here, too. Now will you please go to sleep? I’m good, I promise. Okay, call you later. Love you.” 

You click the button to hang up with a sigh, dropping back onto your mattress. 

“Your mum?” James asks sympathetically. 

You hum. “Yeah, sorry. It’s four in the morning for her right now, and she’s all wound up. I appreciate the help.” 

Despite your best efforts, you can’t seem to convince your body it’s not four in the morning for you right now. You thought taking the red eye to London would help you adjust quickly to the time change, but a sleepless flight has only made you weary and disoriented. You screwed up the route from the airport to your new flat, realizing only around Richmond that you’d gone the complete wrong direction on the wrong tube line. It took you a solid hour longer to get to your flat than you planned. When you saw Sirius, who’d posted the flat in an online roommates group, waiting on the other side of the door you nearly collapsed into his arms in teary gratitude. 

With the haze of fatigue still clouding your thinking, it takes you a few moments to wonder why James has come to stand in your room. 

“Did you need something?” 

“I was just wondering if you might like breakfast,” he says. His big frame fills the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame like it’s a familiar stance. 

You try to hide your wariness, your mind filling with images of black pudding and beans smeared on toast. “What are you having?” 

“Omelets.” 

“Yes, please.” You hop out of bed. It’s less bouncy than lurching, but you’re trying to affect vivacity in the hopes you eventually start to feel it. 

James leads you towards the kitchen. Your room, you discovered when you arrived, is even duller than the pictures online. The previous tenant either hadn’t decorated at all or had moved out in a hurry, leaving only a bed and some trash on the floor. The room is small, with peeling white paint and a tiny window situated oddly in the corner, the scraggly tree outside eclipsing half of the view. 

The rest of the flat is a different thing entirely. The common spaces are mostly open; you can see the kitchen from the living room, with everything lit by two large windows looking out onto the street. There’s a funny mishmash of decorations, some pieces hinting at unity and others not so the way it all comes together seems almost like a happy accident. A nice, plush couch sits next to a chair that looks like it was dragged in off the street; there are books stacked against walls and album covers being used for coasters; a collection of vinyl records sits on the mantle next to a bluetooth speaker and above stockings seemingly left out since Christmas. It’s definitely a space decorated by boys, but you like it. It feels homey. 

“My mum would be in a right state if I up and moved continents,” says James, walking into the kitchen. He takes up position behind the stove, next to where Remus is making tea. “Is it the city she’s worried about?” 

“It’s everything,” you admit, lingering awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. You don’t want to be in the way. “It’s the city, it’s the male roommates, it’s the Facebook post she saw about muggings…” 

“Flatmates,” Sirius corrects you from the kitchen table. “We’re not roommates, we don’t share a room. Maybe you ought to clarify that, might calm her down a bit.” 

“Flatmates,” you amend. “She does not like that I have guy flatmates. Can I help?” 

“Don’t,” says Sirius. “Remus is a control freak in the kitchen. Real finicky.” 

“I’m not finicky.” Somehow, you can tell Remus is rolling his eyes even without him turning it around. 

“You nearly took my head off over the way I cook chicken last week.” 

“The way you cook chicken nearly burned down the flat.” 

“Y/n,” Sirius says, seriously, “do as I do.” He pats the seat next to him at the table. 

You glance at James hesitantly, but he waves you off. When you join Sirius in sitting down, you forget to suppress the sigh that collapses out of you. 

Sirius tuts. “Jet lagged?” 

Lag feels too kind a word for what your body is doing to you. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna take a nap after this.” 

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says. “I’ve done the whole international travel thing—” 

“You’ve been to France,” says Remus drolly. “The time difference is an hour.” 

“—and it really is best to just push through,” Sirius finishes as though the interruption went unheard. “You’ll only make matters worse for yourself if you sleep now and then can’t tonight.” 

You hate how sound his logic seems. The idea of waiting at least ten hours to put your head to a pillow makes you want to cry. 

“So,” James says brightly, “what doesn’t your mum like about you having guys for flatmates?” 

Perhaps it can be chalked up to exhaustion that you have so little control over the expression that crosses your face. Luckily, James is too concentrated on his omelet to see it, but Remus isn’t; he grins at you. 

“She doesn’t really love the idea of me having roommates at all. Flatmates,” you correct yourself when Sirius gives you a look. “I think because you’re guys, she just sees it as even less safe. Don’t take it personally. Oh, thank you.” 

You accept the mug of tea Remus sets in front of you. Sirius has one already half drunk in front of him, and Remus sits down with his own, taking a long sip like it’s the most relished part of his morning. You look into the brown, half-opaque liquid skeptically. 

“Has she been this upset since you decided to live with us?” Remus asks. 

“Oh, um.” You bob your teabag aimlessly, twisting the string around your finger. “I…sort of assumed she would be. That’s why I didn’t tell her until now.” 

You don’t have to take your attention off your tea to feel the stares of all three boys snap to you. 

“You didn’t tell her?” James asks, incredulous. 

“I didn’t want to give her the chance to argue with me about it.” 

“Asking for forgiveness instead of permission.” Sirius nods approvingly, picking up his mug for a sip. “Knew I liked you.” 

James appears in distress. “Your mum’s gonna hate us!” 

“Don’t mind him,” says Remus. “He’s used to all mothers fawning over him.” 

“Not mine,” Sirius objects happily. 

“She’s across the ocean, if that helps,” you tell James. 

“I can feel her hatred crossing borders,” he says, expression growing increasingly fretful. 

“Well, all you have to do is not murder me,” you offer, “and she’ll see that she’s wrong.” 

Sirius gives an insouciant shrug. “Pay your rent on time, and we ought to be fine there. No promises, of course.”

[rafesbowbunny]

hi sweetheart ♡ could you write something with like mean-stepsis!reader & sub-stepbro!rafe? maybe they could be at a family dinner, she’s palming (or jerking) him off underneath the table and edging him while acting all casual, pretending absolutely nothing is going on. i love your work!!

oh i loooove this & uuuu. tysm ml !! <3

req! 𝜗𝜚 mean-stepsis!reader loves teasing sub-stepbro!rafe, but especially publicly

c!w; mdni !! step-cest, desperate sub!rafe, mean/dom!reader, teasing, edging, public masturbation sorta, handjob, rafe cums in his pants tehe. notes; first ever ask !! yaayy, i had sm fun writing this actually who knew i liked sub!rafe sm <333

to celebrate the family's recent unity, ward wanted to have a huge family dinner. no one was really thrilled but ward and your mom, his new wife. it had been a while since the wedding and you and rafe had found yourselves... getting to know each other, often.

actually right before the dinner had begun, you and rafe had been in his room, his hips snapping against you as he drove his cock deep into your weeping hole, kissing your cervix. you'd already came a few times but rafe was just about to spill into you when ward called from downstairs. the two of you hurriedly gotten re-dressed for dinner and come down as if you hadn't even seen each other all day.

now the whole family was sat around this huge expensive dining room table your mother had gotten as a wedding gift, it was ugly. extravagantly so. you and rafe were seated next to each other and after a while you could tell his cock was still aching in his pants. the way your incredibly short white dress would ride up drove him insane, and he had been peaking at your thighs hoping for a glance of your sweet pussy, he knew you hadn't bothered to put your panties back on earlier.

you grinned when he caught you looking at his bulge, it was huge and unforgiving the way it so obviously rose out of his pants. his cheeks went flush, and he kept trying to re-adjust his cock but all he was doing was creating more and more friction that kept the boner up.

everyone was immersed in conversation, too busy to notice you sneaking your hand over to your step brother's lap. his eyes went wide when you started stroking the bulge through his pants. he had to stop himself from groaning at how good the feeling of your dainty hand felt on his throbbing cock.

after a few painful minutes, reality hit him like a truck, you were sitting eating dinner together. family dinner. your hand was on his cock at family dinner. he gently put one hand over yours, looking at you with nervous eyes, you could see him begging for a release but also knew he was scared of coming undone at the dining room table.

a wicked smile spread across your lips and you just swatted his hand away, he let you, swallowing hard. your hand now slid over his cock again, rough, and you found the button and zipper of his khakis.

he clenched his jaw, feeling exactly what you were doing and had to grip the table without anyone noticing to compose himself when you slowly dragged the zipper down. you knew it would be painful now, having a boner this hard for this long, but you didn't care. you loved to watch him writhe beneath your touch.

you rolled his cock under your palm again, slowly but making sure to give extra attention to his red tip, pre-cum had already seeped through his boxers. he grabbed at your wrist and let out a little whimper, turning his head away from the table and towards you, hoping no one would notice. heat pooling in your lower stomach at the sound.

you started testing how close he was, tapping at his tip, he twitched with every tiny touch, giving you a desperate look with his eyebrows permanently cinched together. you couldn't tell if he was begging you to stop or begging you to let him cum, he couldn't either.

after toying with his clothed cock for a while, you drew your hand back with a grin, getting into a conversation with ward about wanting to learn how to handle the druthers. rafe couldn't believe you'd leave him like that, he started trying to adjust himself again, but to no avail. only after the slightly long conversation had ended and ward wasn't paying attention to you did you look at rafe again. he was in agony.

his hips were ever so slightly bucking every few breaths, a stressed hand ran through his hair, slightly greasy from sweat. your hand snaked into his lap again and his eyes lit up, but you didnt do anything. just sat your hand on top of his swollen cock, grinning.

he just stared at you as you looked forward, eating politely. when you finally met his eyes again he mouthed a little 'please', the word coming out in a very soft whisper. your tongue darted out at your lips, he was begging now.

in a swift movement your once resting hand pulled his aching dick from his boxers, and you were now slowly jerking him off. his hips were instinctively bucking at every movement, a small giggle left your lips and you could hear him heavily breathe out in exasperation.

finally you thought you might as well give him the satisfaction after so long, the way one of his hands was desperately holding your wrist as you played with his cock was too convincing. knowing what would happen, you pull his boxers back over his cock but start jerking him off vigorously. he moaned into his hand, eventually biting down on his wrist to suppress his pleasure when he finally came. thick white cum coating his lap, even going through his boxers and onto your hand a little.

you smirk at him as his eyes go wide, alarm bells ringing in his head. with all the cum on your hand everywhere you pretended to drop a napkin, leaning down to pick it up. you made sure rafe was watching when you licked your hand clean, even dragging your fingers over his lap to lick up whatever else you could.

