#Funnel Scripts

[cool-wilson-david]

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[helloomaruf]

International Telephone Code Validation Script

For the ongoing growth of our business, we have been utilizing various advertisement tricks to drive traffic to our website or landing pages. These efforts are focused on attracting potential clients and converting them into leads. One critical component of these landing pages is the lead collection form, where visitors are prompted to enter their contact information, including their phone numbers. The problem arises when we receive invalid phone numbers, numbers without country codes, or wrong number formats. These issues significantly hamper our ability to achieve the desired outcomes from our investment in these ads.

To address these challenges, we have identified a potential solution: integrating an international country code script. This script functions by displaying the respective country flag in front of the phone number input field. By doing so, it ensures that the data received is in the correct format based on the visitor’s country. Moreover, the script also validates the phone number to confirm its accuracy. This dynamic approach, which determines the appropriate country flag based on the visitor’s IP address, enhances the accuracy and reliability of the collected data.

When businesses receive invalid or poorly formatted phone numbers, it leads to several unfavorable effects. First, it wastes valuable marketing resources, as the leads cannot be effectively contacted. Second, it makes reporting and analytics difficult to assess the true performance of ad campaigns. Third, it contributes to a poor user experience, as potential clients may get frustrated if their attempts to submit valid information are met with errors or rejections. By implementing an international telephone code validation script with country flag integration, we can ease these issues and improve the overall efficiency of our lead collection process.

One of the primary benefits of this script is its dynamic. Instead of relying on static data input fields, the script adapts to the specific conditions of each visitor. When a user visits the landing page, the script automatically detects their IP address and displays the corresponding country flag and phone number format. This seamless integration ensures that users are more likely to input their phone numbers correctly, leading to higher-quality leads for the business.

Furthermore, the script includes a validation mechanism to verify the accuracy of the phone numbers entered. This validation process checks for several common issues: whether a valid country code is included, if the number meets the length requirements for the specific country and other formatting standards. By performing these checks in real time, the script can prompt users to correct any errors before submitting the form. This defensive approach prevents invalid data from entering the system, thereby enhancing the overall quality of the collected leads.

Implementing such a script not only improves data accuracy but also has a positive impact on user experience. When users see the familiar flag of their country alongside the phone number input field, it builds trust and confidence. They are more likely to feel assured that their data will be handled properly and that the business has taken steps to respect their regional formatting preferences. This attention to detail can significantly boost conversion rates and contribute to a more positive perception of the brand.

Without an international telephone code validation script, the business would likely receive a mix of phone numbers, some of which might be unusable without manual correction. This scenario could lead to an increase in wasted marketing spend and decreased efficiency in reaching potential clients. We know ClickFunnels is a popular platform for creating landing pages and sales funnels. It’s a straightforward process to integrate such a script into your ClickFunnels page. You can understand better how this international telephone code validation script works and can be integrated with ClickFunnels in this video. Click to Watch

[choas232]

G/N Chatty reader x Steb 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Summary: In which you grapple with feelings you don’t yet understand by talking a certain enforcer’s ears off. Forced proximity makes everything worse, as it tends to.

CWs: Profanity. Canon typical violence. Reader has some bias about Zaunites they probably need to work on. I wrote most of this at 10pm at night, so be warned.

No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them are used to refer the reader. Set in episode three, season 2.

Word count: 2.9

Part two

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

“God. I’m starving. And tired. I barely slept at allllll last night. Do you think the Grey’s keeping us awake? Our glorious leader Kiramman sure wants it to, dragging us along at this cracking speed. It’s been a whole week, too. I’m gonna drop dead, at this rate.” You lament. Your fellow enforcer does not comment from his place behind you, his footsteps echoing around the pipe.

Graffiti crowds the metal surface, amateur artworks, declarations of love, violence, and scripts you don’t recognise cramming themselves over one another, space sparse and sought after. It’s not Jinx’s work. Still, there’s a chill on your back you choose to attribute to the profanities.

The people of the underground sure know how to decorate, that’s for sure.

You two have been chosen to scout out a fairly low-danger area in search of a Zuanite’s sighting of Jinx. He did say it after a hefty heaping of Grey was funnelled into his lungs and a gun was held to his head, but Caitlyn is paranoid enough to bark at shadows, and you will oblige, if only to keep her happy.

It’s not like any of you are much better. Loris is quieter than ever, Maddie jumps at the smallest sounds and of your companion… you have no idea. You never have. Steb’s inner workings remain a mystery to you.

You turn. “Are we there yet? We should be there soon, right?” Steb nods distantly, more focused on the setting around you.

This part of the pipes is yet to be flooded with grey, so you can see him clearly without the obscuring mask.

His light teal skin, thin lips, nose, sharp, angular features. His neat uniform. His polished posture. He is distinctly and utterly out of place amongst the chaos that surrounds you. His eyes are so blue. So opalescent, shining like pearls in his eye sockets. Is that weird to notice? How much detail is it normal to notice about someone? You should probably stop looking.

His ribbed ears flick back, ever so slightly, eyes flicking to meet yours for a brief moment.

You look away. “Uh.” His eyes. His blue eyes. Blue. “God. I’m sooo hungry. Hah. I haven’t eaten since this morning. The rations are running out, and all the Zaunite stuff Vi is bringing in is uhm, questionable.”

You don’t look behind you again, your mouth moving quicker. Your breath is tight, probably because of the steady stream of words flowing from your mouth. You think. “I would kill for a good sandwich. Or two. I might have to resort to cannibalism—”

Hands enclose around your collar and yank you back with force.

Below you, a human sized-hole lined with rusted, broken metal grating, a slowly, ever spinning fan—

Your heart staggers in your chest like a drunkard. Images of your empaled, scraped, body twisted and pressed beyond recognition cram into your skull, rattle and scream.

“Fuck.” You mumble, quietly. Steb’s hand releases your collar. “C-close one. Thanks. Fish-sticks. How didn’t I see that?” You laugh. He doesn’t. It isn’t funny.

He brushes the shoulder pads of your uniform off, carefully but hastily looking you up and down. He keeps a respectable distance between you, but you can still see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. You mimic him. Your mouth feels dry.

He fixes you with a look as his hands drop to his sides, and although his face usually retains some semblance of ambiguity on it, you know exactly what he’s thinking. Watch where you’re going.

“Sorry doc. I…” You trail off. You should stop talking. You probably talk so much around him because he makes you nervous. Why does he make you nervous? Your usual slamming of thoughts trickles dry. You have no idea.

Carefully, you two traverse over the great gaping hole in the pipework. How did you miss it? You don’t sure don’t miss how Steb watches you hawk-like though, and the following guilt is low and prickling in your gut. He goes first, and every small unprompted movement of yours has him stiffening, arm moving to steady you.

“Jeez. Don’t mother hen me, I’m all grown-up, I assure you.” You bat him away, landing with a clang! of the metal against your boots as you leap across the last segment. His frown is resounding.

A corner stretches before you, now. You let him go first with a swing of your arm just in case the metal of the pipe opens up to attempt to swallow you yet again. “All yours,” He obliges.

It’s an open space. Milky green light filters through the roofing, painting the graffiti stained flooring monochromatic and hazy. Two other pipes adjoin to the room, and a mural of Janna clad in white laced with metallic armour bounds over the walls. It looks exactly like what was described, which is worrying, because hey, Jinx!

The sniffling child is even more worrying, though. Looking up, she brushes away dark locks  from her face and bursts into prompt tears. “Please, m-my-my… my leg. it really hurts.” She wails.

Sure enough, one of her legs is crushed under a slab of tin, making itself known as the cause of the light filtering through the roof. “Please. Please.” Snot dribbles down onto her ragged shirt, her big brown eyes blown wide.

Steb is already gone before you can access the situation, bounding over.

Poor kid. You wince, tapping your fingers against your lips. Probably just playing with the ball you see perched nearby when shoddy craftmanship led to tragedy. Still… “Jeez. Think to consider a trap? No? Just me.” You mutter.

“Just you.” The voice from behind you amusedly whispers, and then you feel the cool rim of the gun pressed against your skull.

Fear makes a mockery out of you. Your thoughts accelerate, snapping at each others heels, but you cannot think. You aren’t really the brawlers of the team. He’s the field medic, for fuck’s sake, and while you can handle yourself in a fight this is more of a Vi job. You regret mocking her cuisine choices. This is probably some kind of sick karma. Sick? You feel sick. God, your stomach is writhing, your insides eating each other up.

Steb, still blinded by his tunnel vision, hauls the tin off of the girl. His ears flick down as he peers down at the clean space beneath, clean of blood and gore. Her leg, unblemished and by all means healthy looking, curls back into her body, and then she bursts outwards like a spring, down the nearest tunnel.

Too late, he looks back at you.

“I’m sure they require you topsiders to rattle a few braincells together to wear that fancy uniform. They don’t need allll of them, do they?” The man holding the gun to your head calls out to him. Flesh drips from his arms, lanky and lean, pressing against your neck as he holds you into him. You smell the shimmer on his breath before you see his blood lined eyes.

Steb jerks forwards. Bruisingly, the gun slams into your skull. “Move and their brains go BOOM! Hands in the air. Now.” He snarls, and Steb freezes in place, slowly raising his hands. You can see him breathing, hard, heaving breaths.

More people clamour their way out of vents, behind slabs of wood. You count at least four. Shit.

Shit.

This is bad.

“Woah! Talk about dramatics, huh?” You start, and almost in shock, the man holding you to himself grip loosens. From Steb’s place, you can see the wrinkle that lines his mouth when he gets stressed creep into existence. (That’s normal to remember. You should know when your coworkers get stressed. Part of the job, and all.) He slowly shakes his head. You mouth, trust me. He shakes his head harder. “Maybe we should talk this out? Civilly, tea and biscuits? …No?”

“It stopped being civil when you went for one of mine.”

Of course that guy you beat the shit out of gave you the location of an ambush. He was all too eager to speak, and when you go poking your hand down foxholes, it’s going to get bitten off. You feel both incredibly stupid and incredibly self-satisfied, you knew it, and you went here anyways.

“One of yours? I mean, we probably didn’t mean to? It was probably a mistake—” he shoves the gun down your throat. Spittle drips down the barrel. You taste dirt and gunpowder. You taste the blood leaking from your tongue.

You taste fear.

“Well? Your bag.” He gestures loosely to Steb.

Steb locks eyes with you as he gently tugs the straps off of his back, letting the hefty bag land to the floor with a thump. Carefully, he steps back, raising his hands in the air once again.

One of the hovering goons quickly snatches it, tugging it open. Medical supplies, bottles, all-the-like clatter the ground, but she continues shifting through hastily, eyes slowly narrowing. The last of our food supplies…, you mournfully think, quickly followed by Caitlyn is going to kill us, and she’s probably right to.

“You told us there would be hex tech, you fucking liar.” She drops the bag carelessly, starting towards the man holding you. “Well, do you think I’m some sort of prophet? You knew that it was an estimate.” He snaps back, grip on you loosening, the gun shifting out of your mouth to point towards the soft flesh of your cheek, spreading out your blood clouded spit as it does.

“I think you set us the hell up. You promised we’d split the money, but where’s the money now, huh? I gotta family to feed, hired work is dropping like flies with the chem barons at each other’s throats, which means I missed on any number of begging clients for this shit.”

You get an idea.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

It’s a terrible idea.

Steb tears his gaze from the arguing pair to meet your eyes, perhaps on some precognition of the mistake you are about to make.

You wink, grab the gun pressed to your cheek and then you yank.

It comes as cleanly as expected, the man’s adrenaline rattled, drug loosened reflexes nothing for the shock you give him when you take the gun from his hands, and than run. Surprise gives you the upper hand, yells clouding your soundscape. You still manage to pick out Steb’s footsteps, clean and even behind you as you barrel down the nearest pipe.

You run harder than you’ve ever run, past graffiti, with only your breath, the calls behind you, your heartbeat and the echoes of his and your boots slamming against metal to guide you.

You turn the corner so hard you slam your side against it, feeling your already bruised cheek cry out in pain in time with your yelp, and you stumble. Steb catches your shirt and yanks you right back up, and then you’re in another wide-open space.

Your head swings around, fear hammering around your ribcage like a desperate songbird.

Steb grabs your shoulder, gesturing with his head. You follow his gaze. There’s a smaller pipe in the wall, covered by a draping of torn fabric, and you rush towards it before you have any time to think, the fabric draping over your hair, the surface cool under your fingers.

He follows, your pursuer yells barrelling into your ears as the curtain draws shut.

The space is tight, circular, not even big enough for you to stretch out an arm and not brush the opposite end. Your back is pressed flush against the concrete and plaster. Your legs cage Steb, as do his, looping over one each other, his knee bent at an angle that’s for sure going to hurt later. His arms clutch the walls of the tube, yours resting bent in your lap.

He leans down, and his fingers gently grasp that stupid beret of his and tug it down onto his lap, before he pulls his head back up, his head scraping the roof. He’s a least a head taller than Maddie, and although you’d like to think of yourself as average, you are now grateful for the height you lack.

“OVER HERE!” Did they see you? Is this it? What can you do, two against at least five or so. You mean, counting has never really been your strong suit under pressure, and who’s to tell? Are you going to die? Are you going to die, your legs pressed into his midriff?

The gold smattering across Steb’s undereyes and nose adjoins with the darker turquoise scales lining the cavities his eyeballs are strung into, carving out little gold, blue, orange stripes, like the ones on the fish you and your parents used to gawk at the aquariums had.

Are they going to cart out your body to your parents, after your fellow enforcers find you, crammed into a hole in the underground? What would you had died for?

His eyes are so blue.

He blinks, smooth, deep lapis overtaking the gleaming surface of his eyes before his eyelids do. He has a second eyelid. How did you never notice?

His lips, perpetually downturned as they are, his steady line his eyebrows carve themselves into, his perfect posture, even as you are cramped within the pipe, the smooth, angular frame of his cheekbones all of it make him look like one of those forever uninconvenienced paintings the councillors hang from their mansion walls. He looks calm. His stupid snooty resting face cannot fool you. You know he isn’t.

His lips are parted, the gap between his front teeth visible as he stares down the opening of the tunnel like a loyal family dog. His little giveaway.

Maybe his inner workings aren’t such a mystery, after all.

He makes you nervous. He makes you so nervous. He makes you into a wreck.

You think you might be in love with him.

—and your pursuers are rushing past you, all until you can’t hear their voices and you’re alive. You’re alive and you’ve never been so happy to tomorrow eat shitty Zaunite food and have Caitlyn yell at you for loosing supplies and talk and talk and talk until your throat is raw.

You don’t. Talk. You don’t talk.

He’s looking at you.

You feel like a fool.

You sit there, just looking at him too. His eyelids slip halfway, letting you count the short lashes that frame them. His expression relaxes, loosens, ever so slightly, his arms moving from the wall of the tunnel to his lap.

You could sit here with him for hours, death inches from you both, and you could be happy. You could be suspended in disbelief and plausible deniability; you could allow yourself to lie. Your heart is pounding from the adrenaline, of course. Your face is pink because of overexertion, and you kind of want to kiss him because you’ve never kissed anybody and you may as well as get it over with before you die, right?

He points to his face. You blink, and then he points to yours. You brush your finger cheeks against the flesh and feel the sting of injury, spittle and blood on your fingers. Right.

Right. He’s looking at you because you’re injured right?

Of course he is. (Disappoint is still food, and you swallow it.)

Gently, he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. Instead of sparring you and handing it to you, he merely carefully holds your head, one hand on your jaw and the other gently patting down the mess on your cheek. His head is tilted. You feel your heart slam up your throat, a throbbing, horrible pain that lets you part your lips to let the breath escape you before it can choke you.

The hand cradling your jaw moves a careful finger up to brush your lower lip.

Accident, of course. He’s not even looking at them, rather, the mess, taking his sweet time as he does, so very gentle.

You think he might be the danger, not the hell that is the pipework, nor the Grey, nor not the man with the gun

He pulls back, tucking the handkerchief back into the pocket and shallowly inclining his head towards the opening.

With a long look back at you, he crawls out of the hole first. You follow, dizzily. Ever the gentlemen, he offers you a hand as you push your way out of the hell that made you. You take it and feel incredibly guilty for doing so, stumbling to your feet.

He fastens his beret, usually a sign from you to inwardly (or outwardly) mock his silly hat, still watching you. You do not, in fact, mock him. You might be shaking, in fact, and that thought makes you hate yourself more than you could ever despise that ugly navy piece of fabric.

He frowns, and then he gestures to your mouth. You flinch without meaning too. “Huh?”

He mimes speaking, shallowly opening and then hastily closing his mouth

He's right to be concerned.

