#difference between accuracy and precision

[orcelito]

Also remembering that I get to write wolfwood next chapter and I'm a widdle nervous bc this is a Big Moment and I only wrote him a little bit with Sentido and it's been 8 months since then

But im also REALLY excited bc I get to finally (FINALLY) start executing the vashwood concepts I'd thought up at the damned START of this fic

So much relationship development to get to. So much Wolfwood to get to. Very exciting things.

[vibeswithdivs]

you don’t mess around - OP81

If you had to describe your job in three words, they’d be: pressure, precision, and absolutely no room for mistakes.

You managed the money that kept McLaren running. Not in the sense of counting coins in a dusty room — no, you lived in digital dashboards and currency exposure spreadsheets. On any given day, you could tell someone how much was in the Swiss account, how the yen was affecting the Singapore deal, and whether a facility payment was going to clear before a supplier had a panic attack.

The job was about timing. Liquidity. Predicting the unpredictable and safeguarding the team’s future — all while juggling numbers with razor-sharp accuracy.

Which is why when a race car driver wandered into your high-stakes, number-heavy corner of the building on a calm Wednesday morning, you stared at him like he’d stepped into a Bond film by mistake.

He paused just inside the glass doors — tall, hoodie-clad, faintly windblown from the chilly British air outside — and looked around with a furrowed brow.

Definitely lost.

Your colleagues peeked over their screens, some wide-eyed, others frozen mid-email. In this room, the loudest thing was usually someone’s keyboard when they were panicking before a deadline.

You were about to go back to calculating rolling cash positions when he spotted you.

He smiled.

It wasn’t a polite PR-smile. It was curious. Warm. Maybe a little amused.

“This definitely isn’t Aerodynamics,” he said, glancing around.

You took your hand off your mouse and leaned back slightly in your chair. “Unless they’ve suddenly decided to start hedging foreign currency risk, no — you’re a few wrong turns deep.”

He took a cautious step in. “It’s… quiet in here.”

You tilted your head. “Not when the dollar drops half a percent during a five-million-pound contract negotiation.”

He grinned at that. “Sounds intense.”

You offered a thin smile. “That’s one word for it.”

There was a beat. Then he added, “I’m supposed to be meeting Zak, but I think I took a wrong left somewhere between partnerships and… whatever room had seventeen monitors and no windows.”

You stood, brushing off your skirt. “You’re about four corridors off course and six floors deep into stress.”

He looked around. “Well, if I’m going to get lost, at least I ended up somewhere interesting.”

You blinked at him. “You’re the first person to say that about this room. Ever.”

He gave a half-grin, toeing one foot on the floor like he was trying to kill time. “So what do you actually do in here?”

You pointed to your screen, where a live dashboard showed inflows, outflows, and forecasts across multiple international entities. “See that? That’s how much is available in five different currencies to fund race weekend logistics without breaking any laws or overdraft limits.”

Oscar leaned slightly forward, genuinely intrigued. “And you just… know how to do that?”

“I know how to make sure no one gets a call from legal,” you said, turning your gaze back to him. “Including you.”

He laughed, a genuine, caught-off-guard sound. “Wow. You guys are the quiet enforcers.”

“Quiet, precise, and very well-documented,” you replied smoothly. “We don’t leave fingerprints — just audit trails.”

That earned a low whistle. “You don’t mess around.”

“No, but people sometimes think we do — right up until they want to order a new hospitality suite and we say, ‘not unless you want to explain that to Finance.’”

He looked impressed. “Duly noted.”

Another colleague passed behind you, giving Oscar a side-eye like he was a Martian. You cleared your throat and took a step forward, suddenly feeling aware of just how much of the room was pretending not to eavesdrop.

“You’re Oscar,” you said, a little more grounded now.

“And you are…?”

“Y/N,” you replied. “I work in… let’s call it future-proofing.”

That made him pause. “I like that.”

“It sounds less terrifying than ‘I manage the operational cash forecasts for a multimillion-pound motorsport empire,’” you added with a wink.

He smirked. “A motorsport empire, huh?”

“You guys play chess with tires. I play chess with the economy.”

He laughed again, and the sound of it — relaxed, amused, intrigued — felt like a weird sort of reward after a morning spent reviewing intercompany transfers.

“You actually like this stuff?” he asked, pointing at your screen.

You tilted your head. “You like driving into a corner at 200kph hoping your grip calculations are right?”

“…Fair.”

At that moment, a harried admin appeared behind him. “Oscar! There you are — Zak’s been waiting—”

Oscar turned slightly but didn’t move. “Got a little sidetracked.”

The admin blinked at you, surprised. You offered a tight-lipped smile and a “don’t you dare start” eyebrow raise before turning back to him.

“Back to the track?” you asked lightly.

“Back to pretending I know what my engineer is talking about.”

You smiled, unexpectedly. “Fake it till you podium.”

He chuckled. “Hey, Y/N?”

You raised a brow.

“I’m glad I got lost,” he said. “Most detours don’t come with financial sass and a global cash position overview.”

“Flirting with the girl who can freeze team spending is bold,” you replied, smirking.

He shrugged, taking a few steps toward the door. “I’ve raced in Monaco. I like high-risk strategies.”

Before leaving, he turned back over his shoulder, grin softening into something more sincere. “I’ll come back. But next time, I’ll bring coffee. You seem like you don’t take sugar, but I’ll gamble.”

You blinked, not used to someone reading you that quickly.

“…Black. No sugar,” you said after a beat.

He pointed, victorious. “Knew it.”

And with that, he slipped out of the room — leaving behind a trail of confusion, amusement, and a string of open-mouthed stares from your colleagues.

You sat down, turned back to your screen, and tried — very unsuccessfully — to remember what currency hedge you were working on.

But all your brain could supply was: He got your coffee order right.

And maybe… just maybe… some risks were worth taking.

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Atsumu

You’ve known the Miya twins for as long as you can remember. They were the loudest boys on the playground, all scuffed knees and sunburned cheeks, their laughter carrying across the schoolyard like a war cry. Atsumu, the loudmouth with a cocky grin that drove teachers insane, and Osamu, the quieter one who always seemed two seconds away from dragging his brother out of trouble. You were caught in the middle—sometimes willingly, sometimes not—but you never complained. Being with them was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

“Yer too slow!” Atsumu had whined once, standing at the edge of the sandbox with his hands on his hips while you struggled to keep up. “Then go ahead without me!” you’d huffed, kicking sand in his direction, cheeks flushed and breathless.

But he never did.

No matter how many times you fell behind, no matter how many times Osamu rolled his eyes and threatened to leave you both behind, Atsumu always waited. And somehow, that pattern never changed.

Years passed. Middle school turned into high school. The three of you didn’t hang out as much anymore—between club activities, exams, and life pulling you in different directions, it was harder to find the time. But you still showed up. For them.

You never missed a game, sitting in the stands with Osamu’s mom and cheering as loud as the rest of the Inarizaki fans. You watched Atsumu serve with impossible precision, eyes narrowing with focus before the ball left his hand. You watched Osamu spike with terrifying accuracy, his smirk barely contained afterward. You were proud of them both, proud to see them rise, proud to be part of the crowd that supported them.

“Yer comin’ to the next match, right?” Atsumu asked one afternoon after practice, leaning against the fence with his bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, a few stray strands sticking to his forehead, and his uniform was loose, hanging casually over his broad frame. The sun was dipping lower, casting warm orange hues across the field where a few stragglers still kicked a soccer ball around. You glanced up from your phone, pretending to be nonchalant. “I always do, don’t I?” His grin stretched wide—cocky and confident, just like always—but there was something in his eyes. Something… uncertain. Hidden beneath the bravado. “Just checkin’.” He kicked at the dirt, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement. “Ya don’t gotta, y’know. Betcha got better things to do than watch us all the time.”

Osamu was the one who noticed it first, the subtle shift in Atsumu’s behavior. It was after another win, and the three of you had gone out to grab a bite. Atsumu was unusually quiet, barely picking at his food while you and Osamu bickered over the best dipping sauce for karaage. “Oi,” Osamu had muttered under his breath when you went to the counter to grab more napkins. “What’s with ya?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu had mumbled, poking at his plate, but Osamu’s eyes had narrowed. “Ya never shut up. Now yer quiet? Somethin’s up.”

“Nothin’s up,” Atsumu insisted, but Osamu didn’t look convinced. He shot his brother a look but didn’t press further. Later that night, as you waved goodbye and promised to see them at the next game, Osamu lingered behind. “He’s actin’ weird,” he muttered, watching Atsumu walk ahead. “Ya notice?”