"good boy" you cooed, he got impossibly hard all over again.

[thewickedjazzy]

Level 3: “Stay Still!” [Dry humping] for Kinktober.

⤷⊹₊fyodor d. x afab! reader.

⊹₊Synopsis: it's your own roman empire, where you and fyodor continually indulge in lust-fueled escapades during important meetings.

⊹₊Warning: ņsfw, mdni, smųt, dry humping, agoraphilia, risky sex/secret sex, orgasm control, praise kink..etc.

⊹₊Word count & a/n: 1k, animated lines by @/cafekitsune. this was a very fun level to write honestly, a sweet thank you to bb rem @remlionheart for beta reading, ilysm<3

“stay quiet, дорогая (dear). if they notice, i’ll stop, and you wouldn’t want that, right?”

that might be the last coherent thing you hear before fyodor starts his meeting with nikolai and sigma. you’re face-down on the cold, rough metallic table, wobbling body pressed between him and the edge, feeling a familiar, simmering need flooding through your senses. three agonising months of work have kept him busy, and you’ve missed him terribly. so, if this is the closest you can get to feeling him? then fucking be it.

you grind your bare folds against his clothed bulge, the friction sending your whole body numb with pleasure. it feels too good, almost overwhelming, and you can’t hold back the quiet whine that escapes your lips.

“...we'll need a distraction, something to divert their attention while nikolai can execute our plan.” the russian states calmly as if your pussy is not soaking the hell out of the fabric of his trousers at this very moment. honestly, you can't fathom how he maintains such composure while you squirm beneath him, desperately trying to stretch out the pleasure that’s building quickly in your lower belly. maybe you can hold out until the meeting is over.

you’re doing your utmost to hang in there.

“the weretiger is an easy target...”nikolai exclaims, on the other hand, sigma is already rolling his eyes in boredom, clearly frustrated that they still haven’t addressed his casino issues yet.

you squeeze your eyes shut trying to drown out their conversation, focusing solely on the one command fyodor has given you: “don’t cum until I say so.”

such a cruel man he is. why? because he's slowly grinding his hips back against you, he knows that you're desperately close, it's in his nature to push all the right buttons, only to leave you mourning the loss of his touch afterwards.

you do your best to stifle a moan, but a soft whimper slips past your lips instead.

his slender fingers tighten in your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his devilish gaze as he shoots you a warning glance, seeing you nod obediently, trying to stifle the needy whimpers that escape as you force yourself to slow down, biting your lip to keep quiet.

“their unity is what gives them strength; without it, they're weak,” fyodor continues, his left hand tightens around your hips, guiding your rhythm with maddening control, while his other hand slides down to tease your aching clit, circling it with deliciously slow, torturous strokes.

your eyes roll back, vision blurring from the overwhelming pleasure, and you’re caught between trembling restraint and the impossible need to let go. fuckーhow can he expect you to hold back when he’s sinfully pleasuring you like this?

It's been half an hour, and you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out. an aching need swells within you as you clutch his hand, fingers intertwining with his, silently begging him to quicken his pace, desperately craving that sweet, sweet release that feels just out of reach.

once the russian has his mind set on something, no amount of begging, sweet words, or tears will sway him. his long, pale fingers slip between your folds, thumb tracing lazy circles over your clit hood to add to your mounting pleasure and you can’t help but roll your hips against him, grinding harder with each passing second. you're acutely aware of the risk that his body might jolt, drawing the unwanted attention of his oblivious subordinates.

you can't hold back anymore, the pleasure has woven itself tightly within you, each pulse layered like bricks in a tower that only fyodor’s permission keeps standing, until the same bricks of bliss snap at the base of your spine once his hand, which had been gripping your hair, taps against the cold metal table twice.

it’s the sign you’ve been begging the heavens for. you're now rolling your hips faster against his hard cock, finally riding out your long-awaited release—jaw slack, eyes rolled back, a trace of drool slipping from your parted lips as you soak his fabric, bliss coursing through you like the light of a thousand stars from the milky way.

as you shudder in ecstasy, the three of his fingers continue bullying your swelling clit—coaxing you through the rest of your release as he draws sharp shapes on the puffy nub.

“that’s it, my love keep that orgasm going for me.” he leans down out of the camera's field to pressing searing kisses to the nape of your neck.

ironically, the meeting continues, oblivious to your plight.

nikolai’s enthusiastic breaks through your sweet bliss. “...and that’s how i’ll handle the weretiger situation.”

while sigma rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “can we move on? i still need to discuss my casino issues.”

clearing his throat, fyodor straightens up, his trademark icy professionalism settling back into place once more. “then let’s wrap this up. we’ll reconvene later to finalise the plan.”

you try to regain your composure, still feeling the aftershocks of erotic pleasure, as the meeting draws to a close. fyodor casts you a sidelong glance with a small loving smirk as he adds, “i trust everyone will stay focused now.”

frankly, you can’t shake the feeling that your relationship won’t stay a secret for much longer. especially given how risky you both are being by engaging in sexually-driven activities like this.

TAGS: @a-smol-bean @violetbutterflix @amanoava @falloutjuli @embersweapons @warriordemigosworld @cathias @v15aexe @vasarii @pe4rl-diver @sukidenks @dazaifavbandage @chuuminn @fyodorsprettynun @ace-0fspades69 @irasamu @trippyserval @alyszuha @bittysuguru @writingandmusing @corruptedwrathkitsune @thedamselzelda @fyodorssimp1 @vikkinakahara @laylabuurr @perlaslibrary

[iyunia]

A sketch of Kuras from Touchstarved. I’m not really happy with it but in my defence, I had to finish it with the “eraser” end of the stylus because the nib suddenly stopped reacting to anything other than maximum pressure. In better news, I managed to run the game on my phone.

On Android devices with Adreno GPUs, Winlator does the job. It took me a little over a week to figure this out because I may have damaged the game’s files somehow (redownloading it fixed everything), so I was on a goose chase looking for solutions to a problem that wasn’t real. I’m so done...

There are a few things you need to know before you download Winlator.

Is Winlator safe?

In version 10.0 (Hotfix), some internal programs were recompiled to address reports of a TestD3D.exe being infected with a floxif virus. There is no floxif in the VirusTotal results for the new TestD3D. While they show trojans now, threat labels look like false positives which seem common for Wine binaries. It could partially be because of vendors’ use of AI: when I transferred Winlator’s internal files to a PC and scanned them in Malwarebytes with AI detection off, TestD3D wasn’t flagged. The AV still suspected just about every .exe there (all generic Malware.Sandbox.1; it reacted the same to MiceWine’s). On the other hand, nothing at all was flagged by ESET. In the end, download at your own discretion.

Is my device supported?

Depends on the GPU. If yours is an Adreno, then most likely yes. There is a list for supported and unsupported Mali ones. Also, Touchstarved requires DirectX 10 while Mali GPUs generally cooperate only with DirectX 9 or below. The developer added some workarounds in version 10.1 that might work for you.

Why not use another emulator?

Here’s a fun thing about trying to run Touchstarved on Android: I’m 99% sure that the transition to the splash screen (the one with ‘press any button’) is a video file because of GStreamer-related errors I got in Winlator. Compatibility tools that are not able to play it don’t let you access the rest of the game: in MiceWine, Mobox, DarkOS, and GameSir GameHub, the music was there but the screen remained black after the Unity logo. It didn’t matter what components’ versions or presets were used. Termux-based tools didn’t care what packages I installed. I don’t know what it is that makes Touchstarved work in Winlator.

How to use Winlator?

Download the Windows release of Touchstarved.

Download and install Winlator (I used 10.0). Grant it storage permissions when prompted.

Create a new container (‘⋮≡’ → Containers → ‘+’). If you have an Adreno GPU, change the graphic driver it uses to Turnip, otherwise you’ll get a ‘Failed to initialize player’ error when trying to run Touchstarved.

When the container is created, start it and wait for a bit for the file explorer to open. From there, navigate to the archive. It should be in drive D.

Extract the archive by “right clicking” it (keep one finger on screen while short tapping with another) and selecting 7-zip → Extract to Folder in the menu.

Navigate to TOUCHSTARVED.exe. I recommend you create a shortcut before running it (Right click → Create Shortcut).

I followed ZeroKimchi’s advice and used a Box64 preset with BOX64_DYNAREC_CALLRET off (I’m pretty sure you can just set it to 0 in Shortcuts → ‘⋮’ → Settings → Environment Variables). I also put ‘-force-gfx-direct -force-d3d11-singlethread’ in Exec Arguments (Shortcuts → ‘⋮’ → Settings → Advanced) just in case.

How to open a keyboard inside the container?

Swipe from the left side of the screen to right. A menu with an option to bring up a keyboard will open.

How to prevent the game from crashing?

Where are the save files stored? 

From the built-in explorer, the same as in Windows: ‘C:/users/xuser/AppData/LocalLow/Red Spring Studio/TOUCHSTARVED/NaninovelData/TouchstarvedSaves/’. Drive C is in ‘data/data/com.winlator/files/rootfs/home/xuser-1/.wine/drive_c/’. You can change the saves’ location to a different drive with Ajay-prefix. Winlator recognizes save files made on PC and vice versa.

How to access Winlator’s internal files?

Unless you have root access, only through Winlator’s file explorer or Android Studio’s Device Explorer (PC needed). ADB commands (PC needed) should work but I kept getting a ‘No such file or directory’ error.

I think that should be it.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Three types of kisses ft. leon kennedy

Slow Motion Type:

Leon's lips brushed against yours sending sparks through your body. His rough fingers tilted your chin up, lining you both up before going any further.

Those intense slate eyes stayed locked on you, reading your reactions while he gradually increased the pressure bit by bit.

Savoring how you melted together, eliminating any space between you.

Everything beyond that singular connection faded away as Leon slowly drew you both deeper into that mesmerizing trance binding your very essences as one...

Teasing type :

His lips grazed yours briefly before that signature smirk returned, knowingly pushing your buttons now.

Those strong hands gripped your flushed face steady while your breathing raced from the light tease leaving you desperately craving more that he delighted in controlling.

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes before he started trailing fleeting licks and nips along your parched skin.

No pattern, just arbitrarily lighting up nerves across any exposed area like he owned you until your whole body throbbed for release from his sublime torture.

Only once you completely surrendered as his plaything did Leon crash his lips back onto yours. The searing reunion making you moan out every ounce of blissful suffering you endured for this exquisite payoff...