You haven’t spoken since you two trapped yourselves in the tunnel, after all.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

Notes: Thank you for reading!! :)))) STUPID. IDIOTS IN LOVE. Him under the guise of medical assistance letting himself touch you... bro isn't slick whatsoever. If you have any ideas, be sure to drop them in my ask box, there is lack of fic on him holy hell. As a side note, we all need the comfort after season two part two holy cow…

[monicfever]

omgg youu are talented at writting 😭😭 could youu please write more of dex?? YOUU ARE AMAZING ♾️♾️🤍💘

orbiting you quietly. 𝜗𝜚 ben poindexter.

working side by side in the hum of routine, dex moves through every task with quiet devotion, chasing the warmth of your praise like it’s sunlight — like it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.

brooklyn was grey that morning.

heavy with a kind of lightless fog that pressed low against the buildings, as if the city itself had given up holding its head high. the brooklyn suicide prevention center sat quiet near the corner of a long, cracked street, tucked between a shuttered deli and an apartment complex that hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade. the building didn’t look like a place for saving lives, it looked like a place people went to disappear.

inside, the walls were an off-white that had seen too many winters, too many cheap coffee spills and curled bulletin board notices pinned and forgotten. it smelled faintly of disinfectant and the ghost of burnt toast. there were dying plants on windowsills, drooping toward the glass like they, too, had tried to leave and failed. phones rang in soft cycles, never urgently. voices murmured behind the fabric walls of cubicles. sometimes crying, sometimes silence.

dex’ cubicle was third from the end in the west corridor, just past the breakroom that always smelled like someone else's soup. his space was a picture of immaculate restraint. not a pen out of place, not a single paperclip skewed. everything was lined up, corner to corner, colour-coded sticky notes stacked with precision. the monitor sat perfectly centered. the chair never spun when he stood up. it was rigid, obedient. just like him. he liked it that way.

he liked the quiet, the way the lights buzzed just barely too loud, like something inside the walls was always alive. he liked the uniformity, the structure, the rules. the way the day folded itself into clean, containable blocks. thirty-minute calls, ten-minute breaks, scheduled wellness checks. everything measured. everything expected.

predictability was peace.

it didn’t matter that most of the people he spoke to were crying, or silent, or on the edge of not breathing. he followed the script provided, voice smooth and sterile, each word handed over like a prescription. detached, impersonal. it was what they trained him to do. dex was good at following orders. he didn’t feel bad about the calls. he didn’t feel much at all. maybe once, in a different life, there was guilt or something like it. now it was just static.

the carpet was grey and frayed near the corners of the hallway, the breakroom door had a squeak that made his teeth itch, the clock above the main desk always ran four minutes fast. he catalogued these things without meaning to, without wanting to. everything filed away neatly in his mind.

the building itself felt suspended in time; dim, slow-moving, tired. there was something haunted about it. not by ghosts, but by the weight of too many stories stacked on top of each other. hundreds of voices funneled through the same lines, all pleading into the same nothing.

the walls didn’t echo. they absorbed. every whisper, every sob, every broken breath swallowed whole by the cubicles, the stained ceiling tiles, the thin industrial carpet that dulled footsteps. it was a quiet that wasn't peaceful. it was the quiet of restraint. of things left unsaid. the lights overhead hummed with the same tired persistence as the people beneath them. no one spoke loudly here, no one laughed. even the breakroom felt like it existed underwater — muted, slow, beige.

outside, the city moved fast. horns, trains, voices, music leaking from passing cars; but inside this building time collapsed inward. minutes dragged like wet cloth. hours disappeared without a trace.

dex sat at his desk like he’d always been there. spine straight, hands still, eyes fixed on the screen even when nothing was moving. he was good at this part — the waiting. the stillness. he could out-sit anyone. sometimes he watched the light change. the way it crept across the floor from the narrow windows, cold and pale in the early hours, yellow and foggy by late afternoon. it gave the illusion that something was shifting, even if everything else stayed exactly the same.

his headset rested just behind his ear; ready. not because he wanted the calls, but because he wanted to be seen. wanted them to see him. to see how composed he was. how exact.

the others here had softness in them. he could hear it in their voices, the way they said i’m sorry like they meant it. the way they let themselves feel for the strangers calling in, bleeding into the phone. dex didn’t bleed. he couldn’t.

but he was clean. efficient. dependable. and he thought — he hoped — that maybe that meant something to them. maybe that was enough to be worthy of a second glance. a quiet compliment. a fleeting you’re doing good work, dex. he would carry those words like a relic, polish them smooth in his mind.

this place didn’t need to be warm. it just needed to hold them both. him, and the one person he couldn’t stop wanting to impress.

you.

sometimes dex thought about how many people had whispered their last words into this building. he didn’t feel sad about that either. he didn’t come here to feel, he came for control. for order. for the soft, rare moments when they noticed him. that was the only thing that made him real lately. not the routine. not the script. not the careful stacks of paper or the alphabetized tabs on his desktop.

just them.

and he tried. god, he tried. arrived early, stayed late, kept his stats high, his reports spotless. he kept hoping they’d stop behind his chair again, hand resting on the edge of his cubicle, voice low and even, saying something — anything — that he could replay in his head later when the calls were over and the building had emptied and he sat alone in the quiet.

he was good. he had to be.

not just clean numbers and flawless reports. not just the voice he used on the line, untouched by emotion. it was in the way he sat, the way he breathed, the way he never left a single thing out of place. perfection was the language he spoke, and he spoke it for them.

they moved like the building belonged to them. not in any loud or arrogant way, it was quieter than that. the way people naturally shifted when they were near, like water parting around a steady shape. dex watched it happen every time. watched the way they drifted through the halls like gravity bent around them. watched how their presence could calm a room. they didn’t know what they were doing to him. or maybe they did. he couldn’t tell.

sometimes, they would stop behind him, just briefly. a word or two dropped like gold coins.

“you handled that one well.”

“i like the way you log your notes.”

simple. professional. casual, even. but dex would carry it like scripture. would repeat it in the quietest part of his mind, over and over, until the syllables wore grooves into his brain. he didn’t need kindness. didn’t need warmth. he just needed recognition.

his entire body was tuned to their presence. their steps, the scent of their cologne or shampoo, something clean and unplaceable. the way their hand sometimes grazed the edge of his cubicle wall when they walked by, fingers dragging for half a second too long. he lived for the scraps. he worked like he was starving. like praise was food, and only they could feed him.

and when the building emptied, when the phones stopped and the lights flickered tired above him, dex would still sit there. alone in the hush, thinking of them. always them. thinking of the way their voice sounded when they said his name four days ago. thinking of how it might sound if they ever said it a little softer.

he stayed late under the lights that buzzed just a little louder when the building thinned out. his monitor casting a pale blue glow across his face, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper, sharper. the clock ticked quietly, but he didn’t hear it. he was thinking. not about the calls, not about the woman he’d just talked off a ledge with a voice that didn’t waver once. he was thinking about the way they’d paused near his desk that morning. just a second. just long enough.

they didn’t say much. just glanced down at his screen and nodded, slow and approving, before moving on. “doing good.” that was all. but it played in his head like music.

he had written it down — he always did. kept a private document hidden in layers of folders on his desktop, buried beneath fake names and acronyms. a log and date of every word they’d ever said to him. every smile, every glance. he read through it when the office got too quiet, when the night pressed in too close. every compliment was a wound he reopened on purpose.

he thought about them on the subway ride home. standing, always, even when seats were open. gripping the cold metal pole with his hand, staring straight ahead but seeing only their face.

he wondered if they ever thought about him. if they ever wondered why he never took days off. why he never made mistakes. why he was always exactly what they needed. he didn’t want anything from them, not really. not in the way people always assumed when they used words like ‘infatuation.’

he just wanted to be good enough. good enough to notice. good enough to need.

if that meant becoming hollow and perfect, if that meant learning every single thing about them and storing it behind his teeth like a secret, he would do it. he was already doing it.

and he was so, so good.

the next morning was pale and brittle.

the sky outside the narrow windows was washed-out, barely blue, the kind of color that felt unfinished. snow had started to fall again — thin, soundless flakes drifting sideways past the glass like ash. it hadn’t stuck to the pavement yet, but everything looked muted, quieter than usual. like the world was holding its breath.

inside, the office was already alive with low chatter, the occasional cough, the creak of desk chairs. cubicles stretched in neat rows under the ceiling’s low sprawl, each one its own little box of half-lives and coffee-stained reports. someone was crying softly into their headset two aisles over. someone else was typing too fast.

dex’ corner was untouched, still perfect. clipboard aligned to the edge of the desk. pen uncapped, resting parallel. his chair didn’t squeak when he moved. he was already mid-call, voice low, steady, pulled taut like string. “...and that’s okay. it’s okay to feel that way. what matters is that you called. we’re gonna walk through it together.”

his tone didn’t change. it never did. he could’ve been reading from a cookbook. his eyes flicked to the clipboard in front of him, following the script like a ritual. mechanical, precise. not because he cared, but because they might be listening.

and then — that shift.

that unmistakable flicker in the air, subtle as a change in pressure. he didn’t look up, not right away, but he felt it. recognized their footsteps. the way the light seemed to change. they were close. he heard the soft drag of their steps, the gentle creak of their weight against the wall of his cubicle; then a pause.

they leaned against the edge of his workspace, not speaking yet, just watching him. dex’ breath caught, but he didn’t let it show. his fingers tightened faintly around the clipboard. he kept reading word for word. “you’re not alone in this. i’m here. just breathe, okay? can you do that for me?” his voice was warmer now. emotional. almost convincing. he could feel their eyes on him.

then they smiled. not big, not loud. just a small, knowing thing. patient. dex swallowed. his heart, previously so even and quiet in his chest, now thundered. not because of the caller, not because of the script; because they were listening and he wanted to be good.

their gaze moved over him with that quiet kind of focus that made his skin feel too tight, like he wasn’t meant to hold this much attention. his voice stayed even, but his fingers tapped once nervously against the clipboard. “yeah,” he said into the receiver, eyes fixed on the words in front of him but meaning none of them. “you’re doing the right thing. just stay with me a little longer, okay? we’ll take it one step at a time.” his throat felt dry. out of the corner of his eye, he saw you mouth something.

you’re doing great.

just that. silent. lips forming the words like a secret meant only for him. his grip tightened. his heart stuttered. he nodded once — tiny, instinctive. not for the caller. for them. always them.

they stayed for a moment longer, arms still folded, eyes warm but unreadable. listening. watching. then they pushed off the edge of the cubicle with that same soft grace they always moved with and walked away, further down the row to check on someone else.

their absence was immediate.

like breath pulled from a room. dex exhaled slowly, blinked, refocused. the caller was still speaking, shakily, and dex responded automatically, voice instantly flat again. but in his chest, everything was loud. frantic. glowing.

they said he was doing great.

he would hold onto that for days.

the call dragged on, the voice on the other end of the line scared, low. words spilled out of him with an eerie precision, as if he were reciting a mantra, something hollow and detached. “i’m still here. i’m not going anywhere.” but the words felt empty. inside everything was burning, frantic. a sharp, throbbing pressure in his chest. every thought, every heartbeat, seemed to be pulling him in a direction he couldn’t resist. his mind kept circling back to them, to the way they’d looked at him, the way they'd smiled before walking away. he wanted to grab onto that moment, hold it tight, feel it slip through his fingers. it wasn’t enough. it would never be enough.

the girl on the line was still speaking, but her voice barely registered. his eyes flickered to his screen, gaze sharpening, almost predatory. then he leaned closer to the mic, voice dropping lower, quieter, colder. "maybe you should just do it." he murmured, tone so dark it almost tasted like metal. "make it stop." the words felt raw, too raw, but he couldn’t stop them. he wanted to hear them. he leaned even closer, breath steady. "what’s stopping you? go ahead. make it quick. you think anyone cares? clearly not, if you needed to call a stranger for help."

the words hung in the air, the silence between them thick and oppressive. the girl’s voice on the other end stuttered, a soft whimper escaping her lips. dex didn’t care. and then, the call ended with a sharp click, the silence ringing through his ears.

he blinked, fingers hovering over the mouse. the room was suffocatingly still. for a moment, he sat there, the weight of the words lingering in the air. but before he could process what had just happened, the sound of footsteps approached again. he didn’t need to look up. he already knew who it was.

their voice, soft and uncertain, broke through the quiet. “hey, uh, dex...” they sounded almost hesitant, as if they were trying to be careful not to disturb the fragile calm of his world.

“yeah?” he responded, his voice clipped, sharper than he intended.

there was a pause, and then the words came out in a rush. “there’s a birthday party for michelle today. you know, just something small after hours... cake, some decorations. i’ve already asked everyone else, but they’re busy. i was wondering... if you have a few minutes... maybe... you could stay and help me set up?”

it was simple. innocent. but something about it made the blood rush to his head, made his stomach twist in ways that felt dangerous. his fingers tightened around the clipboard, the edges digging into his skin. he exhaled slowly, forcing a calm he didn’t feel, as his gaze finally lifted, eyes locking onto theirs. “sure,” he said, too quickly. “i’ll stay. no problem.” the words came out almost too eager, but he didn’t care. staying was all that mattered. staying meant being close.

they smiled then, the faintest curve of their lips, and it felt like a brief moment of relief — like they had just thrown him a rope, and he was grabbing onto it with everything he had. “thanks, dex.” their voice was light, but he could hear the warmth beneath it.

he nodded, his throat tight. "yeah. no problem."

they walked away after that.

stay and help me.

it wasn’t much, but to dex it felt like an invitation. an opening. an opportunity to be needed, to prove he was worth something. to make himself useful in a world where he often felt like a shadow fading into the background.

he clicked through the tasks on his screen, the words blurring as his thoughts spiraled, his focus split between the calls he needed to take and the thought of them, standing just out of reach.

it wasn’t long before the workday was winding down, the office growing quieter. the last few calls filtered through, voices distant and hollow, but dex barely heard them anymore. his eyes flicked towards the clock, then back to his screen. the tension in his chest was building again.

when his final call ended, dex was already standing, his movements quick. he grabbed his jacket, almost throwing it on, hands moving with a frantic energy that was out of place in the otherwise calm office. he didn’t wait. he couldn’t wait. he found them just as they were finishing up something at their desk.

“ready.” he greeted, voice a little too sharp, too eager, like he was afraid they’d change their mind.

they looked up, surprised but with that same soft smile. "oh, you’re ready to help?"

"yeah," he replied immediately, "just tell me what to do."

they hesitated, eyes studying him for a moment, and it sent a thrill through him. did they notice? did they see how much he wanted this? how much he needed their attention? "okay," they said, voice warm, like the invitation had never stopped. "follow me."

dex nodded, following closely behind them as they made their way to the small break room where the party would take place. his steps were almost too quick, matching their pace, but just enough distance to leave room for that sliver of space he knew he couldn’t invade. yet. he watched them move around, setting up with a practiced ease, and for the first time in what felt like forever, dex found himself... still.

when they turned to him, asking if he could hold something, the smile they gave him was warm and kind, and for a moment, it felt like they were looking at him in a way they hadn’t before — like he mattered, like he was someone they wanted around. “thank you.” they said again, their voice softer now, with that subtle approval he craved.

dex nodded, his throat tight, chest swelling with something he couldn’t name. "anything for you." the words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and needy, and he almost winced at the intensity in his own voice. they didn’t seem to notice, or maybe they did, but they didn’t care. they just smiled, the kind of smile that made his heart race.

as they continued to set up his thoughts began to race again. he was so close now. so close to what he wanted, to what he needed. he would stay close. stay useful. stay needed. and maybe, just maybe, they would notice. maybe they would see him as more than just the guy who followed the script, more than just the quiet one who stayed in his corner. maybe, this time, he could be someone they wanted — someone they couldn’t ignore.

the world outside the room faded into nothing. dex moved with urgency, hands trembling slightly as he helped set up the decorations. he tried to focus on the task at hand, but all he could feel was their presence, the air thick with the faintest traces of their scent. their laughter, light and easy, drifted through the room, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at them, catching the way their eyes sparkled when they smiled.

stop it. just focus. he thought, trying to reign in the overwhelming pull he felt. but the more he watched them, the harder it became to pretend. they passed by him again, just close enough that he could feel the warmth of their proximity. "could you grab that box over there?" they requested, their voice easy, casual.

"of course." his hands reached for the box a little too quickly. it was a simple request, one they probably didn’t think twice about, but to dex, it was like a direct command — and he would always listen to what they had to say.

when he placed the box down they gave him a soft smile, and for a moment, it was like time slowed. "you’re really helpful." the words hung in the air for a heartbeat too long, and dex felt a jolt of something sharp, something electric course through him. he swallowed hard, trying to mask the way his heart was pounding in his ears.

"yeah, no problem." he managed, hands clenching at his sides, aching to touch, to do more. instead, he forced himself to look away, focusing on the task in front of him. they moved around the room, busying themselves with small tasks — hanging up a banner, setting out plates. dex watched every move, every glance, every soft chuckle that escaped their lips. it was like he was drowning in them.

they went about their work and would ask him the occasional question, tone light and friendly. "hey, you’ve been working really hard lately, huh?" they glanced at him as they placed a stack of cups on the table. "i’ve noticed. you’re kind of a perfectionist, aren’t you?"

his breath caught, and he forced himself to laugh, though it felt hollow in his chest. "i try," he said. "it’s just easier when everything is orderly."

they smiled again, that soft, warm smile that made his stomach flip. "i think that’s why you’re so good at your job," they said casually. "you really care about getting things right."

the words cut through him, each one a needle pinning him to the spot. they think i care. they notice. he swallowed hard, "i do.” he didn’t. not about the job. not really. but the praise, the validation from them, that was everything. they didn’t seem to notice how much their words affected him. to them, it was just casual conversation, the kind they had with everyone. but to dex it was like they had just handed him the most precious gift.

the conversation moved on and dex felt the unease growing inside of him bubbling. it wasn’t enough. nothing would ever be enough. he wanted more, needed more. all of them, all of their attention. he wanted to be the center of their focus, to be the one they turned to when they needed something — anything. he watched them move across the room, taking charge, organizing. every word that fell from their lips, every simple instruction, was a rule he had to follow. even the smallest request sent a surge of something sharp and eager through him. he stood a little straighter, waiting for another moment, another task. anything.

"could you help set this up over here? just grab a few of the chairs and bring them over." their voice was light, nothing extraordinary, but to him, it was everything. "you got it." his hands were already moving before the words left his mouth. it didn’t matter that the task was small, that it was nothing more than setting up chairs. what mattered was that they had spoken to him, asked him to do something.

when he returned with the chairs, he set them down carefully, making sure they were perfectly aligned, just like everything else in his life. "thanks." they said with a smile that seemed to stretch a little longer than usual, just enough to leave his heart racing in his chest.

"anything." he smiled, and it was friendly, the kind you’d offer to be polite, but the word hung in the air more than a simple response. anything for you.

the evening wore on, and he stayed close, just enough to be in their orbit. he couldn’t get enough of the feeling — of being needed, of doing something for them, of being the one they called on. nothing else mattered. not the calls he’d taken, not the people on the other end of the line, not the world outside this room. it was only them, only their presence that filled his mind, their every word and smile that kept him tethered to this moment, this small piece of purpose.

everything for them. only for them.

the conversation faded into a low murmur behind him, like waves crashing against a shore he no longer stood on. dex wasn’t listening. not really. his eyes were on them again — the curve of their spine as they leaned over a table, the easy grace in their movements, the way they gestured with one hand while the other cradled a clipboard to their chest. he could watch them forever. he wanted to.

in the quiet recess of his mind, the scene shifted — subtly at first. he imagined them turning toward him with that same warm smile, but softer now, like it was just for him. no crowd. no task. just their voice, low and familiar, asking him to stay a little longer. maybe they’d brush his hand when passing by, fingers lingering just a second too long. maybe they'd whisper something just for him — something secret, something his. maybe they’d need him in a way that wasn’t about chairs or lists or neat rows of order. just him. only him.

his chest ached.

dex blinked. the room snapped back into sharp relief — they were still across the room, still organizing, still unaware of the spiral he’d disappeared into. that was fine. that was better.

he cleared his throat, tugged at the hem of his shirt, forced his feet to stay grounded. one step at a time. one small task at a time. he could manage that. he had to.

he looked back at them — not too long. just enough. “let me know if you need anything else.” he said, louder than necessary, voice steady now, composed. it wasn’t just an offer.

it was a promise.