You had laughed, brushing it off. “When isn’t he weird?”

It wasn’t until you started talking about someone else—Takahiro, a guy from your class—that things started to change. He was smart, funny, and polite in a way that seemed almost too perfect. You didn’t even realize how often you were mentioning him—how your eyes lit up when you talked about how he made you laugh during group projects, how he texted you after class to ask if you understood the material. At first, Atsumu barely reacted. Just a quirk of his brow and a half-hearted, “Huh. Cool.” But then it happened again. And again. And suddenly, Takahiro’s name was slipping into conversations more often than not, and Atsumu noticed. Every. Single. Time.

He didn’t say anything to you about it. But he did talk to Osamu.

“He likes her, don’t he?” Atsumu had muttered one afternoon, his voice low, barely audible as they sat in the back of the gym after practice. His knees were drawn up, elbows resting loosely on them while he picked absentmindedly at the tape around his fingers, pulling at the frayed edges like they held the answers to his problems.

Osamu raised a brow, glancing sideways at his brother. “Who? Takahiro?” His tone was neutral, but the way he looked at Atsumu was anything but.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s jaw clenched as he peeled another strip of tape from his skin, eyes fixed on the floor. “She’s always talkin’ about him lately. Laughin’ at his dumb jokes. Her face lights up when she talks about him.”

“Since when do ya pay attention to that kinda thing?” Osamu’s tone was teasing, but there was something careful underneath it, something that probed deeper.

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s answer was too fast, too defensive. His fingers stilled against his knee, tape forgotten as he shifted, posture rigid.

Osamu tilted his head, watching his brother closely. “Right.” Silence stretched between them for a beat, thick and unspoken. “So, why do ya care?”

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s voice was quieter this time, almost too quiet. But his jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something Osamu didn’t need to ask about.

Osamu exhaled softly, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “Yer full of shit, y’know.” He didn’t push, didn’t ask any more questions. But his words lingered in the air, hanging heavy between them. Atsumu didn’t respond, and Osamu let it go—for now. But the silence that followed spoke louder than anything Atsumu could’ve said.

You started noticing the shift after that. Atsumu was different—quieter around you, shorter with his words. His usual sharp remarks didn’t carry the same playful edge anymore. They were clipped, like he was forcing himself to stay distant. At first, you thought he was just tired. Volleyball took its toll, and with nationals approaching, it wasn’t unusual for the entire team to be running on fumes. But this was different. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by something colder, something heavier that settled in the pit of your stomach. His eyes didn’t linger on you the way they used to, and when they did, there was something in them you couldn’t place. Frustration? Hurt? You weren’t sure, but it left a bad taste in your mouth.

It all came to a head during the next game.

It was an intense match—one where every point mattered, the air thick with anticipation. You were in your usual spot in the stands, cheering louder than most of the crowd, but this time… you weren’t alone. Takahiro was beside you, leaning in close, his shoulder brushing yours as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. You didn’t notice the way Atsumu’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and fleeting, but he saw it. He saw the way you smiled—soft and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners—and it knocked the air out of his lungs.

It burned.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling a little too tightly around the ball as he lined up his serve. He tried to shake it off, to focus on the game, but your laugh echoed louder than the roar of the crowd in his ears. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, faster, harder, until it drowned out everything else. The whistle blew. He tossed the ball, went through the motions—but his mind wasn’t in it. His focus was shattered, replaced by a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with.

The ball sailed too far.

Out of bounds.

By a mile.

The murmur that rippled through the crowd was deafening in his ears. Atsumu’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breathe through the frustration. He didn’t look at you after that. He couldn’t. But he felt it—your eyes on him, concern etched into your features, even as you turned back to Takahiro. The tension settled like a weight in his chest, suffocating and inescapable.

Throughout the rest of the game, Atsumu was off. His sets were technically perfect, but they lacked their usual precision. His timing was a second too late, his movements a little too forced. The fire that usually burned in his veins, the one that made him relentless on the court, was barely a flicker. And no one noticed but Osamu.

“Get yer head outta yer ass, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu muttered under his breath during a timeout, his voice low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “Yer messin’ up, and I know why.”

Atsumu didn’t respond, eyes locked on the floor, jaw clenched. But Osamu wasn’t done. “If ya don’t fix it, we’re gonna lose. And if we do, it’s on you.”

By some miracle, Inarizaki still scraped by with a win—but barely. Atsumu was the first one off the court when the final whistle blew, not bothering to stick around as the team lined up to thank the crowd. His skin was crawling, frustration boiling beneath the surface as he tore off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it into his bag. He needed to clear his head. He needed to breathe.

And you? You noticed.

“Where’s Atsumu?” you asked, concern lacing your voice as you turned to Osamu while everyone congratulated the team. Osamu’s eyes flickered toward the gym, his expression neutral but his tone softer than usual. “Needed some air,” he muttered, his voice quiet but knowing. “Ya know how he gets.” And that was all it took.

Your chest tightened. Something told you this wasn’t just about a bad game.

“Oi, Miya!” Takahiro’s voice broke through the hum of post-game chatter as he stepped forward, flashing a bright smile. “Hell of a match out there. You guys pulled through in the end.” His words were polite, his tone smooth, but the second they left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.

Ginjima, who was standing nearby, narrowed his eyes, barely masking his distaste as he gave Takahiro a once-over. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something. "So, ya think—"

But before he could finish, Aran stepped in, his usual easy-going demeanor firming up as he gave Takahiro a curt nod.

“Thanks,” Aran cut in smoothly, his tone polite but clipped just enough to send a message. “Appreciate it.”

Takahiro, oblivious to the silent exchange, just smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “No problem. You guys really pulled through.”

You felt the tension rolling off Ginjima, and even Kita’s usually neutral expression was unreadable as his eyes flickered between Takahiro and the team.

You lingered with the team for a little while longer, standing by Aran as he exchanged a few polite words with Takahiro, who was blissfully unaware of the underlying tension. You nodded along, adding the occasional "yeah" or "for sure" as Takahiro talked about how intense the game had been and how impressed he was by Inarizaki's performance. But your mind was elsewhere.

Atsumu’s absence gnawed at you. The way he’d left the court so quickly, the frustration rolling off of him in waves—it didn’t sit right. Something was wrong, and no matter how much you tried to focus on the conversation happening around you, the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

Eventually, as the crowd began to thin out and the post-game buzz started to fade, Takahiro turned to you with that same easy smile. "We’re all gonna grab something to eat after. You coming?"

You hesitated, your heart tugging you in a different direction. "Hey… I think I’m gonna head home," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I’m kinda tired."

Takahiro’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across his face. "You sure? We were all gonna hang out for a bit."

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you replied, offering him a quick, reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright… text me when you get home, yeah?"

“Of course.”

But you had no intention of going home.

As Takahiro rejoined the group, you slipped away, weaving through the crowd without a second glance. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you back toward the gym, where you knew exactly where Atsumu would be. Something gnawed at your gut, telling you this wasn’t just about a bad game. You could feel it, a weight settling in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

As you got closer to the gym, the familiar sound of volleyballs slamming against the floor echoed through the quiet night. The steady thump reverberated through the empty halls, each hit carrying a frustration that was almost palpable. Your steps slowed as you approached the entrance, the muffled grunts of effort and the sharp sound of rubber meeting wood growing louder with each step.

When you reached the doorway, you stopped, heart hammering in your ears as you took in the sight before you. Atsumu was there, just as you’d known he would be. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his hair damp and sticking to his skin. His jersey was clinging to his back, soaked through, and the gym floor was littered with scattered volleyballs, some rolling lazily across the surface after missed targets. But Atsumu wasn’t slowing down.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on an invisible target as he tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, body coiling with raw power. The crack of the ball echoed through the gym as it slammed into the floor, and a grunt of frustration escaped his lips, reverberating off the walls.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, watching him pour every ounce of frustration and anger into each serve. He didn’t notice you. Not yet.

“You're gonna break the damn floor at this rate.”

Your voice echoed across the empty gym, but Atsumu didn’t stop. He tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, slamming it with a grunt that reverberated off the walls. The ball ricocheted off the floor and hit the back wall with a loud thud. His breathing was heavy, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged inhale.

“Go home.” His voice was clipped, laced with exhaustion and something sharper. He didn’t turn to look at you, eyes locked on the next ball he was already lining up.

“Atsumu,” you said softly, stepping further into the gym. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” He tossed the ball, and another loud thwack echoed through the gym as the ball hit the floor. “Go home.”