French Kiss Type:

Without warning, Leon lunged forward locking you into his intoxicating tractor beam. Those toned arms yanked you flush against his powerful frame, hungry intensity buring straight through you.

No hesitating, his skilled tongue bulldozed past your lips claiming ownership over every inch of your existence in that moment...

His tongue ruthlessly invaded your deepest spaces without mercy, plundering your most sacred places while extracting complete submission through dominating conquest.

Your very essences hemorrhaged together, searing away all boundaries until only unity remained.

Leon's mastery fused you into a higher ascended oneness in that infinite singularity.

Creating an eternal genesis of sublime rapture initiating you into realms beyond this plane through divine communion as one...

[notlongtolove]

the earth was made for lovers

they say paris is the city of love. quantico, virginia? not so much. a smattering of cafés, the occasional pop-up museum if the season feels generous. it’s all routine, really, carved out of the ordinary.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff

content: day in the life of bau!reader and bf spencer on a day off, just domestic fluff... spencer reid best bf ever agenda

word count: 2.3k

note: not even gonna lie this has almost nothing to do with the linked poem other than it being romance related i just read that line and my brain ran wild with it n e ways happy end of year everyone <3

a line: It’s where you met a boy too kind for his own good, love spilling from him at the edges.

Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain, For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain. - emily dickinson

They say Paris is the city of love. Quantico, Virginia? Not so much. A smattering of cafés, the occasional pop-up museum if the season feels generous. It’s all routine, really, carved out of the ordinary.

Even the way you and Spencer met was decidedly unremarkable. A simple, predictable statistic—Work. No serendipitous meeting in a dusty bookshop or a fateful grab for the last box of cereal. Just proximity, shared interests, and time. Not exactly the makings of a Nicholas Sparks screenplay.

Your first date—if you could even call it that—A stakeout for the Reynolds case, which, in Spencer’s mind, seamlessly doubled as an outing, though you’d argued against it. It eventually evolved into coffee at a quiet café, a stroll through the park, and a chaste kiss on your doorstep. The weeks that followed had brought more kisses, more quiet moments, till it all became wonderfully familiar.

Now, you’re walking hand in hand, the crisp sound of leaves crunching beneath your steps.

“We should go to Venice this summer,” you say, your fingers laced with his.

“Venice?” he echoes, tilting his head.

“Mhm. The city of love,” you muse fondly. 

“That’s Paris, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah, for the unimaginative and basic. Think prosecco on gondolas, Spence.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow, amused. “Did you get a pay raise I didn’t hear about?”

You turn to meet him with a deadpan stare, leaning back against the cold metal pole of the bus stop. Spencer shifts, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you against his chest instead. To anyone else, it’s a sweet, tender, gesture of affection. And it is, mostly. But you of all people know Spencer likes having you close just as much as he likes keeping you from resting against questionable surfaces.

“Kidding honey,” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your head. “Just let’s run it by Hotch before we start packing hm?”

A breeze cuts through the air, eliciting a shiver from you. Without missing a beat, Spencer shrugs off his coat and drapes it over your shoulders. If this had been your third date, you might have flushed, awkwardly protesting that you didn’t need it. But after two years, you’ve come to learn that Spencer Reid’s intelligence rivals his stubbornness when it comes to taking care of you. So you accept it without a word.

You accept the scarf, too, when he wraps it around your neck, tucking the ends neatly beneath the lapels of his coat. Your willing acceptance earns you a kiss on the tip of your nose, followed by one to your lips, soft and lingering.

When the bus arrives, you board first—always. There’s one seat left but you decline it, offering it to someone else instead. You’re both content standing, his arm steady as it holds the rail, yours slipping around his waist. You lean into him ever so slightly, your head resting just below his shoulder.

“Aw, we should’ve stopped by the bakery,” you sigh, eyes looking longingly out the window as the bus takes a slow turn past it.

Spencer leans across you, his hand already pressing the stop button. “We can walk back,” he says, his tone casual, though he doesn’t miss the way your eyes brighten instantly.

The bus comes to a gentle halt eventually, and his hand finds yours as you step off together. The sidewalk is narrow, but Spencer doesn’t seem to mind. Up ahead, the intersection is quiet, and with no cars in sight, he instinctively steps onto the road, letting you take the sidewalk to yourself, his hand never leaving yours.

As you walk, your hand dips into your bag, fingers sifting through an assortment of small objects before pulling out a wired earpiece. With one hand, you do your best to unravel it, then hand one side to Spencer.

“S’not that long of a walk, honey,” Spencer says, though he takes his side of the earpiece anyway. 

“I know,” you reply, slipping the other side into your ear. “But the weather’s so nice.”

“Says the one in two coats and my scarf.” You nudge him lightly, elbow brushing his arm as you move to select a song from your shared playlist. Spencer nods approvingly when a Turnover song starts playing. “I like this one.” 

“Me too,” you murmur, letting out a contented sigh as you slip your phone back into your bag, your hands swinging gently between you. Spencer considers telling you about Turnover’s musical evolution—their shift away from emo and punk rock roots. But the thought fades when he sees you quietly humming along, smiling to himself at the sight. 

The aroma of fresh pastries wafts toward you from a block away, the bakery coming into view soon after. Your steps quicken instinctively, with Spencer keeping pace. “Inside or outside?” He asks as you approach.

Normally, you’d both opt for the cozy outdoor seating, but the earlier chill has thickened, and the sky is now overcast with a looming promise of rain. You sigh dramatically as you begin to coil the earpiece in your hand, “Don’t think we have much of a choice, honey.” Spencer meets your exaggerated pout with an equally exaggerated sad smile before pulling the door open for you.

It’s quiet inside, save for the soft clinking of cutlery from a table where two elderly women chat over tea. Spencer moves behind you, helping you shrug out of his coat and scarf before draping them neatly over the back of a chair. You make your way to the counter, eyes scanning the rows of baked goods lined up. 

“Three for $10 on cupcakes today,” the cashier offers warmly. 

“Ooh, one chocolate please,” you say, without hesitation. Spencer’s favourite. 

“And one blueberry,” Spencer says. Your favourite, of course. 

His eyes flick to you, a subtle tilt of his head, and you know exactly what he’s waiting for. Banana—a close second on your list, almost guaranteed to make the cut.

You pause, pretending to deliberate, “We’ll take a red velvet,” you declare finally, and Spencer’s lips quirk upward. His other favorite.

After a small debate over who’s paying—Spencer, of course; he’d sooner recite the entirety of The Canterbury Tales backward than let you pay while he’s around—you shuffle back to your table, cupcakes in your hand and the faintest hint of triumph in his grin.

“You know where else has really good cupcakes?” you say as you set the box down between you, already digging in. 

He arches a brow, “Enlighten me.”

“Venice.”

Spencer snorts, barely stifling a laugh. “Ah yes, Venice, La Serenissima, renowned across the globe for its cupcakes.”

“You mock me Spencer Reid, but seriously,” you say with indignation, wagging your finger at him for emphasis. “I was looking at flights last night and—”

“You were looking at flights?” he cuts in, leaning across the table. His hand brushes your cheek, his thumb gently swiping away a smudge of blueberry frosting you hadn't noticed. You shift, instinctively leaning into his touch.

“They’ve got some really good deals right now,” you press on, undeterred, as you tear your blueberry cupcake neatly in half, holding out the piece to him. 

“I mean, I guess we could,” Spencer says thoughtfully, handing you half of his chocolate cupcake in return.

“Really?” Your face lights up.

“But,” he adds, pausing for effect as he takes a bite, “we’d have to talk to Hotch first.”

You huff theatrically as you make a point of finishing the rest of your cupcake in one exaggerated bite. 

Not long after, the cupcakes are gone, their crumbs swept aside, and the first light drizzle begins to spatter against the bakery window. Spencer is quick to help you into your coat, though this time you insist you don’t need his as well. He eyes you, clearly skeptical before relents and shrugs on his own coat.

“Not that cold anymore,” you insist, but he doesn’t let you fight him when he wraps his scarf around your neck, tucking it in once more. You can’t help but smile at the gesture.

Having Spencer Reid as a boyfriend means being over-prepared for every possible scenario, a fact proven moments later when you pull an umbrella from your bag—the very one he had slipped in earlier that morning.

Outside, the rain is light but persistent, it’s raindrops dotting the pavement in tiny patterns. You wait under the awning as Spencer opens the umbrella, holding his arm out for you to take. Truthfully, you are cold, colder than you’d like to admit, but you know Spencer too well. Whenever you share an umbrella, he always overcompensates, always angling it just so to keep you entirely dry. By the time you get home, one side of his coat is perpetually a shade darker, soaked from the rain, while you remain dry to the touch.

You hook your arm through his, leaning into him as you walk. 

“So, you’ll talk to Hotch on Monday?” you prompt, glancing up at him with a hopeful smile.

“Me? You’re the one itching to cruise around on gondolas.”

“Yeah, but he likes you more,” you counter, “you’ve known him for ages,” drawing out the last word dramatically.

“You joined the team four months after me.”

“Please?” You know full well he’s already on the verge of giving in.

“Fine,” he sighs, relenting, though the smile on his lips betrays him. 

You press a delighted kiss to his shoulder. “Best boyfriend ever.”

The walk home is peaceful, the quiet only broken by one brief moment of excitement when you swore you saw a kitten dart under the hood of a parked car. Spencer humoured you, standing and holding the umbrella patiently over you as you crouched to peek under the vehicle, only to find nothing but shadows. 

At your building, he shakes the umbrella off before closing it, careful not to drip water on the lobby floor. You trail behind him up the stairs, your pace slowed by the stiffness of your boots. By the time you reach your door, you’re already leaning against the frame, tugging fruitlessly at the zipper on one of them.

“I can’t wait until we’re in Venice and out of this shitty weather,” you huff, fiddling with the stubborn zip.

Spencer chuckles softly, bemused. “Uh-huh,” he says, kneeling without a second thought. His fingers find the zipper, pulling it smoothly downward in one practised motion. “Up,” he prompts, tapping your ankle lightly. You shift your weight, lifting your foot so he can slide the boot off. The moment it’s free, his hands move to the other boot, tugging at the zipper while you steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’d think for $80, they’d have mastered the art of waterproof footwear,” he quips, straightening up and setting your boots neatly by the door. His coat follows a moment later, draped on the hook in your living room.