★ a / n : thank you sm for this sweet message

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[vldunchartedregions]

Voltron Season 8 Meta Introduction

Hi! Welcome to "Uncharted Regions."

Now that it's been several years since Voltron Season 8 came out, the news of Netflix's removal of the series on December 14th, 2024 shook the fandom and pop culture as a whole.

You may be wondering... 1) Huh?! 2) Why?! It's a Netflix Original! 3) I loved this show, I don't understand! I was the same, too. We were all a little confused. However, licensing rights were ending to Netflix and Netflix doesn't want to renew. Fair play.

As someone who worked in a corporate company who also provides live streaming services + has a degree in television production, I have a better understanding of the executive decisions at play that comes down to it. It was not too hard to decipher why when you know what went on in the trenches of the Voltron fandom from 2016-2018.

The bottom line is that Netflix marketing did not match the source material provided, and there was intensive discourse across multiple facets of the fandom. You can imagine Netflix were not fans of the outcome of the series, and may not have even been told by Dreamworks the outcome of the series when Season 8 dropped; especially when Netflix's global social media accounts openly admitted to shipping Klance on Twitter.

Regardless, we're not looking at who's to blame, but you do have to wonder how such a large international miscommunication between Netflix, Dreamworks, and Voltron's IP holders went down the corporate funnel.

...I digress, let's move on.

As many people did from the news of it's removal (which also surprised the official Voltron accounts), I got back into the Voltron fandom really quickly and tried to rewatch as much as I could before it's inevitable removal from Netflix.

I haven't touched this show in years, friends. Not since 2020. The rewatch showed me one thing: that this show is breathtaking, stunning, and at it's core - it represented change. It's truly one of it's kind. To have the crew from Avatar: the Last Airbender, and Legend of Korra working on it on such a high level? Hell, there was an MFE pilot spin off in the works.

There was a lot of promising stories to tell with new outcomes and twists with a classic IP such as Voltron. It was promising a new future and fresh takes with comics, games, and so much more.

Now, alike to most viewers, I was there when Season 8 dropped. Hell, I was at the NYCC 2018 panel where they gave out these posters (which will be VERY relevant to this meta, I assure you):

The hype of Voltron Season 8 lead to a FULL panel that got closed off mid-way in the line. Many fans flew from across the globe (including myself) to get a glimpse of the showrunners, cast & crew, and a unique slice of the pie into Voltron Season 8's trailer.

The excitement was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before in a fandom. It was extremely thrilling, the trailer was outstanding, and Season 8 wasn't too far away.

First shown at New York City Comic Con 2018, get a look at the #Voltron production team's take on the upcoming final season of Voltron Legendary Defender, streaming on @Netflix tomorrow!

Then Season 8 dropped on Netflix... December 14th, 2018.

It was jarring. There were plot points that made no sense, obvious edits to scenes, censorships like a One Piece 4Kids dub, characters cut and pasted into scenes, and storylines were slapped together like a messy sandwich. And it was incredibly obvious too.

The fandom noticed and reacted accordingly - asking questions and demanding answers left, right, and centre. The showrunners responded through podcasts and statements on various levels.

The answer was clear... their vision wasn't the only vision going into the show:

"You know, as we sort of got through the process of premise, script, it went all the way down the line. It got storyboarded. And then at some point, you know, we received pushback from the studio and you know, we were sort of a little confused, like, “hey, how did it go, like, so far down the line before we received pushback?” And you know, this is not like a, like, a vilifying of DreamWorks or anything, like, every exec that we ever interacted with was, it was like, “hey, we understand why you want to tell this story. We understand where you’re coming from. It’s a little bit bigger than that. You know, there’s-there’s other, sort of, controlling parties with Voltron which makes it unique. It’s not just a DreamWorks-owned property.” And it just–I think logistically it just got really, really weird."

Joaquim Dos Santos - Afterbuzz TV interview. Source: https://dragonofyang.tumblr.com/post/183820127648/abtv-mar-4-transcript

---

Fans promptly started a petition two days later to release the original Season 8. THAT'S how obvious the editing was and how obvious the deterred, original vision had become.

As a disappointed fan and someone who studied media analysis intrinsically for university, I did try to rewatch back then, and it was painful to watch. What happened? There were layers of context on the cutting room floor and scenes didn't make sense. Hell, each episode title always has a double layered meaning, and even those layers were stripped from the core of the episodes for the most part. This left fans to say, "Whaaaaat is going ON?" The entire fandom was hurt by what had occurred.

The cast & crew that were also unaware of these story changes were also quite hurt, too. To make it more apparent, the showrunners were pretty open on speaking about leaving the project as well on the Buzzfeed Aftershow Podcast, but they simply couldn't:

LM: It’s not-it’s not just like, “Oh I can’t afford my mortgage!” You know, we have a crew that we care about we brought onto this show. If we abandoned them, we-we don’t know what’s in store for them. We don’t know, do they get to stay on? Do they get to keep their jobs? Does someone else come on and then they’re working under someone else that they didn’t sign up for? Or–

JDS: Or they’re working under someone else that’s just gonna be like, “Alright, we’re just gonna finish the show and not really do right by the rest of it.”

Lauren Montgomery & Joaquim Dos Santos - Afterbuzz TV interview. Source: https://dragonofyang.tumblr.com/post/183820127648/abtv-mar-4-transcript

---

We all wanted answers, and sure, some members of the team did speak up - but it didn't provide clear answers on what was the go with Season 8 being edited so far into post-production.

Now, this blog isn't dedicated to restoring Season 8 to it's original format (that would be lovely, but we have to be realistic - it has been 7 years and no google drives of the original season 8 have dropped so far). No, no.

That might happen (I've got a positive mindset on it - someone has to have a back up copy on some hard drive somewhere), or maybe it will be released... in a green sock reality.

Rather, this blog is dedicated to all the fans (new & old) whom want a sense of closure to as to why their favourite show on Netflix from 2016-2018 dropped the ball so hard for Season 8.

Not thinking much of it, I had posted a twitter thread detailing how the ending with all the lions flying off looked a little odd.

...And so, I received an anonymous inbox on New Years Day, 2025

This DM... was the start to an unravelling of webs and a rewatch that crumbled immediately. The cracks were all there.

I rewatched Season 8 with this information at hand with a few of my closest online friends, and we were shocked at how much there was to uncover. We were absolutely FLOORED by what was found, including incredible pieces of evidence from the fandom itself.

Now... Why does this matter? It's been YEARS and I'm sure we're not the first to uncover some pieces of information (See the #FreeVLDS8 movement - so, so many good finds there as a foundational point of reference).

Some of what we've uncovered in these Uncharted Regions has NOT been covered by the fandom before, nor does it scratch the surface of what's been found as of yet.

Welcome to the Uncharted Regions of Voltron Season 8.

Our aim for this meta is to acknowledge the following with detailed evidentiary support: 1. The editing of multiple episodes & scenes.

From there, we will look at the alleged changes: 2. Plot points & scenes that may or may not have had cuts. 3. Providing official-style edited shots comparisons to portray how some scenes should've looked in the original Season 8. 4. Piecing each episode / episode orders together (as best as we can) 5. The original ending.

Cheers to the beginning of a new meta, a new hope, and a new perspective on what truly happened to Voltron Season 8.

(Allegedly; for entertainment purposes only)

The one thing I humbly request is PLEASE... No hate towards the showrunners, cast, crew, or the official Voltron IP holders. There's a lot that has changed culturally and intrinsically within the industry over the years and this outcome was not something they could simply control. Let's be adults, look at this open conversation with empathy and love, and respectfully, let's indulge in this topic with grace - your feelings, however, are incredibly valid when it comes to this meta and what we uncover, as there's many alleged finds that may shock the fandom.

Let the journey commence.

Check out my Twitter page for any and all updates in regards to this insanely detailed meta; including teasers and screenshots! Please and thank you.

[idwt-money]

I See Through You.

MDNI 18+

3.2k words

Satan!Noah sebastian x Lost soul!Y/n

Christian/Religious themes, Satanic themes, Corruption kink, Mentions of death, Wax play, Oral sex (male and fem rec), Unprotected sex, Squirting, Dirty talk, Mentions of breeding kink

“The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite.”

—

Noah's pov.

Fuck. It should be ME. I'm the fucking king.

—

Third person's pov.

He had been banished from the holy scene. His mind had been corrupted. He was God's favorite. The closest thing to becoming a god he would have ever gotten. Until…

His mind would run amuck at night. After the sun had set on the sacred land, laying in bed with his brethren just rooms away.

Day after day he had gotten sick of bowing down for the divinity. Growing like a disease. Growing and rooting itself deep within his bones, the veins that allowed his suborn blood to flow. Spreading deepest in the soul his God had granted him eternal life with.

Submitting himself to his almighty had become a tiring, weakening agenda. His hunger for power burned deep within his mind.

His position as the anointed cherub no longer satisfied his starvation for authority.

His attempt at dethroning God led him to be thrown, tossed, banished from the pearly gates every mortal soul had prayed to enter.

—

One of his now ex-brethren, bestowed a script to him. Curled together like an ancient pirate's map. On the scroll before him was one final message to the unholy individual from the Lord.

“Oh, my poor Samael. Where had I gone wrong? Pride, greed, envy. For how could you let them engulf your intelligence? To cause such rebellion? You, a lost soul, can no longer hold a position in my holy land.”

As he finished the script, he felt his soul burn and shrivel into complete nothingness. Nothing but a black void leaving him falling out of the sacred heaven he yearned to be the king of.

Falling through each layer of the Earth, he could feel his skin burning and aching as he did so. He landed in an unbeknownst hole, passing out on impact with rubble and dust falling upon him. On that cursed day, the eternal fire was born.

—

If you are cast out, what's your next move going to be? Will you return cold? Or will you turn up the heat?

Last thing I sold them, had been my dignity. But, the truth is the devil sold his soul to me.

To me.

To ME.

—

Noah's pov.

I had awoken in a displaced land. A funnel shaped cavern. Aggression and insanity ran cold through my veins. An inferno I was placed in.

If I wouldn't have an opportunity to rule the heavenly kingdom, I shall make my own. For lost souls, for sinners and those of who act upon blasphemy. For those who will not succumb to God. I will be the king of the mountain of purgatory.

For I will create a kingdom, not as its jailer, but as its healer. I will heal every soul that is not worthy of being in heaven. I will create an army, one so powerful that it can take down God and his disciples.

—

Third person's pov.

Noah, as he had renamed himself, had spent years stacked upon years building and crafting his domain. A safe place to heal broken souls that were undeserving of heaven.

He had now accumulated centuries worth of individuals who lost their spot in the promised land. They were all dependent on him as their ruler, their king.

He had rediscovered himself. He no longer was a spirit of God, rather the opposite.

He no longer had soft, white, pure feathered wings. Instead his back was adorned with a set of deep black wings. They were covered with coarse fur, rough to the touch. His once dark honey colored eyes were now pitch black. He had grown fangs that looked perfect to sink into a soft, flawless neck.

He had all he could ever imagine…except a love to sit beside his throne, to rule his domain with him.

His heart desired and thirsted for a true love. Although he had millions of souls in his kingdom, he hadn't met a single one that could give him what he needed.

They were all too much like him. He wanted someone he had coax upon him. Someone he could play a game with.

He hadn't taken a leave of absence since the day he decided to create his own space. Maybe it was time to change that. A trip to the mortal world.

—

Y/n's pov.

I sat upon a bench in the midst of a forest, taking in a deep breath of the midnight cool air. I had no place to go.

Parts of my soul, broken and seemingly unfixable. I was cursed to spend my days roaming the Earth as nothing but lonesome in my own purgatory. I would spend my day and night praying, atoning for my sins. Seemingly little, insignificant sins to anyone else were the reason I was stuck in this temporary state.

My Lord had promised if I could atone for my sins, I would be allowed into the promised land. I wanted nothing more, but my Earthborn body had long turned to dust, my hope slowly diminishing.

—

If God came down from his kingdom, he came down from his throne and we asked him if he'd take us back, he would surely tell us no.

We live and die in vain like treasure on a sinking ship. All in the name of a God we'd just abandoned and forget.

—

Third person's pov.

He had his eyes set on her. A lost soul, set in purgatory. Oh, how easy it would be to convince her to bestow her gift upon him.

She seemed perfect. Her skin having a soft glow to it. He knew if an Earth bound body could see her, they too would fall in love with the sight. Her glow gave off as a blue-ish tone, telling him all he needed to know.

As he moved through the trees, he watched as her panic became prominent.

“No one knows I'm here…unless?”

A small glimmer of hope shone through her sadness at the idea that her Lord had finally decided she was able to step foot into the holy divinity.

Her blood ran cold as a jagged finger ran across her skin.

She was so soft, the panic in her eyes set his body on flames. Her pure mind was one he could imagine 100 different ways to ruin.

—

Noah's pov.

“What are you doing out here by yourself, angel?” My voice came out rough and coarse, while hers was much flowy, softer than mine could ever be.

I took a stand of her hair, taking in her delicious scent.

“Wh-wha-! Who are you!?” Her chest was rising and falling like a scared little bunny, her eyes darting back and forth across my features.

“I know you've heard of me. The Prince of Darkness, Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, The Antichrist. Baby, I'm you're one and only-” I was cut off, her screech throwing her into a fit of madness.

“THE DEVIL!?” Her cry must have been heard for miles, to any other lost soul or angel that was Earthbound at the moment.

I pulled her to my chest, covering her mouth.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm here to make a deal.”

A deal with the Devil.

“I see through you, angel. I know exactly what you are. A lost soul, hoping to atone for your sins. Am I close?” I spoke my words slowly and calmly, not needing a miscommunication.

Her head weakly nodded against my heaving chest.

“I'm going to take my hand away, and you're going to let me talk. Do you understand?”

Another nod was given.

Removing my hand oh so cautiously, I let her sit back down, holding my finger up to my mouth, indicating she needed to be quiet.

“He won't let you in there, baby.”

“You don't know that.” Her words flew out of her mouth, cold and harsh.

“Oh, but I do.” My index finger softly gliding down her cheek. She must have been previously crying.

“I was his favorite, you know? I had more power than any other angel. I was second below God himself.” My hands now placed behind my back as I paced back and forth. I didn't miss the way she watched me like a hawk.

“I wanted more. I needed more. He was far too greedy. He casted me out, sending me falling through Earth's layers, down into the deepest parts of the plane. His sacred, holy land was too much to bear. So, I created my own. My own kingdom.” I watched the starry night sky, all the stars twinkling as I explained my story.

Looking down at her, her face was painted with many emotions. Confusion, anger. I smirked to myself, knowing I had her questioning the almighty spirit.

“B-but God is…is good. He's purity and kindness.”

I scoffed.

“Come with me, my sweet angel. Rule with me. You will have power and you can be your own divinity. I can give you everything he could and more.” I whispered the last part into her ear, letting myself smile against her skin.

“Why…why are you beautiful? I thought-”

“Thought I was red? With horns and an outdated tail?” My eyebrows furrowed together as I spoke.

—

I see through you, I know what you are. I see the devil more than I see God.

—

Y/n's pov.

He was beautiful. Gorgeously put together, with a black suit, dress shoes and tattoos staining his skin. He was so enticing.

My head was dizzy and I could feel my core slowly weakening. This was absolute insanity.

I had no idea why I felt the need to say yes to his offer. His words were smooth like fresh honey floating through my ears.

Although tempting, I had to be strong. He could be lying. I had read the bible 5 times before passing to know this is what he does.

He's seducing, he tempts your faith, your religion. He gets in your head. He tempts you with bad decisions. He had powers beyond man. He was the reason Eve sunk her teeth into the forbidden fruit. He was the snake that left hissing in your ears after you had committed a sin.

“Come with me, I can make all your dreams come true, little one. I can make you belong.”

Belong? Your soul ached and yearned to belong somewhere.

“You can give in to your sins, free of guilt. Free of shame. No worries of fear of punishment.” He made a tempting debate.

Is this what you wanted for yourself?

“He'll leave you alone, you won't see him like you'll see me. Is that what you would like? He'll send messengers to talk through. You won't catch even a glimpse of him.”

I couldn't stand the thought. My mouth spoke before my brain could speak.

“Okay. I'll come with you.”

—

Third person's pov.

A sinister smile spread across his lips.

“This will hurt a little.” He muttered as he tilted her head to the side. He sunk his teeth into her neck, covering her mouth as to muffle her cries. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he felt their minds morphing into one.

Giving her a mark. A mark to tell everyone how easily he had corrupted her mind. How she was now his.

Noah pulled away, licking away the blood that resided on his lips.

As for Y/n, she felt her body burn hot. Aching pain spread through her body, her soft blue glow now turning orange.

She watched as he cleaned up the mess, licking the blood away on her neck.

“Oh, my sweet angel. You've made the right decision.”

—

As the pair now made their way into the kingdom, innumerable souls congratulated their king on his new found love.

They soon after found themselves in the Devil's bedroom. She hadn't taken Satan for one to sleep much.

“It isn't for sleeping, I promise that, baby.” He chuckled at his own comment.

As soon as she took a spot on the bed, covered in soft, red sheets, he was attacking her lips.

—

Y/n's pov.

You weren't complaining. He had promised you an eternal life, free of guilt. What would be the point in worrying about it now.

You let his lips venture your body, his fangs gliding across your skin every once in a while.

He had started leaving purple marks across your neck, close to the freshly marked wound he had given you previously. A way to say you were his.

“Oh, fuck. Baby, I'm going to corrupt your precious little mind. Fill it full with sinful thoughts about me.”

He took your hand, moving it down his shirt, down to where his cock was painfully straining against his pants.

It caused you to ache beneath your own. Your mind went dizzy with the thought of him. He was gorgeous and was about to give you everything you could ever want.

You had taken some initiative and unzipped his pants while he took his tie off, throwing it somewhere unbeknownst to you. He undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt and you, quite frankly, gawked over his body.

