#Studio Engineer Degree

[musitechnicformation]

Discover how a studio engineer degree can elevate your career in audio production, sound design, and music engineering. Learn about the skills, certifications, and opportunities that come with pursuing a specialized degree in studio engineering. Gain the technical expertise to excel in professional recording studios, live sound environments, and post-production. Explore programs tailored to equip you with hands-on experience, industry insights, and advanced audio techniques. Start your journey toward becoming a professional studio engineer today!

[apiptosis]

Feel free to use this or add your own flair.

Concept danny meets all of the batfam's civilian identities but in the way of triggering all of their must protect instincts but in the oddest of ways.

Danny had been helping clockwork in the inbetween time and unfortunately had spent a little too long as Phantom. Due to this he had to stay in his human form for atleast 5 years. Cue danny spending his time actually following his hobbies and fixing his school work.

Jazz set out to follow her dream completing her degree in phycology at Arkam. Danny of course followed her, fortunately Gotham had the most advanced aerospace engineering program in the world

Unfortunately while he knew or could easily figure out the work, the sheer amount of projects and work pieces tired him out more than even the ghost attacks did.

The first one he meets is Tim.

Danny has always ran on caffeine but now his morning coffee he orders at the corner of the dance studio gives both the barista and the regulars heart palpitations by just smelling it. This particular coffee shop was the only place willing to make his morning coffee Death's Dew.

His order is for them to make him a 1000ml thermos about seven eighths of the way with ristretto coffee where he adds 3 scoops of caffeine powder and a smidgen of pure ectoplasm mixed in with milk.

Distantly Danny realised that the unholy concoction woke the poor zombie of a man waiting beside him with pure smell alone and the barista was mumbling about smelling colors.

Danny barely remembered to pay for his coffee as he shuffled to his morning class not realizing that he was being stalked by a caffeine addict that begged the last few sips.

A few hours later WE employees watched with mounting horror as their chronically tired boss jitter about like a speedster with Parkinsons.

It took Tim 6 days to fall asleep and the man was never allowed to visit the Dead End coffee shop unsupervised again, despite owning the business.

After everything Tim finally figured out what his family feels like about his coffee addiction and a deep rooted concern formed for the man who's thermos he stole.

[noisylime]

Form and Figure

1. Registration

parts: next

battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

(eventual smut)

Art 111: Intro to Drawing

4 Credits. Lab & Studio

Instructor: Wayne, Bruce [email: b.wayne@gu.edu]

Course Description:

In this class, you will learn the basic elements of artistic composition, including line, shape, form, value, and perspective. Theory learned in lectures will be applied to various still life drawings using charcoal, pencil, and marker. This course is highly interactive, with each class requiring participation in studio time. Professor Wayne teaches a mixed lab and lecture course with availabilities for additional studio time outside of regular class hours. Materials not provided.

Course materials estimated price: $145.

To browse GU Bookstore bundles click here.

The phone alarm blasted through your skull, sounding like one of the commuter trains that rattled over your apartment had derailed and crashed through your ceiling. That actually sounded preferable to waking up at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am. The course calendar for Fall term at Gotham University opened in five minutes and you still hadn’t decided what classes you were going to take. It was your first term back in a long time.

Going to an out-of-state school had seemed like a way to find yourself on your own terms, and Gotham was far enough from home to feel like another planet. Two years of general education classes with a smattering of electives hadn’t quite been the elucidating experience you expected, but it had been fun. That had all gone to shit when you’d had to leave Gotham at the end of your sophomore year, taking an extended break from school to care for your dad. You’d called it taking a ‘gap year’ but it was closer to three.

Well, that was all over. Now you were a super-senior-aged-junior with enough trauma to stop your academic advisor from pushing you too hard to declare a major and almost enough credits to cobble a degree together.

You were currently waffling between majoring in civil engineering and English lit, both of which felt equally uninteresting. Last night you had planned out schedules for each option and decided to literally sleep on it, putting sticky notes with class codes scribbled on them under your pillow.

Rubbing sleep out of your eyes, you cracked open your laptop. You still had a few precious minutes to make a decision. The clarity you had wanted hadn’t miraculously come overnight, both options still sounded unbearable. You reached under your pillow and decided to go with whichever one you grabbed first. Civil Engineering, on a yellow crumpled 3x3 sheet.

Well, at least you were being decisive, which Titus would say was an improvement. Your friend since freshman year at GU and roommate for the past three months, he worked nights as a bouncer at a club, Mora’s.

Typing the codes into the school’s course registration system was a race to see if you could finish before the website crashed. Once you had double checked the numbers you clicked ‘submit’ and held your breath.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” you blurted as the schedule notification popped up. You’d gotten in to three of your four classes. And the fourth… “Waitlist full? It hasn’t even been two minutes!”

You closed the laptop and carried it out to the kitchen, sitting at the counter and pouring yourself a bowl of cereal. Crunching on Honeycomb violently expressed your dissatisfaction at the college experience to anyone who would listen.

“Damn, you’re up early,” Titus said, closing the front door behind him. He was wearing a smart black leather bomber over a white tee shirt, some gold jewelry accenting the outfit. He didn’t dress like your stereotypical idea of a bouncer, choosing to match the glam and glitz of the interior of the club. On the rare occasion a patron got on his bad side, misjudging his strength based on his appearance, they found themselves thrown to the curb in the blink of an eye.

“Hey,” you said.

He stomped off his military boots at the doorway and walked over to you, giving you a side hug which you accepted gratefully despite the glitter that transferred onto your black tee.

“What’s going on?” he asked, detecting your sour mood.

“Trying to sign up for classes. Everything’s full,” you said around a mouthful of cereal. You tapped the spoon on your closed laptop thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not worth it, you know? College? It seems overrated.”

Titus plonked his backpack on the counter and pulled up onto one of the barstools. When Mora’s had remodeled over the summer he’d grabbed them from the dumpster, polished the stainless steel and conditioned the leather. You’d told him you could buy a set of stools that weren’t so beat up. He had waved your offer away, saying they had ‘character’ which apparently included the metallic squeak from the chair when he swiveled to face you.

“Honestly?” he said. “Yeah, it is. So overrated.” He grabbed a handful of cereal and popped a few of the hexagons in his mouth, crunching loudly. “My marketing degree does come in handy working at Mora’s, though.” He elbowed you playfully when you laughed.

Moving back to Gotham, getting this apartment with Titus, it hadn’t come cheap. You were lucky to not have to work through college for the time being, but it came with a catch. Your inheritance from your dad was locked behind a condition: finish school, get a degree.

“How was work?” you asked, wanting to think about anything other than the upcoming term.

“Broke up a few fights, had some drinks thrown at me, nothing crazy.” Titus pulled a handful of cards out of his pocket and slid them across the counter to you. “Some kids tried to pass these off as legit.” He crossed his arms on the countertop and laid his head down on them, closing his eyes.

You thumbed through the small pile of cards. The IDs were obvious fakes, the lamination had blistering from a defective card printer and the photos looked like they might be from a high school yearbook. “‘Drew Peacock?’ No fucking way. That’s so funny.”

“Yup. Droopy Cock, ha ha,” Titus said dryly, voice muffled from underneath his crossed arms. “And get this, there was a guy at the bar trying to tell everyone he knows the Batman. Like, actually knows him personally.”

He put on a faux sleaze-bag voice, dripping in slime. “’Hey lady, if you come back to my place I can ask him to come too.’ That type of thing.”

The Batman. Gotham’s resident vigilante, the Dark Knight himself. He was practically a myth, taking the law into his own hands.

“Are people into that kind of thing?” you asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Titus chuckled. “People are into all kinds of crazy shit. There’s something about the mask, the mystery. Gets people going.”

“Yeah, well, not me. Someone who gets off on beating the shit out of people in dark alleys? No thanks,” you said. You’d never seen the Batman and you never wanted to, the whole thing creeped you out. You preferred your men nice, bubbly, and vanilla.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Titus said. He stood up off the bar stool wearily and stretched, limbs creaking and cracking from a long shift. “Anyway, I’m going to crash. Get a good schedule for me, ok?”

Titus headed to his room, shedding layers of dark leather on the way. You opened your laptop and begrudgingly returned to the registration portal. Clicking through the remaining open classes, you hoped for something to catch your eye. Pottery? Yawn. Statistics? Please.

While you were browsing the course catalog, an email notification popped up in the corner of your screen. An announcement from the school’s Fine Arts department.

“Due to the high demand for Professor Wayne’s Art 111 course he has graciously agreed to open up another slot, available now. Seats are first-come-first serve. The course is open to all students, regardless of pathway.”

You were desperate to be done with registration and had no better ideas, so you took the email as a sign. You copy-pasted the course code into your schedule, clicked ‘submit,’ and waited while the loading icon swam laps around your cursor. Once you got a confirmation email of your Fall schedule change, you let out a sigh of relief.

It was only after you had signed up you started to wonder what you’d just gotten into. You skimmed through the course summary. Taught by Professor Bruce Wayne. That name rang a bell, but you couldn’t quite place it. The only catch was that it was a night class. That would have been nice to know before signing up. Too late now.

“You will learn the basic elements of artistic composition, including form, shadow, value, line…” you mumbled, reading the course description. The class sounded slightly better than abusing Titus’ goodwill to get a job at Mora’s washing dishes, spending the next fifty years paying back your loans while your inheritance sat in a trust fund you couldn’t access.

It hurt, knowing that your dad was making you jump through hoops for support even after he was gone. You’d taken care of him more than almost anyone, wasn’t that enough? Well, Dad, I’m doing it, you thought.

You closed your laptop and checked the time. Still painfully early. Going back to sleep might have been nice, make up for some of the stolen time, but you were too wired after the stress of registration. Instead, you tossed on a jacket and boots and headed out into the soggy Gotham morning in search of a real breakfast. One week left of break, you might as well try to enjoy it.

* * *

Standing in the checkout line at the GU bookstore, you again wished that you had looked at the course description of Art 111 a little more closely. Your arms were wrapped around a stack of art supplies carefully balanced atop two massive pads of paper, one was something called “newsprint,” and the other was “medium weight dry media cold press drawing paper.”

“What’s the difference, paper is paper,” you grumbled to yourself as you moved forward in line. The bookstore had just opened for the term and the line was as slow as you remembered it being back before you left Gotham. Some things never change, and apparently the number of cashiers at the GU bookstore was one of them.