The opening is too good to pass up. “You know where they make the best boots?”

Spencer glances at you, already catching on, “Touché darling”. He shakes his head in amused resignation. “Tea?” he offers, moving toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Yes, please,” you reply, kicking off your socks and padding after him. You hop onto the counter, your favourite perch, and swing your legs idly as he sets the kettle on the stove.

“Venice actually has surprisingly good tea,” he says, pulling open the cabinet to grab the mugs—yours with a faint crack along the rim that you refuse to part with, (despite his repeated, that’s really dangerous, honey, warnings) and his, adorned with a fading illustration of the periodic table. 

“You’re joking,” you laugh as he sets the mugs on the counter beside you before his arms cage you in, one on either side.

“I’m serious, the first Western record of tea? Venice. Everybody knows Italy’s famous for its coffee, but tea has its place too.” 

You hum in faux contemplation as your arms loop around his neck. “How very fascinating,” you reply, punctuating your words with light kisses along his jaw. You can feel him smile against your cheek as he continues his impromptu lecture, but his words falter when your hands slide up to brush the damp curls from his forehead.

His lips find the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses that send you into a fit of giggles. “Spence,” you squeal, half-protesting as he nuzzles into your skin, his stubble tickling in just the right way. In your laughter, your arm brushes the counter, sending your mug tumbling to the floor with a sharp crash.

Both of you startle at the sound, Spencer’s reflexes kicking in as he immediately pulls you closer. “Shit. I’m sorry, honey.” Spencer’s eyes dart from you to the shattered ceramic on the floor. “Are you hurt?”

“M’fine,” you assure him, shaking your head. “Are you?”

He exhales, relieved, brushing his hands gently over your legs checking as if to make sure. “I’m fine, too. Just... don’t move, okay? It’s really sharp.”

You glance down at the scattered remains of your beloved mug, shoulders sagging slightly, the disappointment evident.

Spencer’s hand finds yours again, squeezing lightly as he flashes you a soft, reassuring smile. “S’okay, baby. You know where else they make really good mugs?” And you’re in a fit of laughter again. 

Unfortunately, as it turns out, Hotch isn’t exactly thrilled about any PTO requests longer than two weeks—especially when it means losing two of his agents, and for an entire summer at that. 

So, the summer doesn’t take you far after all. There’s no lovelock bridge, no prosecco sipped by moonlit canals. But there are cramped buses with too few seats, where you’d rather stand pressed together than sit apart. There are rain-soaked evenings, huddled close under an umbrella that never quite does its job of keeping both of you dry—though you’d argue that’s more on Spencer. 

Quantico, Virginia, might not be the Eiffel Tower or a gondola gliding along a Venetian canal, but it is where Spencer first held your hand in a coffee breakroom after a scolding that left you blinking back tears, where you spent an entire evening sorting his books into new shelves after you got your own place together.

All in all, you’ve come to find that you quite like it here. It’s where you met a boy too kind for his own good, love spilling from him at the edges.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: humming by turnover pretty boy by the neighbourhood

[voidcat]

idk little elaboration on this ig michael kaiser x gn!reader. vampire au. wc: 1k p.2ish wip

it's been an odd couple of days, weeks even.

Michael isn't sure what did it start with but it ended with you caught up in the claws. When you first disappeared, he paid it no mind. You did like your space and tended to disappear on him often. Not for naught, he did press your buttons, forcing you out of your shell and further- fight or flight, is the simplest result nature offers everyone. You are your nerves, your brain, your body and systems working in absolute unity.

'Homeostasis.'

He still hears your voice in his head correcting him.

'It is what you call your body working in regulation, maintaining its inner- and outer balance, if you include the barreers and systems engaging with the world to be outer.'

He tests the word on his tongue.

"Hoh-mee-oh-stay-sis" a funny word for something so simple yet heavy.

All the burden entities in whole carry. The essence of life maybe, to keep the gears running, to keep the showing going.

What you've been lacking lately.

It's been a long while since you disappered, and returned, eventually.

You do, always finding your way back to him. But at the sight of you, looking normal but not quite, face sunken and something empty behind your eyes, he felt the hairs on end spike up. Yet Michael had been worried for a while longer than that.

When you hissy fit went on longer, no contact to anyone or anything, no sign of you existing in any space, he knew something was off.

When you step in through the frame, lights too loud and bright, and your eyelids unable to response, you stand in the entrance for a while. Your body carried you all the way here, something born out of reflex, you assume, but you don't know this place.

It smells... nice. Or what should be considered nice. There is a fragnence of musky and sweet, were you to look around a little, you could've spotted the sources to be little candles scattered around.

Shaped of strawberries in a basket, some roses and few more- varying from cute to aesthetic, only the cat shaped candle on the bookshelf apart from them, unlit. Candles you would never light up normally.

Not that you remember any of these. But he does.

It's been some time now, you sit still in the room he told you was yours, curtains pulled all the way to both edges, drowning you in absolute darkness.

It feels like home that way. You can still taste the dirt and the cold on your tongue.

Something is wrong.

That much, you know. You feel weirdly silent, calm, something missing, ripped out of you even.

Your confusion does not bring forth anything akin to worry though. Worry, the word might've made you chuckle perhaps. Such a small sound for something people claim to be big. It must be what keeps life kicking and going. It's what dances behind those blue eyes of the man you've been observing whenever he comes near, if your judgement is anything to come by.

For the most time things go still, those moments you like best, as if ceasing to exist-- then the serene darkness is interrupted, you feel pulled back to a stage you do not belong.

The man becomes memorable again whenever he does so. You think, maybe that's what he wants.

Nobody seemed to pay you any mind or even spared a glance up until now. His explosive behaviors only seem to strenghten your case.

(He would've laughed at it, you'll learn later. 'Explosive? I'll show you explosive.' or something cliche like that. He is the closest example to life you've been witnessing as of late- so he marks the upper limit for such definitions for you.)

He acts and moves and talks in ways that confuse you, making your body shriek. A reaction you find abnormal from yourself, what must've caused it. Maybe something runs deeper to have caused such a trigger response.

His behavior only worsens when you look at him without a sound, expressionless. Those moments, you mark as 'explosive'.

His pupils dilatate, his voice gets louder, until you hear a little ringing-- you begin to notice how his fists tightens, his body changing color. Drops of something rim at the edges of his eyes, shining under the light yet not in any particular color.

Red and flush in the face, neck craned out, muscles constricted and something ragged, a sound like he is in pain almost.

These displays add to your confusion.

You do not know why you are there or why you're staying. You suppose you could leave, but it'd only trigger his explosion again. You do not make any sense as to why he is so adamant on keeping you near, to stay close.

The man has given you a name but he shifts again whenever you call him that. You later muse that the emotion he must've felt is sadness, or distress, when you utter the name 'Kaiser'.

And so you stop doing that too.

'It's Michael. Not Kaiser.' he has said this so many times that his voice rings long enough in your head now.

On the moments of stillness when he makes you sit with him, you catch his face shifting too. Those emotions, you'll learn to label far later, so they remain saved somewhere in the back of your mind for the longest time.

You know something is deeply and utterly wrong.

More to do with you and your predicament than the man before you. Even while your mind and body were devoid of everything, you could feel it. That sinking feeling with its claws surrounding you, its grip tightening with each futile attempt he makes at you.

You suppose, despite it all, maybe you should thank him for teaching you so much in the meantime- to help you categorize and label all you've done so far. But you think, this would only upset him further-- another judgement you've learned to make in your time with him. So you refrain from voicing that too.

Not that it matters. It scratches at your throat, the dryness of your mouth hurting you from the inside out, like something dragging its nails into your skin, so you remain silent majority of the time.

[starset21]

Part 2: Track to Text

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Summery: What starts with a single, cryptic meme from Max evolves into a rhythm of race-weekend messages, teasing videos, and unspoken check-ins that thread through the season. There’s no formal declaration—just a growing intimacy born from late-night texts, technical banter, and mutual respect sharpened by competition.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

Looking for more? Speed Limits and Heartbeats Masterlist 

You hadn’t heard from him since the unity day.

Not directly.

The first message came a week after Darlington.

A DM.

No greeting. No name attached. Just a meme: a screenshot of a NASCAR oval with a toy Hot Wheels loop edited in. Captioned: “Full send or just more left turns?”

You stared at your phone for a second too long. The handle was private, but obvious: max.v33.

Cute. Copying your number—though, technically, Red Bull had him signed by 2015. You didn’t even hit Cup until 2017. 

You rolled your eyes and typed back: “Still waiting to see you make a pass without needing DRS and a prayer.”

Read. No reply.

Two days passed. Nothing. You told yourself you didn’t care. Told yourself it wasn’t even worth checking for a reply.

So obviously, you checked.

And then, just as you were strapping in for a team sim session, your phone lit up.

From: max.v33

*A grainy, zoomed-in clip from Monza quali. No commentary, just engine and tire noise as he dove inside at Ascari with surgical, almost arrogant precision. Slingshot exit. Clean. Too clean.*

Then the message, just below it: “No DRS. No prayer. Just grip.”

You didn’t mean to smile, but it happened anyway. Stupid.

Your fingers hovered over the reply button longer than you’d admit.

Then:  “You sure it wasn’t just luck?”

Read instantly.

Three blinking dots. Then nothing.

That night, after dinner, another message came in:

“I don’t believe in luck.”

Four words. Not flirtation. Not bravado. Just… intent. It lingered in your head longer than it should’ve.

You didn’t reply until the next morning.

“No wonder your mechanics look so tired.”

From there, it became something unspoken.

Sporadic messages. Race weekends only.

A rhythm, quiet and sharp-edged. 

He sent a video from Spa — onboard POV of Eau Rouge.

You replied with your Bristol dash-cam, inches from a wall at 140.

One night, somewhere between flights and briefings, he texted you: “You ever lift mid-corner just to listen to the tires sing?”

You stared at the message in the dark of your hotel room, thumb hovering.

Eventually: “Only when I’m in the lead. Otherwise, no time for poetry.”

His reply came fast. “That’s why I thought of you.”

You didn’t respond to that one.  But you didn’t delete it either.

Talladega was a war zone. You clawed from P26 to P2 with half your aero gone and your right mirror barely hanging on. When you finally made it to the motorhome, your crew was already halfway through their postmortem.

You slumped onto the couch and reached for your phone without thinking.