But you didn’t move.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Your voice was firmer this time, crossing your arms as you stood your ground. But then, as Atsumu lined up another ball, ready to serve, you couldn’t take it anymore. Your feet moved before your brain caught up, and you stepped forward, planting yourself right in front of him.

“Atsumu, stop.”

His eyes widened in surprise, the ball still gripped tightly in his hand, but you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, heart pounding as you met his gaze head-on.

“Move,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no real heat behind it.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m not moving until you talk to me.”

“Why even bother?” His voice was sharper now, but there was something raw beneath the anger. “Go back to yer boyfriend. Bet he’s waitin’ for ya.”

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his words. “Boyfriend? You mean Takahiro?”

“Yeah, him.” He finally turned, eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place—hurt, frustration… jealousy? “Bet he’s real smitten with ya, sittin’ in the stands, watchin’ ya smile at him like that.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Atsumu snapped, his voice rising. “I saw ya. Laughin’ at his jokes, lettin’ him get close. Ya looked real happy. Real fuckin’ happy.”

“That’s what this is about?” Your voice sharpened, anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re pissed because I was talking to Takahiro?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Atsumu drawled, his tone dripping with mock sweetness as he dropped the ball and crossed his arms. “‘Takahiro’s so nice,’” he mimicked, his voice going higher, mimicking yours in an exaggerated, sing-song way. “‘Takahiro helped me with my assignment.’ ‘Takahiro said the funniest thing today.’” He scoffed, his expression darkening as he took a step closer, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to jealousy. “Ya never shut up about him.”

If you weren't pissed before, you sure as hell were now.

Your jaw clenched, heat rushing to your face as your hands balled into fists at your sides. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” He let out a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just sick of listenin’ to ya gush about him like he hung the damn moon.”

“Are you serious right now?!” You raised your voice, the frustration bubbling over. “You’re actin’ like a damn child, Atsumu!”

“Maybe I am!” Atsumu’s voice shot up, matching yours as his face flushed with anger. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your pulse race. “But at least I’m not the one actin’ blind to what’s right in front of me!”

“Blind to what?!” You threw your hands in the air, voice sharp and cutting as you took a step toward him, closing the space between you until there was barely any room left. Your chest brushed his as you tilted your chin up to meet his fiery gaze. “Why do you even care so much, Atsumu?!”

“Why do I care?!” He was practically towering over you now, his breath hot and ragged as his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with frustration. “Because ya never stop talkin’ about him! ‘Takahiro this, Takahiro that!’ It’s all I ever fuckin’ hear!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like you don’t give a damn about me!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down, standing your ground even as the tension between you became suffocating.

“I don’t give a damn?!” Atsumu’s voice was louder now, the frustration bleeding into his tone as he stepped even closer, his chest brushing against yours. “You’re the one who’s been actin’ like I’m invisible! Like I’m just—just some guy while yer out there with him!”

“Then why didn’t you say something?!” You screamed, voice echoing through the gym, your frustration boiling over. Your hands were trembling now, knuckles white from how hard you were clenching them at your sides. “Why do you even care so much?!”

“Because I love you!”

The words erupted from him, loud and raw, his voice breaking as the confession echoed through the gym and filled the space between you. His chest heaved, his face flushed from a mix of anger and desperation, and his eyes—wide, vulnerable, and filled with something you hadn’t seen before—were locked onto yours.

You froze, the weight of his words crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. The world went silent, and for the first time since you’d stepped into that gym, neither of you had anything left to say.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you stared at him, his chest still heaving from the force of his confession. The air felt thick, suffocating, as your mind raced to process what he had just said. Seconds stretched on, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then, without thinking, without giving yourself a chance to second-guess it, you stepped forward. Your eyes locked on his, your expression unreadable, and before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him down.

"You’re so fucking stupid," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was fierce, fueled by weeks—no, months—of pent-up frustration, confusion, and feelings you had pushed down for far too long. Your lips crashed into his, and Atsumu froze for half a second before he was kissing you back with just as much desperation. His hands found your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the world around you blurred until nothing else existed.

The anger, the yelling, the unspoken words—they all melted away, leaving only the two of you, tangled in the heat of the moment, finally giving in to everything you’d both been too stubborn to admit.

[adelheidvonschicksal]

Don't you agree we need more A/B/O for love and deep space?

Omegaverse Scenarios with the Boys

Content warning: Omegaverse, jealousy, marking, scenting, fluff, mild sexual content, no pronouns, MORE ABO! MORE ABO!

Original Post

“You’re back.”

You whip your head around to see Xavier standing at the balcony door, looking serene as ever in the mid-morning light. The soft look the sunlight gives him brings a smile to your face. However, it quickly strains and breaks, collapsing into a frown as Xavier steps out onto the deck. There’s nothing scary about his demeanor; he seems calm as usual but there’s a subtle tension in the air that fogs heavy from him.

Wordlessly, Xavier scans you up and down, focusing on…something. You’re not sure what he’s searching for, but you suspect he’s found it when his forehead creases and his voice drops.

“Did you visit Philos while you were out?"

"How'd you guess?"

"You smell like Jeremiah,” Xavier concludes coldly, which causes you to hold on tighter to the little packet of plant food clutched between your hands. “What were the two of you doing?” he follows up; this time he fixes his face and flashes you that sweet smile.

You’re smart enough to not be fooled by the innocent expression he puts on whenever he tries to pry information out of you. However, you have nothing to hide and answer honestly.

“My friend has been sick, so I wanted to send her some flowers.”

“Is that all?”

"I also got plant food for the strawberries," you add, flashing the green packet of nutrients. 

"That's not what I meant."

Your suspicion tipped off, you raise your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Xavier closes in on you, each step making your heart pound as he boxes you in between himself and one of the large ceramic pots homing the strawberry plant. Raising your hands to your chest, your knuckles brush against the tassels of his hoodie as you try to make some space between the two of you. It's clear you have no room to run, and a part of you isn't sure you want to escape.

Xavier reaches out to you; his hand sweeps under the collar of your black turtleneck, sending jolts through your body when his fingertips hit the sore bruise in the soft junction of your neck. The way he immediately finds that tender target reminds you of the way he hunts down wanderers with precision, persistence, and unfortunately, pinpoint accuracy. Despite the severe shivers being coerced in your soul, it doesn’t frighten you as he traces around your scent gland.

“You’re practically shaking,” he mumbles, gripping the neck of your shirt and giving a gentle tug, exposing your bond mark. “Are you cold?”

“No," you answer immediately, watching his snooping hand from your periphery, "and don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not,” he says with a shake of his head as he continues to fumble with your clothing. “I was just wondering why you were so covered up.”

“There’s no reason,” you breathe out, distracted by the fierce concentration reflecting from dark pools of blue so different from the soft glimpses and angelic gazes he normally shares with you. They strike you so deeply, peering through you so sharply that memories from how the mark was made begin to flash through your mind, fumbling any other excuses you might have said.

“None at all?” he comments, making your face warm. “If the mark hurts, it’s nothing a hot bath won’t fix.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Then, why are you covering it up?” he asks; this game of cat and mouse quickly unravels when he brings up, “Did you not want Jeremiah to see it?”

“That’s not it,” you deny with a sigh, pushing his hand away.

You never understand how Xavier can be so jealous. Jeremiah is a friend to both of you; he has been for centuries from your understanding. Even if there was some point in those decades that Jeremiah possibly had feelings for you stronger than friendship, you didn’t hold those same feelings for him. You only desired to be bonded with one person, the one standing in front of you. Even when he was being a needlessly jealous dummy.

“It has nothing to do with him.”

“Do you not like the way it looks?” He questions instead, his demeanor softening only slightly with regret. With a slight blush, Xavier pouts and rubs the back of his neck. “I admit I was a little out of it when I did it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it! It’s pretty,” you finally yell, which causes him to clamp his mouth shut enough for you to explain better. “This is the first time anyone made a bond mark on me, and it’s a little embarrassing cause then everyone knows, we’re um…” you start to lose your concentration when he looms over you. You take a sudden step back, stopping only when the pot behind you threatens to fall over when you bump it. “Doing things…together.”

Chest aching, you hope your explanation is satisfactory. You never want to make him insecure but the idea of people knowing intimate details of your love life makes you sheepish.

“So, you don’t want him to know.”

“Xavier, did you not listen to what I said?”