You studied your pile of drawing implements, hoping you had gotten everything Professor Wayne’s syllabus had listed. Charcoal (vine and compressed), a kneaded eraser, a vinyl eraser, a set of sketching pencils in hardnesses 2H, HB, B, 2B, 4B, and 6B, a pencil sharpener (“please make sure your sharpener has a receptacle so we can avoid shavings on the ground”), a ruler, tape, and some other items buried underneath that you couldn’t remember. It was so much stuff that you’d resigned to a second, later trip to the bookstore for your actual textbooks once you had seen the size of the paper pads.

There were a few things you’d added that weren’t required, but you thought you might need. A pencil case, a few colored pencils just for fun, and a portfolio case to fit your supplies in. Wandering around the notoriously rainy campus with a big glob of wet paper sounded awful, so you’d splurged for the portfolio that was specifically labeled as waterproof.

When you finally reached the cashier, they eyed your mess of supplies warily. You plopped them onto the checkout counter, wringing your hands that were sore from holding it all for too long.

The cashier tallied up your total, beeping each item with a handheld scanner. You watched with unease as the price on the screen kept going up. Thanks, Professor Wayne, you thought. Real nice first impression, making me pay two hundred bucks for your class before I even get in the door.

“Student ID?” The cashier asked. She pointed at a sign hanging from the back of the cash register advertising a promotion. “It’s 10% off if you have it with you, this week only.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you said and dug through your wallet for it. “Here you go.”

They took the card and turned it over, inspecting it. “This is from three years ago.”

Shit. You hadn’t had a chance to get a new one yet since moving back. “I’m getting a new one soon,” you said. “Like, tomorrow. I’m getting back to school after taking a break for a while.”

“Sorry, the discount only applies with current school year ID,” the cashier said.

“What? It doesn’t say that anywhere on this,” you said, pointing at the sign. “It just says ‘with student ID.”

The cashier gave you a look that said “I don’t make the rules.”

“Your total is two hundred and thirteen dollars and forty three cents,” they said flatly.

You scoffed. Typical GU, pinching pennies despite somehow pulling endless tuition out of their students. You didn’t like it on principle. If you were stuck taking classes here, you wanted to do it as cheaply as possible.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. You turned to see a student, probably four years your junior, wearing a flat cap and stiff brown sweater over a button down shirt. A collection of supplies that looked suspiciously similar to your own selections were organized in a shopping basket on the ground in front of him. Since when did they have baskets? He raised an eyebrow then moved his gaze to your scramble of items on the counter disapprovingly.

“What?” you said.

“Are you done?” the kid asked. As if you, and not the lack of cashiers, was the reason the line was stuck at a snail’s pace.

“Excuse me?” 

“I said, aren’t you going to check out? There’s a line,” he said, gesturing behind him at the ever-growing retinue of students, some of which were turning away awkwardly to avoid your gaze. He smiled smugly. “Or are you going to keep arguing about the senior discount?”

You just stared for a second, not believing what you’d heard. He waited for you to retort back, then when he realized it wasn’t coming, rolled his eyes and turned away.

Silently, you pulled out your card, paid the full price, and left with your armful of stuff.

* * *

“Seriously, when did people get so rude?” you asked Titus the next day, at Mora’s. You were eating together before his shift started to celebrate your first day of the term. Since you still had Art 111 class later in the evening, you’d brought your massive portfolio bag full of supplies with you to Mora’s, garnering a few looks on the way in from patrons you had almost smacked.

“Tell me about it,” he said, mid-bite into a hot Italian sub slider. “They’re fucking awful. Not us, of course.” A pickled pepperoncini fell off the sandwich onto his plate. You’d gotten a seitan pork roll and a slice of pie. It was your dinner, but for his schedule the meal was closer to brunch.

“I don’t know how you can eat those,” you said, pointing at the stray pepperoncini. “They’re way too vinegar-y.”

“Says the person having a Hot Shot,” he retorted. The drink was a Mora’s staple, half tequila half jalapeño brine. “The most brine-y drink on the planet.”

“Hey, there’s something about it, okay? We all have our vices,” you said, sipping the small glass. It was not a drink necessarily meant for sipping, but you liked to make it last.

A handful of Titus’ rings sat on the booth table from when he’d taken them off to eat. You picked up one of the pieces of jewelry and found that it was surprisingly heavy. It was meant for two fingers, the thick bands tapering to a slight point at the tip of each knuckle.

“Aren’t these illegal?” you said, turning it around in your hand. Titus grinned.

“What do you mean?” he asked coyly.

There was a third loop on the bottom, a wide oval that sat in your palm, giving you some grip. You glanced around to make sure no patrons were within hearing distance, then slipped it on and made a fist, miming a boxing jab. “Brass knuckles? Right? Aren’t these kind of retro?”

“That, my friend, is a gold statement ring.”

“It’s pretty heavy for a ring.”

“Maybe it moonlights as a paperweight.”

You chuckled. “You ever use it? Like actually on someone?”

He leaned back in the dark green velvet seat and sipped his blackberry lemonade. “Do you really want to know? I thought you didn’t like people who beat up bad guys in alleys,” he teased.

“Just wondering if they actually work,” you said, feeling the weight of the ring in your hand. It felt reassuring, the grip in your palm felt like it could do some real damage. “This kid on campus might need a good whack.”

Titus got serious and sat the four legs of his chair back on the ground. He held out a hand and you dutifully slipped the ring off and handed it back.

“Honestly,” he said. “It’s pretty brutal. It doesn’t look like much but it will fuck you up. And not just on the receiving end. You can shatter your wrist holding one wrong. You gotta really straighten out your hand, use your whole arm. It’s more of a threat than anything. If someone thinks I’m gonna pop them in the face with this then they might rethink trying to pick a fight.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick with my taser.”

Titus nodded. “Probably a good idea.” He twirled the ring around and held it up, showing you some detail you couldn’t make out.

“What am I looking at?”

“Right on the knuckles here, see that?”

You squinted and bent over your plate, finally seeing a small symbol embossed on each point of the ring.

“Is that, what is that? A ’T’? And a snake?”

“It’s ’T. S.’,” he said. “If I ever do have the misfortune of using these on someone, they won’t forget who did it in a hurry.” He downed the rest of his lemonade. “I’ve really only used them once or twice. It’s more for show, you know, fit the ‘tough bouncer’ look.”

A woman came over to the booth and Titus pocketed the ring in a flash.

“Hi Nicole,” Titus said. “How’s it goin’?”

She flashed you a business-womanly grin. She was dressed fashionably, a look fitting for the club’s manager.

“Hello Titus,” Nicole said. “You’ll be at the door at five, right?”

“Yes, of course. I was just about to head down there in a minute.”

“That’s great, I’m just making sure.” She turned to you and noticed your half-eaten plate of food. “How is everything, darling? Can I get you anything? On the house, of course.”

“Oh, no, everything’s delicious. Thank you! I’m just nervous, can’t eat that much. I’ve got class tonight in a bit, and I haven’t been to school in years, so it’s, you know—”

“Scary,” Titus finished. “School’s hard, always stressful.”

You nodded in agreement.

“Oh, night classes! That’s exciting, what school?” Nicole asked.

“GU.”

“That’s so nice. Well, I hope you have a good first day. And Titus, make it 4:50 if you can, would you please?”

He agreed, and Nicole left the two of you to talk to a table of patrons across the room.

When she was out of earshot, Titus said, “Four fifty? Come on. We aren’t even busy until six.” He shook his head and sighed. Then, after a pause, he picked up his fork and pointed with it at your plate. “Do you want that pie?”

“Go crazy,” you said, and pushed the plate across the booth table. Titus had comped the food, taking it out of his paycheck at the employee discount. As far as you were concerned, it was all his anyway.

“So, what’s this class tonight?”

“It’s this ‘intro to drawing’ course,” you said as you fiddled with your silverware. “I just had to pick something random to fill out my schedule. It’s basic stuff, I think, but it sounded interesting. Professor Wayne something.”

“You know, that actually sounds fun,” he said, then stopped in his tracks. “Wait a minute, did you say ‘Wayne’?”

“Yeah. Why, do you know him?”

“Do I know him?” He let out a quick bark of laughter.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You really don’t know who he is?”

“No? Should I?” You dug in the recesses of your memory and came up empty-handed.

“Damn, that is so wild.” Titus ran a hand along his close cropped hair. “You’ve been away from Gotham for way too long, girl. The Waynes are old money Gotham, the family’s been around for, like, ever.”

Old money Gotham brought to mind art deco buildings, caviar and expensive wine, limousines with private drivers. Your mind filled with a vague picture of an old man, possibly bald with a beard, wearing an expensive old-fashioned suit and a pocket watch. You couldn’t stand the upper crust types in town, throwing charity galas that only benefitted themselves.

“What, so he’s rich?” you asked.

“Beyond belief. He’s a billionaire, I think.”

You scoffed. “He had me buy all this stuff, like two hundred bucks of supplies on top of tuition. Must be a cheapskate.” You gave the portfolio bag a tap with your foot.

Titus shook his head and downed the rest of his lemonade. “That’s rich types for you.”

“But he teaches at GU? I don’t get it, what would be the point? Some kind of vanity project?”

“No idea.”

“If I had that much money, I wouldn’t do shit. No school, no teaching, just relaxing.”

“You and me both.” Titus checked his phone and saw the time. “Shit, I’ve got to run. Look, tell me how it goes, okay?”

You said goodbye to Titus, lugging your portfolio bag and backpack out the side door of Mora’s. You headed to the nearest subway station and boarded the line headed for Gotham University. Well, you thought, I guess I’ll see what all the hype is about.

Shoutout to @ellesthots for letting me borrow her creation, Mora's. This fic is not related to Fateful but I wanted to include a piece of it since she's inspiring me to write this. Thank you Elle!

Thank you for reading, more coming very soon! Thoughts & comments are welcome and appreciated <3

[satalxo]

satal masterlist 💖

i'm satal, i write smutty oshamir fanfic on ao3, both canon-divergent and au. my asks are open :)

One Shots

born out of a fire - 3.3k. Explicit. Canon Divergent. When she attacks him with his ligthsaber outside the cave, Qimir convinces Osha to let him help set her free.

upended - 3.7k. Explicit. Canon Divergent. Nothing could have prepared Osha for the way her entire universe changes when she dons the Stranger’s helmet.

strangeness & charm - 4.5k. Explicit. Modern AU. Mae drags Osha to a house party she really doesn’t want to attend. There she runs into awkward loner Qimir from her Mechanical Engineering class.