He was toned. He had tattoos littering his skin everywhere. His dark eyes watched as you took a long once over of his body.

“Fuck, you're beautiful. Truly.” Your words were quiet, seemingly scared that God would somehow hear or see the activities the two of you were getting up to.

“As are you. You'll be perfect at my side. For the rest of forever.” His hand caressed your face. He did truly find you breathtaking.

Your big doe eyes were something he could find himself staring into forever.

You were now something the holy trinity could never take away from him.

You pulled his pants down, causing his cock to be set free. Something roared in you.

You licked your lips before devouring him.

You swallowed his cock, slowly taking more each time your head bobbed up and down. Soon, he was reaching the back of your throat, causing you to gag around him.

His hands were placed at either side of your hand, using it as leverage to fuck into your throat. You took it so well that he could lose himself in your touch. The way your arms were wrapped around his thighs, helping him go deeper into your throat made him weak and want to crumble.

You felt your cunt wetten for him. The sight of his hair falling out of place and his chest heaving through your teary eyes made you need him. You wanted him to enter your temple and destroy it.

His thrusts became sloppy, faltering here and there. You pulled away from his cock, muttering filthy sins as you stroked him.

“Let me taste you. Give it to me, baby.”

You were forced down onto him once more as he let his seed spray down your throat. Letting it coat your insides felt like bliss.

It was mere seconds before he led you to lay on your back. His hands were clawing and scraping against you, in such need and hurry to remove you of your clothes.

The second your panties hit the floor Noah was nose deep in your pussy, taking in your taste and smell.

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth was left gaped. A hand flew into his hair, pulling and tugging at it, causing his once perfect hair to now be disheveled.

“Oh- oh fuck-” You gasped as he licked and slurped along your clit. No man had ever pleased you as Noah was right now.

He wasn't a man. He was a fucking demon.

His middle and ring finger slid across your wetness before plunging into you.

Something in Noah felt like this is what he had been waiting for. This is what he was made for. He was made for you.

His fingers quickly found the right way to please you. The calloused pads of his fingers rubbing the right spot.

You bit your bottom lip and he somehow knew you were close to toppling over the edge.

“Do it. Let yourself go. Let yourself be mine.” His voice came out as a growl against your cunt as his fingers quickened.

“No- I can't I'm gonna-” You couldn't finish your sentence before your orgasm took over your mind.

Your orgasm left a mess everywhere. You hadn't known until you heard the wet sloshes against Noah's palm.

“Oh my- I've never done that before. How-how did you…?”

“Done what? Squirt? Fuck, angel. I'm Satan himself. Did you doubt me?” He had an shit eating grin plastered on his face.

“Shut the hell up and fuck me.” Something took over you, all you could think about was his cock ramming into you. Destroying every thought you'd ever had of God and those “precious” pearly white gates.

“Look at you, mere moments ago you were trembling with fear. Now you're begging for my fucking cock.” He chuckled and crawled up your body, kissing and licking at your skin.

It didn't take long for him to position your legs over his shoulders, feeling his cock stretch you out as he entered you.

“Your body is a temple. And I'm here to fucking destroy it. I'm here to get in your pretty little head. Corrupt those holy thoughts with distasteful, nasty, sinful thoughts.” His words were venom digging into your brain, making your mind their home.

His thrusts were becoming faster, now that your pussy had gotten used to his size.

He had grabbed a candle that was permanently lit by his bed and watched the wax drip onto your skin. You hissed as each droplet made its spot on your skin.

Slowly but surely, Noah had made an upside down cross upon your stomach. You couldn't care for the dull burn the wax drips had left as they dried.

You could feel Noah's cock pushing its way into your fucking stomach. He was so inhumanly big, you almost forgot where you were and who you were getting fucked by.

Once the wax had set, you pulled Noah into you, clawing your nails deep into his skin. He growled over the feeling of your nails making dents so deep into his immoral skin.

Before you knew it, Noah's shoulders were bleeding and you were both merging into one.

“Noah, please, please harder!” Your words were barely decipherable as your second orgasm was approaching.

“Now. Give it to me now.” His words were enough to send you into a spiral.

As you had your own orgasm, Noah shot hot strings of seed deep into your womb.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna put a baby here one day.” Noah said as he rubbed your stomach.

He took the blood from his bruised shoulder onto his thumb, placing it onto your tongue.

"Forever, we are one."

He finally had a respective queen to be by his side for the rest of eternity.

—

Woke up in the light convinced my life had made it to its end. Burning up beneath the sun, while my father drained of blood.

If he's there, I've got a message for the man that's up above.

Fuck. You.

Taglist: @vinyardmauro @missduffsblog @lma1986 @embracethereaper42 @skulliecadaver-blog @mrscevans @viofcrows @gipsonnikki @philomenie @bloody-delusion-expert @bloodymug @millyhelp @fuckyouimstillstanding @cookiesupplier @concreteangel92 @bruisedleftknee @sprokat @itsafullmoon @darling-millicent-aubrey @eclipseeetop

[mikaylathenerd5]

Open Arms + Chapter 4

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Pairing: Roman Reigns x Black Fem OC (Isla Sage Navarro) Content Warning: The chapters of this story may contain NSFW, profanity, potential violence, age gap, and themes that may be triggering. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Intended for mature audiences only. Author's Note: Please be aware this is kinda a slow burning romance between Isla and Roman (Joe). Song Inspo: "Open Arms" by SZA Word Count: 11.9k

Atlanta’s July sun blazed over Six Flags Over Georgia, the amusement park a chaotic sprawl of spinning lights and roaring coasters, the air thick with humidity, the sugary scent of funnel cakes mixing with sunscreen and the sharp tang of hot asphalt. Screams echoed from the Goliath coaster’s drop, its steel tracks glinting in the sunlight, kids darting through the crowd with sticky hands, their laughter sharp against the hum of carnival games and the distant thump of pop music from a nearby stage. Balloons bobbed in the breeze, red and yellow against the blue sky, the pavement shimmering with heat, the crowd a sea of tank tops and flip-flops, voices overlapping in a dizzying hum. It was a rare day off before SmackDown, and the crew—Joe, Isla, Solo, Jimmy, Jey, Naomi, Bianca, and Bayley—rolled in, their voices loud over the park’s pulse, a mix of sweat and excitement clinging to their skin.

Isla trailed the group, her floral water bottle cool in her grip, the plastic slick against her palm, her black sleeveless crop top hugging tight, high-waisted light-wash jeans snug on her hips, strappy sandals scuffing the pavement. Her watch glinted in the sun, tattoos peeking on her arm—a floral swirl, a script line—her hair loose, catching the breeze, her eyes darting shyly as she stayed on the group’s edge, a quiet shadow amid their chaos. The park’s noise overwhelmed her—too many voices, too many bodies, the roar of the coasters making her chest tight. I should’ve stayed back, she thought, her breath shallow, the crowd’s energy pressing in, her shyness a weight she couldn’t shake, but the crew’s laughter pulled her along, a tether she couldn’t break.

Joe walked beside her, hair swept tight in a bun, a fitted black tank clinging to his broad chest, cargo shorts loose but sharp, sneakers scuffing the ground, his presence a heat she couldn’t ignore, sweat beading faint on his neck under the sun’s weight. He glanced at her, smirk tugging his lips. “Stickin’ close, huh, babygirl?” His voice was low, playful but magnetic, the nickname soft, pulling at her shyness, a warmth that made her stomach flutter despite the noise.

She ducked her head, a faint smile tugging her lips. “It’s… loud here,” she whispered, her fingers tightening on the bottle, her blush creeping up as his gaze lingered, steady, drawing her out despite the chaos threatening to swallow her.

Joe chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling back on her. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the noise away—you just keep lookin’ cute with that bottle.” His tone was flirty, a teasing edge that made her blush deepen, her fingers fidgeting more as she tried to hide her smile.

Isla glanced up at him, her voice barely audible. “You… you always say stuff like that. Don’t you get tired of teasing me?”

Joe’s smirk widened, his hand brushing her arm briefly. “Never, babygirl—seein’ that blush is the best part of my day.” His gaze held hers for a beat longer, making her heart race as she ducked her head again, her smile growing despite her shyness.

Jimmy led the charge, arms wide, shades slipping down his nose. “Yo, we here to clown—biggest coaster, let’s go! Bet’s on—chicken out, you buyin’ dinner!” Jey grinned, slapping his twin’s shoulder, “Fam, you’re broke already—I’m ridin’ everything!” Naomi laughed, braids swinging, “Y’all talk big—let’s see who screams first!” Bianca smirked, ponytail high, “I’m winning this—y’all ain’t ready!” Bayley rolled her eyes, “Keep dreaming, B—I’m not paying for your steak!” Their voices overlapped, a chaotic warmth that wrapped around Isla, her small smile growing despite her nerves.

Naomi turned to Isla, her grin wide. “What about you, girl? You ridin’ with us, or you sittin’ this one out?”

Isla’s eyes widened, her voice barely a whisper. “I-I… I don’t know if I can…” Her shyness flared, the thought of the coaster’s height making her stomach drop, her fingers clutching the bottle tighter.

Bianca nudged her gently, her tone encouraging. “You don’t gotta ride, Isla—just stick with us, we’ll keep you safe either way.” Bayley chimed in, her voice teasing but kind, “Yeah, girl, you can be our official cheerleader—wave that bottle like a flag!” Isla’s small smile broke through, her blush faint. “I… I can do that,” she whispered, the crew’s warmth pulling her in, their laughter easing her nerves as she stayed close to Joe.

Solo grunted, trailing behind, stoic as ever, shades dark under the sun, his arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a faint smirk. “She’s good where she’s at—let her breathe,” he said, his voice low and gruff, his rare words drawing a laugh from the group, their dynamic a mix of chaos and loyalty, Isla’s quiet presence fitting into their fold.

The crowd surged around them, a wave of families and teens pushing through for the Goliath line, laughter and shouts swelling, the press of bodies closing in, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cotton candy, a kid’s balloon popping nearby with a sharp crack. Isla froze, her breath hitching, eyes wide as she shrank back, the noise and chaos swallowing her, her shyness spiking—too many people, too close. Joe’s hand found hers, warm and firm, his fingers threading through hers, pulling her close to his side, his grip steady, protective.

“Stay with me, babygirl,” he murmured, voice low, soothing, his thumb brushing her knuckles, grounding her in the storm. “I got you—won’t let you get lost.” Her pulse jumped, his touch sparking warmth through her, her blush deepening as she nodded, shy, her hand trembling faintly in his, but the tension in her shoulders eased. He’s so warm, she thought, her heart stuttering, the noise fading as his grip anchored her, her fingers curling tighter in his, a quiet trust blooming.

Isla glanced up at him, her voice trembling. “You… you always know when I’m scared, don’t you?”

Joe’s smirk softened, his eyes warm. “I see you, babygirl—always will. Now c’mon, let’s get you outta this mess.” His tone was protective, his hand squeezing hers as he guided her through the crowd, the crew’s laughter a steady backdrop, Naomi glancing back with a soft smile, her care a quiet reassurance.

They hit a carnival game strip, ring toss booths flashing red and gold, stuffed prizes dangling under striped awnings, the worker’s voice barking over the hum, “Step right up, win a prize!” Joe stopped, still holding her hand, nodding at the booth. “C’mon, babygirl—gonna win you somethin’.” He stepped up, tossing a few bucks to the worker, palming the rings with a grin. “Pick your prize—I got this.”

Isla hesitated, her eyes flicking to the prizes. “Um… the panda? The small one,” she said softly, barely audible, her cheeks flushing as the crew turned to watch, her shyness a quiet contrast to their noise, her hand still in Joe’s, his grip a quiet comfort.

Jimmy cackled, leaning on the booth, “Uce, you’re showin’ off—don’t choke now!” Bayley smirked, “He’s trying too hard—Isla, make him sweat a little!” Naomi grinned, “Get her the panda, Chief—don’t mess up!” The crew’s teasing swelled, their voices overlapping, a playful energy that made Isla’s blush deepen, her small smile glowing as she nodded shyly, her fingers tightening in Joe’s hand.

Joe tossed the first ring, landing it clean, then the second, his focus sharp, the third sealing it—a perfect stack, the booth’s bell ringing sharp, the worker clapping as the crowd around them cheered. The worker handed over the small plush panda, and Joe turned, holding it out to Isla. “Told you, babygirl—Chief delivers.” His voice dipped, flirty, finally letting go of her hand to pass her the plush, the warmth of his touch lingering as she took it, her fingers brushing his, a spark flaring in the humid air.

“T-thanks,” she murmured, clutching the panda to her chest, her blush deepening, eyes darting down as his gaze held hers, steady and warm, the park’s noise fading around them. He won it… for me, she thought, her heart swelling, the small panda a quiet treasure in her hands, her shyness melting into a soft glow, her fingers tracing the plush fur, a small smile breaking through.

Isla looked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to… but I love it.”

Joe’s smirk softened, his hand brushing her cheek briefly. “Anything for you, babygirl—gotta keep that smile on your face.” The moment stretched between them, the crew’s teasing fading into the background, the park’s chaos a distant hum.

A brunette fan—tall, bold, in a tight pink tank and cutoffs—strutted over, eyes locked on Joe, confidence dripping as she flipped her hair. “Tribal Chief in the flesh,” she purred, stepping close, her hand grazing his arm. “Saw you on SmackDown—damn, you’re even hotter up close. I’m Kyla—wanna ride the Goliath with me? I’ll make it worth your while, big guy.” Her voice carried, bold, testing, her fingers lingering on his bicep, her floral perfume sharp in the humid air, her eyes glinting with a challenge, but beneath her flirty facade, there was a flicker of something sharper—a bitter edge, a resentment that had simmered for a year, ever since a fan signing in Atlanta where she’d waited hours to meet Joe, only for him to walk past her without a glance, his focus elsewhere, leaving her humiliated in front of the crowd, her admiration turning to spite, her gaze narrowing as she looked at him now, the memory a quiet fuel for her actions.

Joe didn’t flinch, his hand brushing Isla’s back, gaze sliding past Kyla, fixed on Isla. “Got my girl right here,” he said, smooth, lethal, nodding at Isla. “She’s the only one ridin’ with me—sorry, sweetheart.” He stepped closer to Isla, his arm slipping around her waist, warm and deliberate, pulling her against his side, shutting Kyla down cold.

Kyla blinked, smile faltering. “Her? Really?” She laughed, sharp. “C’mon, I’m more your speed—ditch the wallflower.” Her tone bit, eyeing Isla’s quiet stance, the panda clutched tight, her words laced with venom, a flicker of spite in her gaze. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping, the bitterness spilling over, “You didn’t even notice me last year at that signing—hours waiting, and you walked right past me like I was nothing. Now you’re all over her? You’ll see what happens when you ignore people, Tribal Chief.” Her words were a quiet jab, revealing her personal grudge, the fan signing incident a wound that had festered, her resentment now a weapon aimed at Joe and the Bloodline, her eyes narrowing as she stepped back, the challenge lingering in the air.

The crew erupted, Naomi cackling, “Oh, honey, you’re barking up the wrong tree—Chief’s locked in!” Jey smirked, starting a chant, “Girl, bye! Bye, Kyla, bye!” the group joining in, their laughter swelling, a chaotic, protective roast, a wall of loyalty around Isla. Solo’s voice cut through, low and cutting, “Keep movin’.” His tone was a quiet threat, his gaze steady on Kyla, his stoic presence adding weight to the crew’s rejection.

Kyla’s eyes narrowed, her smile twisting. “Your loss, champ—hope she’s worth it,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom as she strutted off, heels clicking, snapping a quick pic of Joe and Isla on her phone, her fingers tight on the device, her expression darkening as she glanced at the screen, a glint of something colder in her eyes as she lingered a beat too long before disappearing into the crowd. Isla’s stomach twisted, Kyla’s “wallflower” and her bitter mention of the fan signing echoing in her mind—What did she mean by that?—her shyness flaring, a flicker of doubt creeping in, her fingers clutching the panda tighter, but Joe’s arm around her waist, steady and warm, quieted the thought, his presence a silent reassurance, the crew’s laughter wrapping her in their fold, her quiet triumph glowing despite the shadow of Kyla’s spite.

Isla glanced up at Joe, her voice trembling. “Did… did I do something wrong?”

Joe’s arm tightened around her, his voice low and fierce. “Nah, babygirl—she’s just jealous. You’re perfect, and she can’t handle it.” His gaze held hers, grounding her as the crew’s laughter continued, their support a shield, Naomi stepping closer, her hand resting on Isla’s shoulder briefly, her smile reassuring.

They moved through the park, the crowd thinning slightly, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows over the pavement, the air heavy with the scent of fried dough and melting ice cream. Joe spotted a photo booth tucked near a cotton candy stand, its neon sign flashing “Memories in a Flash,” the curtain fluttering in the breeze, the booth’s red and white stripes faded but inviting. He nudged Isla, his smirk playful. “C’mon, babygirl—let’s get some pics.” His voice was low, teasing, his hand brushing her back as he guided her toward the booth, her heart jumping at the idea, her shyness flaring.

“P-pics?” she whispered, eyes wide, clutching the panda tighter, her water bottle cool against her hip. “I… I don’t know…” Her voice trembled, the idea of being so close, captured forever, making her stomach flutter, her cheeks burning, Kyla’s words still lingering—wallflower.

“Just us,” he murmured, pulling the curtain aside, his gaze steady. “Gotta keep the day, right? C’mon, babygirl—don’t make me beg.” His tone was soft, coaxing, a playful edge that made her heart race, and she nodded, shy, letting him lead her inside, the small space tight, the bench barely fitting them both, his broad frame filling the booth, their knees brushing as they sat, the air warm with their closeness, the faint hum of the machine a quiet backdrop.

Isla hesitated, her voice a whisper. “What if… what if I don’t look good in them?”