“I did but isn’t what you said still a roundabout way of saying you’re hiding it?” He teases with a small laugh. There’s a pleased curve in the smile on his face and a shimmering light like stardust in his eyes; unbeknownst to you, that’s from knowing he’s the first and only one to ever mark you. How proud he would be if everyone was aware of that fact. “You don’t have to be embarrassed by something so natural. Everyone, especially him, should know you’re mine and I’m yours.” 

You open your mouth to protest but you’re interrupted by him grabbing your wrist in one hand to prevent you from squirming away as he hooks a finger into your turtleneck. Pulling your collar, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your bond mark then higher up to nip the soft flesh under your earlobe, higher until he's breathing into your ear. 

"I'll fix it," he murmurs and kisses your neck again and again until all you can make sense of is the heat blooming along your throat with each touch of his lips. 

His kisses lack his normal gentleness; they’re filled instead with a desire that makes your knees shake and buckle. You’d fallen if he hadn’t held you closer, squeezed you to him like letting go would be the end of him, as if he finds joy in feeling the aftershocks of your fluttering heart against your ribcage.

“Xavier, what are you-you-ah."

You desperately hold in the moan that builds up in your chest as he continues to bite into your skin and the sound of his kisses fills your ear smooch by smooch. Xavier chuckles against your flesh.

“Relax. I’m not going to do anything bad to you. I’m simply making a few minor adjustments to your  first  mark." He hums, tongue sliding along your neck to mark its target. “I think this is a good spot,” he whispers before sinking his teeth into your pulse.

It burns in a searingly blinding way, and your eyes roll up when he sucks onto your bite-broken skin. He doesn't stop until he manages to ring out a strangled moan from your throat. He cements his work with another swipe of his tongue then pulls away to admire it.

He paints that innocent smile back on his face as he locks his eyes with yours. His voice is light and airy like a weight is off his shoulders when the fresh mark peeks from your turtleneck. "This time I gave you a mark you can’t hide."

It’s another day at the arcade and another day Zayne watches you spend an exorbitant amount of money winning a plushie you could’ve easily ordered cheaper online. The Tinkle Toy you win this time is cuter than the normal fare at least. It’s a bright candy streamer rainbow, with smiling pink cotton candy clouds.

“I did it!” you cheer and hold out your prize to him in search of his approval. He congratulates you on your well-earned victory. With a smiling face, you push the toy closer to him rather than hug it to your chest in your normal possessive manner.

“What is it?”

You wave the toy back and forth. “You know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

In truth, Zayne knows exactly what you want, and it makes his neck hot under the collar. He presses his pointer finger to the bridge of his glasses and pushes them further up his nose as an excuse to avoid your slowly narrowing gaze. Your previously cheerful smile flattens into a stern line and your tone becomes more demanding.

“Zayne,” you repeat ominously, like a parent scolding their child for not finishing their chores. Somehow, it always works to earn his attention, and he briefly glances over the toy again; it looks much less cute this time, the carefully stitched smiles now a mocking grin.

Zayne examines his surroundings: the kids running around the overly decorated and gaudy arcade, the bored and drowsy-eyed employees behind the gift counter, the many older siblings and parents trying to win tickets for the little ones, and, well, you, glaring him down. That look tells him you’re not going to be willing to let this go despite how crowded the arcade has become in your short time here.

“You want me to scent your toy for you?” he questions, adding for emphasis, “Right here?”

“Rainbow Candy can’t join the other plushies in the nest without being christened by the leader.” Poking out your lip, you give him the biggest puppy eyes you can muster. It doesn’t move him enough to give in, not until your eyes start to gloss like stained glass and you softly plead, “Please, Dr. Zayne.”

Ice quickly breaks and chips in the mildest bit of sunlight, dissolving into warm puddles, and it’s just like that when Zayne finally breaks and melts at the smallest insistence from you. Grabbing the toy, Zayne quickly shoves it against his throat, ignoring how plush the toy feels against the underside of his chin. He trails it up and down the column of his neck, swiping it one final time under his chin. It’s a simple motion, done quickly and precisely to efficiently cover the toy in his scent in the least amount of time possible, yet it still feels so inappropriate to do here under your watchful, yearning gaze threatening to make his body stiff.

As he feels his limit about to be broken, he hands the rainbow back to your waiting arms.

“Is this satisfactory?”

You squeeze onto the toy as if someone could snatch it away. You press your face against it, smelling deeply, and when you look up at him from under your brow it’s with the sweetest smile he thinks he’s ever witnessed.

“Your best work yet, Dr. Zayne. Good job!” you giggle, and he has half a mind to pinch your cheek and wipe that childish grin off your face. “Now, I’ll have something to remember you by while you’re at work today.”

“Is that why you demand I scent all your toys?” he asks, and you nod slowly.

“You’re always so busy that I hardly get to see you outside of the hospital, so when I get lonely I just cuddle with these guys,” you confess. You press your nose deeper into one of the garishly pink cotton candy clouds; this time when your eyes waver like watery skies, it isn’t to sway him. “When the teddies smell like you, it’s like I’m holding a piece of you too.”

Those words connect everything that has ever happened between the two of you together, stringing the moments like a red line of fate. Despite the words  I love you  never leaving your lips, it excites the same effect that can make a sane man an idiot, an effect not even Zayne is immune to when you so innocently and freely express your feelings to him.

It’s a skill he struggles with; though for you and your happiness, he’s willing to give in and let loose the restrained mask he wears on his face as he listens to the one person he’s longed for all this time admit that they get lonely without him beside them.

“I think scenting you before my shift would be more comforting,” he offers; the adoration glowing in your irises makes him weak enough to stroke your forehead with the back of his hand. There’s a little whimper muffled into your plushie while your forehead feels hot to touch before your face falls into shock and your eyes dart around the room, like his before. As sweet and innocent as you can be, you can also be very easy to read. “You’re thinking inappropriately.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Not here.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

Zayne gently pokes your forehead to clear your head of the improper thoughts running through it causing you to whine and rub the spot, which only reminds him how you’re much, much cuter than any plushie. 

You hold in a giggle as Rafayel shoves his face against the crook of your neck. Since you came over to his studio, he hasn’t been able to tear himself away from you, which left you sitting on the couch, covered in little splotches of dried paint, trying to discern why he feels the need to drag his hands down your arm and audibly sniff your hair.

His breath is heavy and ragged as he sucks in a breath, or rather your scent, and continues to trace up your skin until his finger can finally sink into the collar of your button-up. “Did you do something different today? New lotion? Bath Soap?” 

“I did what I normally do every day.”

Rafayel groans against your skin again. You haven’t seen him hot and bothered, face soaked and flushing red with fever, since his last ebb day, which already happened earlier this year.

“Are you sure?” His lips on your skin feel so familiar that your body is immediately on edge and reacting to every stuttered exhale he makes whenever your leg so much as brushes against him. He sinks closer to you, removing any space in between your bodies. “You smell delectable.”

“Rafayel?”

“I just want a taste.”

“Rafayel, are you rutting?”

“No, I’m not,” he groans, laps your shoulder without any care for the fabric covering it, then pricks his canines against vulnerable, pulsing skin. You can tell he’s about to lose it when he pops the first button on your shirt, not even paying attention to the way his nails draw across your upper chest. “I’m just…admiring you…there’s nothing wrong with that.” 

There’s a whimper melting from his mouth when you press your hand to his chest and push away. Your confidence is quickly rising thanks to the pitiful expression on his face, highlighted by parted, puffy lips and wide violet-pink eyes fogged with hazy lustful clouds.

“I charge by the hour for appearances.”

Rafayel huffs lightly in response. Something about him is different today; something that your experience tells you is due to the rut he fails to explain away. He misses the usual flare he has, the coy seduction that he uses to draw you in. He trades it for brute force, spurred by the mind-numbing need to have this fire in him quenched inside of you as he grips your wrist and forces you closer to him.

“Just send any charges directly to the studio,” he pants out in desperation between sporadic breaths. His voice hitches, forming a short gasp when you grip his chin and focus his sights back on you. He follows so readily at any touch you offer him no matter how rough. Your mind was becoming fuzzy with how much power you have when he’s like this.

“I only take payments in kisses, but I’ll be sure to let Thomas know.”

There’s a moment where his eyes narrow, perhaps in frustration, before they drop and lock on your mouth; specifically, he's memorized by the motion of your tongue glancing across your lips. Rafayel is only consumed with thoughts of how gravely he wants to be the one wetting them despite doing so hundreds of times before. His body wildly craves yours like the months before he was graced with a taste of you, or maybe this yearning is because he knows exactly how it feels to be touched by you as you are now. Rafayel isn't sure which it is anymore, the lines fade and blur, becoming harder to trace by the second. It hurts being this vulnerable, his body uncontrolled by himself, but if you’re his mate then there isn’t anything to fear, at least not this time.