Multi Chapter

you could be mine tonight - 2/2. 10k. Explicit. Modern AU. Qimir Stranger is notorious for being the best one-night-stand at Khofar University. After a string of shitty boyfriends and lackluster hookups, Osha decides she wants a try.

we bleed the same - 3/3. 11.5k. Teen. Canon Divergent. Osha Aniseya has a soulmate. She's known this since she was six years old, when the vicious scar first appeared on her back. But the galaxy is a vast place, and her chances of ever finding her soulmate seem impossibly small.

a glow like this - 3/3. 27k. Explicit. Bridgerton AU. A year after meeting a greasy but charming stranger at a salon she wasn't supposed to attend, Osha discovers he's the Duke of Bal'demnic, her sister's betrothed.

once in flight - 3/3. 22k. Explicit. Fantasy AU. Ten years ago, Princess Verosha Aniseya fell into a river and was rescued by a dragon. On her eighteenth birthday, he returns to collect her.

our stars will align - 1/7. 5k. Explicit. Modern AU. At twenty-six years old, Osha Aniseya is tired of being a virgin. But her demanding job as an architect doesn't leave her much time for casual dating. Desperate to be rid of her virginity so she can finally have the confidence to ask out the hot IT guy at work, she does something truly unhinged: she signs up to auction her virginity online.

Series

shades of you and me

masterpiece - 25/25. 181k. Explicit. Modern AU. College Sophomore Osha is perfectly content with her choice to pursue a Mechanical Engineering degree. But when she needs an elective to round out her coursework for the semester, Mae convinces her to join Intro to Studio Painting. There she encounters Professor Qimir Stranger, who turns her whole world upside down.

abstraction - 4/4. 82k. Explicit. Modern AU. Qimir POV companion to masterpiece.

up all night

wanna be loved, wanna be afraid - 13/?. 225k. Explicit. Modern AU. DEAD DOVE dubcon darkfic. When the greasy bartender realizes their IDs are fake, Mae offers to blow him in exchange for access to the VIP lounge. He agrees to the deal…only he doesn't want Mae.

this is what you came for - 1/1. 4k. Explicit. Modern AU. Solmae. While her sister is off with the sleazy bartender, Mae sets her sights on Sol Jedi, determined to get him to sign her to his modeling agency no matter what it takes. Companion fic to wanna be loved, wanna be afraid.

[blacksunemiku]

thinking about an arcane news station au…. it’s a small town news station so everyone kinda has to do a bit of everything. (also this is just me infodumping because i work at a news station LOL)

caitlyn as the new meteorologist who’s realizing her ivy league degree doesn’t warrant her a job at a big city news station. she really hates it here and vi is the sports anchor and they don’t like each other initially LMFAO. cait only sees this as a career opportunity to get the hell out of here and vi actually had an offer to do sports at a huge news station but declined it because this place is her hometown and she loves doing stuff for her local sports teams (fyi: they all suck, save for her old high school women’s basketball team). vi likes to get in caitlyn’s nerves but cait starts to like sports because of her. (“oh that was clearly a flag, what the hell are those refs thinking??” “caitlyn what the fuck did you just say”)

mel and jayce are the hot news anchors like that’s a given obviously

viktor as the show director that hates everyone and is always stressed but he holds it down alongside sevika the producer/sound engineer/does literally everything who also hates everyone (she’s kinda like creed from the office and just tells random ass stories about how she learned how to use a soundboard in juvie)

jinx is one of the studio engineers and she’s great at her job but you know… it’s jinx. she gotta be weird as shit. (“the keurig is broken aga–” “already working on it” “where the fuck did you come from” “the vents. also this thing need to be replaced” “the what”)

ekko is one of the journalists and he loves reporting on stupid shit around town. usually vander disproves of stuff like that but the locals LOVE his little stories. it’s actually front because he’s investing a huge corruption case around town and why does it look like his HR manager might be involved ???

vander is the department head and silco is the lone HR person i think. ambessa is the studio head but she’s like ava coleman from abbott elementary and does everything but work and flirts with the interns LMFAO but she’s like sevika and knows how to do everything but just chooses not to because she says she worked too hard to get to where she is now (half of the HR complaints are just from her)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Late Bloomer 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Peter Parker, Steve Rogers (Professor AU)

Summary: you start your second year of university but as the workload grows more intense, you start to feel your age. (mid-30s reader)

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

You look at the grade on your quiz. It’s not the end of the world but it isn’t the best. And this course is negligible in the scheme of your degree, yet, you thought you were really getting this. It’s disappointing and you can do better. You will. 

As class lets out, you head down the centre aisle past the fleeing coeds. Most don’t stick around after the intense lectures. The whiteboard still shows the chaos of formulas as the professor closes his Mac. You approach nervously. 

“Professor Parker,” you greet. 

He turns and knocks over the cup of whiteboard markers. “Ah gee.” 

He rights the cup and you bend to catch the scatter that roll around your feet. He does the same on his side of the table. As you stand and slide them back into their place, he bats away a pesky curl form his forehead. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and gives a sheepish smile. You could cringe. He’s a professor and you just know he’s younger than you. 

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“No, no, I was just thinking,” he grabs the cup as he shoves the rest of the markers inside. “How’s it going?” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s good. I was just...” you stop yourself. “I think I forgot your office hours. I was just going to ask for a little help going over my quiz but I don’t want to keep you--” 

“No, it’s fine,” he rattles the cup of markers then makes himself still. “I can help you know.” 

“Oh, okay,” you lay your quiz on the table. “I think I did pretty good but 4a really messed me up,” you flip the page and point.  

He leans to look over your work. He gently pushes aside the pen cup and reaches to his ear. He frees the pen behind it and bends over the table. He puts his weight on one elbow. You loom over him, crouching to watch him. 

He reaches up to pat his hair then pinches the arm of his glasses and chuckles, “already on. Oops.” 

You realise he’d been looking to pull his glasses down to his nose. He reminds you of Cerise sometimes. Come to think of it, she might do with a prescription herself. 

“Okay, I think I see what happened,” he taps with the tip of the pen. “Missed a step here.” You focus on the ink scrawling over in his tight writing. “But you were on the right track.” 

You take in his explanation patiently. When he looks up at you, his brown eyes surprise you. They're almost sparkling. 

“Right, thanks, I get it now,” you say. “Next time I’ll go over my work twice.” 

“Never hurts,” he stands and flips the front page over. He lifts it and hands it over. “You’ll be fine. It’s second year. Got my engineering degree no problem after flunking a course. Just had to put in a summer course.” 

“Oh, I’m not an engineering student,” you say. “But I do need the elective.” 

“No? Pretty good for not an engineering student.” 

“Art,” you supply. 

“Art? Wow. Not what I expected.” He muses. 

“I know. I’m gonna be working at a Starbucks in no time,” you kid. 

“No, that’s not... fair,” he protests. “What kinda art? Like, er, do you paint or whatever?” 

“I like to paint. Sketch... working on clayworks in one of my studios.” You say, “actually, I think you’ll laugh.” 

You bring your bag up and tuck away the quiz as you pull out your notebook. You open it and show him that day’s note. The margins are full of aimless doodles. 

“Oh, wow,” he admires your careless scribbles. “Bet you make all sorts of cool things. I’m not very good at drawing.” He glances over his shoulder at the whiteboard, “don’t know if it’s obvious.” 

His writing is narrow and bit all over but it’s legible. 

“Not that bad,” you assure him as you close up the notebook. “I meant to ask, how’s your leg?” 

“My leg? Oh yeah. It’s healing. Can’t say the same for the khakis. Lost cause,” he sighs. 

“Oh,” you give a tight-lipped smile, “well, I’m glad it wasn’t worse.” 

“I swear, they built this place like a death trap. Too many stairs,” he clucks. 

You chuckle, “yeah, I could go for a bit less... but wouldn’t that be an engineer’s thing?” 

“Architects help...” He says defensively. 

“Alright, alright, I’m just kidding,” you haul your bag onto your shoulder. 

“Hey, I would argue we need some artists to pretty these things up. Buildings are so boring these days. You know, I went to Italy, all those marble columns and statues...” he says. “Not that I’m bragging. Just an observation I made. I went to some museums and saw paintings too. The DiCaprios... No Da Vinci! Oh god!” He slaps his forehead in embarrassment, “my brain is fried, I’m sorry.” 

“All good,” you assure him, “we’re all feeling it, I think.” You step back on your heel, “anyway, I think I’ve kept you long enough. Thanks for the help.” 

“Any time. Everyone else runs away from me,” he says. “I’m still getting used to this ‘Professor’ thing.” 

“Well, you’re a really good teacher,” you assure him, “I should go.” 

“Right, see ya next class,” he says. 

“Sure, see ya then,” you give a tiny wave and retreat.  

You turn and climb the centre stairs to the rear exit. You open the door and glance back. He’s watching you. Caught, he coughs and turns back to the board and searches for the erase. He starts to wipe out the numbers and you leave him to his clean up.  

You have time before you can stop by the studio. Enough to eat something or get a coffee. It’s only week two and you’re wondering how you’re going to get through the rest of it. Especially with your overnight shifts in between. 

[0stentatiouss]

𝓣𝓲𝓵 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓓𝓸 𝓤𝓼 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽

Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Assassin!Reader / Y/N

A short story | SMUT | Chapter 2

Alone in the guest suite, you spiral—haunted by your partner Tangerine and the tension between you. Drunk and restless, you teeter on the edge of desire and shame. When you overhear something, the moment implodes. Caught listening, you flee, humiliated. He follows—but doesn’t confront. Just confirms what you both already know: you want him. And now, you can’t hide it.

Slow-building tension culminating in explicit smut with emotional stakes

!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon | Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for in this chapter: emotional spiraling in luxury loungewear, alcohol as a coping mechanism (bad idea, great drama), deep sighs into expensive glass windows, exhibitionism-adjacent decisions (oops), tension so thick you could cut it with a broken minibar bottle, deeply questionable coping strategies, accidental overhearing (very on purpose)

♡ word count: 6.3k (Making you suffer through this slow burn together with me)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Sleep won’t come.

It hasn’t even bothered to try. The other side of this too-big bed yawns wide, a gaping absence you refuse to name. The cloying sweetness of the complimentary bouquet has seeped into everything—the sheets, the air, the back of your throat—like some cheap attempt to mask the emptiness.

You twist onto your side and kick hard, your leg striking nothing but cool, untouched linen. The impact is useless, hollow — like screaming into water. No matter how hard you kick, he won’t be there. The silence swallows the sound, wraps around your fury like silk around a blade. It isn’t just anger — not really. It’s grief, raw and clumsy, clawing at the walls you keep rebuilding. You tell yourself you hate him, that he doesn’t deserve the space he’s still taking up inside you. But your chest aches with something softer, something ruinous. And it’s getting harder to pretend that isn’t what’s killing you.

Fuck him.

You’re awake because of him. Because of the silence where his breathing should be. Because he didn’t stay.

You rapidly sit up, pressing your palms into your temples as if you could crush the thoughts before they take root. You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not now. Not ever again.