Joe’s hand brushed her knee, his voice low and warm. “Babygirl, you’re gonna look perfect—I’m the one who’s gotta keep up with you.” His smirk reassured, easing her nerves as the screen lit up, counting down—3, 2, 1—Joe grinning, throwing up a peace sign, Isla managing a small, shy smile, her panda in her lap, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to relax, the flash popping, the booth humming. Second shot—Joe leaned closer, his arm around her shoulders, “Smile bigger, babygirl,” his breath warm on her ear, her blush deepening as she tried, her smile trembling but genuine, the flash catching her glow. Third shot—Joe turned her chin gently, “Look at me,” his fingers warm, her eyes meeting his, wide and soft, her breath hitching as his gaze held hers, the flash popping as he smirked, her heart racing, the moment frozen in time, Kyla’s words fading under his focus. Fourth shot—he pressed his forehead to hers, their noses brushing, “Perfect,” his voice husky, the flash capturing the moment, her breath catching, the booth’s hum fading as the film strip printed, the air thick with their closeness, her heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it, the doubt in her chest melting away, replaced by a quiet certainty—he sees me.

Joe grabbed the strip, four small photos in a row, his grin widening as he looked at them. “Damn, babygirl—we look good.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, the clear case glinting, and slid the strip inside, tucking it against the back, the photos visible through the case—Isla’s shy smile, their closeness, a quiet claim that made her heart stutter. “Keepin’ this,” he said, voice low, slipping the phone back in his pocket, his eyes on her, steady, a warmth that made her dizzy.

She bit her lip, her voice a whisper. “Y-you’re keeping it?” Her blush spread, the idea of him carrying their moment so close, a piece of her with him always, making her chest tight, her shyness melting into a soft glow, her fingers clutching the panda tighter as she looked at him, her eyes wide with awe. He wants to keep it… keep us, she thought, her heart swelling, Kyla’s “wallflower” a distant echo, drowned out by Joe’s steady gaze.

“Always, babygirl,” he murmured, his hand brushing hers, a promise in the heat, his thumb grazing her knuckles, the booth’s curtain fluttering as they stepped out, the park’s noise rushing back, but the moment lingering like a secret between them.

The crew spotted them, Naomi grinning, “Photo booth, huh? Y’all cute!” Bayley smirked, “Chief’s got it bad—look at that grin!” Jey laughed, “Uce, you’re gone—let me see the pics!” Joe smirked, holding up his phone, the strip visible through the case. “For me, fam—y’all get your own.” His tone was playful, but his eyes stayed on Isla, her blush deepening as the crew teased, her quiet joy glowing in the park’s fading light, her fingers tracing the panda’s fur, the weight of his gaze making her heart race, the crew’s laughter wrapping her in their warmth, a quiet belonging settling in her chest.

They moved on, hitting a water gun race game nearby, Naomi and Bianca squaring off, their competitive streaks flaring, the booth’s lights flashing as a small crowd gathered. “Loser buys the winner a slushie,” Bianca grinned, gripping the gun, her focus sharp, her ponytail swinging as she leaned in. Naomi smirked, “You’re on, girl—hope you brought cash!” They fired, water jets racing, the bell dinging as Naomi won by a hair, her victory dance—hips popping, braids swinging—drawing cheers from the crowd, Bianca laughing, “Fine, you got me—blue raspberry, right?” Naomi nodded, “You know it!” The two shared a high-five, their laughter bright, the crowd dispersing as they headed for the slushie stand, Naomi calling back to Isla, “You want one, Isla? I’ll grab you a strawberry if you’re in!” Isla nodded, her voice soft, “Oh… um, sure. Thank you,” her small smile glowing, the gesture pulling her further into the crew’s fold, her shyness easing as Naomi winked at her.

They piled into the Ferris wheel line, the wheel’s lights spinning slow against the sky, the sun dipping low, casting gold and pink streaks through the park, the air cooling slightly, a faint breeze cutting the humidity, carrying the scent of popcorn and grilled corn from a nearby stand. Joe guided Isla into a car, the crew splitting—Jimmy and Jey together, Naomi and Bianca, Bayley and Solo trailing. The car jolted, lifting them high, Atlanta’s skyline glinting in the distance, the park’s chaos shrinking below, the lights below twinkling like stars, the distant hum of coasters a soft rhythm, the sky a deep indigo streaked with fire. Joe’s arm slid around her shoulders, warm and heavy, pulling her close, his thigh brushing hers on the narrow seat, the city’s heat pressing in, the scent of his sweat and faint cologne mixing with the park’s sugary air, her heart racing at how close he was, how safe she felt.

“Better view up here, huh, babygirl?” he murmured, voice husky, his breath warm on her ear, fingers tracing slow circles on her shoulder, sparking her skin through her crop top, the city’s glow reflecting in his dark eyes.

She nodded, clutching the panda tighter, her water bottle cool against her lap. “Y-yeah… it’s pretty,” she whispered, her eyes on the skyline, the city’s lights shimmering, too shy to meet his, but his presence a steady pull, her heart racing. He’s so close, she thought, her breath shallow, the warmth of his arm making her dizzy, the view blurring as her focus shifted to him, the memory of the photo booth—his forehead against hers, his whisper—still burning in her mind.

“Pretty ain’t the word I’d use,” he teased, leaning closer, his lips brushing her temple. “You’re killin’ me, babygirl—lookin’ all shy like that, makes me wanna keep you close.” His voice dipped, flirty, a heat she felt down to her bones, his fingers tightening on her shoulder, grounding her, the city sprawling endless below, a sea of lights against the dusk.

She bit her lip, a small smile breaking through. “I-I’m not… good with crowds,” she admitted, her voice trembling, her eyes flicking to his, fleeting, then away, her blush spreading, the admission raw, vulnerable, her fingers clutching the panda tighter, the plush a small comfort.

He chuckled, soft, his arm pulling her closer. “Good thing I’m here, then—got you, babygirl. Always.” His tone was fierce, protective, a promise that settled in her chest, her shyness melting into a quiet glow, the wheel’s hum fading as the car paused at the top, the world stretching endless below, their moment a pocket of stillness in the park’s chaos, the breeze cool against her flushed skin, his warmth a steady anchor.

Isla glanced at him, her voice a whisper. “You… you really mean that, don’t you?”

Joe’s gaze softened, his hand brushing her cheek. “Every word, babygirl—I don’t say what I don’t mean.” The moment stretched, their connection deepening as the Ferris wheel began its descent, the car jolting, descending slow, his arm still around her, a tether in the park’s noise.

They stepped off, the crew regrouping, Jimmy slapping Jey’s back, “Told you I wouldn’t scream—pay up, Uce!” Naomi grinned, “Y’all both screamed—I heard it!” Bianca laughed, “Pay up, boys—I’m eating good tonight!” Bayley smirked at Isla, “You’re glowing, girl—Chief’s got you good.” Solo nodded, a rare smirk tugging his lips as he glanced at Joe, approval quiet but clear, his shades catching the last of the sun’s rays, his voice low, “She’s holdin’ up—good.” Isla took her strawberry slushie from Naomi, the cold sweetness a small comfort, her shyness easing as she sipped, the crew’s warmth wrapping around her.

Isla grabbed her tech bag from the locker they’d rented, slinging it over her shoulder, the plush panda tucked under her arm, Joe’s hand brushing her back as they headed out, the park’s lights fading behind them, SmackDown looming tomorrow at State Farm Arena. The day’s heat lingered in her skin, Joe’s flirty edge, the warmth of his hand, the photos in his phone case, the weight of his arm on the Ferris wheel—a glow she couldn’t shake, the crew’s laughter echoing as they piled into the van, Atlanta’s dusk wrapping them tight, the promise of tomorrow’s chaos pulling them forward, Kyla’s spiteful exit and her bitter words about the fan signing a faint shadow in the back of her mind, the photo on her phone a quiet threat waiting to surface.

State Farm Arena pulsed with electric energy, 19,000 fans packed into the stands, their cheers a deafening roar that shook the rafters, the air thick with the scent of popcorn, beer, and anticipation. The lights dimmed, casting the arena in a wash of blue and red, the Titantron flickering with the SmackDown logo, pyros primed to blaze, the production crew a whirlwind of motion backstage. In the control room, monitors lined the walls, their glow casting sharp shadows, headsets crackling with urgent voices, the hum of equipment mixing with the bitter scent of burnt coffee and sweat-soaked shirts. It was Friday night in Atlanta, and SmackDown was live, the stakes high, the pressure a living thing pressing down on everyone, especially Isla, who stood at her station, headset on, fingers hovering over her tablet, her heart pounding in her chest.

She adjusted her black polo with the WWE logo, the fabric clinging to her skin in the stuffy room, her jeans and sneakers practical but worn, her tech bag slung over her shoulder, a lifeline of cables and tools. Her floral water bottle sat on the desk, a small piece of comfort in the chaos, her watch glinting under the fluorescent lights, her tattoos peeking from her sleeve as she typed, her movements quick but shaky, her shyness buried under the need to focus. Don’t mess this up, she thought, her breath shallow, the weight of the night pressing down, the memory of the amusement park—Joe’s hand in hers, the photos in his phone case—both a comfort and a distraction, her cheeks flushing at the thought as she tried to focus, the control room’s chaos swirling around her.

Isla muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the hum of the room, “Okay… video synced, music queued… pyros on standby…” Her fingers trembled slightly, her anxiety spiking as she double-checked her tablet, the pressure of the live show a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Evan, a fellow tech crew member, glanced over from his station, his tone calm but encouraging, “You’ve got this, Isla—everything looks good on my end. Just breathe, alright?” Isla nodded, her voice a whisper, “T-thanks, Evan… I’m just… really nervous,” her shyness flaring, but his support eased her slightly, her focus sharpening as she prepared for Joe’s entrance.

Joe stood in the gorilla position, his Tribal Chief gear on—black tactical pants, red accents sharp against the dark fabric, his hair in a tight bun, his broad frame a wall of intensity, his presence commanding even in the dim light. Solo stood at his side, stoic, arms crossed, his shades reflecting the flickering lights, a silent pillar of support. Jimmy and Jey bounced nearby, hyped, their energy infectious, “Let’s go, Uce—time to own it!” Jimmy shouted, slapping Joe’s shoulder, Jey grinning, “Show ‘em who runs this, Chief!” Naomi, Bianca, and Bayley lingered nearby, ready for their segments, Naomi’s braids swinging as she stretched, Bianca’s ponytail high, her focus sharp, Bayley cracking a joke, “Don’t trip on the way out, Chief—wouldn’t wanna mess up that entrance!” Joe smirked, but his eyes were locked on the curtain, his mind on the ring, the night, the legacy he carried, his focus a razor’s edge—until he glanced at the monitor showing the control room, Isla’s face flickering on the feed, her brow furrowed, and a flicker of warmth cut through his intensity, the memory of her shy smile in the photo booth grounding him.

Joe’s smirk softened, his voice low as he spoke to Solo, “She’s workin’ hard up there—better not let her down out here.” Solo nodded, his voice gruff, “She’s got it, Chief—focus on the ring. We’ll handle the rest,” his rare words carrying weight, his loyalty to Joe and the crew unwavering, his gaze flicking to the monitor, a quiet respect for Isla’s role in their success.

The show kicked off, the opening pyro blazing, the crowd erupting as the announcer’s voice boomed, “Welcome to Friday Night SmackDown!” The first match wrapped, the energy building, Joe’s entrance up next, the main event segment to set the tone for the night. Isla’s fingers flew over her tablet, syncing the Titantron video, the music, the pyros, her headset crackling with the director’s voice, “Cue Reigns in ten—let’s go, people!” Her heart raced, her palms sweaty, It’s fine, you’ve got this, she told herself, but the pressure was a vice, her shyness flaring under the weight of the moment, the eyes of the crew on her, the arena waiting.

The lights dimmed, the arena plunging into darkness, the crowd’s cheers swelling, a sea of phone lights flickering like stars. Joe stepped through the curtain, his head high, the Tribal Chief in full force, Solo at his side, the crew hyping him from behind—until the screens went black, the music cut out mid-note, a jarring silence swallowing the arena, the pyros failing to fire, a faint hiss of smoke the only sound. The crowd’s cheers turned to boos, a wave of confusion rippling through the stands, “What the hell?!” echoing from the front row, the energy souring, the moment shattered. Joe froze mid-step, his jaw tightening, his momentum broken, Solo’s stoic mask slipping into a frown, the crew behind them exchanging looks—Jimmy muttering, “Yo, what’s good?” Jey adding, “This ain’t right, Uce!” Naomi, Bianca, and Bayley shared a glance, their expressions shifting to concern, Bayley muttering, “That’s not supposed to happen,” as they headed back to the locker room area to watch on the monitors, Jimmy and Jey following, their voices fading, “Fix this, fam—Chief deserves better!”

In the control room, chaos erupted, voices barking through Isla’s headset—“Get it back, now!”—her heart dropping, her breath catching, her fingers trembling as she tapped her tablet, error codes flashing red. No, no, no—this can’t happen, she thought, her anxiety spiking, the fear of failing Joe, of losing the crew’s trust, a vice around her chest, her vision blurring as she fought to focus, her voice barely a whisper, “I-I don’t… it’s not working…”

The director’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent, “Isla, what’s going on? We need that feed back now—Reigns is stalled out there!” Isla’s voice trembled, her words rushed, “I-I’m trying… the system’s frozen, I don’t know why…” Her panic surged, her hands shaking as she tapped the tablet, her breath ragged, the weight of the moment crushing her.

Evan stepped in, his tone calm, professional, “Here, let me help—check the main console, I’ll reboot the backup.” His movements were steady, his focus on the task, Isla nodding gratefully, too overwhelmed to notice anything else, her hands shaking as she rebooted the system, her breath ragged, the control room’s chaos a storm around her.

From the sidelines near the production area, Kyla stood with a press pass dangling around her neck, her pink tank swapped for a sleek black top, her brunette hair pulled back, her eyes sharp as she watched the chaos unfold, her lips curling into a subtle smirk, her phone in hand, the photo of Joe and Isla from the amusement park on her screen, a quiet plan in her mind, her presence a small detail in the chaos, unnoticed by most. She leaned against a wall, her gaze flicking to Isla in the control room, her smirk fleeting, her fingers tapping her phone, a silent observer in the storm, her attention briefly shifting as she spoke to a production staff member, her voice low, “He didn’t even look at me last year—I waited hours at that fan signing, and he walked right past me,” her voice a mix of spite and a tremor of hurt, her fingers tightening on her phone as if the memory still stung, her eyes glinting with a mix of anger and wounded pride. “Now he’ll notice me when I make him and his little girlfriend pay.” The staff member nodded before walking off, a detail that stuck out in the storm.

Isla’s fingers flew, sweat beading on her forehead, her headset crackling with the director’s voice, “We’re losing the crowd—fix it, now!” the pressure crushing, her doubt flaring, but Joe’s face on the monitor, his jaw tight, his eyes steady, pushed her forward, I can’t let him down—not him, not them. With Evan’s help, the system rebooted, the screens flickering back to life, Joe’s entrance video roaring onto the Titantron, the music blasting, pyros finally firing in a blaze of red and gold, the crowd’s boos turning to cheers, a wave of relief washing through the arena. Joe resumed his walk, his stride commanding, Solo at his side, the Tribal Chief reclaiming the moment, but the damage was done—his momentum shaken, the energy off, the crowd’s reaction not what it should’ve been, a faint frustration in his eyes as he hit the ring, his gaze flicking to the control room, to Isla.

She slumped against her chair, her breath ragged, the adrenaline crashing, her mind replaying the glitch—what went wrong? The fear of failing Joe, of losing the crew’s trust, clawed at her chest, her hands trembling as she stared at the tablet, the screen now steady but her heart still racing. Evan glanced at her, his tone reassuring, “Hey, it’s not your fault—systems glitch sometimes. You got it back up, that’s what matters.” Isla nodded, her voice soft, “I-I just… I didn’t want to mess up for him… for them…” Her shyness flared, her anxiety lingering, but Evan’s words helped, her resolve strengthening as she tried to shake off the doubt.

She stepped out to the production area to grab a cable from her bag, needing a moment to breathe, when Austin Theory strutted over, his gear on from his earlier match, his blonde hair slicked back, his smirk cocky, his eyes glinting with malice. “Heard you almost tanked the Chief’s entrance, tech girl,” he taunted, his voice loud, drawing eyes, “Guess you can’t handle the big leagues—maybe stick to fetching coffee, huh?” His tone dripped with condescension, his rivalry with Joe fueling his spite, his words a jab at both Isla and the Bloodline’s dominance, a petty dig to throw them off.

Isla’s breath hitched, her shyness flaring, her voice a whisper, “I-I didn’t… it wasn’t my fault…” Her words trailed off, her cheeks burning, the weight of the night crashing down, her doubt swelling—Maybe I can’t do this. Wallflower… Kyla’s right—I don’t fit here. I’m not loud or bold like Naomi or Bianca. What if Joe realizes I’m not enough? Theory’s taunt echoed Kyla’s “wallflower,” her anxiety spiking as she shrank back, her hands trembling, the cable forgotten in her bag.

Joe, heading backstage after his promo, caught Theory’s taunt, his jaw tightening, his steps quickening as he pushed through the production area, his presence a storm, his voice low, lethal, “You got a problem, Theory?” His eyes burned, his frame towering, his rivalry with Theory flaring, his protectiveness for Isla surging as he stepped between them, his gaze locked on the younger wrestler, a warning in his stance, the air crackling with tension.

Theory faltered, his smirk slipping, “Just… messin’ around, Reigns,” his voice weaker, his bravado crumbling under Joe’s stare, the Tribal Chief’s intensity a force, Theory’s history of clashing with the Bloodline—his losses to Joe, his jealousy of their dominance—hanging between them. Joe’s voice dropped, “Mess with her again, and you’re dealin’ with me—stay in your lane, kid.” His tone was final, a quiet fury that sent Theory backing off, his eyes darting away, a flicker of fear in his gaze as he muttered, “Whatever, man,” and walked off, his smirk returning once he was out of sight, his mind on his own plans, a shadow of spite lingering.

Joe turned to Isla, his expression softening, his hand brushing her arm, “You good, babygirl?” His voice was low, flirty but caring, his eyes searching hers, grounding her in the chaos, her blush deepening as she nodded, shy, “Y-yeah… thanks.” Her voice trembled, but his touch steadied her, her anxiety easing, the warmth of his care a lifeline, the memory of the amusement park—his hand in hers, his “Always, babygirl”—flooding back, her heart racing for a different reason now, Theory’s taunt fading under Joe’s protection, a quiet strength blooming in her chest.