“On second thought, I really should settle my own debts.”

“Are you sure you can afford it?”

“I’ll gladly pay you with interest, darling,” he barely manages to force out in his last single coherent thought. “Now, let me taste you already.”

Rafayel leans closer, aiming for your lips, but is stopped by your nail dragging up the center of his neck, unhindered by the thick gulp he takes to stop his heart from jumping into his throat. You creep your finger up his chin, stopping at the point to force his head up and eyes to lock with yours. The smile on your face is torturous, the look in your eyes out to kill as your lips purse and part to form one simple word,

“Beg.”

The arrogant smirk on your face says you know he will; Rafayel knows he will; anything for a small taste to quench this thirst built in him since eternity for you, but he also knows he’ll have you in his trap instead very soon.

[elodieunderglass]

hello elodie. please enjoy this high expression of grass fandom in the form of an entire chapter on cricket pitch grass : link dot springer dot com / chapter / 10.1007 / 978-981-99-2913-9_6 what do you think the funniest alternative cricket pitch groundcover would be

Article here: https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-981-99-2913-9_6

This was published in Springer Transactions in Civil and Environmental Engineering. The article's abstract starts off with a completely new series of words:

One of the main reasons for a fast and bouncy wicket is uniform, deep-rooted grass growth in turf pitches. 

It has long been understood that academic language makes all things preternaturally serious, and writing in this style conveys things with accuracy and precision. It is also well-known that any description of cricket, whether oral or written, is almost impossibly silly. Writing about cricket in academic terms instantly creates a sort of battery-acid cocktail! The "fast and bouncy wicket" spontaneously reacts with the seriousness of the premise, and curdles, instantly. I think everyone should drink this.

After reading the abstract alone I genuinely can't recommend another plant for cricket pitches. The considerations are hyper-intersectional, they're intersectional on dimensions I can't even comprehend, there are factors reaching into the seventh dimension of spacetime. We have to consider so many factors: pace, bounce, spring, tension, wickets, stickiness. I can talk about rhizomes, but I am utterly undone by cricket. You can explain to me the difference between a googly and a doosra as a form of psychological torture and I will simply look up at you, like a weasel in a trap, saying back to you, "I will escape from this and learn nothing." What other groundcover should we plant for cricket pitches? I am already gone. I am leaving. I have evaporated from this place by transposing my molecules. I think we should pave cricket pitches in trampoline material

[victoryai]

DEBILITATED PLANETS (THE MISFIT ACTORS)

For fun 😊,

When I started learning Astrology, a friend of mine asked "between planets and signs which is more important, which is more crucial than the other, which has more influence. That was years ago, and I didn't have the answer then, but now I do.

Take a deep breath, 🧖 Relax🍃🧘🍃 because I'm about to use your imagination for this post.

Imagine the planets as actors gliding effortlessly in their own unique talents and characteristics while inhabiting roles that fit them. The zodiac signs are the roles they're cast into, dictating how the actors peforms their part. The same actor(planet)will express itself differently depending on the role(sign)it inhibits.

ALIGNMENT

When these roles align with the actor imagine how easy and free flowing it is, the energy of the actor is either in max(exaltation) or in proportion(neutral), it's in balance!

DEBILITATION

But............. what if🤔 these planets are cast into roles that don't align with their natural strength and characteristics!?? They become debilitated, and debilitated planets are fascinating to study🧐.

They're the cosmic equivalents of asking Morgan Freeman to act as a teenage rebel, asking Arnold Schwarzenegger to act as an introverted peot, Kevin Hart in a serious silent role, Scarlett Johansson as a sweet naive girl.

While they can still deliver a performance their energy would be awkward and quite out of the natural and far from their element.

Going further, let's explore the cosmic theatre 🎭 and see how some of these miscast stars perform their roles.

🧂Mars in Aries: Charging forward as a knight in shining armor, fearless and ruthless, born to dominate with confidence and passion. The Aries role is as fiery as the actor(mars) itself - a perfect fit for mars natural energy. The actor is in his element!!📢⚡

🧂Mars in Cancer: Our warrior is now asked to be a protective nurturer and he doesn't perform so well. Attack is now defense. His agression is now emotionally driven focused on keeping loved ones guarded. He becomes quite sensitive in this role.

🤖 Mercury in Virgo: Mercury is in the role of the analytical thinker 🤔. He performs with precision and accuracy, focusing on detail and utilizing it for critical problem solving. The Virgo role is as analytical as the actor (mercury)itself- a perfect fit for mercury's natural energy. The actor is in his element⚡

🤖Mercury in Sagittarius: While in Sagittarius, mercury is forced to embrace the adventurous side of Sagittarius. This little actor is forced to be a big man now, focusing on bigger ideas at the expense of his finer details. He however becomes bold and expressive in this role at the expense of his critical nature.

🪵 Venus in Libra: Venus is in the role of the beautiful diplomat. She shines gracefully and effortlessly in harmony beauty and balance. She seeks after her loved ones by being charming and playing coy. The Libra role is as agreeable as the actress(Venus). A perfect fit for Venus's natural energy.

🪵 Venus in Aries: In Aries, she finds herself miscast in a role far from her natural energy. Gracefulness is exchanged for passion, diplomacy for impulsiveness. She now seeks after her loved ones by being direct and sometimes confrontational.

🕺Sun in Leo: Sun is in the role of Leo. He steps into his dream role as a king, leader and superstar. Basking in his natural energy of pride, drama and confidence. The sun in Leo performs this role with boldness and charisma.The Leo role is as shiny as the actor itself. A perfect fit for Sun's natural energy.

🕺Sun in Aquarius: In Aquarius, it has to adapt to a "weird" script. He is forced to shine in innovation, individuality,and collective ideas at the expense of his personal glory. Challenging norms and fighting for new ideas is now his motto

😶‍🌫️ This post is not to make you feel bad about any debilitated planet you have. It's just a fun explanation. Besides, exalted planets are not so much fun themselves. They do too much 🥲

@victoryai

[khuzena]

Elegy of the hopeless, a savior’s love

Pairing: Sunday & You (g/n)

Synopsis: There will come a day when you will have to choose between fleeting love and lifelong devotion. There was a clear gap between you two. Sunday, the former head of the Family in Penacony, an outcast. You, some nobody who aims to make it big someday, just a nobody. Both outcasts, both commoners. However, Sunday will always be the savior of the people, a man who devotes himself for the freedom and peace of mankind. And you? Someone who’s story is meant to take a different road.

C.w: Angst, trauma, happy ending, he needs therapy, I change my mind you both need therapy

Note: This was written 23 minutes before the release date of 2.7, there may not be any accuracies since I want to write this fanfic as a tribute for Sunday to guarantee a higher chance of getting him with my sad 89 pulls. Thanks.

Sunday was a man who once prided himself for being righteous.

However, the said Halovian was no longer a priest, no longer the decorated head of the Family. Despite this, not once had he abandoned his values, not once had he forsaken the dream he once dreamed as a child, to sing odes of hope and to bring salvation to those who maybe or maybe not worthy of paradise.

He who walks the path of the nameless, will one day make a name for himself. He will carve his own place in paradise, even if the world no longer deems him as a prophet.

Yet, he hadn’t expected falling for someone. Someone of your stature.

Before you both knew it, your affections for each other grew, and so was his devotion for you. But he had to choose between his goals and you.

His mind was riddled with memories that continue to haunt him. The piano keys carried the weight of his sins the more he played a low tune. A debut between who he was, and who he is.

That fateful day marked the day his faith was tested.

One, two, three.

The notes reverberated softly in the dimly lit room, his fingers brushing over the keys with a precision honed by years of practice. But each sound struck a chord in his mind, dragging him back to memories he’d rather bury. He couldn’t ignore how the melody warped, pulling him into the shadows of his past. The rise to power, the unrelenting pursuit of his dreams, the countless lives he’d affected—knowingly or not. The moments where he trapped innocent people in his grand vision, their lives twisted into threads of a tapestry only he could see.

He felt the weight of it all pressing on him, a phantom force tightening around his chest. Each note seemed to mock him, whispering accusations he couldn’t escape.

Then, there was you.