You stay like that—your breath jagged, your fingers tangled in your hair. But the silence mocks you. The suite—too lavish, too immaculate—feels like a gilded cage. Outside, the frigid city pulses, a distant symphony of horns and engines, but in here, the only sound is the low hum of the climate control, set to a perfect, sterile 72 degrees.

The walls are a whisper of ivory silk, stretched taut over custom paneling—the kind of white that costs more than most people’s rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, their blackout drapes half-drawn, allowing the glow of downtown to spill across the hand-knotted rug in liquid gold. A Bösendorfer grand piano sits near the terrace, untouched. 

And the bed. God, the bed.

A sprawling masterpiece of Italian linen, half-destroyed by your restless limbs, half still pristine—as if waiting for someone who will never return. And this is just the guest room. Opulent in a way that feels almost accusatory. You can’t help but wonder what his actual bedroom is like—the one behind that sleek, concealed door at the end of the hall. You peeked earlier, just for a second. Marble floors warm to the touch, a rainfall shower the size of a studio apartment, a bed so wide it looked like it could swallow loneliness whole. If this is the afterthought, the overflow space, then what must it feel like to be wanted enough to be welcomed into the rest?

Your hands drag down your face, slow and careless, nails catching briefly on the delicate skin beneath your eyes. The robe—thick, starched hotel cotton, monogrammed in gilded thread—is cinched tight at your waist, too tight, the belt pulled in a moment of thoughtless habit. It presses the fabric flush against your chest, the heavy folds molding to your breasts, nipples stiff beneath the coarse lining, every breath a rub, a graze, a quiet agony.

Beneath it, there’s almost nothing. Just a narrow strip of fabric between your thighs, already damp, already clinging in places that ache with absence.

The pressure builds. The robe is too much—too warm, too close, too empty of him. You claw at the belt, fingers fumbling until it jerks loose, breath hitching as the knot gives way. The robe parts in a sudden, sullen shrug, the loosened lapels falling open to expose the full curve of your breasts, nipples flushed and hard, catching slightly against the rough inner seams as the fabric shifts.

You don’t shrug it off entirely. It hangs from your shoulders, heavy and indifferent, framing you but no longer hiding you. The air finds your skin—cool, impersonal—and it does nothing to soothe. You press your thighs together, chasing friction, but it’s a pale imitation. There’s no weight behind it. No hands. No mouth. Nothing but silence—and the sting of skin still desperate to be touched.

Stop.

You push yourself off the bed, bare feet sinking into the hand-knotted rug—so plush it swallows your steps whole, like the room itself is trying to hush you. The air hums with the scent of cold jasmine from the diffuser, cloying and artificial. You don’t look at the bed behind you, where the sheets still hold the shape of your body.

The city glows beyond the glass, a skyline of sharp edges and distant light. You press your palms to the window, cool against your hot skin. Your breath fogs the pane—quick, shallow—but the reflection won’t lie: lips bitten red, hair a riot against the robe’s pristine collar.

Inhale. Exhale. Each breath scrapes your throat on the way out, like your lungs are trying to spit him out too.

You peel yourself from the window, step by slow step, the cool glass reluctantly releasing your skin. The robe shifts with you, heavy where it hangs, the belt loose now, trailing against your thigh. You cross the room barefoot, each step sinking into the carpet, the city light fading behind you as you move toward the minibar tucked beneath the counter.

The minibar clicks softly when you open it, light spilling out like a hush in the dark. You crouch, reaching in for the ice bucket, fingers brushing over the cubes—slick, half-melted, trembling in their silver cradle.

You pause. Just above the ice: a bottle of whiskey, amber and expensive, the kind he used to order without looking at the price. Your hand hovers there, fingertips ghosting along the glass. You could twist the cap, feel the burn slide down your throat, let it sear the ache into something easier. For a moment, you almost do.

But no. Not like this.

You let the bottle go. The soft clink as it settles back into place feels louder than it should. You take a single cube of ice instead, pinched between two fingers, and walk slowly back toward the window. The robe slips further as you move, barely hanging on, your body half-bared in the city’s indifferent glow.

Condensation slicks your fingertips. You press the ice to your sternum, drag it down your chest. It should shock you back into yourself.

Instead, your skin pebbles, nipples aching in the cold, hungry for a touch that isn’t yours.

Pathetic.

You bite your own knuckle—hard—but the sting just tastes like salt and him. You fucking miss him.

He was already sprawled across the velvet settee like a king too lazy to wear his crown—legs open, posture dripping arrogance. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to tease—chest barely visible, skin warm where the fabric gaped. One sock was halfway off like he’d started to undress and lost interest halfway through. A half-full glass of Dom Pérignon dangled from his fingers, swirling slow circles like it had all the time in the world.

The bottle sat in an ice bucket nearby, sweating rivulets down its sides. Everything in the room was sweating. Including you.

You didn’t speak as you crossed the room. Just let the silk of your dress whisper with every step—cool against skin that still hadn’t recovered from earlier. From the way his fingers had brushed your chest without meaning to. Or pretending not to. That damn button, back in place now, sat tighter than it had before. Like your pulse had gotten caught beneath it.

You had decided to finally break the silence.

“I’m taking the master bedroom,” you said, voice cool, collected, and entirely at odds with the heat coiling low in your belly.

He didn’t look up. Just lifted his glass, took a slow, indulgent sip, his lips parting like he was savouring more than champagne. “No, you’re bloody well not.”

You turned, slowly. The silk pulled deliciously over your thighs with every movement, and you knew he felt the shift in the air, the tension snapping tight.

“Excuse me?” you asked, voice sharp. A blade slipped into a velvet glove.

He set the glass down, deliberately. “Look, love. That room’s got heated floors, blackout curtains, a tub fit for a bloody Roman orgy, and a bidet that damn near qualifies as a weapon. I’m not lettin’ you waltz in there with your spreadsheets and silk drawers and stake a bloody flag.”

You took a step closer. Then another. Until he had to tilt his chin slightly to keep your gaze.

“I already claimed it,” you said. “Didn’t realize we were negotiating.”

He leaned back, legs spreading wider—insufferably at ease. His eyes dropped, unapologetically, dragging from your collarbones to the subtle strain of fabric over your breasts, lingering just a beat too long on the way the silk hugged your waist like a second skin. When his eyes finally flicked back up to yours, they were lit with something slow and dangerous.

“Didn’t realise you were delusional,” he said, lips twitching. “Cute, though. I’ll give you that.”

“Mine,” you said, firmer this time.

He scoffed, grinning. “Nah. Not havin’ it. Guest room’s down the hall. It’s got a mirror big enough for you and your bloody ego.”

You folded your arms across your chest—and felt the way the fabric shifted. The brush of silk against bare nipples, already tight from the chill in the room and the way his voice—that voice—curled inside you like smoke.

“We flip for it,” you said.

He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, so now we’re bringin’ democracy into this? Thought you were more of a coup d'état sort.”

He reached into his charcoal pants—your eyes followed, reflex—and pulled out a pound coin like it was a trick he’d been waiting to use. Flicked it into the air with a little too much flair.

“Call it.”

You watched the coin spin, flashes of metal catching chandelier light. “Tails.”

It landed with a clean slap against the back of his hand. He peeled his fingers away slowly—milking it.

“Heads,” he said, all teeth.

“Fuck,” you muttered, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Oi,” he says, already reaching for his glass again, “don’t be a sore loser. Guest room’s down the hall—right past the panic room and the creepy sculpture that looks like it’s watchin’ you sleep.”

“You cheated.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cheating implies I needed the advantage. I just like watchin’ you lose.”

Your pulse jumped. You turned before he could see it—heels clicking as you stalked toward the room. 

“Sleep tight,” he called after you, the smirk clear in his voice. “If it gets a bit nippy in there—well, I’m told I’m rather toasty. Limited-time offer, mind you—terms and conditions may apply.”

You didn’t answer. Just slammed the door. The canvas on the wall shook in its frame like it was exhaling. Behind you, he downed the rest of his drink, poured another, and leaned back with that same bloody grin—lazy, smug, knowing.

The glass is cold against your forehead as you lean into it, the city’s skyline blurring into streaks of gold and neon through your unshed tears. Pathetic. Weak. The words ricochet in your skull, sharp as the ice still clutched in your other hand.

You should be stronger than this.

The suite mocks you with its silence—too heavy, too perfect, like it’s waiting for you to break. The onyx minibar glows from where you left it ajar, its LED lights blinking back at you like they know exactly how pathetic this is. Even the chandelier—an obscene tangle of Swarovski crystals—shivers when you breathe out, delicate and useless, like it’s afraid of your grief too.

You press harder against the window, the chill seeping into your skin. Christ, you need him here. Not just the version from before—smug, infuriating, winning—though, God, you miss that too. The way he could make a fight feel like foreplay, how his arrogance was just confidence worn sharp enough to draw blood. You miss the fucker who stole the master bedroom with a smirk and a rigged coin toss.

You miss him even though he’s just a few tentative steps away from you. But your feet don’t move.

But you also miss the other version of him. The one who would’ve known, without asking, to slide a hand between your shoulder blades right now, his palm warm and sure. The one who’d call you “love” like it wasn’t a weapon, but a fact.

You remember him in the quiet after Cairo, when your comms went dead and you’d both spent four hours crawling through the ruins, shoulder to shoulder, breathing dust and adrenaline. He hadn’t said much—just handed you his canteen, fingers brushing yours, gaze steady. You’d been shaking, but he’d simply leaned his shoulder into yours until you stopped.

Or Tangier, when the op went sideways and you took shrapnel just beneath your ribs. He hadn’t panicked. Just ripped open your vest with hands that didn’t tremble and said, “Stay with me, love,” like it was an order you’d never disobey. Like he believed you would.

That version of him wasn’t all smirks and exit lines. He was the silence between the shots, the pause before the storm, the hand that never missed when you reached back in the dark.

You sag against the glass, your breath fogging the pane in uneven bursts. You should hate him. You do hate him. But your body hasn’t gotten the memo—your skin still prickles at the memory of his touch.

The robe slips further, the silk whispering down your arm. You don’t stop it.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that if he walked in right now, if he offered that limited-time offer with that infuriating grin, you’re not sure you’d say no.

You bite your lip until you taste copper.

You’re so fucked.

The dining room looked like something out of a Bond villain's fever dream—dark walnut panels gleaming under candlelight, heavy drapes drawn back to reveal Vienna’s skyline, and a chandelier overhead so ornate it could’ve doubled as a threat. The table was already set when you arrived—ordered entirely at his discretion, naturally. Every gleaming silver utensil, every course, every flickering candle—his choices. You hadn’t been asked. Just summoned.