Isla looked up at him, her voice a whisper, “I… I thought I messed everything up… I didn’t mean to…” Joe’s hand slid to her shoulder, his voice firm but warm, “You didn’t mess up, babygirl—you saved it. Don’t let punks like him get in your head. I’m proud of you.” His gaze held hers, his words a balm to her anxiety, her blush deepening as she nodded, her heart swelling at his praise, the doubt in her chest easing—He believes in me… maybe I do belong here.

Naomi slipped into the control room, her match up next, having watched the glitch from the locker room monitors with Jimmy, Jey, and Bayley, their voices a mix of concern and frustration—“That ain’t right for Uce,” Jimmy had said, Jey adding, “Somebody’s messin’ with us, fam.” Naomi’s eyes caught Kyla lingering near the production area, her press pass glinting, her smirk subtle as she typed on her phone, the photo of Joe and Isla still on her screen, a quiet plan in her mind. Naomi’s gaze narrowed, her suspicion flaring as she overheard Kyla’s muttered words to the staff member, “He didn’t even look at me last year—I waited hours at that fan signing, and he walked right past me,” her voice a mix of spite and a tremor of hurt, her fingers tightening on her phone as if the memory still stung, her eyes glinting with a mix of anger and wounded pride. “Now he’ll notice me when I make him and his little girlfriend pay,” the bitter edge in her tone revealing her personal grudge, her ego bruised by Joe’s indifference, her eyes glinting with spite as the staff member nodded before walking off. Naomi nudged Isla as she grabbed her headset, “Who’s that chick? She was at the park, right? Kyla? I don’t like how she’s hangin’ around—somethin’ ain’t right. Did you hear what she said? She’s mad at Joe for ignorin’ her at some fan signing last year.” Her voice was low, her tone sharp, her protective streak flaring for Isla, the pieces not quite connecting but the unease growing, her mental note to keep an eye on Kyla a silent promise, the drama simmering beneath the surface.

Isla nodded, her stomach twisting, “Y-yeah… she was. A-and… I heard her. She… she mentioned Joe not noticing her at the park, too.” Her voice was soft, Kyla’s “wallflower” and her bitter mention of the fan signing echoing in her mind, the lingering glance at the photo haunting her, but Naomi’s presence grounded her, her friend’s suspicion a quiet warning, a flicker of dread in her chest at the thought of more trouble.

Naomi’s jaw tightened, her voice firm, “I’m tellin’ you, Isla, she’s up to somethin’—holdin’ a grudge over a fan signing? That’s petty, but it’s personal. We’re keepin’ an eye on her, okay? You don’t need to worry—we’ve got your back.” Her protective streak surged, her promise to shield Isla clear in her tone, the drama simmering as she prepared for her match, her focus split between the ring and the threat lurking backstage.

Joe’s match wrapped, a brutal win over Drew McIntyre, the crowd roaring as he stood tall, the Tribal Chief reclaiming his dominance, Solo at his side, the energy back where it should be, but the glitch still a shadow in his mind. Jimmy, Jey, Naomi, Bianca, and Bayley rejoined him backstage, their voices loud, “We killed it, fam!” Jimmy shouted, Jey adding, “That’s our Chief!” Naomi and Bianca high-fived, Bayley smirking, “Told you not to trip, Chief—good recovery!” Solo nodded, his approval quiet but clear. Joe headed to the production area, finding Isla packing up, her tech bag over her shoulder, her headset off, her hands still trembling faintly as she zipped her bag, the night’s chaos lingering in her eyes. He stepped close, his voice low, “You did good out there, babygirl—saved my ass.” His tone was flirty, a smirk tugging his lips, but his eyes were soft, caring, his hand brushing her back, a quiet comfort that made her blush deepen, her shyness flaring, “I-I just… I didn’t want to let you down,” her voice a whisper, her eyes meeting his, wide and soft, the weight of his praise settling in her chest, her heart racing.

“You never could,” he murmured, his hand lingering, his gaze steady, the air between them charged, the slow-burn tension crackling, the memory of the photo booth—his forehead against hers, the photos in his phone case—hanging between them, a quiet promise. The night ended, the arena emptying, the crew heading out, the tension of the glitch lingering, the drama simmering beneath the surface, Joe’s hand brushing Isla’s back as they left, the promise of tomorrow’s challenges pulling them forward, the glow of their connection a light in the storm.

The neon sign of the 24-hour diner flickered “Open” against the Atlanta night, its red and blue glow casting a soft light over the parking lot, the highway humming faintly in the distance, the city’s skyline a faint shimmer on the horizon. It was just past 1 a.m., the air cool but still heavy with the day’s heat, the scent of asphalt mixing with the warm, greasy aroma of fries, coffee, and syrup wafting from the diner’s open door. Inside, the place was a time capsule—checkered floors, red vinyl booths, a jukebox in the corner playing a soft 80s tune, “Every Breath You Take” by The Police, its melody a quiet hum under the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of a few truckers at the counter, their caps pulled low, coffee mugs steaming. The crew claimed a corner booth, their laughter a bright contrast to the diner’s sleepy vibe, the night’s chaos at SmackDown still buzzing in their veins, the need to unwind pulling them here, a ritual after a long show.

Joe slid into the booth, his black hoodie loose but still clinging to his broad frame, jeans and sneakers a casual shift from his Tribal Chief gear, his hair still in a tight bun, his presence commanding even in the dim light, but softer, his edges smoothed by the late hour. He sat beside Isla, his choice deliberate, his thigh brushing hers under the table, a quiet claim that made her heart jump, his gaze flicking to her with a smirk, flirty but warm, the memory of the photo booth—his forehead against hers, the photos in his clear phone case—still a glow between them. Isla sat at the edge of the booth, still in her tech uniform, her black polo wrinkled, jeans scuffed, sneakers tapping nervously under the table, her tech bag at her feet, the plush panda from the amusement park peeking out, a small comfort after the night’s chaos. Her floral water bottle sat on the table, her watch glinting under the diner’s fluorescent lights, her tattoos peeking from her sleeve, her hair loose now, framing her face, her shyness flaring under Joe’s closeness, but the crew’s warmth easing her, a quiet belonging settling in her chest.

Solo sat across from them, stoic as ever, his shades off, his dark eyes watching the group with a faint smirk, a black coffee steaming in front of him, his silence a steady anchor. Jimmy and Jey shared the other side of the booth, a plate of fries between them, their laughter loud, their energy still high, “Man, Uce, you saw Drew’s face when you speared him?” Jimmy cackled, dipping a fry in ketchup, “Looked like he saw a ghost!” Jey grinned, stealing a fry, “That’s our Chief—ain’t nobody stoppin’ us, fam!” Naomi sat beside them, her braids pulled back, her hoodie loose, scrolling X on her phone, her protective streak still simmering after spotting Kyla, her eyes flicking to Isla with a soft smile, “You held it down tonight, girl—proud of you.” Bianca, next to her, nodded, her ponytail still high, her energy tired but fierce, “For real—glitch or not, you got it done.” Bayley, at the end, sipped a milkshake, her smirk sharp, “Yeah, but let’s talk about Chief here—thought you were gonna yeet Theory through a wall, big guy!” The group’s laughter swelled, the diner’s quiet fading under their chaos, Isla’s small smile growing despite the night’s weight.

Isla blushed, her fingers fidgeting with her water bottle, her voice soft, “I-I just… didn’t want to mess things up.” Her shyness flared, the night’s chaos—the glitch, Theory’s taunt, Kyla’s lingering smirk—still heavy in her mind, but the crew’s support, Joe’s presence beside her, grounded her, her anxiety easing.

Joe’s hand brushed hers under the table, his touch warm, deliberate, his voice low, flirty, “Told you, babygirl—you saved my ass out there. Ain’t nobody messin’ with you on my watch.” His eyes held hers, steady, a heat in his gaze that made her blush deepen, her heart racing, the memory of his “You never could” backstage at the arena echoing in her mind, the slow-burn tension between them crackling, her fingers trembling faintly as they brushed his, a quiet spark in the warm light.

Naomi’s brow furrowed, her thumb pausing on her phone, “Hold up, y’all—check this out.” Her voice cut through the laughter, her tone sharp, suspicious, as she turned her phone to the group, the X app open, a post from Kyla lighting up the screen. The photo from the amusement park—Joe and Isla in the crowd, his arm around her, her shy smile glowing, the panda in her hands—stared back at them, Kyla’s caption above it, “Tribal Chief’s new sidepiece? 👀 #SmackDown.” The post had exploded, now at 1,000 likes, 400 retweets, comments flooding in—“Who’s this chick?” “Chief’s got a girl??” “She don’t look like his type 👀”—some getting personal, one mentioning the glitch, “She can’t even handle the job—Chief deserves better,” another ominous note catching Naomi’s eye, “Payback’s comin’ at the next show, just wait 👀,” the words sending a chill down her spine, her suspicion deepening. The drama stirred, Kyla’s spite a quiet weapon, her motives now tied to a personal slight—Joe’s indifference at the fan signing a year ago, her ego bruised, her actions a petty bid for his attention.

The crew erupted, Jimmy and Jey cackling—“Yo, Uce, you viral now!”—Bayley smirking, “Sidepiece? Please—Kyla’s just mad she got curved,” their laughter swelling, the jukebox’s hum a distant echo against their voices, Naomi’s frown deepening as she scrolled the comments, her voice low, “This ain’t funny—she was at the arena, too, with that press pass. I heard her talkin’ about a fan signing last year—said Joe didn’t even look at her, walked right past her after she waited hours. And these comments… one of ‘em mentioned the glitch, sayin’ Isla ‘can’t handle the job.’ Another one’s got me worried—says ‘Payback’s comin’ at the next show, just wait 👀.’ That ain’t a coincidence, y’all.” Her protective streak flared, her gaze flicking to Isla, then Joe, the pieces connecting—Kyla’s grudge, the glitch, the post—a quiet storm brewing, her unease growing, the drama escalating.

Isla’s blush turned to a flush of embarrassment, her shyness spiking, her fingers freezing on her water bottle, the plastic creaking under her grip, her breath shallow as the crew’s voices swelled around her, Kyla’s “wallflower” and her bitter mention of the fan signing echoing in her mind, the photo a violation of the quiet moment she’d shared with Joe, the comments cutting deep—They hate me… thousands of people think I don’t belong with him. What if Joe sees these comments and starts to think the same? I can’t lose this—lose him. Her mind spiraled, I’m not good enough for this world, for him, her anxiety flaring, her eyes darting down, the diner’s warmth suddenly too much, her heart racing as the weight of the attention pressed in.

Bianca reached across the table, her voice soft but fierce, “Hey, Isla, don’t you dare let this get to you—Kyla’s just jealous ‘cause she can’t have what you’ve got with Chief.” Her smile was supportive, her words a balm, Isla’s small smile returning, her fingers tightening in Joe’s, a quiet strength blooming.

Joe’s jaw tightened, his hand covering hers on the table, his touch firm, grounding, a quiet fury in his chest—She don’t deserve this—nobody’s gonna hurt her on my watch—his protectiveness surging, his voice low, lethal, “Enough.” His gaze swept the group, silencing the teasing, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity, the Tribal Chief’s presence cutting through the diner’s warmth, the crew’s laughter fading, even Jimmy and Jey quieting, their grins slipping under his stare.

“She ain’t a sidepiece—she’s with me,” Joe said, his voice steady, a quiet claim that made Isla’s heart stutter, the weight of his words drowning out Kyla’s “wallflower” and the X comments, her blush deepening as she glanced at him, a promise in the heat—she was his, and he wasn’t ashamed of it, the thought a glow that eased her anxiety, her fingers tightening in his, a quiet strength blooming in her chest, He’s choosing me… in front of everyone. He turned to Naomi, his tone softer but firm, “Find out what she’s playin’ at—nobody messes with us. If she’s holdin’ a grudge over a fan signing, I wanna know what else she’s got planned.” Naomi nodded, her fingers already typing, “On it, Chief—she’s actin’ like a scorned fan, but she’s dangerous. That ‘payback’ comment… I’m not lettin’ her hurt Isla over some petty beef.” Her voice was sharp, her suspicion now a mission, her protective streak a shield for Isla, the group’s loyalty a wall around them, the comment on Kyla’s post lingering in her mind, a puzzle she was determined to solve.

Joe’s hand squeezed Isla’s, his thumb brushing her knuckles, his voice low, just for her, “Don’t let her get to you, babygirl—I got you.” His eyes held hers, steady, flirty but caring, the slow-burn tension simmering, her shyness easing under his care, a quiet glow in her chest, the diner’s noise fading as their moment stretched, the crew’s chatter a soft hum around them.

Solo smirked, sipping his coffee, his voice low, gruff, “She’s mad over a signing? That’s weak—let her try somethin’ in Charlotte. We’ll be ready.” His rare words carried weight, his smirk faint but dangerous, his loyalty to the crew, to Isla, a quiet vow, the group’s dynamic tightening, the drama a challenge they’d face together.

Isla’s eyes flicked to Solo, her voice soft but grateful, “T-thank you… all of you. I… I feel a lot better knowing you’re with me.” Her shyness lingered, but her gratitude was clear, her smile glowing, the crew’s support a light in the storm, her confidence growing as she felt truly part of the family.

The crew finished up, Jimmy and Jey splitting the last of the fries, Bayley stealing a sip of Naomi’s soda, “For the road!” she grinned, the group’s laughter swelling again, the diner’s jukebox switching to “Sweet Dreams” by Eurythmics, its beat a soft rhythm as they headed out. The city’s lights glinted through the window, the highway humming, the night stretching endless, Kyla’s post a shadow in their minds, the drama growing, the road ahead uncertain, Joe’s hand brushing Isla’s back as they left, the plush panda peeking from her bag, the photos in his phone case a quiet promise, their connection stronger, the crew’s loyalty a shield, the promise of tomorrow’s challenges pulling them forward, the glow of the diner fading behind them, Atlanta’s night wrapping them tight.

Hours after the WWE live event at State Farm Arena in Atlanta, the city skyline shimmered beyond the window of Isla’s hotel room at the Hilton Atlanta, a constellation of lights against the dark sky, the room a simple setup with a queen bed, a small desk, and a chair in the corner, the air cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the earlier chaos of the arena. The bed was neatly made, a small plush panda—won by Joe for her just yesterday at Six Flags Over Georgia—propped against the pillows, its black-and-white fur a fresh reminder of their day together, a tentative step in their new connection. Isla had changed into a loose t-shirt and pajama shorts, her dark hair down, cascading over her shoulders, her floral tattoos visible on her forearm, delicate against her tan skin, her glasses resting on the nightstand after she’d removed her contacts, her hazel eyes weary from the long day.

Isla sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open in front of her, the screen’s blue glow casting harsh shadows across her face, her fingers trembling as she scrolled through X, her breath catching as she read the post Kyla, a fan with a bitter edge, had made earlier that night. The photo showed Joe and Isla from yesterday at the amusement park—Joe’s hand on her arm, his flirty smirk clear, Isla’s blush evident even in the grainy image, the caption reading, “Tribal Chief’s new toy? Wonder how long this nobody will last.” The post had exploded, hundreds of comments piling up, each one a dagger to Isla’s already fragile confidence, her shyness amplifying the sting of public scrutiny.

“She’s pathetic—doesn’t even belong in WWE.”

“A nobody with Roman? What a joke.”

“Not enough for him—she’ll be gone in a week.”

Isla’s chest tightened, tears welling in her eyes, the words—nobody, pathetic, not enough—cutting deep, her shyness making the exposure feel unbearable, her quiet connection with Joe now a target for strangers’ hate. She’d only met Joe a few weeks ago, their interactions limited to stolen glances and brief conversations backstage, but yesterday at Six Flags had been different—his flirty teasing, the panda he’d won for her, a spark she hadn’t expected. Now, with Kyla’s post, that spark felt tainted, her insecurities roaring to life, her vision blurring with tears, a quiet sob escaping as she pressed a hand to her mouth.

A sharp knock at the door startled her, her heart leaping as she froze, a tear slipping down her cheek, her voice shaky as she called out, “W-who is it?” Her hands fumbled to close the laptop, her legs uncrossing as she stood, her bare feet soft on the carpet, the plush panda on the bed a silent witness to her distress.

“It’s Joe,” came his low, warm voice through the door, a hint of concern in his tone that made her heart race, his unexpected presence sending a wave of relief through her, even as her shyness made her want to hide. She hurried to the door, her hands trembling as she unlocked it, pulling it open, her breath catching at the sight of him.

Joe stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, a black t-shirt clinging to his chest, tribal tattoos peeking from the sleeves, Nike sweatpants low on his hips, the fabric soft and worn, his sneakers scuffed from the day, his long hair tied back in a tight bun, a few strands framing his face, his dark eyes searching hers with a quiet intensity, the faint bruise on his cheekbone from the match a reminder of the night’s intensity. “Hey… you okay?” he asked, his voice low, a flirty edge softened by worry, his hand reaching out to brush her arm, the touch gentle, his eyes narrowing as he noticed her tear-streaked face, the redness in her eyes, the way she seemed to shrink into herself.

Isla’s lip trembled, another tear falling as she shook her head, her voice barely a whisper, “N-no… I’m not.” Her shyness flared, her hazel eyes glassy, her hands fidgeting at her sides, her bare feet shifting on the carpet, the city lights beyond the window a distant blur.

Joe’s jaw tightened, his thumb brushing the tear from her cheek, his touch warm against her cool skin, his eyes darkening with protectiveness as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, his sneakers soft on the carpet, the Nike sweatpants rustling faintly. “What’s goin’ on, Isla? Talk to me,” he said, his voice low, encouraging, his hand lingering on her arm, his presence a steady anchor in the small room.

She bit her lip, her voice trembling, “It’s… it’s this fan, Kyla. She posted a picture of us… from yesterday at Six Flags. And the comments—they’re awful. They’re calling me a nobody, saying I don’t belong with you, that I’m not enough…” Her words spilled out, vulnerable, her eyes darting to his, wide and glassy, her fingers twisting together, the floral tattoos on her forearm catching the dim light.

Joe’s expression softened, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, his touch gentle but firm, pulling her closer, his voice low, “They don’t know what they’re talkin’ about, Isla. They don’t even know you. Don’t let ‘em get to you like this.” He stepped closer, his other hand resting on her shoulder, his warmth cutting through the cool air of the room, the city lights a faint glow through the window.