Some idiot from the Astral Express, bright-eyed and reckless, who somehow wormed your way into his life. You were no better than the Trailblazer—maybe even worse, an enabler of chaos and bad decisions. Yet you carried a dream so simple, so pure it made him envious: to travel the universe, collect stories, and one day become a writer whose words would immortalize the memories you crafted with your own hands.

Envy. Was that the right word?

How could he envy you?

You brought him peace, a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years. Piece by piece, you shattered the walls he had meticulously built around his heart. At first, it was the small things: teasing jabs, lighthearted jokes that made him bristle, then laugh despite himself. But before he realized it, you had become something far greater. He longed for you, craved your presence like a man starved of affection.

Sunday, who had never known love, yearned for something he could barely understand. He wanted your arms around him, grounding him under a sky filled with stars, your voice whispering that everything would be okay. That he would be okay. That he was more than the sum of his sins.

But the past never let him rest.

The piano’s melody faltered as memories clawed at him. The faces of those he’d hurt flashed before his eyes: expressions of fear, betrayal, and pain. He saw himself standing above them all, a figure of absolute power yet utterly alone. His hands, now gloved, trembled as he remembered what they’d done—what they’d created, what they’d destroyed.

“Sunday?”

Your voice broke through the haze, shattering the storm of his thoughts. He glanced up, startled, to see your concerned face. There was no hatred in your eyes, no judgment—only that familiar warmth that felt so foreign to him.

“You’re thinking too much again. What’s on your mind?”

He wanted to tell you. He wanted to lay bare every ugly, broken part of himself. But the words caught in his throat. What if you saw him as the monster he believed himself to be? What if your kindness was a fragile mask, hiding resentment and disgust?

“I’m just thinking,” he lied, the words barely audible.

You didn’t believe him. With a small shake of your head, you slipped onto the bench beside him. “What are you thinking about?”

“Everything,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice laced with exhaustion.

The truth spilled from him in that single word: his fall from grace, the haunting memory of his sister’s absence, the crushing weight of his failures. He was at war—with himself, for you. He couldn’t save you from the wreckage of his mind, but he also couldn’t bear the thought of pushing you away.

“You should go to bed,” you murmured gently. “We’re dropping off at Amphoreus tomorrow.”

He didn’t move, his hands returning to the piano. The melody that filled the room was softer now, almost mournful. Each note resonated with the echoes of his guilt, yet drowned them out just enough for him to keep playing.

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I know what you’re thinking. Stop thinking.”

He wished he could.

Another kiss, then another.

“Just play the piano,” you whispered. “I’m still here.”

The tears threatened again, hot and stinging, but he swallowed them down. He didn’t deserve to cry—not for himself, not for his sins. Instead, he focused on the weight of your head on his shoulder, the steady rhythm of your breathing.

“Play your favorite song,” you suggested, your voice a soft murmur. “It’ll help.”

For a moment, his hands hovered over the keys. Then, slowly, he began to play. The melody was one he and Robin had composed as children—back when the world was simple, their dreams untouched by the cruelty of reality. The tune carried a bittersweet nostalgia, weaving through the room like a ghost of their innocence.

He glanced at you as he played. Your eyes sparkled with wonder, watching him like he was worth something more than his mistakes. At that moment, he almost believed it.

“I’m listening,” you said softly, your voice fading as you drifted into sleep.

His shoulders still bore the weight of his past, but with you resting against him, it felt a little lighter. The melody shifted, becoming softer, gentler. One day, he thought, he would compose something even more beautiful—something worthy of you.

Until then, he would keep playing. For you. For himself. For the chance to heal, note by note.

Maybe one day, he could repay your kindness a hundred times over.

Note: very rushed ig bc I started at 10:37 am and ended at 11:59 am bc I wanted to write this as tribute for the 2.7 update. !!! I don't know but jf there's any errors let me know lol my keyboard was so loud going TACK TACK TACKKK

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[kissandtellus]

Clinical Cycle

Synopsis: Zayne is a medical professional with knowledge of every illness you could think of. But when it comes to your cycle, he has a different treatment plan.

Warnings: Menstrual talk, smut, use of medical gloves, brief mention of br33ding, comfort.

Zayne is nothing but a medical professional. Hell, he probably knows your body better than anyone on this entire planet. But there is one beast he struggles a bit to conquer once a month.

Your period.

And it isn’t because he isn’t a deligent partner.

Oh no.

He breaks his own rules and provides you with every sweet and carnal food desire you could dream of. He brings you breakfast in bed and heat pads warmed to the perfect temperature.

Oh yes, the beast isn’t the cycle itself.

It’s how he can’t seem to keep his hands off of you during it.

“Zayne…!”

“Easy petal, you are doing so well. I am almost finished. Deep breaths.” It shouldn’t make him so feral, the way his white medical gloves are stained red from his invasive fingers. The way he has you on your back, swirling a thumb around your engorged clit is something that should be straight out of a adult video.

But god does this help your cramps. But it never seems to get less embarrassing for you. Zayne chuckles at your embarrassment, wiping his gloved fingers clean on the towel below you that he laid out in the beginning.

“I have had my hand in your chest cavity more times than you can count. Yet you seem perturbed by your natural body functions.” He states with that gorgeous smile. You let out a groan that’s a mix between embarrassment and bliss. Fighting the urge to throw a pillow at him.

“It’s messy, Zayne.” You try to reason with him. But that doesn’t stop him from pushing your knees next to your ears. Or the way he wraps a bloody glove around his length to push his aching cock up between your red stained lower lips.

“If you truly think blood throws me off, then you must not know as much about me as you think.” Zayne is very precise in his treatments. So precise that his cock is drilling into your gummy walls with scary accuracy. You are clinging to him despite being folded in half. The sticky feeling of his balls connecting to your soaked pussy should be engraved in your mind forever.

“I just want to help you, sweet girl-ngh~!” He winces in overwhelming pleasure as you tighten around his cock. “It’s in my nature as your physician.”

Your cervix seems even lower at this time of the month. You tear up taking his whole length, feeling like you are full to burst with bloating and his cock bullying into you. But when his latex thumb flicks against your throbbing pearl you become religious for a split second.

Zayne works you through the orgasm, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to get you to lock eyes with him.

Zayne always talks you through it.

“Milking me for every drop? Despite the possibility of you getting pregnant decreasing ten-fold during your cycle? You are so greedy.” When the last word leaves him, he thrusts inside your aching walls and holds himself right against your cervix.

The aftermath of the coupling is always much messier. He cleans you with the upmost care. You wear the familiar sound of the tampon wrapper being torn and you cover your face.

“I can put it in myself!” Zayne ignores your pouting, slipping the plastic applicator between your lips and carefully plunging the cotton inside.

“Do you not trust your doctor?”

You grumble.

Imagine both of your surprise when the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter turns pink with two lines mere weeks later.

[belit0]

Hello! Can I ask for a fem reader x Madara, where he is waiting for the reader to start ovulating to get her pregnant?

A strategist is a strategist no matter what

Madara Uchiha was a man of discipline, precision, and unrelenting ambition. He strategized wars with meticulous foresight, predicted enemy movements with terrifying accuracy, and now—now he was applying that same obsessive calculation to something far more intimate.

(Y/N) noticed it first in the way he stared at her—not in the usual, burning, intense way he always did, but with something sharper, more assessing. His gaze lingered too long, and whenever she moved, he seemed to be tracking her with a different kind of intent.

Then, there were the questions. Subtle, at first.

-You seemed irritable earlier. Are you feeling unwell? -Your appetite has changed. Do you feel fatigued? -Have you been sleeping deeply or waking up frequently?

She would have brushed it off as simple concern—except Madara was never this persistent about her health unless she was wounded. And then, one night, she woke up to find him sitting at the edge of the futon, arms folded, staring at the ceiling like he was solving the universe’s greatest mystery.

She blinked drowsily. -Madara? Why are you awake?-

His eyes flicked to her, sharp, intense. -You’re ovulating.-

Silence.

(Y/N) sat up slowly, rubbing her face. -I’m... what?-

He nodded, completely serious. -I’ve been keeping track.-

Oh. Oh no.

It all made sense now—the way he had been observing her, the sudden interest in her habits, the way he had been carefully adjusting their schedules so they spent more time alone at night. She gaped at him, caught between disbelief and something close to horrified amusement.

-You—Madara, that is the most bizarre thing I have ever heard—

-It’s logical.- His tone was unshaken, as if he was merely discussing a battle plan. -If I know your cycle, I can time our efforts accordingly.-

Efforts.