You’d spent the last two hours stewing in the guest room, licking your wounds after losing that bloody coin toss—heads or tails, master or guest. And when he finally called for dinner, you emerged without a word, the air between you thick as caramel.

You didn’t speak as you crossed the room. Earlier, behind your door, you’d unfastened a few of the satin-covered buttons. Just enough to shift the neckline lower, the fabric tighter. A petty attempt at control. At making him react.

But it had backfired.

Because the moment you caught the flick of his eyes—his jaw tightening, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth—you knew: he liked it. Worse, he expected it.

You had pulled out your chair in silence, settled across from him with perfect posture and a folded napkin, trying to pretend the air wasn’t molten between you. Trying not to notice the jacket he’d discarded, the sleeves rolled up just so, revealing a hint of ink and enough forearm to make your thoughts indecent.

The dinner had been flawless, of course. Rich. Elegant. A duck dish you couldn’t pronounce paired with something red and ruinous in a crystal glass. You barely touched it.

He had lounged back in his seat like a king—no, worse. Like a man who knew exactly what you’d look like on your knees. One arm draped over the chair, fingers trailing the rim of his wine glass like it was your lip. The chain of his pocket watch glinted between the buttons of his waistcoat. No tie. First two buttons undone from before. The hollow of his throat shamelessly on display.

You shouldn’t have looked.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said finally, voice smooth as the whisky he hadn’t offered you. “Too quiet. That dress botherin’ you, or is it the company?”

Your eyes snapped up, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I’m eating.”

“Mm.” He tilted his glass, letting the wine catch the light. “Is the poor duck giving you attitude again, or are you just trying to make me beg for a reaction?”

You stabbed your fork into the duck with too much force. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you, lazily, like a cat toying with something already half-dead.

“That little stunt with the buttons,” he said, tone almost conversational, “—you think I didn’t notice?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your pulse was thudding at the base of your throat like a trapped moth.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. “Thought you were punishin’ me, did you? Sittin’ pretty across the suite all evening, sulkin’ in your little robe, hopin’ I’d come knockin’?”

You gripped your fork tighter. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, I know. You were busy bein’ mysterious. Doin’ your best impression of restraint.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, candlelight catching the edge of his grin. “But here you are. Lookin’ like a fuckin’ temptation in that dress. And you’re still not eatin’.”

You glared at him, throat dry. “Why are you trying to provoke me?”

He cocked his head. “Who says I’m tryin’? Maybe I just want some bloody conversation. You’ve been givin’ me the eyes since I unbuttoned that top button, sweetheart. Not my fault you can’t handle dinner without wonderin’ what else comes undone.”

Your jaw had tensed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He’d flashed a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. That’d be your job.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

You shove off the window so hard your shoulder protests. The ice cube splinters in your grip, scattering across the marble like shrapnel. Good. Let it scar the floor. Let housekeeping puzzle over the damage and pretend it wasn’t a cry for help.

The minibar stares back at you—smug, silent, full of tiny, glinting bottles that promise to take the edge off. You don’t hesitate this time. You reach for the same whiskey from before—some overpriced single malt with a pedigree as useless as your self-control—and crack it open with your teeth like you’re trying to bite the night apart.

The first swallow hits hard. You want it to hurt. You want it to burn all the way down and cauterize whatever nerve keeps bringing him back into your thoughts.

So you drink more.

Greedy now, like it’s oxygen. Each mouthful sharper than the last, until you’re gasping between gulps, eyes prickling, chest heaving. A hiccup breaks free—a sound too close to a sob, chased by a bitter laugh.

The robe slips further as you stumble back from the minibar, silk parting over your ribs, your hips, your thighs. Only your underwear keeps you from being fully exposed now, but the robe clings in places—damp where your skin is overheated, loose where your body’s started to shake.

You reach for the nearest fragile thing: a porcelain vase on the console, all painted lilies and aristocratic curves. Probably worth more than your dignity at this point. You curl your fingers around it, knuckles white, just to feel something solid.

For one violent heartbeat, you want to smash it. Just to prove you can still make something explode when everything inside you is too scared to shatter.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not him. You don’t get to leave scars on things and walk away like they don’t matter.

So you set it down.

Then you crawl into the bed, not gracefully—angrily. The covers are cool against your skin, sheets whispering secrets in a language you don’t want to understand. You lie there for a moment, blinking up at the coffered ceiling, the whisky bottle clutched loosely in your fingers.

And god—your body hurts.

Not from the mission. Not from the bed. From wanting. From the pressure that’s been building all night, ever since you caught him watching you. Ever since you ignored him, on purpose, and he let you. His silence only made it worse—richer, darker. You wanted him to break. He didn’t. And now you’re the one unraveling.

You shift under the covers. Just a little. Just enough.

Your hand brushes your thigh. Then between them, over the underwear. Barely a touch. Just… testing.

You bite your lip.

You think of his hands. His mouth. The way his voice dropped an octave when he told you to “sleep tight” like it was a threat and a promise. That kiss in the elevator. The way he didn’t kiss you again after. The fact that he hasn't even tried.

Your fingers drift lower. Heat flares in your stomach. The ache is real now. Low. Heavy.

But the moment you slide your hand under the waistband of your underwear, something twists. Your stomach flips. Not desire—shame. Guilt. Humiliation.

You pull your hand back like it burned you.

You can’t.

Not like this.

Not with him in the next room.

Not when you're this close to cracking and he hasn’t even touched you. Like he meant it.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow, swallowing a sob before it can make a sound.

You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to fall apart first. You refuse.

But your thighs still press tight together.

The whisky tastes like ash now—like the last drag of a cigarette after a fight, like wanting something you can’t name. The bottle’s nearly dry, just a few shallow swallows left, rattling at the bottom like regret, like the hollow click of an empty chamber.

You sit up with slow, careful movements, the kind that come not from grace but from the warm, unsteady fog of drink. No sudden noises. The silence feels sacred, fragile—the hush before a sacrament, or a sin.

And then the robe slips.

Not just open at the hem this time—but down your shoulders, down your arms, pooling at your feet like a surrender you didn’t mean to give. The cool air hits your bare skin in places it hasn’t all night, and you do nothing to stop it. You’re left in just your underwear—bare legs, bare chest, flushed and flushed again, though whether it’s from shame or liquid courage, you can’t say.

You sway slightly as you stand, bottle still in hand. The whiskey sloshes near the bottom, golden and low, like regret in a glass. You bring it to your lips one last time—not because you need it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. The burn barely registers now, dulled by the wine and the very same whiskey from earlier, the heat in your cheeks, the ache between your legs.

You don’t finish it.

Just a mouthful, then you lower the bottle and stare at it like it might give you answers. It doesn’t.

Your fingers loosen. The glass thuds softly against the nightstand—more a clumsy offering than a decision. You think you placed it upright. You hope so.

But the moment your hand leaves it, the world tilts sideways.

The room spins slowly, like a carousel seen through water. The alcohol has already found your blood—fast, greedy. Your skin prickles with the chill, bare and open to the world, every breath a brushstroke across your nerves. You left the silk behind somewhere, like a ghost you stepped out of.

You pad toward the door. Barefoot. Stealthy. Your fingertips feel numb. Your toes, too.

The marble underfoot seems colder than before—or maybe your body’s just stopped registering the difference. There’s a delay to everything now. A second of stillness before your breath catches, your balance shifts, your thoughts arrive.

Not falling-over drunk. Not quite. But unsteady. Clouded. Soft around the edges in a way that makes you feel less sharp, less dangerous. Slower. Which should terrify you. Instead, it feels like a relief. Like being released from something you didn’t realize was clenched.

The handle clicks under your grip—soft, cautious. You pull it open an inch at a time, cringing at the slight creak of the hinge, like the suite itself is gasping at your audacity. Then you slip out into the main suite like a ghost. The floor is cold against your skin, but your blood is hot, molten, a live wire sparking under your ribs. Your body feels traitorous, wired with something electric and unspent, a bullet lodged in the chamber.

You already know: his bedroom door is cracked open.

It always is. He sleeps light. Trained. Alert. Trained to, long before you. Every breath shallow, every muscle still humming beneath the surface. He doesn’t rest—he waits. Even in sleep, he’s listening. Like a man who’s made peace with killing, but not with trust. Not with you.

So you step quietly. Careful not to breathe too loud. Careful not to let your footfalls slap too sharply against the marble. But your balance betrays you now and then—just a sway, just a stutter—and you have to steady yourself on the wall like the room’s begun to breathe. The whole suite smells of dying candle wax and aged wood, with a whisper of his cologne still clinging to the velvet cushions—bergamot and gunmetal and something unforgivably warm. The scent curls around you, heady and sharp, and you’re not sure if it’s the whiskey or memory making you dizzy.

You move through it like it’s a cathedral.

And you? You’re the desecration.

You settle into the armchair directly across from his door—the master bedroom’s door. Slowly. Deliberately. You fumble to pull the robe tighter, skin prickling from the chill—only to grasp at nothing. It’s gone. 

 When did you take it off? You’d known you were in nothing but your underwear when you left your room—of course you had—but the booze had made it feel… distant. Abstract. Like it wasn’t really you walking barefoot across cold marble, hips swaying, nearly bare. 

But now, as you sink into the velvet and the silence folds in around you, it hits you all at once. The air kisses your skin, too cool, too intimate. Your arms prickle with goosebumps, and suddenly you’re very aware of how much of you is on display. How much he could see—if he’s looking.

Jesus.

What the fuck are you doing?

Really, what the fuck are you doing?

You blink hard, trying to clear the fog behind your eyes. It doesn’t work. The room doesn’t tilt, exactly—but it hums. Like it’s too full of sound and silence at once. Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your ears.

And still—you sit. Still you watch that cracked door like it might breathe.

You tilt your face toward the candle glow, letting the light gild your cheekbones like some martyred saint in a Renaissance painting—all false piety and secret hunger. The warmth licks at your skin, a poor imitation of the heat you're really craving, but you let it lie. Let it pretend.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A performance. Some drunk, half-naked little play for an audience that may or may not be watching. You’re not even sure anymore if you want to be caught—or if you just want to feel wanted.

You shift in the chair, thighs grazing velvet.

Your hand drifts.

Again.

Your fingers skim over your knee, then higher. You shift in the chair, opening your legs a little—just a little, just enough to feel the night air whisper between them. Two fingers slide over the silk of your underwear, not pressing down, just… testing. Taunting. A promise you’re not sure you’ll keep.

But the moment is all wrong. Too much air. Too much guilt. Too close to him. You feel ridiculous—perched here like some penthouse phantom, half-naked, aching, touching yourself while he sleeps behind a cracked door like the goddamn finish line of your humiliation.