“I-I can’t help it,” Isla whispered, her voice breaking, a fresh tear slipping free, her shyness making her want to shrink away, but his touch kept her grounded, her bare feet scuffing the carpet. “We’ve only just started… talking, and now everyone’s watching. What if… what if they’re right? What if I’m not enough for someone like you?” Her words were raw, her insecurities laid bare, her heart racing as she looked up at him, her hazel eyes searching his.

Joe’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing over the back of her neck, his voice low, flirty but sincere, “You’re more than enough, Isla. I wouldn’t have spent yesterday with you—wouldn’t have won you that panda—if I didn’t think so.” He nodded toward the plush panda on the bed, a small smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes holding hers, a quiet intensity that made her breath catch, the memory of their day at Six Flags a fresh, fragile bond between them.

Isla’s blush deepened, her voice soft, “Y-you really mean that? Even after… all this?” Her eyes flicked to the closed laptop, the hateful comments still echoing in her mind, her shyness flaring as she spoke, her fingers trembling slightly, the plush panda a small comfort in the corner of her vision.

“Every word,” Joe said, his voice firm, his hand squeezing her shoulder gently, his flirty edge returning as he added, “I don’t care what they say online. I care about what I see—and I see you, Isla. You’re somethin’ special.” His words were a quiet promise, his eyes steady, the dim light casting shadows over his features, highlighting the bruise on his cheekbone, the warmth in his gaze.

“I… I don’t know how to handle this,” Isla admitted, her voice soft, her eyes meeting his, wide and vulnerable, her hands clutching the hem of her t-shirt, her bare feet shifting on the carpet. “Everyone’s talking about us, and we’re… we’re not even…” She trailed off, her blush deepening, the unspoken words—not even a couple—hanging between them, their new connection fragile under the weight of public scrutiny.

Joe’s smirk softened, his hand sliding from her shoulder to her waist, pulling her into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around her, his chin resting on top of her head, his voice low, “We don’t gotta be anything official for me to care about you, Isla. Let ‘em talk—they don’t get to decide what this is.” His embrace was warm, protective, her face pressed to his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comfort against her racing pulse, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint musk of sweat, a reminder of the match he’d fought earlier.

Isla melted into the hug, her arms tentatively wrapping around his waist, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of his Nike sweatpants, her tears slowing as she breathed him in, her voice muffled against his chest, “I-I didn’t want you to see me like this… crying over something so stupid.” Her shyness flared, her heart racing at how close they were, their new connection deepening in the quiet of the hotel room.

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” Joe said, his voice low, soothing, his hand rubbing her back, the touch gentle but firm, his other hand still at the back of her neck, his thumb brushing over her skin, grounding her. “I’ve seen you laughin’ at Six Flags, holdin’ that panda like it was gold—I can handle seein’ you cry, too.” His tone was flirty but sincere, a quiet reassurance that made her heart flutter, the memory of yesterday a bright spot in the storm.

“Thank you, Joe,” Isla whispered, her voice soft, her blush deepening as she pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his, wide and soft, the love in her gaze tentative but growing, the hate on her laptop screen fading in the warmth of his embrace. “I… I feel better with you here.” Her words were vulnerable, her shyness lingering, but her small smile glowed, her fingers still resting on his waist, the floral tattoos on her forearm catching the light.

“Anytime, Isla,” Joe said, his voice low, his flirty smirk returning as he leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her skin, the closeness a comfort, his hand still at her waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not goin’ anywhere—those comments don’t scare me off.” His words were a quiet promise, the tension between them easing into a fragile intimacy, their new connection a light in the darkness of the night.

Isla’s breath caught, her shyness flaring at the closeness, her lips trembling as she nodded, her voice barely a whisper, “I… I’m glad you’re here.” Her hands rested on his chest, her fingers brushing the fabric of his t-shirt, the steady beat of his heart a comfort, her bare feet scuffing the carpet as she leaned into him, the plush panda on the bed a silent witness to their moment, the city lights beyond the window a distant blur.

The night stretched on, the hotel room a quiet sanctuary amidst the chaos of WWE, the hateful comments on Isla’s laptop a fading echo in the warmth of Joe’s presence, their connection deepening in the shadows of the spotlight, a fragile step forward in their budding relationship, the promise of tomorrow’s challenges pulling them closer, one quiet moment at a time.

The hotel gym in Atlanta was a small, mirrored space, the air thick with the scent of rubber mats, disinfectant, and faint sweat, the hum of a treadmill in the corner mixing with the clank of weights and the low thump of a hip-hop playlist—Drake’s “God’s Plan” pulsing through a portable speaker Jimmy had set up. It was just past 10 a.m., the crew in workout mode, their focus on the next SmackDown in Charlotte, their bodies moving with purpose, their minds on the drama with Kyla, the need to stay sharp driving them forward. The mirrors reflected their movements, the fluorescent lights casting sharp shadows, a water cooler in the corner dripping faintly, the space a bubble of intensity amid the hotel’s quiet morning, the city’s hum a distant murmur through the window, Atlanta’s skyline glinting under a hazy sun.

Joe stood at the squat rack, his black tank clinging to his broad frame, sweat beading on his forehead, his hair in a loose bun now, his focus razor-sharp as he racked a barbell loaded with plates, his grunts low as he powered through a set, his muscles flexing, his presence commanding even in the small gym. He glanced at Isla nearby, his smirk flirty, a quiet warmth in his chest, the memory of the night before—her tears, his promise, their closeness in her hotel room—still a glow between them, his protectiveness a steady fire, his gaze flicking to her with a heat that made her heart jump. Isla sat on a bench near the dumbbell rack, her tech bag at her feet, the plush panda peeking out, her floral water bottle in her hand, her gray hoodie swapped for a black tank top, her leggings and sneakers practical, her watch glinting under the lights, her tattoos peeking on her arm, her hair in a messy bun, her shyness lingering but her presence more confident, the crew’s support at the diner and Joe’s comfort last night easing her anxiety, a quiet strength blooming in her chest. She scrolled her tablet, double-checking the tech setup for Charlotte, her fingers steady now, her focus sharp, but her eyes kept darting to Joe, his movements a distraction, her blush faint as she tried to focus, He’s so… strong, her heart racing, the slow-burn tension crackling in the gym’s heat.

Joe finished his set, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his voice low, flirty, “You watchin’ me, babygirl, or you actually workin’ over there?” His smirk widened, his eyes holding hers, a playful edge in his tone that made her blush deepen, her shyness flaring, her fingers tightening on her tablet, the gym’s noise fading as their moment stretched, the heat between them simmering.

Isla’s eyes widened, her voice a whisper, “I-I… I’m working… mostly…” Her blush spread, her small smile breaking through, her shyness melting under his gaze, her heart racing at his teasing, the warmth of his attention a glow she couldn’t shake, the memory of his words last night—You’re mine, babygirl, and I’m yours—echoing in her mind, a quiet anchor in the storm of her insecurities.

Joe chuckled, stepping closer, his hand brushing her shoulder as he grabbed a dumbbell from the rack beside her, his voice low, just for her, “Good—‘cause I’m watchin’ you, too. Lookin’ cute with that tablet, babygirl.” His tone was flirty, his touch sparking her skin, her blush deepening as she ducked her head, her smile glowing, the slow-burn tension crackling, the gym’s intensity a backdrop to their quiet connection.

Isla glanced up at him, her voice trembling but playful, “Y-you’re… distracting me, you know…” Her words were shy, but her smile was genuine, her confidence growing, the crew’s support and Joe’s unwavering care giving her the courage to tease back, her heart swelling at his attention.

Joe’s smirk widened, his hand lingering on her shoulder, “Good—means I’m doin’ my job right, babygirl.” His gaze held hers, the moment stretching, their connection deepening in the gym’s heat, the promise of Charlotte a challenge they’d face together, the hateful comments from Kyla’s post a shadow they’d overcome as a unit.

Solo worked the bench press nearby, his focus stoic, his black tank and shorts a stark contrast to his pale skin, his movements precise, his grunts low, his silence a steady anchor, but his eyes flicked to Joe and Isla, a rare smirk tugging his lips, his approval quiet but clear. Jimmy and Jey were at the pull-up bar, their energy high, their laughter loud, “Yo, Uce, bet I can do more!” Jimmy shouted, jumping up, his reps fast, Jey grinning, “Man, you’re slippin’—watch the champ!” Their competitive streak flared, their voices overlapping, a chaotic warmth that filled the gym, their sweat dripping onto the mats, their bond a bright light in the tension. Naomi and Bianca shared a treadmill, their pace steady, their braids and ponytails swinging, their focus sharp, Naomi’s voice low, “I did some diggin’ on Kyla’s X—girl’s been postin’ cryptic stuff all morning. Somethin’ about ‘big surprises’ at SmackDown, and a throwback pic from last year—her at a fan signing in Atlanta, holdin’ a Bloodline shirt, smilin’ like Joe was her hero, with a caption sayin’ ‘Thought I’d get noticed—guess not.’ She’s still salty he ignored her that day.” Bianca nodded, her tone fierce, “So she’s actin’ out ‘cause Chief didn’t see her? That’s pathetic—but she’s messin’ with the wrong crew.” Bayley stretched on a mat nearby, her smirk sharp, “She’s got no idea who she’s messin’ with—Chief, you better have a plan!” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were serious, the group’s loyalty a shield, the drama with Kyla a storm they were preparing to face, their training a physical outlet for the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Naomi glanced at Isla, her voice warm but firm, “You good over there, Isla? Don’t let Chief distract you too much—we need that tech setup perfect for Charlotte.” Isla nodded, her voice soft but steady, “I-I’m good… I’ve got everything ready. I triple-checked this time.” She hesitated, then added, her tone a bit stronger, “I… I can set up a backup system, too… just in case Kyla tries something with the tech again.” Her shyness lingered, but her suggestion showed a spark of initiative, her confidence growing, the crew’s support and Joe’s comfort giving her the courage to take a proactive step, her focus sharpening as she tapped her tablet, her resolve strengthening—I can’t let her win… I belong here, and I’ll prove it.

Bianca smiled, her tone encouraging, “That’s our girl—keep it tight, Isla. A backup system’s a great idea—we’re countin’ on you, and we know you’ve got this.” The crew’s warmth eased her, her place among them solidifying, her anxiety about Kyla’s drama fading in their presence, the memory of Joe’s embrace last night a quiet strength she carried with her.

Naomi slowed her treadmill, her voice sharp, “Kyla’s out here causin’ trouble over a fan signing? She waited hours, got ignored by Joe, and now she’s takin’ it out on Isla to get his attention. That’s low—but we’re ready for her. That comment about ‘payback at the next show’—we can’t ignore it. Bayley, you and Bianca keep an eye on the production area—Kyla’s got a press pass, so she’ll be sniffin’ around. Solo, you and the twins make sure she doesn’t get near Isla during the show. We’re not lettin’ her pull another stunt.” Bayley nodded, her smirk sharp, “Got it—let’s see her try somethin’ with us watchin’.” Solo grunted, his voice low, “She won’t get close.” Naomi’s protective streak surged, her fingers tightening on the treadmill’s handles, her mission to protect Isla, to protect the crew, a quiet vow, the drama escalating, Kyla’s grudge now a clear, petty motive, her actions tied to a bruised ego, her spite a personal attack on Joe and the Bloodline.

Solo finished his set, sitting up on the bench, his voice low, gruff, “She’s mad ‘cause he didn’t see her? That’s her problem—Charlotte’s gonna be ours.” His rare words carried weight, his smirk faint but dangerous, his loyalty to the crew, to Isla, a quiet promise, the group’s dynamic tightening, the drama a challenge they’d face together.

Isla’s eyes flicked to Solo, her voice soft but grateful, “T-thank you… all of you. I… I feel a lot better knowing you’re with me.” Her shyness lingered, but her gratitude was clear, her smile glowing, the crew’s support a light in the storm, her confidence growing as she felt truly part of the family, the hateful comments from Kyla’s post still a faint echo, but Joe’s words—They don’t know us—and the crew’s loyalty drowning them out. The gym’s hum faded for a moment, the clank of weights and the thump of the music a distant rhythm, Isla’s heart steadying as she glanced around the crew, their laughter, their strength, a shield she was learning to trust, a quiet belonging settling in her chest, the promise of Charlotte a challenge she’d face with them by her side.

Joe stepped closer, his hand brushing her back, his voice low, flirty but caring, “Told you, babygirl—we’ve got you. Now let’s get outta here—I need a shower, and you need a break.” His smirk widened, his gaze steady, the slow-burn tension crackling, her blush deepening as she nodded, her heart racing, the gym’s heat fading as their moment stretched, the promise of Charlotte a challenge they’d face together, the memory of his embrace last night a quiet promise that carried her forward.

Naomi turned off the treadmill, her voice firm, “Alright, fam—let’s wrap it up. We’ve got a long drive to Charlotte, and we need to be on point. Kyla’s not gonna know what hit her.” Her protective streak surged, her smile fierce, her mission clear, the drama simmering beneath the surface, the crew’s loyalty a shield.

They packed up, Jimmy and Jey arguing over who’d carry the speaker, “Yo, Uce, I brought it, I carry it!” Jimmy shouted, Jey snatching it, “Man, you’ll drop it—gimme that!” Bayley rolled her eyes, “Y’all are children,” her smirk sharp, her mat rolled under her arm, Solo trailing behind, his silence a steady anchor, his smirk faint, a rare warmth in his eyes. Naomi and Bianca shared a high-five, their focus sharp, their bond tight, the group’s laughter echoing through the gym, the tension easing, the road to Charlotte ahead, the drama with Kyla a storm waiting to break, the morning’s light a quiet glow as they headed out, the city’s hum pulling them forward, Isla walking beside Joe, his hand on her back, the plush panda peeking from her bag, the photos in his phone case a quiet promise, their connection stronger, the crew’s loyalty a shield, the promise of tomorrow’s challenges pulling them forward.

🏷️ @trippinsorrows @zoeroxiie @pittieprincess22 @beccalynns-world @duhitzkay380

@keyera-jackson @trentybenty @li-da-savage @sharmelasworld @isabella-2025

@jaded-human @lov3rla03

I am sorry if I forgot anyone on the taglist, I didn't want to assume if people from "Everything I Wanted" would like to be tagged in this story besides the loves that informed me they are interested in both stories ❤️

[toskarin]

what warband mods would you rec? I only ever played vanilla warband years ago and that was probably on fairly low AI settings, but I'm definitely intrigued by getting the full feudal clusterfuck experience as well as indulging in some nostalgia.

there's a few qualifications to these, because I usually like them for different reasons and I have something wrong with me, but...

< ! PREEMPTIVE WARNING ! > you should be running modules in Warband Script Extender even if they don't say they need it! people have historically been really bad about clarifying when it's expected

Bannerpage - vanilla for people who want More of it, and then more after that. it reminds me of a spiritual successor to Floris Modpack. an enormous expansion that's also a bit of a tongue in cheek what-if for "Bannerlord, except as continued development of Warband" with increasing complexity. this one will probably spoil you a bit on other modules just because of how many little enhancements it pulls on the native systems lol

Prophesy of Pendor - the premier feudal fantasy rpg experience. this one is brutally difficult and throws some battles at you with genuinely bewildering enemy force sizes. I'd feel fairly confident in calling this the most difficult of the major total conversion modules that maintain core M&B gameplay

Touhou Gensokyo Warfare~the Castiron Flame - this is straight up glorious kusoge and I love it dearly. it often breaks so severely due to its own design decisions that it creates a unique high-skill gameplay expectation that exists in literally no other mods, but also it can't really be called "core" M&B gameplay anymore. this module actually consists of three chinese mods (Touhou Tinder, Touhou Origin, and Touhou Beat), one of which is derived from a fork that was extended by /jp/, another which was just translated by /jp/ (a shoddy translation but not distinctly a 4chan translation, if that's a concern), all of which were merged into one mod and managed by a passionate and cool chinese mod team. none of this comes to a consistent artistic vision. every single character looks like kigurumi cosplay and they all look like they're from different manufacturers. this is my favourite module. I could play it for years.

Perisno - a strange bird of a module that I don't see mentioned much anymore. a shame, honestly, because it's quite fun if you like higher fantasy settings. a bit overconfident with its own setting lore at times, but that really just makes it more authentic as a high fantasy setting, doesn't it? anyway they funnelled the mod development efforts away to a standalone game in the setting because of that, and I wish them well, but you know how it goes with that sort of thing

Gekokujo Daimyo Edition - a modification of an older warband module that was originally a touhou hijack that was originally a mod for the non-Warband game made by japanese players annoyed that nobody in the western playerbase was making mods with a japanese setting. it's buggy, it's incomplete, it will explode at you randomly, but it's still pretty neat. there's really no other mod out there that gives you such a thorough "I HATE THE TANEGASHIMA I HATE THE TANEGASHIMA" experience. Sengoku Era, a successor mod, will probably replace it on recommendation lists when it eventually releases.

Warsword Conquest - this is the Warhammer Fantasy mod. it has all the problems you'd expect from that. that being said, the sheer level of detail in this mod makes it more than worth dropping in to check it out. some of the environments are gorgeous enough to make Warband feel like an entirely different game, and with a surprising variety of firearms, the average campaign ends up being a pretty wild ride

Brytenwalda - I'm not recommending Brytenwalda as an experience, because it's actually not that good a very interesting moment in M&B modding history. Brytenwalda is the birthplace of a lot of mod tropes that became standard in mods going forward, namely most culture-related systems and the modern standard for module graphics. it also introduced tripping and represents the moment people started making really annoying attempts at jury-rigging balance into the game before Warband Script Extender came around and actually allowed them to modify the lower systems of the game. still kinda neat if you like historical settings, and definitely foundational enough to warrant a look

Last Days of the Third Age - infamously hard-headed in a way that only a mod for a feudal warfare simulator rpg made by Tolkien nerds who insist on book>movie aesthetics could pull off, this isn't really core M&B gameplay and is very rigid, but it's another case of something being so detailed and passionate that it's a fun experience anyway.