(Y/N) pressed a hand to her forehead. -You sound like you’re preparing for war, not trying to have a child.-

Madara’s brow furrowed. -Both require careful planning and execution.-

She stared at him. -You’re terrifying.-

He leaned closer, eyes dark, voice smooth. -Let me terrorize you then.-

…That was unfair. That was deeply unfair.

(Y/N) exhaled, shaking her head. -You cannot possibly expect me to just—just go along with this insane, militarized approach to—

Madara slid an arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap with effortless strength. -I expect you to understand that this is important to me. To us.- His lips brushed against the shell of her ear. -And I always get what I want.-

Oh, she was in so much trouble.

[mariacallous]

Cuts made by the Trump administration are threatening the function of a tiny but crucial office within the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration that maintains the US’s framework of spatial information: latitudes, longitudes, vertical measurements like elevation, and even measurements of Earth’s gravitational field.

Staff losses at the National Geodetic Survey (NGS), the oldest scientific agency in the US, could further cripple its mission and activities, including a long-awaited project to update the accuracy of these measurements, former employees and experts say. As the world turns more and more toward operations that need precise coordinate systems like the ones NGS provides, the science that underpins this office’s activities, these experts say, is becoming even more crucial.

The work of NGS, says Tim Burch, the executive director of the National Society of Professional Surveyors, “is kind of like oxygen. You don’t know you need it until it’s not there.”

“NOAA remains dedicated to providing timely information, research, and resources that serve the American public and ensure our nation’s environmental and economic resilience,” NOAA spokesperson Alison Gillespie told WIRED in an email when asked about the downsizing of NGS.

NGS was formed in 1807 by Thomas Jefferson, the son of a surveyor and cartographer. Originally called the Survey of the Coast, the organization, led by a young Swiss immigrant named Ferdinand Hassler, was tasked with mapping the coastlines of the new country. Over the next 200 years, its mission expanded to cover the practice of geodesy: the science of calculating the shape of the Earth, its orientation in space, and its gravitational field.

“Hassler understood that before you put pen to paper and make a chart or a map, if you wanted to [know how] things relate accurately one to another, especially if you’re going to do that over a large area like the United States, then you have to have a very strong mathematical foundation to put all these pieces together,” says Dave Doyle, a former chief geodetic surveyor at NGS. “That is, in a very simple way, what the science of geodesy brings to the nation.”

NGS is currently responsible for maintaining and updating what’s known as the National Spatial Reference System, a consistent system of physical coordinates used across federal and local governments, the private sector, and academia. This includes not only latitude and longitude, but also measurements of depth and height as well as calculations around Earth’s gravitational field—crucial mathematics that inform much of the basic infrastructure around us, from constructing bridges to mapping out water and electric lines. NGS also maintains and operates more than 1,700 federally owned satellite receivers across the US, which provide publicly available geospatial information.

While individual surveyors can compare heights and distances in smaller areas, it’s far more difficult to compare mountains thousands of miles from each other, or know exactly how sea level rise may be affecting different areas of the country that have vastly different coastlines. Having a coordinated frame of reference across the entire country—both latitude and longitude as well as depth and height—underpins the accurate positioning of locations across the US in relation to each other, as well as in relation to other geospatial measurement systems across the world.

The Earth is also constantly shifting: the motion of tectonic plates causes latitude and longitude coordinates to slowly move, mandating that they be updated every few decades. In some places—like the coast of Louisiana, where subsidence is causing between 25 to 35 square feet of land loss each year—these shifts manifest much quicker.

“Most people can stand on the beach and see the water and turn around and look at a dune behind them and go: ‘Oh, yeah. That’s about 5 or 6 feet above sea level,’” says Doyle. But when it comes to building things, you need to be able to accurately take measurements at scale. “You have to have some system of heights that is standardized across a large geographic body. I want consistent heights from New York to Maryland so we can build highways, so we can build utility infrastructure. You want to make sure water is always flowing in the appropriate direction.”

The US is currently working with a particularly outdated set of coordinate systems. The current measurements contained in the National Spatial Reference System—including latitude, longitude, and vertical heights, a set of reference systems called datums—were established in the 1980s, shortly after the US launched the world’s first GPS satellites. In the years since those datums were created, increasingly advanced satellite technology has enabled geodesists to more accurately measure the shape and orientation of the Earth, and to better position their measurements. As a result, each point of measurement in the US datums is now, on average, around two meters off from its actual, accurate location. In some locations, it’s even more extreme.

As anyone who has tried to go for a run with a glitchy Garmin watch knows, current GPS technology has limits in terms of on-the-ground precision. For everyday navigation, exact locations aren’t truly necessary—but for a variety of activities, from mapping floodplains to building bridges to measuring sea level rise, every centimeter becomes crucial. Ensuring hyper-accurate location is also becoming increasingly important as more and more industries are building up around automation that relies on precise spatial measurements.

“Do you want to get in an autonomous taxi that is plus or minus two and a half meters going down the road?” says Burch. “I don’t. That is part of the critical piece here: all these systems have to be this tight and this precise moving forward.”

In order to update the US’s datums to be in line with satellite data, land shifts, and accurate measurements of the Earth, staff at NGS were planning on rolling out a long-awaited modernization of the National Spatial Reference System, bringing it into the 21st century and making it easier to update moving forward. Originally scheduled to be completed in 2022, the agency posted a notice in the federal register last fall detailing its updated timeline for rolling out the new datums and associated products in 2025 and 2026.

But three former staffers who left NGS in the past month say this planned rollout may be pushed even farther behind by staff losses, thanks to employees like them who took retirements, left their jobs, or were laid off as part of federal restructuring. According to former staff, NGS was sitting at 174 employees at the start of the year, with staff looking to fill an additional 15 positions to help with rolling out the new datums and educating federal agencies and local governments on their use. Since January 20, the agency has lost nearly a quarter of its staff and has had to freeze planned hiring. (When asked about the accuracy of these numbers, Gillespie, the NOAA spokesperson, told WIRED that the agency has a “long-standing practice not to discuss personnel or internal management matters.”)

The remaining staff are in an “all hands on deck” situation with the rollout, says Brett Howe, the former geodetic services division chief at NGS, who opted to retire at the end of April. Despite a dedicated staff, Howe says that the loss of many in senior leadership with decades of experience and institutional knowledge means that the agency can’t afford to go through any more cuts.

“If we get to hire back some people, we are still going to have trouble meeting that timeline of 2025 and 2026 [for the rollout], but we’ll be able to make it work,” he says. “If there are further cuts, or we’re not able to execute our [National Spatial Reference System] modernization plan, and then we get to a year, a year and a half from now, and we lose more people—either through other layoffs or they just retire—then I think we’re in real trouble. Then I wonder how we function as an agency.”

“At this time, the ongoing NSRS modernization plans are still aligned with the dates in the Federal Register notice,” Gillespie told WIRED. “NGS will be releasing foundational data and supporting products for testing and feedback in 2025.”

The fate of NGS under the Trump administration is unclear. A NOAA budget proposal from the White House Office of Management and Budget sent to the agency in April cuts the budget for the National Ocean Service, which houses NGS, by more than half. Project 2025 does not mention NGS by name, but it does mandate moving NOAA’s surveying capabilities to other agencies.

“We don’t speculate about things that may or may not happen in the future,” Gillespie said when asked about potential upcoming changes to the agency. “NOAA will continue to deliver weather information, forecasts and warnings, and conduct research pursuant to our public safety mission.”

The sharp drop in staff numbers at NGS is the tail end of a long decline for the practice of geodesy in the US. In 2022, a group of leading geodesic experts authored a paper on what they dubbed the US’s “geodesy crisis,” detailing how other world powers have invested in training geodesists over the past three decades while the US has wound down funding and training. China has invested particularly heavily in creating more geodesists: the country graduates between 9,000 and 12,500 geodesy students per year, many of whom are then employed by the government. By contrast, around 20 students graduated with advanced degrees in geodesy from US universities over the past decade.

This, the authors argue, has contributed to China rapidly overtaking the US in geospatial technologies and disciplines of all kinds. Nowhere is this clearer than with China’s satellite navigation system, BeiDou, which has been gaining on the US’s GPS system in accuracy. In 2023, a US government advisory board on GPS stated in a memo that GPS is now “substantially inferior” to BeiDou.

Like other cuts to public science made under the Trump administration, the losses from blows to this agency could be substantial. A 2012 analysis found that every taxpayer dollar spent on NGS’s coastal mapping program returned $35 in benefits, while a 2019 report found that the NGS program that models gravitational fields would provide between $4.2 and $13.3 billion worth of benefit over 10 years. The private sector also relies heavily on public data provided by NGS. Some analyses project that the geospatial economy will grow to $1 trillion by the end of the decade. It’s even more crucial, experts say, to have an updated spatial reference system in the US, as well as institutional knowledge of the basic science of how to measure and understand our Earth.