Your hand falls away.

You squeeze your thighs shut. Shame slinks through your chest like smoke, thick and suffocating.

You close your eyes. Try to breathe. Try to will the need out of your body, to smother it like a candle between your fingertips. You force yourself to sit perfectly still, hands in your lap, chin tilted high like none of this matters. Like you didn’t almost do it again.

And then—

A sound.

From his room.

Soft. Barely there. The whisper of a bedsheet shifting, or a breath too sharp to be sleep. Your eyes fly open.

Stillness.

And then—

Another sound.

Low. Choked. Almost like—

Oh god.

You’re not the only one awake.

Another sound.

Wet. Faint. Rhythmic.

Your skin goes hot.

You blink, spine stiffening, straining to hear it again. It doesn’t come loud. Doesn’t need to. You know exactly what that is.

He’s touching himself.

Your eyes stay trained on that sliver of open door. 

The sound comes again—slippery, rhythmic, unmistakable. There’s no mistaking it now.

He’s fucking his fist.

And he’s not being quiet anymore.

Inside that bedroom, just across from where you sit flushed and frozen in your open robe, he’s sprawled out like sin made flesh—shirt open, pants shoved down his thighs, cock glistening in his hand. He’s working himself in long, greedy strokes, fingers tight, pace filthy. Not smooth. Not slow. This isn’t about teasing himself—it’s about using himself.

About pretending his hand is your cunt.

You hear the slick drag of his palm. The faint slap of skin meeting skin as his hips begin to move, lifting off the bed just slightly. He’s not even trying to keep still anymore. He’s fucking into it—hard, fast, messy. Like he’s thought about this all night. Like it’s your fault. Like he’s punishing himself for not bending you over the dinner table and wrecking you the second the door shut.

A groan slips out—muffled, guttural.

Then another.

God, you want to see it. You want to see how he handles himself. How hard he gets. How rough. Whether he’s got his head tipped back or if he watches himself the whole time, jaw tight and eyes glazed.

Another groan slips out—low and guttural, like it’s being punched out of him.

You don’t dare move. Don’t breathe. Your thighs are trembling now, bare and parted, flushed with heat and something darker. The cool air wraps around your body like a lover you didn’t choose—chilling the sheen of sweat along your back, your breasts, the soft insides of your knees. Every inch of you feels exposed, pulsing. The armchair’s velvet presses into your skin, unforgiving. You can feel your heartbeat between your legs, frantic and humiliating. And still, you sit—naked, burning, and utterly still.

He’s panting now, ragged and obscene, every exhale a broken vow. You don’t need to see him to know what he looks like—eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat slicking the base of his throat. 

And the noises—

You shouldn’t be here. You should get up. Leave. Crawl back into bed and pretend this never happened. You bite down on your knuckle, hard—

Christ, the noises.

The wet glide of his palm. The harsh breaths, the choked mutters under his breath. You think you hear your name. Or maybe it’s just the filth you hope he’s whispering—what he’d do if you walked in there and dropped to your knees. What he wants you to beg for. How deep he’d fuck you if you’d just stop pretending you hate him.

He shifts again. The bed creaks. There’s a soft slap as his hand speeds up—louder now, sharper. He’s losing control.

Yet the rhythm suddenly changes again—slower, firmer now. You’re frozen, breath shallow, limbs slack with drink. Your head swims, the room spinning just slightly, but your focus is razor-sharp—locked on that door, on the filthy, deliberate sounds slipping through it. Your body sinking deeper into the chair like gravity’s turned cruel. You should look away. You can’t. The alcohol dulls everything but this.

Then—

A murmur. Almost lazy. Not loud, but clear enough to carry through the cracked door.

“…would’ve ruined her…”

You freeze.

Not a breath. Not a blink. A prey animal caught mid-step, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs—too late, too loud, a warning you didn’t heed.

Then—the gasp.

It claws its way out of you, sharp and unbidden, a sound torn from somewhere deep and secret. Your hands fly up as if to catch it, to shove it back down your throat where it belongs. But it’s too late. The air hums with it, a snapped wire singing with shame.

Inside the bedroom, the world stops.

Not quiets. Not pauses.

Stops.

The slick, rhythmic sounds cut off mid-stroke. A creak of the mattress—weight shifting. The muffled clink of the nightstand. Then silence. Not even his breath.

Only yours—ragged, uneven, obscene in the quiet. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, too fast, too hot, drowning out everything but the truth:

You’ve been caught.

Your body jerks, nearly toppling. Panic flares, bright and stupid. Your fingers scrabble against the velvet chair, thighs slipping on sweat-slicked upholstery. The fabric clings like a second skin, every movement a struggle, every shift a humiliation.

And then—

Panic floods your veins like ice and fire, seizing your lungs, your throat, your bones—until there’s nothing left but the animal urge to run. Your fucking tits are out, and the room tilts—no, you’re tilting, swaying with the nauseous lurch of whiskey and shame. Your arms flail, too slow, too clumsy, as the ceiling carves a slow, sick circle above you.

Cold air rushes over your flushed skin, tracing every peak and dip—your nipples tight and aching, the sweat gleaming between your thighs, the pulse hammering where you shouldn’t be thinking about it. Your stomach lurches. You surge to your feet, too fast—vision still tilting, the room still swaying like a drunkard. Your hand slams the table; the candle jerks, wax spilling in fat, golden tears.

Your body is a betrayal. Too loud. Too much. Then—

Sound.

A rustle of sheets. Deliberate.

The heavy thud of feet hitting the floor.

A click.

Light floods the hallway.

You whirl, breath trapped in your chest like a blade. One arm flies up to cover yourself, the other slaps the wall for balance. Your bare heel slips on marble—slick with sweat and your own unsteadiness. You stagger, catch yourself on the archway, and run.

Light spills behind you, slow and deliberate, as if announcing him. You turn—too quickly—and the room tilts. Just enough to glimpse him. To read his face. To see if it’s fury tightening his jaw… or that insufferable, knowing smirk he wears when he’s enjoying this. Enjoying you like a game he never really stops playing.

The bedroom door swings open—not hesitant, not slow. Definitive.

And there he is. He stands there, flushed—but not with guilt. No, it’s something slower, darker. The heat pools beneath his skin, high on his cheekbones, just brushing the edge of that neatly trimmed moustache. 

He stands in the doorway, backlit by gold, shirt slipping from one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and just enough of his chest to make your mouth go dry. His tailored pants are fastened—barely—the outline of him obscenely clear against the fabric, thick and hard and unapologetic. But it’s his eyes that stop you—dark, sharp, knowing.

Not just desire.

Recognition.

He knows.

Knows you listened. Knows how long you sat there, trembling and slick with want. Knows what finally broke you.

And worst of all—he isn’t surprised.

He looks like a man who’d been waiting.

Like this was the plan all along.

Your throat closes around something too thick to swallow.

So you run.

No thought. No grace. Just panic and heat—and the way his eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the parts you’re failing to hide. Your arm fumbles across your chest, but your fingers are too slow, too drunk. Flesh spills between them anyway, flushed and trembling, on full display. He doesn’t move. Just stands there, gaze heavy, mouth parted slightly—like he’s torn between reaching for you and letting you run.

You turn, stumbling forward down the hallway, arms still clutched to your chest, as if you could outrun the heat of his eyes or erase the image he’s already taken with him.

“Fuck—wait—” His voice chases you, rough, breathless, too close.

But you don’t.

He’s already seen your body—every curve, every helpless attempt to cover what was never really hidden. But that’s not what terrifies you. What terrifies you is that he’ll look a second longer and see the rest. The heat on your face isn’t just shame—it’s hunger. The stickiness between your thighs isn’t just sweat—it’s him, still echoing in you. You run because if he looks any closer, he’ll know. And you can’t bear to be that bare.

The hall tilts as you stumble forward, knees weak, vision stung with gold. The slap of your soles on the marble ricochets off the walls, loud and frantic. You don't dare look back. You can feel him gaining—longer strides, heavier footfalls—and you know if you see his face again, you’ll shatter.

Your hip clips the corner of the console table. You don’t stop. The pain bites, sharp and blooming, but it’s not worse than the heat between your legs or the panic choking your breath.

The guest room door looms like salvation.

Your hand slips once—twice—before the knob catches. You shove it open, nearly fall in with the force, and spin to slam it behind you. The latch clicks. You lock it.

A second later—

Thud.

His palm hits the other side, not a punch—just firm. Measured. Deliberate.

You stagger back, heartbeat in your throat, skin aflame. One hand still over your chest, the other gripping the edge of the dresser like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. You can hear him breathing—slow, rough, right there. Close enough to taste the whiskey on your tongue.

A beat of silence stretches between you.

Then his voice—low, controlled. Dangerous.

“Locked, hm?” A soft laugh. “You didn’t look like you wanted space.”

It guts you.

You gasp, sharp and helpless, your knees buckling until you’re crouched beside the bed, naked and burning, cheek pressed to the cool duvet. You bite your fist to silence the sob—of shame, of need. The floor beneath you is polished and indifferent. You feel sick. You feel slick. You feel watched, even now.

Because he knows.

Knows what your thighs look like flushed and parted. Knows you’ve imagined his mouth on your skin. Knows you listened to him fall apart and let the ache settle deep—unspent, unanswered.

And now he’s just on the other side of the door. Bare chest still heaving. Belt still unbuckled. Cock hard beneath tailored wool.

You don’t know what he’ll do.

But you know what he saw.

And you’ll never outrun it now. 

You crouch lower, curling in on yourself, cheek still pressed to the duvet, the fabric damp beneath your skin. Everything spins—not violently, just enough to make the floor feel unsteady, your body unfamiliar. You’re too drunk to breathe right, too bare to feel anything but raw. Your pulse thrums in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Your fingers claw at the bedding like it might steady you, but the room keeps tilting. You don’t know if you’re trying to hold yourself together or tear something open.

A silence stretches.

Then—

His voice, soft. Muffled, but not enough.

“You didn’t have to run, y’know.”

Your chest jerks like you’ve been touched. You close your eyes, tighter than before. It’s worse, somehow, than shouting. Worse than fury.

Because it’s true.

Because you wanted him to follow.

Because you still do.

You grip the bed harder, breath catching. Your thighs press together in a useless attempt to manage the ache. But you’re slick, and he knows it. You’re shaking, and he knows it. You’re hiding, and he’s still not fooled.

A pause.

Then—lower.

“Fuckin’ mess you are,” he murmurs. “Could’ve just told me.”

You flinch like the words were a hand in your hair.