1 new message From: max.v33

Just three words: “Hell of a drive.”

No punctuation. No emoji. Just… that. You read it twice, thumbs hovering over your screen.

“Didn’t win.”

A pause.

“Didn’t have to.”

You meant to leave it there.

You really did.

But the next weekend, after Texas, you found yourself reaching for your phone before your suit was even off. No win. No crash. Just a decent day, made quieter by how loud everything else had felt lately. You didn’t draft anything clever. No teasing. No memes.

You: “Car felt light on the straights today. Wind was heavy. Crew thinks we missed something aero-wise.”

A few hours later:

Max: “Watched. Looked tight on entry too. You kept correcting with your thumb?”

You blinked at the screen.

You: “Yeah.”

Max: “Could see it in the hands. You’re subtle, but not that subtle.”

That made you laugh. A real one. The kind that sat in your chest for a few minutes before you even realized it had landed.

You started noticing it more after that.

The way he answered faster. The way your messages stopped being scheduled around race results and started slipping into the middle of odd, quiet hours. Sometimes he’d send a single line about track temperature in Suzuka. Sometimes you’d reply from a Waffle House outside Charlotte at 2:00 a.m. Neither of you said it, but something was changing. It wasn’t flirtation. Not really. But it was no longer just banter, either.

You were wide awake after traveling. He was in Monaco, jet-lagged from the media. The message thread was getting too long, too delayed. So you called. No greeting, no hesitation. Just his voice, quiet and rough around the edges: “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Not really,” you said. “You ever feel like your brain’s still in gear even when your body’s wrecked?”

A short laugh. “Only every Sunday night.”

You talked for twenty-three minutes. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Race setups. Tires. Something about the Red Bull pit wall cameras always catching the worst angles. When you hung up, it was silent. Still. Like the pause after a checkered flag before the radio crackles back on.

It wasn’t constant. But it was consistent. You never talked about the messages. You didn’t have to. It was the way he sent a photo of his breakfast at some Monaco café—captioned “this isn’t Waffle House”—or the way you sent him a video from your dashcam where your spotter forgot to mute his mic while cursing at a lap car. It was the voice notes. The checking in. The fact that when you had a shit day in Las Vegas and didn’t text back for almost 24 hours, he noticed.

“Haven’t heard from you. You good?”

Just that. Not pushy. Not needy. Just there. You replied that night, from the quiet of your motorhome. Helmet beside you, pizza in your lap. 

“Got boxed in and lost the top line. Felt like shit.”

“It happens.”

“Still pissed.”

“Good. Means you’re not numb to it.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t need to.

It was late October by the time the next message came in. A photo. No caption.

His apartment, maybe. Monaco skyline behind tall glass windows. Night outside. One of his sim wheels set up on a table, but the chair was empty. In the foreground: his phone, angled so the reflection in the screen caught just enough of him to prove it was real. 

You looked at it too long. Then sent: “That your way of saying you’re bored or lonely?”

Three dots.

“Both.”

Another pause. Then:

“You ever think about what it would’ve been like if we’d raced in the same series full-time?”

You didn’t reply immediately.

You stared at the message like it had teeth.

Finally: “Yeah.”

And that was it.

No follow-up. No escalation. Just silence.

But not the empty kind.

That silence lingered. Not cold—just waiting. The kind of quiet that only ends when something gives. 

It did, eventually. 

In Austria, of all places. 

The off-season stretched wide. Red Bull invited you both to their annual athlete summit. Champagne, neon, ego. You told yourself you’d go for the press. For the networking. Not for him. Still—when you spotted him across the rooftop lounge, you stopped. He was near the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, shirt collar open, laughing at something a mountain biker had said. The skyline framed him like a postcard: sleek, untouchable, gold-lit.

He looked over. Saw you. And didn’t look away. You didn’t talk there. Not with all the noise and cameras. But later, when the elevator ride felt too quiet and the hallway even quieter, you turned the corner and he was already there.

Waiting. 

Leaning against the wall near your door. Hands in his pockets. Not rehearsed. Just… there. He looked up when your steps slowed. Neither of you spoke at first. And then, Max said it. Low. Unforced. Meant. “I think about that day more than I should.”

Your breath caught. Just slightly. You didn’t pretend to not know which day he meant. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough. “You’ve had a hell of a season,” you said, because it was the first thing your brain could grab onto.

“So did you.” He hesitated. Then added, “That doesn’t mean I stopped thinking about it.”

Your back hit the wall across from him. You folded your arms to keep your hands still. “Why now?”

He shrugged one shoulder. Not casual—just honest. “Because the season’s over. And I’m not looking at you across the world anymore. I’m just… looking at you.”

It landed with a quiet weight. The kind that settles in your chest instead of your stomach. You didn’t smile. Not yet. But your voice was steadier than you expected.

“So now what?”

His answer wasn’t rushed. “We figure it out.” A beat. “Unless you’d rather leave it on the airstrip.”

You let out a slow breath. Looked at him—really looked. “I’m tired of leaving things behind.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But his eyes softened in a way you hadn’t seen—not on the podium, not in the media pen, not even in your late-night calls.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not here for almost.”

And somehow, that said everything.

[tiki-was-here]

Magnetized

Homelander x Supe Reader : Fourth of July Special Edition P1

Word Count: 1k

P2 images by diana-foggy-master

It caused me physical pain to make him happy and somewhat sane. I don’t like it. Hello all you Americans even though I have many thoughts about you let’s all celebrate and pop our pussies.

Sunlight spilled into the penthouse like honey, warming the hardwood floors and illuminating the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city skyline in gold. The day hadn’t even started properly, but already there was a kind of pressure in the air—a quiet, simmering tension that made everything feel too still. You stood near the bedroom mirror, half-dressed and distracted, a button undone and your expression tight.

You could see John in the reflection behind you, lounging shirtless across the edge of the unmade bed. His arms were behind his head, and he was watching you get dressed with no intention of moving anytime soon.

“You’re going to give yourself a stroke,” he said, leaning back on his palms. “You’re wound so tight I can hear it.”

You didn’t even glance at him. “Because I actually care about how today goes.”

He tilted his head, voice teasing. “Are we pretending I don’t?”

He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees as he watched you fuss with your outfit. “You know, for someone who can knock out an entire grid with a flick of your fingers, you stress like a normal person. That’s almost cute.”

You turned, arms crossed. “You think it’s cute that I’m dreading today?”

He shrugged with zero shame. “Well, not the dread part. Just the way your jaw does that thing when you’re overthinking.”

You stared at him flatly. “Thanks for the insight, Doctor.”

He smirked and stood up,stretching, the muscles in his torso catching the morning light. “Come on. It’s just one event. Some patriotic flag-waving, a few photo shoots here and there, there's really nothing to it.”

You looked down at your shoes. “It’s not just that. You’re dragging me to a full-on military base as a political prop. Do you have any idea how exhausting that’s going to be?”

“I invited you,” he corrected, stepping up behind you. “Could’ve said no.”

“No, I couldn’t,” you said quietly.

John was silent for a beat. “Right. Well, in that case, I’m glad you’re coming anyway.”

His hands slid around your waist and rested there, thumbs tracing the fabric of your waistband. You leaned back into him slightly, allowing it for a moment. His touch was grounding even when he was arguably the reason you were stressing in the first place.

He rested his chin on your shoulder and stared at your shared reflection. “We made a deal, remember? I go in looking like the world’s favorite superhero, and you come with me looking calm and collected and just threatening enough that nobody asks you too many questions”

You stared ahead. “And what do I get out of that deal again?”

He smiled slowly. “My undying affection.”

You rolled your eyes. “That and a gift bag, I assume.”

He grinned again and walked over to grab his undersuit from the dresser. “Look, this isn’t forever. Just today. You stand beside me. You nod when someone says a buzzword like ‘unity’ or ‘enhanced tactical capacity.’ Then we come back here and forget it ever happened.”

You folded your arms. “You’re really confident I’ll behave.”

“Oh, I know you won’t,” he said, sliding one arm into the sleeve. “But that’s what makes it interesting.”

You let out a long breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly too tired to keep standing. The penthouse was quiet except for the faint sound of the city beyond the windows. Even here, at the top of the tower, you could still feel the static in the air—the low thrum of traffic lights, of cell towers and satelites. It all sang to you, just below the range of human hearing.

“I don’t like being paraded around,” you said eventually. “Especially not for people who’d put a bullet in my head if they didn’t think they could use me.”

John looked over at you, expression unreadable. “Neither do I.” (not that they could)

You watched him tighten the front of the uniform. There was always something unsettling about how natural it looked on him. Like it had grown out of his skin.

He zipped the suit and walked over, stopping a few feet in front of you. “We don’t get anything unless we play the game. They won’t let people like us into their ‘perfect little system’ unless we show them we belong there. So we just smile and wave and try not to rip anyone in half.”

You rolled your eyes again and walked out toward the kitchen for your mug. “If I do that, smile and wave like a brainless idiot, do you promise that you’ll at least try not to be too psycho?”

He shrugged, reaching for his gloves from the table. “I’ll see how the day goes.”

“That’s not a promise.”

“That’s the best you’re gonna get.”

You turned, sipping slowly. “Fine. But if you’re good—like, really good—you might get a reward when we get back.”

That caught his attention instantly. He paused, glove halfway on. “A reward?”

You nodded with mock seriousness. “Yes. But only if you behave.”

John straightened. “Define ‘behave.’”

You smirked. “No threatening a colonel. No making people uncomfortable on purpose. No being mean to your team, even if you think they deserve it. And finally, keep your ‘surprises’ to a minimum.”

He groaned dramatically. “That’s almost impossible.”

You moved towards the closet, grabbing your own jacket. “Then you don’t want the reward.”

He followed you, hands in the air like a man surrendering to fate. “Wait. I never said that. I can be good. I am good. The best actually. Look me in the eyes and tell me I don’t already deserve a reward.”

You let out a tired laugh. “The deal hasn't even started yet. It starts as soon as I leave through that door.”

“I’ll be so well-behaved,” he whispered dramatically. “So humble. So civilized.”

You rolled your eyes. “Try to sound even a little bit sincere when you say that.”

He leaned in, eyes bright with amusement. “Can I get a hint about this reward?”

You tapped your fingers against your arm. “Let’s just say that you might have to take the day off tomorrow, I doubt you’d still be able to walk after I'm done with you.”