Solid and Shade - this is actually the best hardcore survival horror experience made for Warband, which is a bit like saying that Harvester is the best FMV game ever made about waking up in a town named Harvest. the Harvester comparison is more than surface level. the writing often feels like Harvester. this is one of the only modules (hell, one of the only games even!) I've ever seen that successfully pulls off the concept of corrupting players with the promise of immortality. it's a horror mystery where every single character creation option affects your longterm gameplay... but to provide a fair warning, reading the developer's commentary on this mod will sour you on it. the developer is an edgelord who just kinda kitchen-sinked horror elements in a way that reminds me a lot of Revolution of Terror (the old Well of Souls mod). the compelling esoterica and atmosphere seem to have been achieved largely on accident

[kevin-the-bruyne]

Now that you mentioned it please the first thing I thought when I saw First as Kant was that they would push him into a straight series especially with him previously being in multiple het shows. I at least saw 2 reactors thinking c4c was het show before khao was introduced. But First with all his new antics is definitely helping their cp to become more popular too especially in the thai side. They are both good actors and they have pretty good role selection and already having a stable fandom would do them wonders in the industry

I would say even three years ago pushing First into straight roles when he looks like this:

was not only going to be GMMs playbook but also their moral imperative. Because this was the pipeline they shoved every BL actor that could into. Gain a following using BL get funneled into straight shows now to get legitimacy as an actor. Three years ago, if First wasn't being shoved into this pipeline I'd say something was very very wrong the way it clearly was with Earth.

And well everything is in flux isn't it? GMMTV 2025 is an unprecedentedly queer roster for GMMTV in addition to a sharp increase in shows now marketed towards young working adults rather than youth. That pipeline no longer even makes sense for them.

GMMTV now has a whole roster of well established actors which I don't think they really thought was going to happen for them back in 2016 when SOTUS was released 😅 and especially not when Singto peaced out then did a bunch of critically acclaimed shows as though to highlight how vapid the creative direction within GMMTV was.

They've also made a great many missteps with branded pairings. The GMMTV three pillars (or four wtv your world view is) was a hot mess. TayNew couldn't hack it, Singto left, Krist vehemently doing straight shows to not let the CP thing give him a mental breakdown (again) and Bright and Win were mA they certainly were, weren't they? These pillars stayed pillars I think through the sheer willpower of Offgun Fun Night and Jennie Panhan's unparalleled ability to pretend nothing is amiss 🤣

GMMTV appears to be trying to hone in more and more on what makes their actors already popular rather than box them into things and make costly mistakes like they even recently did with OhmNanon and PerthChimon where they let Chimon take all that pressure of being Perth's new beau without ever considering the fact that Chimon had 0 interests in playing The Woman.

They've seemed to have taken all pressure off their actors in 2025 and I am curious to see if that trend will continue. Nanon wants a straight script? We squeeze one out for him. SkyNani undecided on being a CP? Great they get to play dark soulmates which good for them giving skynani a parameter to work with that can go from literally barely just gay to just so gay depending on the weather conditions.

C4C is going to strengthen FKs Japanese fanbase for sure, while I am assuming they are expecting the western one to remain largely unaffected. The Thai market I don't understand. First can sure as hell pass as straight now but so could Force and Book the last however many years and delightfully neither of them has given a rats ass about it, even when Bright and Win left, the straight BL boy niche once vacated was actually never filled.

In fact, the pillars are now back and supremely active but they are just extremely gay about it. Somehow TayNew were like this is going to be on our terms and their terms were a romance coded bromance and a polycule with off gun, Krist who everyone believed would NOT enjoy fanservice now has more boyfriends than ever before. I love that gay people can't be normal about anything.

There's a straight passing BL actor vacuum in GMMTV sure - does skynani not convince you that the market LOVES this genre of BL actor? And it's coincided with a point where GMMTVs artistic direction is in fact moving towards slightly older audiences. Suddenly, everything that made First second fiddle in the het shows of his youth, sets him apart as a lead NOW: he's a sweet and goofy guy aka The Ideal Husband.

I am just really curious to see over this next year whether First will make any attempts to fill the straight BL actor niche and how desperately (sponsor money) GMM will try to make him do so. The 70: 30 split agreement between FK was specifically designed to deal with this scenario, I am locked and loaded to see it finally tested.

[wisteriamusic]

killer stages hobbies

So, I think while a lot of hobbies are shared throughout the stages some of them are exclusive or only one or two do so.

Stage 1: Most of his paintings are of friends and other people never of himself. He's taken a lot to writing which can range from children's books, horror stories, mysteries, crime, romance, almost every genre under the sun. He also does enjoy cosplay and crossdressing. He decided to pick up clay sculpting making nice pottery he doesn't trust himself with knives. He also does poetry along with him writing fictional stories.

Stage 2: Their biggest hobby is wood carving most often of animals like bunnies and cats. Painting is of course another hobby they mainly draw landscapes, flora, and fauna. They enjoy sketching new clothes to make and wear. They like to make their own clothes and do a lot of embroidery adding more detail. They also enjoy acting quite a bit. They decided to learn how to sculpt marble for a harder challenge and just to try something new and enhance their already good skills now on a larger scale. They still indulge in science of course even if its not the typical one of most Sanses. Probably also picked up wood burning to make their own wood carvings more detailed and to add a new skill. They are quite good at board games and other games and is actually a major hobby a safer way to discover new things with npcs that don't concern actual people. Along the way I think they learned metal working and black smithing its not an as often hobby its mainly for making knives and other bladed weapons to replace any it uses and for good quality ones that's actually hard to find in the multiverse. They definitely enjoy exploration both of just nature but, also of new aus and people. Him and Ink will sometimes go people watching and without looking at the code or script try to guess their life and personality. They also enjoy gardening they are quite connected to nature. They enjoy reading not as much as Dust but it's a way to gain new information and pass the time.

Stage 3: Its painting are of a lot of death and destruction a funnel for their more destructive and angry emotions rather then other people. They also decided to start playing music it was something sans did and it's something they wanted to reclaim of themself. It also enjoys puzzles and can get sucked into it for hours.

Stage 4: Color was the one who pushed stage 4 to get a hobby of some kind. Any hobby was find as long as it gone one. Color mainly asked him to pick a hobby and left the room he wasn't far but he didn't want his facial expressions or body language make stage 4 pick something based off of what he thinks is good. Painting was the first hobby it picked up its a common hobby that all of the stages enjoyed so it decided that was the safe choice. Later it would pick up dancing specifically, ballet while it does enjoy other styles of dancing it prefers ballet even if it wouldn't say so. Its more often to be pushed to indulge in a hobby rather then just do it itself whenever. It does have some soft rules that allow it to do actions without explict orders that allow it to make choices. Most of its paintings are of chara, the player, horror inside its mind real psychological horror one of the only way it can express its emotion.

[the-most-humble-blog]

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🚨 I’m sorry, what? Your childhood male best friend is coming to town?

Cool. Totally cool.

He wants to meet me? Awesome.

He wants to take you to Six Flags… Like y’all did “as kids”? Absolutely f*cking not.

Let me break it down real plain, real fast:

I don’t care if this dude is your neighbor, your stepbrother, or the guy who gave you CPR in a creek behind your grandma’s house in 2006.

If he’s got testosterone, a functioning nervous system, and fond-ass memories of you in a bikini top next to a funnel cake—

He’s not getting six inches from Six Flags with you.

🧠 This is not insecurity. This is Male Protection Protocol. And for your convenience, I’ve included a Handy Checklist™ for your delusion:

✅ He’s got a penis ✅ He remembers what you looked like at 15 ✅ You used to “fall asleep on each other” innocently ✅ He said “you’re like a sister” but never turned down a hug ✅ He offered to pay for your ticket without blinking ✅ His girlfriend (if she exists) doesn’t know your birthday but he does ✅ He laughed a little too hard when you said I was “protective” ✅ He hugged you from behind in front of your mom that one time ✅ He still calls your mom Mom

🚫 He is not just a friend. 🚫 You are not “just catching up.” 🚫 I am not a sitcom boyfriend here to clap politely while you go relive your youth with a guy who’s probably one sip of lemonade away from making a move.

👋 If you still decide to go?

Cool.

I hope he already bought the ring. Because when y’all ride that wooden death coaster together, screaming like it’s 2009?

You better hope it’s his arms holding you at the end— because mine? Gone.

And no, this isn’t a threat.

It’s a boundary spoken in clarity from a man who knows what men are.

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-WIPE IN: 00:06:66] -->

[mangolei]

Results of this Week's Mangolei Co-working Session 🥭

All of our main character default sprites are finished, so we spent this time brainstorming ideas for a key art!

Mango made key art sketches

Firn continued reworking the script

Blini worked on the trailer

Trmin set up a newsletter for us

All efforts are going towards setting up a marketing funnel and getting ready to officially announce the game SOON™

Here's a final love interest sprite teaser~

[224bbaker]

An update and a thank you from 224B Baker Street!

Hello again, detectives!

While the crowdfund for season 2 of Fawx & Stallion technically wrapped up a few days ago, we thought it would be good to take a day or two to regroup, take a nap, and think of a few words to express our thanks. This being May 4th, the day in 1891 that Sherlock Holmes fell to his (alleged) death at Reichenbach Falls, it seemed strangely fitting to say a few words about the story of the detectives across the street and slightly to the left on the day Holmes ever so temporarily bowed out of his own story.

Last Monday, we crossed 100% of our goal. And on Thursday, we ended our campaign with 104% of our goal. We are beyond honored and completely grateful to everyone who donated, shared, sent along encouraging words, recommended, baked, drew, wrote, all of it, in support of us bringing more of this show into the world.

Everyone working to create this show has made art at some point that feels like it went out into the void--something they felt deeply, sacrificed for, put small, weird, jagged, still-beating parts of themselves into day after day, and then never knew if the thing those parts of themselves funneled into actually reached another human. Much less another human who saw themselves in it. We've been quite honest about the fact that our characters are very much an exploration of that feeling, of wanting to be seen, wanting the things we've done to be seen, to matter to someone.

We could write a million words, fifty seasons of audio drama, and never truly be able to put into words how grateful we are to you for reaching back to the art we create and telling it "I see this. I felt it. I love it. I want more."

Creating art is so hard. Most things are hard, but art is Hard, especially as the world and the algorithm and the AI and the Content creeps in and shuts off means of doing the personal, weird, silly, risky little things with any sort of official funding. It's why we funded season one ourselves, because we thought it was worth it. It means more than the world to know you thought so too.

And now, with all of that self-indulgence done: a practical update on NEXT STEPS!

MAY 2024:

We'll spend this next month prepping crowdfund rewards--writing thank you notes, getting extra supplies of stickers (they were VERY popular), etc! We expect those rewards to go out mid-Summer. The annotated Scandal in Bohemia will go out to our $30+ donors later this month via email. Also, if you pledged at $250 or up (THANK YOU again), we will be reaching out to secure details of your perks (start thinking of what mystery you'd like us to solve!). If you are expecting an email and do not receive one by the end of the month, please check your spam folder and if nothing is there, reach out to us via IGG!

We are also in the process or pre-production currently! This season will have a cast of roughly 22 voice actors, so we're taking the full month to get our recording plan. We'll also spend the month refining scripts, doing rehearsals, working with our composer on some original pieces (perhaps some violin) and giving our fantastic sound designer, Sarah, time to do the prep work she needs, and laying the groundwork for what is looking to be a very full summer of production! We look forward to updating you as the season progresses!

Again, thank you. Thank you. This second season is, aptly, a bit of an inverse of our first season. It's about the weight of expectation. How to operate in the world when you go from unknown to known. Invisible to spectacular. Alone to loved. It's also about a murder at a theme park but that's a bit less relevant to the emotional core of what I'm driving at here. But actually, fuck it, I guess it's still relevant, because we've always been excited about the weighty and the silly all the same.

So again, and not for the last time: #ForAmbrosius

-Lauren, Ian, and the whole Fawx & Stallion Team

[syoddeye]

im curious what type of anxiety youre referring to when you talk about ai!john. climate change? tech?

hello! 🎯 yes to both. i am currently working on combating feeling overly doomer/negative about the environment. i am also extremely wary of ai in general.

this is an extremely summarized version of my feelings, but i think people are way too eager to feed a machine that will put people out of work with zero or shitty safety nets in place. ​

major companies can and will do anything to save money to funnel up to the top. the second they think ai can do your job reasonably well enough, say goodbye to that job. so i implore people to stop using chatgpt to write their emails, phone scripts, and summarize documents.

that’s not even addressing the environmental impact.

is my tinfoil hat on straight?

anyway, trust no major company or their subsidiaries, even the ones you really like with good branding

[milkywayes]

have a snippet from cipher’s upcoming chapter 9 “reach, recoil” :)

She takes the packet, finally, turning it over in her hands. It’s slightly warm and covered in a stern but slanted script that she knows but can’t read. The translator’s only there for speech and whatever it is that the hanar have. Her omni-tool’s still off. “This some fancy new kind of turian MRE?” “It’s not fancy,” he huffs. “Decent, maybe, but not fancy. The stuff we had on the Normandy was bottom dregs.” “Sorry.” Saying it is almost a reflex now; that damned varren won long ago. It’s all she’s been saying. Less of an actual apology than the awareness that one would be warranted, perhaps. “Lived, didn’t I?” He looks off towards the galley. “But I won’t if you don’t keep this one from harm.” His mandibles droop, one after the other—feigned distress—as squinting eyes slide back to her, gleaming and sly and sharp with mischief. “I’d starve.” Van der Veer’s eezo pressure cooker is Banshee-shrieking the end of its cycle somewhere in close proximity, but for once it’s not the reason for her early-morning bout of vertigo.  Meeting that gaze, she has to swallow down her heart.  If this were the battlefield he’s treating it as, now would be the time she’d get her shields taken down while hopelessly out of cover. It’s her, exposed on that death-funnel of a bridge all over again, his concussive rounds chipping at her armor and hitting all the key places where it only hurts a little. His voice drifts to her out of the recesses of memory: I needed to get you moving. Tired and rough and the best thing she’d heard since death. He’d been beaten-down and grieving, but still he’d mustered up the strength to tease her and not be the stranger he very well could have been. There’s a billion ways she could react to it now. From laughter to weeping to punching him in some place where it only hurts a little. She settles on the safest course of action: “There you go again with the theatrics, Vakarian.”

[dotthings]

So some people from the same lane that claims that platonic love is the only love that matters on SPN and platonic love is the highest love and the only love worthy of depiction and sibling love is the highest love there can be no other love also says things like Cas is “only” a brother to Dean, and Cas is “just a friend,” and therefore their bond isn’t any kind of a big deal. They’re downplaying to stick it to the shippers. It’s more proof that all their talk about the sanctity and value of platonic relationships is performance cover for their own actual fixation.

This hate crusade from the so-called “core fans” of SPN didn’t start in the modern era. It didn’t start in the age of queer coding or when Destiel started breaking through into text. It didn’t start in the twitter era or the tumblr era. It’s been burning since Dean and Cas started to become friends in S4, and the war expanded along with the developing story, the growth of social media, and new platforms.

Some stans have been around a very long time and are still waging the same hate war, some are new generations of stans in that interest set who rolled in and adopted the bad discourse, but it’s always the same denialism and hateful fandom script it’s been since S4 and only intensified in S5 and it got worse with each successive season, and it didn’t start with S4 and Cas’s introduction, this was a struggle in earlier seasons, but until Cas no one really stuck around long enough and deep enough to test the issue and that’s why Dean and Cas, and Destiel, are the flashpoint, but Cas’s arrival is not the invention of it either.

SPN is a show that has always been about love.

I started watching in 2005 when it first began and have written tons of SPN meta and rewatched and studied the episodes. It has always, always been about love.

In reflection I grow more horrified, not less, by how a very dominant loud component of its “core” base didn’t actually believe this story could be about love, it only believed in Sam and Dean bro bond supremacy and everything else can burn.

They call themselves fans and call themselves superior and brag about being “non shippers” or they ship what they ship but always funnel back to this same attack and denial on Dean and Cas’s relationship and in so doing burn down friendship love, found family love, brothers in arms, kindred spirits, and bury the fact that SPN has always shown the different way bonds and love forms.

Some of them deploy a certain amount of phobic rhetoric in service to this hate crusade, but that’s not the only thing happening. And it’s a chicken or the egg dilemma. Are they like this to rail against a queer ship because of phobic biases, or do they rail against a queer ship and pretend queer coding doesn’t exist and insult people who closely analyze the show because they’d be against anything that they perceive as a threat to Sam and Dean only love supremacy? Since Dean and Cas’s closeness, however it’s defined, gets attacked and denied in its essence.

Familial themes, found family, and love on SPN never actually mattered to them, only Sam and Dean ever did. If it’s not Sam and Dean, to them it’s not love. If it’s not Sam and Dean, to them it’s not family. They really really have epically missed the point.

And the brothers were the chief canvas to reflect on love, but the brothers were never, ever canonically the sole and only expression of and reflection and rumination on love.

It’s mostly just sad, honestly. How this story of two brothers and their family, and the people they love, just doesn’t matter to the supposed “core” the supposed backbone of the fandom, who brags how they made this fandom, and how they’re the only fans who “get” SPN, while they preach and preach about brotherly love, they have no respect for the actual story, the actual canon, or the show’s actual messaging.

Dean and Cas embody so many of spn’s strongest themes about love. There is no excuse to slam the door on the fingers of queer readings to virtue signal about “it’s about platonic love only”—that not only makes no sense for the show holistically, given romantic love has played a role plenty of times on SPN and has been treated as a love as any other love, it’s all love. Nobody has to ship anything, but not shipping something isn’t an excuse for this ongoing war against SPN’s canonical themes about love and it’s not “ruining” the show or “not getting SPN” to have a queer reading, but I’m not just annoyed by the queerphobic nonsense, it’s the attack on love generally.

How do people watch a show that is about love while acting like love should have no place there? The reason it doesn’t make sense is because they don’t, in fact, make any sense.

We don’t have loud open declarations in PR acknowledging mutual canon Destiel. What is there in loud open PR are statements affirming the importance of found family love and other kinds of relationships beyond the exclusivity of Sam and Dean and somehow, conveniently, this gets ignored so people can continue their lie about what spn is about, what spn is allegedly “only” about. Found family has always been under attack by these so called “fans.” Sometimes openly and often passive aggressively.

I don't blame people for loving the bro bond. I don't blame non-shippers. I don’t care which characters they like or dislike. That’s their business. Shipping, not shipping, that isn't the actual problem here, it's a whole lot more complicated than that.

Anyway. Dean and Cas love each other deeply. SPN and the SPN universe, any show set in that world, has always been about love.