Tears sting your lashes, half from humiliation, half from how wet you still are. How dizzy. You can taste candle wax and whiskey at the back of your throat, sweet and sour and useless. Shame floods your limbs like wine left too long in the blood. You're raw.

Another breath.

You think he’s gone. You almost want him to be. Then—

“…Funny thing, guilt don’t stop a girl from listenin’.”

He doesn't wait for a response. The sound of retreat is faint, his steps measured, unhurried—yet your lips are parted, not sure whether you’re more wrecked by the sound of his voice… or by how much you want it back.

The shame hits harder than if he had. You peel yourself off the floor, knees trembling, hand slipping from the sheets as you stagger upright. The room tilts—too much wine, too much whiskey, too much him.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror above the dresser.

Hair wild. Eyes wide. Skin flushed and damp. Naked.

You look like someone who wanted it.

You whirl away, fury blooming hot in your chest—at him, at yourself, at the fucked-up ache between your thighs. You cross to the sink, hands shaking as you twist the tap. Cold water floods your palms, then your face. It stings. It clears nothing.

You stay like that for a while—bent over porcelain, dripping, burning from the inside out.

Eventually, you shuffle to the bed. You don’t dress. You don’t pull the covers up, either. You lie there bare, curled on your side like something wounded, like something small.

And you do not sleep. The sleep still doesn’t come.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Masterlist for more chapters and more fun

DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH, AND DO LEAVE COMMENTS

[the1970sdeadgaywizard-regulus]

Arcane Uni AU RP

Jayce is working on some project (think Hextech like. Not super crazy, but something like that). Viktor finds this intriguing and decides to join him. (Bioengineering majors/professors?)

Mel is helping them avoid being arrested (maybe she is a law student/teacher?)

Ekko and Jinx (Powder, but goes by Jinx because it stuck as a kid?) are a dangerous problem. Pure chaos (engineering and chemistry majors maybe?)

Vi is interning or something at an MMA studio while she gets a degree in something. Vi then meets Caitlyn (who is probably a law student, but hates it) because Caitlyn wants to learn to fight

Vander and Silco are probably just those extra salty professors who are tired of everyone and each other.

I would like to have Jayvik and then, like, Ekko and Jinx, and Vi and Caitlyn. Other than that, I have no idea

Anyways, thats just some ideas (thank you @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft for suggesting it)

Uh, taken characters

Viktor: @viktor-the-inventor , by @the1970sdeadgaywizard-regulus

Jayce: @jaybe-tal1s , by @allonsy-moony

Ekko: @ekko-bro-cation , by @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft

Jinx: @powderedthenjinxed, by @circe-but-betterr

Vi: @vi-cious , by @clodyghost

Caitlyn: @kira-the-mman , by @sunsstars

[redlettermediathings]

As the age of movies draws to a close, the boys at RLM are happy to have a very large collection of trash films that have been produced and released in the decades past. Films made by weird independent studios, cheapskate con-artists, and legit insane people. Exploitation films, movies with confusing plots, weird filmmaker visions that make no sense, embarrassing performances, terrible films made for the sole purpose so a perverted old man can open-mouth kiss an uncomfortable and disgusted young woman, awful discount and often reused visual FX, and some of the world’s ugliest people. Needless to say, unless you’re Donald Farmer, they don’t make them like they used to. Films today are made by Studios, Netflix, Amazon, etc and undergo a rigorous procedural vetting process. Algorithm compliance, plot beats calculated by computers to maximum engagement statistical sever product farming, actors and actresses that are “comfortable” and “safe” on set (if there is a set). Committees of lawyers, writers, producers and input content analytical engineers who have MBA and degrees from MIT to computer calculate the ultimate streaming product that will provide maximum efficiency for the data and number crunchers to release and stream said products to shareholder satisfaction. Thankfully, time has not eroded away our VHS and DVDs that showcase a magical time when artists took risks. Made a movie based on a singular weird idea that wasn’t tested before a focus group. These movies are real, raw, and disturbing, but often magical. When we pop a tape in or a DVD we never really know what’s going to happen. I’m glad you are all here to join us on this seemingly never-ending adventure into 1s and 0s and magnetic tape stock to discover what humans have created before the dark times. Before the Empire. Also Rich Evans is now wearing a toupee. Now THAT’S embarrassing.

[musitechnicformation]

Discover how a studio engineer degree can elevate your career in audio production, sound design, and music engineering. Learn about the skills, certifications, and opportunities that come with pursuing a specialized degree in studio engineering. Gain the technical expertise to excel in professional recording studios, live sound environments, and post-production. Explore programs tailored to equip you with hands-on experience, industry insights, and advanced audio techniques. Start your journey toward becoming a professional studio engineer today!

[mikeywayarchive]

OBITUARY

BOB BRYAR, FORMER DRUMMER OF MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE, DEAD AT 44

The musician performed with the rock band on The Black Parade and Danger Days after joining in 2004

By EMILY ZEMLER

NOVEMBER 30, 2024

Full article under the cut:

Bob Bryar of My Chemical Romance performs at Big Day Out Festival 2007 at the Sydney Showground. PAUL MCCONNELL/GETTY IMAGES

Bob Bryar, the drummer of My Chemical Romance from 2004 to 2010, has died at the age of 44, Rolling Stone has confirmed. 

“The band asks for your patience and understanding as they process the news of Bob’s passing,” a spokesperson for the band tells Rolling Stone. 

Details surrounding his death were not given, but law enforcement sources told TMZ the musician was found in his Tennessee home, and no foul play is suspected. The medical examiner is investigating the cause of Bryar’s death.

Born in Chicago in 1979, Bryar started playing drums at a young age and got a degree in sound engineering from the University of Florida before becoming a touring sound engineer. He worked for Thrice and the Used and met My Chemical Romance while on tour with the Used in 2004.

Later that year, My Chemical Romance replaced drummer Matt Pelissier shortly after the release of the New Jersey rock band’s second LP, Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge. He went on to perform on three of the band’s subsequent releases, including their seminal 2006 album, The Black Parade, and their 2010 effort, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys.

“This was the biggest record I have ever done and I was nervous,” Bryar recalled of recording The Black Parade in an interview with Alternative Press. “Along with being nervous, we all had to feel out the writing dynamic between all of us. I was very vocal about my drum parts, but let the other dudes do their thing because they were doing so well and didn’t need anyone chiming in every second. That leads me to remember one situation where it was super-late and only G, the engineer and myself were at the studio. There was a vocal harmony that I kept hearing. It was the first time I got the balls to ask someone to try something. That idea made it to the record, which was really nice for me to see happen.”

He added, “As we were recording the record, I was getting more and more excited. It was turning out to be a very complete and a very entertaining audio story… I really feel every part of that record, down to the artwork, is pretty unbeatable. I hope those songs will be around for a long time.”

Bryar departed from My Chemical Romance, who later disbanded in 2013, following the release of Danger Days, although he performed on the band’s singles collection, Conventional Weapons. Band member Frank Iero confirmed in a statement that Bryar’s exit was “a painful decision for all of us to make and was not taken lightly.” He added, “We wish him the best of luck in his future endeavors and expect you all to do the same.”

My Chemical Romance replaced Bryar from 2011-2013 with Jarrod Alexander, who also joined the band for their 2022 reunion tour. After leaving the band, Bryar continued to tour behind the scenes with various bands and became involved in dog rescue charities and sanctuaries. In 2014, he quit the music industry to pursue a career in real estate.

In 2021, Bryar auctioned off the drum kit used during the band’s 2005 MTV VMAs performance to raise money for the Williamson County Animal Control and Adoption Center in Tennessee. “It’s my favorite finish of all of the kits I’ve had,” he wrote of the set. “If you look closely, there is still some confetti from tour that snuck into the bass drum hole. I’ll leave that in there for you.” In 2022, Bryar announced he would be selling his original Black Parade uniform to help “abandoned and sheltered animals in areas of Florida and South Carolina that are affected by Hurricane Ian.”

END

[avaantares]

Emotion-wrecking scenes? In my Guardian?

(It's more likely than you may think!)

When it comes to scenes that gut us, I feel like we (the fandom, collectively) tend to fixate on the tragedy of Weilan -- and, I mean, fair -- but in terms of sheer emotional impact, this scene, in which Chu Shuzhi learns that Guo Changcheng did not return to Haixing with him, is one of the most brutal in the entire series. Possibly because it's part of a bait-and-switch that spans multiple episodes and is engineered to pull the rug out from under you. Maybe because it involves characters who have been largely treated as one-dimensional and/or comic relief for most of the series, so it's an unexpected turn. Or perhaps it's so powerful simply because it's a completely terrestrial bit of drama -- there's no CGI, no greenscreening, no fake blood, no suspension of disbelief required. And it's something we've all experienced, at some level: Coming out of a situation where you think everything is okay, only to be blindsided with the worst news possible. We all know what that feels like, to some degree. Many of us know firsthand how devastating it is to wake from a dream in which a loved one is still alive, only to remember seconds later that they aren't.

Of course the characters and their history are a significant part of it, too. Not only do we see the heretofore unbreakable Chu Shuzhi be absolutely destroyed in real time by the realization that he has effectively caused the death of another younger brother (a relationship that Chu Shuzhi only let himself admit during the riverside conversation in his dream), but Zhao Yunlan is the one who has to break the news to him -- Zhao Yunlan, who is already stressed and suffering over Shen Wei's imprisonment and torture and the betrayal of Haixing Inspectorate and everything else that's gone wrong in the past 24 hours, who is no stranger to loss himself, and who can't bring himself to even mention the mistakes Lao Chu made that led to this situation. Despite the fact that he dragged Lao Chu into his office and literally shouted at him the previous day over sending the puppet into Zhu Hong's dream, he knows there is nothing he can say now that will even register as a reprimand. Chu Shuzhi has failed not only Hei Pao Shi, but the SID as well, and lost the person closest to him. Zhao Yunlan doesn't say anything to assuage Lao Chu's guilt, but also can't say anything to make it worse, and defends his silence to Da Qing in the following scene. (And at some level, he's probably thinking about how Xiao Guo is also his responsibility, and he's worried that Shen Wei will be the next to fall on his watch. Layers upon layers.)

But most of that is just background for the scene itself. What really sells the sequence is the phenomenal acting: Jiang Mingyang's emotionally raw breakdown, and a more understated but no less effective performance by Bai Yu.

OOF.

Just more proof that this cast was too good for this show.*

.

* I say this while holding deep affection for the drama, but also acknowledging that I've acted in literal class projects that had better production values. Also one Asylum film, which almost certainly had a lower budget than Guardian and still managed to have better special effects -- which is saying something, coming from the studio whose most successful commercial venture was Sharknado.