“Ooh very tempting”

You reached for your keys. “Now go and finish getting dressed. I’ll make sure to tell Ashley and the other’s that you’re on your way .”

He raised a hand in mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

[gingerkunoichii]

Hi, I'm Mimi! I'm a amateur artist/writer who is currently only doing works for Naruto (planning to start jjk) :)) I go by she/her pronouns I mostly try to do reader focused things since I find it more fun and fluid. A lot of my work is nsfw and often breaches on uncomfortable subjects.

My asks are open, so please send me ideas for headcanons/imagines for any character in the naruto verse!!

How They'd React to You Teasing Them - Naruto Men. - nsfw Itachi as Your College Boyfriend. - nsfw

Yandere Naruto Men and their Obsession with You. - nsfw

Borderline - nsfw - SHIKAMARU X READER ✮ tags // rough sex, angst, toxic relationship, love/hate, mindgames, intense infidelity You and Shikamaru have been messing around for years now - never making things official, making eachother jealous in sick games, purposefully going back and forth to eachother, arguing, hating, fucking. now after months of not speaking to him after he got a new girlfriend, you decide its time to cause chaos in his life again.

Troublesome - nsfw - SHIKAMARU X READER - (carry on from Borderline) ✮ tags // rough sex, angst, toxic relationship, love/hate, mindgames, intense infidelity After the Fourth Great Ninja War, peace blankets the shinobi world—but hearts. Shikamaru Nara, finds himself entangled in a toxic, tantalizing web with you. A female kunoichi his equal in intellect, his rival in manipulation, and his downfall in every way that matters.

For two years, your relationship has been a volatile dance: friends with benefits one moment, bitter enemies the next. You break apart only to fall back together, leaving a trail of jealousy, betrayal, and passion in your wake. The twisted game has consumed them both—playing with the hearts of others, pushing each other’s buttons, and always circling back like moths to a flame.

You're toxic, playful, and seductive; he’s mean, calculating, and knows exactly how to provoke you. playlist ‪‪❤︎‬

Negative Space - nsfw - Modern AU - (check tags on AO3 for pairings!) ‪‪❤︎‬ SMS between Naruto and Y/N ‪‪❤︎‬ ✮ tags // college AU, drug abuse, abusive relationships, past blackmail, bad decisions, a lot of smut, messy

After leaving your old university under a cloud of scandal, you arrive at Konoha University, ready for a fresh start.

Once queen of the party scene, your killer smile and sharp edge left a trail of broken hearts. The drug fuelled nights, bad decisions, and neon-lit chaos follows you. Alpha Kappa Blossom, a sorority with varying characters welcomes you and you feel like you've known these people for a lifetime very quickly—but nothing comes without strings.

Your past still lingers. No matter how loud the music and whatever you take to sedate yourself from reality, you can’t outrun the fallout. playlist ❤︎‬

Fade Into You - nsfw - Canon Divergence - ITACHI X OC ✮ tags // slowburn, angst, emotional hurt, arranged marriage, eventual smut, alternate universe

In an alternate universe where the Uchiha Massacre never occurred nor the suffering that came alongside it, peace and weary trust is brokered through a fragile political alliance: an arranged marriage between Itachi Uchiha and Fumika Senju, the granddaughter of Tobirama Senju. The union, meant to symbolise unity between the clans that had rivalled for many hundreds of years, comes at a personal cost for both—Itachi, still mourning a forbidden love, and Fumika, forced to leave behind her life as a kunoichi to become a dutiful wife. playlist ❤︎‬

My Art - Mostly Naruto Related :))

Modern Sasuke for Negative Space Modern Shikamaru for Negative Space Gojo Satoru Digital Pencil Drunk w/ Toji Shigaraki Tomura waiting for us

[thespnreferencedesk]

A Fic Writer's Guide to the 1967 Impala

Part 1: Exterior | Part 2

Click for the full-size, annotated versions of images! Unlabeled screenshots here

The given dimensions for the four-door hardtop Impala are 213.2 inches long (17.6 feet, 5.4 meters), 79.9 inches wide (6.6 feet, 2 meters), and around 55 inches tall (4.5 feet, 1.4 meters). Its wheelbase (the distance between the front and rear axles) is just shy of 10 feet. For comparison, the Impala is about three feet longer than a modern Toyota Corolla with a 1.5 foot longer wheelbase, but the same width and height. Fully loaded, it weighs easily over 2 tons and rides low to the ground. Baby is big.

Baby is a “hardtop” Impala rather than the sedan. This means it does not have a support post between the front and rear windows. The bit of trim/seal between them is part of the rear window and retracts with it when the window is rolled down. The exterior color is Tuxedo Black, and this color is still available today. It has a faint metallic finish to it due to small suspended glass particles that catch the light.

The original plates are Sedgwick County, Kansas front and rear plates with the number KAZ 2Y5 (referencing Kansas and 2005, the year the show started). After 2.19, they switch to Ohio front and rear plates with the number CNK 80Q3. When John first buys the car in 1973 in 4.03, it has a vintage rear Kansas plate with the number RPC 45P4. In 4.13 and 11.08 flashbacks to 1992 and 1997, the front and rear plates are Kansas BQN 9R3. In the djinn dream in 2.20, both plates are Kansas RMD 5H2.

The Impala has a circular driver’s side mirror, but no passenger side mirror. Between 1.01 and 3.09, it also features adjustable spotlights/searchlights on both sides. It also has two-speed chrome windshield wipers, an antennae on the front passenger’s side, and bumper guards on the front and back bumpers.

Up through episode 3.09, the Impala has chrome aftermarket Unity spotlights mounted on both sides. Mounting instructions and a up-close view of these on a fan replica can be seen here. Note that Baby's spotlights have black handles with a thin red stripe. Turn the handle to turn the spotlight's base (up/down), and twist the handle to turn and aim the light (left/right). There is a small switch under the half-sphere part of the handle that locks the light's position.

Baby's wipers have chrome arms and have two speeds, low and high. The doors feature mounted door handles with opening buttons just below them. You push in these buttons to open the door instead of pulling on the handle itself. If locking the door by pressing the door lock button on the window sill, these buttons need to be held down while closing the doors so as not to hit the physical locking mechanism.

Unique to the 1967 are these cage-style corner lamps. They are completely absent on the '66 and different on the '68. The headlights are controlled by a knob on the dash and a high beam button down in the floorboard (pushed with your foot). These come on when the parking lights are turned on. Of the two inner circular lights, the outer one is the low beam and has a low and high filament. The inner circular light is the high beam only and comes on when the floor switch is pressed. The rear lights feature the outer turn signal, center tail lights, and inner brake lights (see below).

To the best of my knowledge, Baby has 15x7 (15" diameter, 7" width) chrome steel wheels in the front and 15x8 in the back. This particular style is currently discontinued but was sold through a variety of brands under different names. The brand Cragar refers to this style as the "Super Spoke."

Outside of the in-universe book series’ fandom, four door Impalas are not sought-after or particularly “cool” classic cars. The Impala was marketed as a mid-luxury “family” car rather than something sporty or muscle-y. Other classic car buffs that Dean comes across might appreciate the way Dean has maintained the Impala for a daily driver, but not compared to a show car. They may also find the Impala underrated, but it is not a typical "dream car" the way a classic Camaro or Chevelle might be.

Without Dean, Baby would have likely ended up used for parts for other more desirable cars. This generation of Impalas is also virtually identical to other Chevrolets like Caprices and Bel Airs. Since Baby is debadged except for the “Chevrolet” on the grill, anyone who recognizes it as an Impala would be a massive nerd.

Just like Dean.

[nadinescholtes]

Building a VR world

I'm no expert! I'm just sharing what I did to build my first one. Which I still need to fix.

If you want to make a world for android users too (the headset), then switch it to Android first on Unity. VRchat takes for Unity only 100MB! I did PC first and had to delete and replace a lot of stuff.

Copy the project folders of Unity, because most likely, there will be errors and loose your progress. (Which happened to me twice)

The first tutorial video I found was from Spookyghostboo, a wonderful creator who made many wonderful VR worlds (please go support her) If you check her channel, there are many more tutorials:

(37) How To Make A VRChat World From Scratch Start to Finish | Blender to Unity Tutorial | Beginner - YouTube

How to make clickable doors, I used doors I made in Blender, keep an eye on where its origin point is placed, it needs to be at the corner of the door:

Simple Clickable Door - Udon / VRChat Scripting SDK3.0

How to make a button to switch skyboxes:

Create a Skybox Switcher Button - Udon/ VRChat SDK3.0

How to make less MB:

How to Optimize your VRChat World INSTANTLY

Assets and Materials:

If you are poor like me, there are free assets. You can, of course, make your own assets in Blender or your own materials if you want to.

For assets like furniture, there are Booth and Sketchfab. There are more pages, but I preferred those. Though Sketchfab doesn't have many assets who have less MB.

Here are two I used the most from:

mobubbler - BOOTH

spookyghostboo - BOOTH

Here you can download free materials and Textures:

ambientCG - Free Textures, HDRIs and Models

I can't help you with errors, I'm still working on them myself. But you can Google like I do.

[hanlimz]

midnight thoughts: [heeseung + drunk words]

synopsis: real sweet, but you wish he was sober (alternatively, you take such good care of heeseung while he's drunk that he decides to tell you how he really feels). pairing: heeseung x gn!reader genre/warnings: hurt/comfort (?), f2l (ambiguous but still cute i promise) / EMETOPHOBIA TW (nothing happens but throwing up is mentioned, be cautious <3)!!!, drunk heeseung lol, tiny skz mention (my worlds colliding), um alcohol consumption (?), sunghoon is the dd don't worry there is no drunk driving! wc: 1.4k (el oh el)a/n: inspired by model student heeseung in the first couple en-o'clocks who is unreasonably attractive but also ? a dork . that is all. (love u hee stans this one's for u hope u're doing okay lately w ur man acting the way he is.)

[1:16AM] six shots of tequila and a raspberry smirnoff ice deep, and lee heeseung is gone. strong surges of heat rush to his cheeks to create a dizzying push and pull effect, rivulets of sweat are beginning to drip from his temples, and he's trying his best not to vomit up the fried chicken jake and sunghoon made him eat earlier. heeseung finds solace on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor; he clutches the crisp fabric of his white button down and attempts to will away the waves of nausea that are crashing against the walls of his stomach. breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, heeseung's thoughts begin to drift back to a familiar place. he can almost feel the phantom sensation of your fingers carding through his hair; the tips of your fingers are refreshing and imbue him with a tranquility that he isn't often privy to.

"holy shit, dude—did we really let you get this fucked up?" heeseung vaguely registers jake's voice as two warm fingers reach under his jaw to check his pulse. inwardly, heeseung chuckles—leave it to biomedical engineering major, pre-anesthesiology track jake sim to presume death over everything else. glancing up, heeseung watches the genuine concern that flashes in the younger boy's gaze. "c'mon heeseung, we gotta get you home, bro. good god—[y/n] is actually gonna murder us …”

heeseung curls in on himself at the sound of your name, hiding away from the prodding of jake’s fingers into his upper arms. he wants to press his face into the crook of your neck, he aches to feel your hands cascading up and down the length of his spine, he yearns so desperately for a chance to indulge in a tender moment of unity with you. heeseung closes his eyes to relish in the way the memories seem to envelop him in a ghostly embrace, and he swears he only blinks once. the bass-boosted music and headache inducing strobe lights become mere background accompaniment to the movie playing behind his eyelids.

he swears he only blinks once, but the familiar aroma of your perfume begins to permeate his senses—bergamot and vanilla, his favorite. voices come into focus, his head starts to pound, and the reality of being splayed all over the backseat of sunghoon’s benz is setting in at the speed of falling molasses. "what the hell did you let him get into?" there's a certain venom in the question that bites at his jugular. he recognizes the cadence of your voice and the way you suck a sharp breath through your teeth with ease. "sigma kappa zeta is so out of hee's league—you couldn't have taken him to alpha tau zeta or tau chi tau or someplace that bang chan doesn't run?"

"he said he could handle it!" sunghoon counters.

you let an incredulous scoff escape your mouth as you berate the two boys in a hushed whisper, "and, you believed him? he obviously wanted to impress you idiots. god, i'm starting to think jongseong is the only one of you with a functioning brain ... "

"[y/n]!" jake exclaims, "so not chill."

"no—what's really not chill is tweedledumb and tweedledumber letting heeseung get wasted at his first frat party." you scold, voice cold as ice while jabbing an accusatory finger in their faces. jake and sunghoon hang their heads like dogs being told off for chewing up furniture; in any other situation, you might have had the inclination to chuckle, but you don't. "now, help him up to my couch and leave before i get even meaner."

everything is blurry as heeseung stumbles his way up the stairs to your apartment; sunghoon and jake are bickering with one another while supporting each side of his body—who is tweedledumb and who is tweedledumber, who let heeseung drink this much booze, who will have to recount tonight's escapades to jay, and who will have to give pity laughs to his impending dad jokes? they curse at one another until you mention the possibility of a noise complaint, and all the incessant chatter stops. in the midst of a spring night, only cricket song remains. heeseung focuses on the quiet chirping until the cool leather of your couch cushions begins to soothe the molten liquid that seems to course through his veins. goodbyes are exchanged and a door is closed somewhere far away, but heeseung's head is too heavy to lift.

he blinks again and opens his eyes to the rough fibers of an old washcloth running over the peaks and valleys of his face. the fabric brushes along the deep circles carved beneath his bloodshot eyes; concentration knits your forehead into a multitude of different creases, and heeseung can't help the pitiful chuckle that tumbles from his mouth. an airy sensation overtakes his being as he realizes that he's right where he had wanted to be all evening—with you. embarrassment still settles like an indestructible boulder in the pit of his stomach, however; shame's spindly talons sink into heeseung's flesh as he realizes just how much of a fool he's made out of himself.

"just—just wan'ed to be cool, [y/n]," heeseung slurs out, voice plagued with exhaustion. bringing his knees to his chest, heeseung attempts to keep his tears at bay. "just wan'ed to show you that i c'n be cool 'nd awesome 'nd sexy! but, now 'm just looking stupid on your couch ..."

placing the washcloth on the arm of the sofa, you move to rest heeseung's head in your lap. he gladly accepts the comforting gesture, cuddling into the soft cotton of sweatpants he realizes are his. combing your fingers through his roots and scratching at his scalp, you whisper, "for the record—i already think you're cool and awesome."

heeseung glances up at you, face swollen and eyes puffy. "really?" he asks, "so, you don't think i'm a stupid, un-sexy idiot that can't hold his liquor?"

"well, you can't hold your liquor," you muse with a hint of laughter in your voice, caressing the supple skin of his cheekbone, "but, no. i don't think you're a stupid, un-sexy idiot."

basking in the reality he was just confronted with, heeseung's drunken mind can only focus on one thing. his desperate need for clarification tempts him; desire's forked tongue beckons him towards the truth. the question repeats over and over again in his brain until it spills out—an unwilling victim of an inebriated perpetrator. "so ..." he drawls, attempting to wink but closing both eyes instead, "you think i'm sexy?"

and, you laugh. it's a euphoric sound—a beautiful melody reminiscent of spring picnics, gingham blankets, and the fragrant scent of blooming tulips. for a moment, heeseung loses himself in it; coherent thought escapes his grasp as he is overtaken by you. your touch, your warmth, the bleary image of your smile as it comes in and out of focus. you wash over heeseung in waves, an ocean of calm in a world that only seeks to burn; alluring siren song floods his mind as you call out to him over the sound of the blood pumping his ears. the cool tips of your fingers are beginning the quell the heat beneath heeseung's skin as consciousness begins to slip away from him, and a dopey grin is woven onto his lips.

"heeseung," you murmur, the ghost of a bout of giggles hiding behind your words. "hee, baby, you should really let me get up to grab you some advil."

the term tumbles from your mouth before you can help it, and you freeze. having revealed yourself, you're overcome by the desperate urge to run—but, heeseung has given you nowhere to go. his weight traps you, holding tight and pressing harder by the second. half of you wants to hear him say it back, while the other hopes for the couch cushions to swallow you whole. heeseung—though not a man of many surprises with his perfect grades, perfect attendance, perfect everything—manages to stun you tonight.

"wan' you t'call me that again, [y/n]," heeseung mumbles through sleep, "please."

"you want—" your voice catches in your throat, "you want me to call you baby?"

there's a beat of silence so long that you're almost sure heeseung has fallen victim to the salivating jaws of sleep, but he groans. the utterance is low and deep—dripping with what seems to be a concoction of mild annoyance, exasperation, and endearment. "'s all i've ever wanted, [y/n]," he replies, eyes closed and nose buried into your sweater, "you're all i've ever wanted."

another pause.

"okay," you say, meandering through the quiet for a moment, letting yourself wade towards him in this new sea of possibilities, "baby."

[unity24675]

A Pledge to Start the Day

Many men start off the day on the wrong foot. They hit the snooze button, slowly get ready, and don't even make their bed. These poor habits both stem from a lack of drive but also lead to a lack of purpose. Unity offers a solution to that.

At the core of any Unity brother's morning routine is the Unity pledge. Take 056605 here: He wakes up at the regulated 6am wake up call, quickly showers and dresses in his uniform coveralls. Then, before anything else, he places his fist over his heart and recites the Unity Pledge:

I, 056605, pledge my loyalty to Unity. I will wear my uniform with pride. I will serve my community with purpose. I will conform my values to the collective. I will unite more brothers to our movement. I am one of many. Together we are Unity. Hail Unity!

Now filled with pride and purpose, brothers like 056605 can start their day with a clear goal in mind. As Unity grows, think about what could be accomplished if all men wore this uniform, said this pledge, and lived life with a real purpose.

Say the pledge yourself. Devote yourself to a positive force of change. Become one of many. Join Unity.

[tchiyya]

Hello and welcome, שלום וברוכים הבאים, привет и добро пожаловать!

Welcome all friends, new and old. If you're migrating here with me from my old blog, please be aware that while I am still fundamentally the same underlying person, I have recently (as of this writing, at the start of this blog) gone through some extremely major and difficult personal things that have changed me a lot. I am, in fact, having to rebuild my life from the ground up, and am hoping for a fresh start. I would ask that folks please be respectful of that process and accept the changes as they come. Or, alternatively, if it's no longer your jam, please feel free unfollow with no hard feelings had.

***Important: if you know or think you know me IRL and we haven't had a conversation where I've said it's okay for you to follow this new blog, please respect my privacy and don't follow or read this blog. Thank you for respecting this boundary!

Things you will find here:

Religious Judaism

Jewish culture, history, and identity

Comparative theology

Queer/trans/non-binary stuff

Inclusive feminism/queer liberation/trans unity/inclusionism

Some politics and current events

Musings, thoughts, fancies, things I am thinking through

Personal posts

Hobbies (fiber arts of various types, learning woodworking, cooking/baking, possibly gardening, etc.)

Language learning: עברית, Русский (I am in the early stages of learning both; I have years of עברית practice and formal study but no ulpan, so my conversational skills are limited; Русский is something I have just started in earnest informally in the last few months or so, but I live with a native speaker which is why I'm learning it. Feel free to give me practice by reaching out to me in either!)

Other languages that I would love to learn at least a little of if I have the capability: ASL, Yiddish, Spanish, Arabic, Ukrainian

#ADHD Life

Cats, moths, bats, and other good creatures

Silliness

Boundaries: [Because DNIs don't work and people really need to relearn how to use the block button and curate their dashboards]

These are behaviors that will likely earn you a block from me:

Obvious scamming or spamming

Trolling

Lashon hara or call-out posts

Bigotry (not mistakes; actual beliefs)

Refusal to live in a fact-based reality (that is, if you refuse to take in new information and are unwilling to revise your opinions based on additional or improved information, I don't particularly want to engage with you)

Bitter in-fighting discourse that helps no one but our enemies

Exclusionism

Identity politics where one's identity defines the merit of your argument rather than merely informs it

Purity politics where "accountability" is actually just indefinite public shaming and shunning rather than teshuva and the possibility of forgiveness (which creates a culture where people are so terrified to ever make a mistake that they will always double down and refuse to admit to having made a mistake or having spoken in ignorance even when they very obviously have.) When is the last time you admitted you were wrong? Sincerely apologized for hurting others and worked to correct it as best as possible? Accepted someone else's teshuva and forgiven them fully?