.

(This wasn't at all what I originally had planned for the "Revelations" square on my @guardianbingo card, but I was skimming through the episode looking for a reference for a different prompt, and the power of this bit struck me afresh, so I decided to focus on the unpleasant revelation in this scene instead.)

[deadaccount1211]

Reboot HCs

As a current college student I feel like it’s my duty to determine what major the Reboot cast would pick. (Some of this I kinda have to bullshit n guess) But let’s get into it.

Axel- Military/ Studio Art major

Joins the military after high school. Completes basic training and moves to infantry. After a few months of military training she goes to school and studies art.

(Idk if this entirely accurate as I had to look up info for the military shit. And there isn’t much to Axel’s character besides the zombie bit. But there’s one moment in s2 where she’s painting Ripper so I’m just taking that as indication that she likes art.)

Bowie- Communications Major

As seen on the show, Bowie likes to gossip and socialize. So I don’t think it’s a stretch to think he’d choose Communications as a major. I think he’d also do theatre and basketball while he’s in college. After graduating I could see him landing a job in PR.

Caleb- Environmental Engineering major

Now I might be wrong since I don’t have Caleb’s scenes memorized off the top of my head. But I believe in season 2 episode 6 Caleb said he wanted to get into environmental engineering? Or something similar to that? So yeah pretty self explanatory. 

Also I think Caleb would want to join a frat to make friends. But once he realizes how toxic the culture is, he just leaves and does his own thing.

Chase- Streamer University

Chase is an already successful influencer with tons of cash. I don’t think he would want to go to college? At best he might go to that Streamer University thing that Kai Cenat is doing. Otherwise this guy ain’t getting no degree.

Since he’s most likely based off of Logan or Jake Paul. I like to imagine he becomes a boxer/ crypto bro in his future.

Damien- Chemistry/ Bachelor’s In Education

This one is also pretty self explanatory if you’ve seen his audition tape. But he gives me out of touch science teacher vibes. Like he would grow up to be that one science teacher that makes corny jokes that no one likes. “Why do you never trust an atom? Because they make up everything!”  He’d have to do an extra two years to earn that bachelor and he probably won’t be paid that much. But i imagine Damien would be pretty determined to set the next generation on the right path.

Emma- Twitch Streamer

This is where the headcannons come in. Since Emma is involved in the Chemma plot in s1 and booted so early in s2. I feel like we don’t get a good look into what her interests/ hobbies are besides being an influencer? So I don’t think she would go to college either. As she said in her elimination episode, she already makes millions off of Tiktok. Why would she need to go to school?

She’d probably be like one of those gamer girl twitch streamers.

Julia- Communications Major

Ironically I think she’d have a similar degree to Bowie. There’s a lot of social media jobs you can get with this one so I think it fits her. On top of being an influencer, I could see her being a social media strategist for a company.

Millie- Psychology Major with a minor in Journalism, PHD

The major or minor could be switched tbh. But Millie liked to psychoanalyze people and write stuff down in s1 so this is an easy fit. I could see Priya and Millie sharing a dorm and being college besties. Though I do think Millie would want to branch out and make other friends.

Millie would definitely try to go for a PHD and become a forensic psychologist. Given her lack of reaction to Damien almost dying in reboot s2 episode 2, I think she would do well in forensics.

MK- Prison

This might upset some people but thanks to TD, everyone knows that MK is a criminal now. A past crime might come back to haunt her or she might have trouble stealing anything in the present. One way or another she’s going to the slammer. I think she could probably convince Julia to bail her out.

From there, she'd just be an unemployed slacker crashing on Julia's couch. She'd be the Todd to Julia's Bojack. (hoping someone gets that reference.)

Nichelle Ladonna- Hollywood

Considering how happy she seems at the end of s2. I think she probably managed to squeeze her way back into Hollywood. Even though she got humiliated by Julia, she still proved she can do her own stunts now. That’s somewhat useful. Nichelle would just thrive off of her fame and fortune, occasionally rubbing it in Julia’s face.

Priya- Bachelor of Science in Nursing

This one was easy since Priya literally explained what she wanted to do in the show. I like to think she eventually realizes how toxic her parents were and cuts off contact with them.

Ripper-  Bachelor’s Degree in Culinary Arts/ Trade School

I’m 50/50 on this one. Because I originally just imagined that Ripper would just go to trade school, thinking college is for NERDS and become either an electrician or a plumber. But I read this fic called 16 ppl in a beach house on AO3 that depicted Ripper as a good cook. And I don’t know why but I think it oddly fits his character? I could also see him getting a degree in culinary arts and working as a line cook in a restaurant. So again 50/50, which ever ending you prefer.

Scary Girl- Circus

This is solely just based off the fact that she was near a circus in her audition tape. Plus she kinda looks like a clown so it fits.

Wayne and Raj- Professional Hockey Players/ Business Degree

Play for the AHL while in college and are eventually drafted by the NHL (had to do research for this one because I do not know jack shit about hockey) Both guys go for a business degree so when they eventually retire from hockey, they can become beekeepers and sell honey. As stated in reboot s1 episode 2.

Zee- Film Major

He seems to like coming up with stories about how he lost his leg. And he seemed to have a bit of knowledge with movies given his dialogue with Julia in Reboot s1 ep 8. Also from personal experience, a lot of film majors are fucking weird so I think this fits.

[satalxo]

masterpiece

18/?, explicit, 103k

College Sophomore Osha is perfectly content with her choice to pursue a Mechanical Engineering degree. But when she needs an elective to round out her coursework for the semester, Mae convinces her to join Intro to Studio Painting. There she encounters Professor Qimir Stranger, who turns her whole world upside down.

[sharmelasworld]

Damien and Ava: A WWE Love Story

Character Profiles:

Ava Rosario

Ava Rosario grew up in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan. She's the daughter of a single Dominican mom, who worked double shifts as a nurse to make ends meet. Ava was a quiet, curious child who was loyal to everyone she loved. Music was Ava's first love, but not the performance aspect of it. She was fascinated by the science behind it. The way the beats flowed together to make a masterpiece. After high school, Ava supported herself through school by working at the local jazz club and eventually earned a degree in audio engineering, which led to a job at a local Brooklyn recording studio, where she worked with both local and independent artists.

Luis Martinez AKA Damien Priest

Luis, also known to the world as Damien Priest, had his own rugged upbringing. Raised in the Bronx with a strict father and a fiercely supportive mother, Damien had his fair share of trouble as a teenager, but martial arts is what saved him. It gave him discipline and a path to his future. When it came to wrestling, it gave him a purpose. So, by the time his path crossed with Ava, Damien was in the throes of his WWE career. Damien was learning to go with the flow of his career, but can he keep moving with Ava by his side?

Tag List:

@empressdede

@trippinsorrows

@uceyliyahh

@mselenalovebug

@ayeeeitsmiracle

@moxley99

@trippiexlove

@yana3sworld

@jeyusosqueen

@ejudd08

@isabella-2025

@theusotwinzcom

@fafomama

@wrestlersownmyheart 

@keenagurl

@jazzyboo123-blog1

@raya-hunter01

[whencyclopedia]

Discovery of X-Rays

The discovery of X-rays – a form of invisible radiation that can pass through objects, including human tissue – revolutionised science and medicine in the late 19th century. Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen (1845-1923), a German scientist, discovered X-rays or Röntgen rays in November 1895. He was awarded the first Nobel Prize for Physics for this discovery in 1901.

The thrill of the discovery became caught up in the late Victorian obsession with ghosts and photography. X-rays could 'photograph' the invisible, penetrating flesh, exposing bones and the human skeleton. 'Bone portraits' became popular, and photographers opened studios for a public fascinated by otherworldly images of skeletons.

Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen

Wellcome Collection (CC BY)

One of the first medical uses of X-rays occurred in 1896 when John Francis Hall-Edwards (1858-1926), a British doctor, located a needle embedded in a colleague's hand. X-ray technology soon moved from being seen as a new form of photography to a modern diagnostic tool used by hospitals and medical practitioners.

Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen was a meticulous scientist, but the discovery of X-rays may have been an unintentional result of his work with cathode rays in his Würzburg laboratory in Bavaria, Germany.

Early Years

Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen was born in Lennep, Prussia (Remscheid-Lennep, Germany) on 27 March 1845, to a German textile merchant father and a Dutch mother. He was an only child and spent his early years in Apeldoorn in the Netherlands. His father, Friedrich Conrad Röntgen (1801-1884), managed a cloth manufacturing business in Apeldoorn. The family had also moved due to political unrest in Prussia.

Röntgen attended the Utrecht Technical School from 1861 to 1863 but was expelled when a fellow student drew a caricature of a teacher. Röntgen was implicated but refused to name the student responsible. Despite excellent marks, he did not graduate with a technical diploma and could not obtain a degree in the Netherlands. He was accepted by the Mechanical Technical Division of the Federal Polytechnic School in Switzerland in 1865, where he gained a diploma in mechanical engineering and, in 1869, a PhD in physics with his thesis Studies on Gases.

The German experimental physicist August Kundt (1839-1894) was Röntgen's supervisor. In 1866, Kundt designed the Kundt Tube, a glass apparatus that measured the speed of sound in gases. Kundt significantly influenced Röntgen and his research career.

Röntgen followed Kundt to the University of Würzburg in 1870, where he worked as an unpaid assistant during a time of rapid advancements in experimental physics. Scottish mathematician James Clerk Maxwell (1831-1879) was researching electromagnetic radiation and established the connection between light and electromagnetic radiation. Maxwell also took the first colour photograph in 1861, based on his three-colour theory that the human eye sees colour through a combination of blue, red, and green light. Massachusetts-born Samuel Morse (1791-1872) developed the electric telegraph, which transmitted messages over long distances, and Morse code to encode messages, while Alexander Graham Bell (1847-1922) invented the telephone.

Of particular interest to Röntgen was the work of German physicist Heinrich Hertz (1857-1894) and British chemist William Crookes (1832-1919). Both scientists studied cathode rays – invisible streams of electrons whose behaviour can be observed when an electrical current is passed between the two electrodes (cathode and anode) in a glass vacuum tube. It is called a cathode ray because the electrons are emitted from the cathode (or negative electrode) when an electrical current heats it, and the electron stream glows. Johann Wilhelm Hittorf (1824-1914) was the first to detect cathode rays glowing green in the glass wall of a vacuum tube in 1869 but did not realise that X-rays had been produced during his experiments.

Röntgen became fascinated with the fluorescence caused by cathode rays hitting certain materials, such as salts like barium platinocyanide, which glow a greenish-yellow colour when exposed to cathode rays. It was this fascination that led to the discovery of X-rays.

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