Politics based more on jerking off to a specific theory than on compassion for actual living people and on effective (evidence-based) problem-solving

Honestly any behaviors that stress me out too much to be worth dealing with on an unserious social media platform

The older I get, the more I value people who are kind, compassionate, forgiving, and willing to work on themselves. And, the less I want to do with people whose politics and beliefs would seem to indicate that they are but whose actions show them to be unkind, unforgiving, and unwilling to look inward. Too many people have decided that cruelty is praxis as long as it's directed at the "correct" people. But punishment doesn't teach and is not synonymous with accountability. Cruelty creates more problems than it solves and fails to recognize the spark of the Divine in every person. Worse, it usurps the role of Hashem, who is the only true Judge.

As a religious Jew, I have to believe that every person has the ability to repent and change themselves for the good as long as they are alive. Even in death, I have to believe that gehinnom is temporary and meant to wash clean our collective neshamot, which are pure.

These are my values and I do my best to live by them. At the same time, I'm human and I make a lot of mistakes. I get angry and frustrated and I lash out. Or I allow myself to succumb to despair instead of seeing the broken things in the world as opportunities Hashem has given me to help others and release the Divine sparks trapped within. I do not always speak as wisely and as kindly as I wish I had. My deepest regrets in life are the times when I failed to be kind as I could have been in hindsight. I am a flawed person and I make mistakes. But, I also do my best to admit and correct them.

Can you say the same?

About us:

We are collectively Tchiyya, a system made up of six persons:

Tzuriel: genderqueer adult, ze/zir

Tamar: adult femme lesbian, she/her

Tidhar: adult bi male, he/him

Tahara: adult femme, she/her

Tomer: young adult queer punk, he/him

Tchelet: young alter (11ish), ze/zir

More about each of us here [coming soon]

Unless you are trying to talk to a specific alter, you can just interact with us generally as Tchiyya (they/them); however, you are welcome to reach out to a specific alter if you like. (Please note though, that Tchelet is quite young and so we are very guarded about who gets to interact with zir and how, and it will be supervised.)

Additional biographical information here [coming soon]

Asks:

Asks are open but anon is off. All asks will be answered publicly or (at my discretion) deleted. If you want a private conversation, message me directly.

Friendly, genuine asks about anything are welcomed. Banter is encouraged; trolling will be ignored. I do enjoy positive social interactions, so please do feel free to reach out!

Positions:

I used to have a whole massive write-up of my strong opinions on the topics most important to me. I will not be doing that here, at least not now, possibly never. You're just going to have to read my opinions as they come up like every other disorganized personal blog on here lol.

[xoxorealitygalore]

Nasty Dancer VI

Summary: Due to her unyielding confidence, Aphrodite earns her spot on the main roster, becoming The Bloodline's manager — or rather, Sefa's Special Counsel. His Wisewoman. But can she maintain her bold, unapologetic style when faced with her greatest challenge yet: working alongside her ex-boyfriend?

Taglist: @xbriexx @christinabae @blackchickinthedesert

Previous: Chapter Five

noitsreallyaphrodite ✓

1,325 Posts 1.8M Followers 900 Following

A P H R O D I T E ♥︎

Athlete

@wwe

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noitsreallyaphrodite Body a work of art like the Mona Li’ ❤️

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Aphrodite stood at the entrance of the men’s clothing store, her eyes scanning the interior as Joseph moved ahead with a focused stride. It was a peculiar thing for her to find herself here, of all places, in this store filled with racks of tailored suits, crisp button-down shirts, and fashionable slacks. Joseph had insisted on it. She was, after all, responsible for their image, their aesthetic, the way they would present themselves to the WWE universe. And this meant they needed to look good, together, as a cohesive unit.

Joseph had a particular way about him—confident, assertive, and entirely sure of himself that made it hard for Aphrodite to argue with him. Lately, she had been spending more time with him than she ever thought possible. They had started training together, strengthening their bodies and honing their skills, a part of their professional bond she hadn’t expected. Slowly, inevitably, Joseph had begun to grow on her again. His easy charm and undeniable charisma always had a way of disarming her, even if she tried to keep it at bay.

“Alright, Aphrodite, let’s see what you’ve got,” Joseph called from across the store, his voice warm with a teasing edge. He was already holding a shirt, inspecting it with a thoughtful gaze.

Aphrodite sighed but walked over to one of the racks, her fingers grazing the fabric of shirts, jackets, and pants as she made her selections. It had to be perfect, she knew. The creative team demanded a polished look, a sense of unity when it came to their wardrobe. But she wanted it to be unique, not just a typical "matchy-matchy" pairing. There had to be balance, harmony, something that would set them apart from all the other duos that had come before them.

As Aphrodite sifted through the clothes, she could feel Joseph’s presence behind her. She picked out pieces that complimented his tall, muscular frame, the colors rich yet subtle, a careful contrast to his rugged personality. He didn’t know it yet, but she was building the vision of how they would look together, how they would present themselves to the WWE universe. There was a symmetry in the colors, the textures, a sharpness in the cuts of the fabric that spoke to a certain level of elegance, but also strength.

Joseph made his way into the fitting room, stepping into each outfit she picked out. He turned in front of the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection with a critical eye. Aphrodite stood just outside the door, watching his expressions shift as he made his decisions. He always took his time, and it both frustrated and entertained her. Joseph, ever meticulous, wanted everything to be perfect. When he stepped out in a navy blue blazer, paired with black trousers and a white shirt, Aphrodite couldn’t help but admire how well the ensemble suited him.

“Looks good,” she said, trying to sound impartial but failing to hide the slight admiration in her tone.

Joseph gave her a cocky grin. “You’ve got taste, I’ll give you that.”

After trying on several more outfits, each one a little more polished than the last, Joseph finally settled on his choices. He made his way to the register, where Aphrodite was already waiting. She reached for her wallet, but Joseph waved her off, stepping in to pay for everything before she could protest.

“It’s on me,” he said with a shrug, his smile warm and casual. “Besides, you’re my manager, right? I’m just following your orders.”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes, but there was a flutter in her chest she couldn’t deny. She had been used to paying for things herself, handling her own affairs. But with Joseph, there was something different, something about the way he insisted on doing things for her, even when she didn’t ask. It was familiar, comforting, and yet, it made her uncomfortable in a way she wasn’t ready to face.

Once they were done, Joseph guided her out of the men’s store and over to the women’s boutique next door. Aphrodite had been silently dreading this part of the day. She didn’t mind shopping, it was just that when it came to the boutique, things always seemed to take longer than she liked. But Joseph seemed determined to make it a part of their day.

The boutique was bright and airy, filled with dresses, skirts, blouses, and shoes, all carefully arranged to create a sense of casual elegance. Aphrodite wandered through the racks, picking out outfits that spoke to her sense of style. Joseph hung back, content to watch her, occasionally offering a word of encouragement or a lighthearted comment about how good something looked on her.

Hours seemed to slip by as Aphrodite tried on clothes, modeling each ensemble for Joseph’s approval. There was a sense of normalcy in the way they moved together, how they spoke about clothes, how she slipped into one outfit after another, always looking for something that felt right. In a strange way, it felt almost as though they were a couple again, a feeling Aphrodite couldn’t shake, even though she tried.

But then, just as Aphrodite stepped out of the changing room in a sleek, black dress, something shifted. She caught sight of the sales associate with a knowing smile, glancing at Joseph with more than just professional interest. Aphrodite’s stomach churned as the associate leaned a little too close to Joseph, her laughter a little too loud, a little too flirty.

Aphrodite froze, her hands suddenly clammy as she tried to focus on her reflection in the mirror. Why am I feeling like this? she thought, trying to rationalize it. Joseph wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. They weren’t together. She had no right to feel jealous.

But jealousy, it seemed, had a mind of its own. Aphrodite felt a pang in her chest, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. A tightness that clenched in her throat, as though something was about to unravel. She quickly turned her gaze away, feeling foolish for caring.

Joseph, sensing the shift in energy, glanced over at her, his expression softening when he saw her standing there, visibly tense. The sales associate, oblivious to the undercurrent of discomfort, continued to flirt.

“I’m waiting on my wife to come out of the changing room,” Joseph said, his voice calm but firm, as he turned his attention back to Aphrodite. His eyes softened, meeting hers. “Come on, baby. Let’s pay for your things and get out of here.”

Aphrodite’s eyes widened at the sudden use of the word “wife.” It was as though Joseph had made a statement, a declaration in the most casual of ways. She didn’t know what to make of it, did he mean it? Was he playing? Either way, her heart fluttered despite her best efforts to remain indifferent.

Joseph wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her gently toward the register. Aphrodite tried to pay for the clothes, but Joseph’s refusal was firm. He paid for everything, and before she could say another word, he had guided her outside, his arm still around her.

As they reached the car, Joseph leaned over, giving her a teasing glance. “So, where do you want to eat?”

Aphrodite hesitated, feeling an odd mixture of discomfort and longing. “Take me home,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute. Spending this much time with him today had already been a stretch. She wasn’t about to let him think she was opening any doors, not with the old feelings resurfacing.

Joseph clicked his tongue in frustration. “Why you gotta be so stubborn, huh?” he muttered, though his voice held no real bite.

Ignoring her request entirely, he drove them to their favorite restaurant, one that had been a staple during their time together. Aphrodite rolled her eyes when she realized where they were going. She couldn’t avoid the memories, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

The hostess, Kyra, greeted them with an enthusiastic smile. “I’m happy you two are back together!” she said, her tone light and genuinely pleased.

Joseph smiled, though Aphrodite simply shook her head, resisting the urge to explain that they weren’t back together, not really. The two of them had been here so many times before, so many moments, so many shared experiences. It was strange, how much of their past lingered in the walls of this place.

The waiter, Aaron, approached them next, his grin wide when he saw them together. “Good to see you both again,” he said, setting down their usual order with ease.

Aphrodite sighed, feeling the weight of their history pressing in around her. “We’re not together,” she muttered, but Joseph didn’t miss the softness in her voice.

“Yet,” he corrected, his tone teasing.

After they finished their meal, Joseph ordered a Strawberry Tiramisu for dessert, a small indulgence he knew she couldn’t resist. Aphrodite tried to focus on her phone, checking messages and emails, but she couldn’t help but notice the dessert when it arrived. The memory of feeding him bites from her fork, laughing together, was sharp in her mind.

As she tasted the familiar sweetness of the tiramisu, a part of her couldn’t help but fall back into the rhythm of their past. And for a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to wonder if maybe—just maybe—there could be something more to this reconnection.

Next: Chapter Seven