Many industries now “want that high accuracy positioning” that comes with advanced geospatial technology, Doyle says, “yet they don’t understand the basics of the science. Now you’ve got all these people punching buttons and getting numbers, and only a tiny percentage of them really understand what the numbers mean, and how one set of numbers relates to another.”

[slytherin-princess-x]

The winner takes it all

Mattheo x y/n

Enemies to something else?

Angsty/ high tension

The animosity between Y/N and Mattheo Riddle was a palpable thing, a thick, crackling energy that hung in the air whenever they were in the same room. It was a dance of disdain they had been performing for years, a well-rehearsed routine of sneers, cutting remarks, and deliberate attempts to irritate each other. It was just... them. Enemies. Pure and simple.

So, when Professor Snape, with a particularly malevolent glint in his eyes, announced that they would be duelling in pairs and then declared, with theatrical flair, "Miss Y/N, you will be partnering with Mr. Riddle," a collective groan rippled through the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Y/N's jaw tightened. Fantastic. Just her luck. Across the room, Mattheo’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. He knew this would be good. Oh, he knew.

“Positions, please,” Snape drawled, his voice dripping with a dark satisfaction that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying the brewing storm.

They stalked toward the designated duelling area, the silence between them thick with unspoken threats. Y/N felt her pulse quicken, and not entirely with dread. There was a thrill, a dark excitement in facing Mattheo, a strange, twisted kind of respect for his abilities, however infuriating.

They bowed stiffly, a formality that felt absurd given their history.

"Ready, Miss Y/N?" Snape's voice cut through the tension.

“Always,” she snapped, her eyes fixed on Mattheo.

“Begin!”

The moment the word left Snape’s lips, the air crackled with magic. Mattheo was the first to strike, a jet of red light shooting towards Y/N with deadly accuracy. She dodged, the spell narrowly missing her head, singeing a strand of hair.

"Too slow, Y/N!" Mattheo taunted, his voice laced with amusement.

"Just warming up, Riddle," she retorted, retaliating with a Disarming Charm. He blocked it effortlessly, and the duel devolved into a furious exchange of spells.

Y/N was a skilled dueller, honed by years of dedicated practice and a natural aptitude for combat. She favoured speed and precision, a whirlwind of motion that made her a difficult target. Mattheo, however, was a force of raw power, his spells delivered with merciless intent. Each block, each parry, was a calculated move.

"Stupefy!" Mattheo roared, the spell whistling past her ear. She countered with a Leg-Locker Curse, aiming to incapacitate him. It hit its mark, and Mattheo stumbled, momentarily thrown off balance.

Y/N seized the opportunity. She didn't just want to disarm him; she wanted to humiliate him. She lunged forward, wand forgotten for a moment, and with a swift move, swiped his legs out from under him. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, his wand skittering across the floor.

A collective gasp echoed through the classroom. Mattheo, on the floor? Unthinkable.

His eyes blazed with fury. "Dirty tactics, Y/N? I expect nothing less."

She smirked, knowing she’d struck a nerve. "All's fair in love and war, Riddle. And you and I, well, we’re definitely at war.”

Before he could react, she was on him, straddling his chest, her wand pointed directly at his throat. She had him. She’d won. This was where she would have disarmed him and ended it… but she hesitated.

He was lying beneath her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his gaze intense, predatory. He looked... different. Beneath the anger, there was something else flickering in his dark eyes, something that sent a strange shiver down her spine.

“Going to finish it, Y/N?” he rasped, his voice suddenly low and husky. “Or are you just enjoying the view?”

Her resolve wavered. He was deliberately trying to distract her, to throw her off her game. But the proximity, the sheer physical presence of him beneath her, was having an unexpected effect.

“Get off me,” he growled, and then, before she could react, he bucked upwards, throwing her off balance. She landed hard on the floor, her wand flying from her grip.

He was on his feet in an instant, his wand retrieved, his eyes glittering with triumph. The duel resumed with a renewed ferocity.

They traded blow after blow, the air thick with spells, the noise deafening. Y/N conjured a shield to deflect a particularly nasty curse, but the force of the impact sent her stumbling backwards. Mattheo pressed his advantage, his spells becoming more aggressive, more dangerous.

“Confringo!” he shouted, a Blasting Curse hurtling towards her.

She barely managed to dive out of the way, the spell exploding against the wall behind her, sending shards of stone flying. A piece grazed her cheek, drawing blood.

The taste of blood filled her mouth, and a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. It was no longer about strategy or skill; it was about survival. She summoned her inner reserves of strength, drawing on all her training, all her anger, all her frustration.

She cast a series of wordless spells, rapid and unpredictable, forcing Mattheo to defend himself desperately. He was breathing heavily now, his face flushed, a cut above his eye dripping blood down his temple.

They were both bleeding, both bruised, both exhausted but neither one wanting to back down. Y/N wiped the blood trickling into her eye. “Accio Mattheo’s wand!” she yelled, wandlessly summoning his wand into her hand.

He was quick however, wandless spells were not an area he was weak in and he had sent one of his own. “Expelliarmus!” directly towards Y/N’s wand that she had retrieved from the ground. The tip of his wand glowing blue. She used protego to defend herself and was getting frustrated that she hadn’t been able to disarm him. Y/N was good at wandless spells and that was her advantage.

He launched another spell at her, aiming for her legs. Y/N jumped out of the way “Flipendo!” she yelled, it hit Mattheo directly in the chest and he flew backwards.

The force of the spell stunned him but didn’t knock him out. He laid on the ground gasping for air.

Y/N stood over him, panting, her chest heaving. Blood dripped from the cut on her cheek, mingling with the sweat on her forehead.

She was a mess. But so was he. They both were. This was taking too long.

Suddenly, a wicked smile spread across her face. “All that blood looks good on you, Riddle,” she said, her voice husky with exertion. “It really brings out your eyes.”

And then, to further goad him, she wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her hand, deliberately smearing it across her skin.

Mattheo pushed himself up on his elbows, his eyes blazing. Y/N knew she’d pushed him too far.

“That’s it,” he snarled, his voice dangerously low. “You’ve done it now, Y/N.”

He launched himself at her, tackling her to the ground. The classroom seemed to fade away, the only reality the feel of his body against hers, the raw energy that crackled between them. This was more than just a duel; it was a battle of wills, a struggle for dominance, a twisted expression of the strange, undeniable connection that bound them together.

Snape watched the whole scene unfold. There was no doubt that he was relishing every minute of it. He made no attempt to stop them, content to let their animosity reach its fever pitch. He knew they would not severely injure each other, they were too similar for that. This rivalry was what brought balance to the classroom.

Before he could recover, Y/N was on him, straddling his chest, pinning his arms to the floor. She raised her wand, pointing it directly at his throat.

"Any last words, Riddle?" she hissed, her voice laced with venom.

Mattheo stared up at her, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and… something else. Something that made her stomach flip. He shifted, trying to dislodge her, but Y/N held firm.

Instead of answering, he smirked, a slow, infuriatingly arrogant smirk. "You're on top of me, Y/N. I’d say I’m winning."

Y/N hesitated, her concentration wavering. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way his lips were slightly parted. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the way her own heart was hammering in her chest.

The moment of distraction was all Mattheo needed. With a surge of strength, he bucked her off, rolling her onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet, retrieving his wand.

The fight resumed, but now it was fueled by something more than just pure animosity. There was a raw, animalistic energy in the air, a sense of danger that was both terrifying and exhilarating. They exchanged blow after blow, their faces flushed, their bodies slick with sweat and blood.

Finally, Y/N landed a particularly nasty blow, a spell that caught Mattheo off guard, sending him stumbling backward. He crashed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He was bruised, bloodied, and clearly winded.

Y/N stood over him, panting, her own body aching, her clothes torn. She wiped the blood from her lips, a strange feeling churning in her stomach. The blood tasted… almost sweet.

She looked at Mattheo, sprawled against the wall, his dark eyes fixed on her. He looked… different. Vulnerable. And strangely… beautiful.

"All that blood looks good on you, Riddle," she said, her voice breathy, barely a whisper. She deliberately smeared the blood from her lips across her cheek, wanting to provoke him, wanting to see what would happen. "It really brings out your eyes."

Mattheo’s lips curled into a half-smile, his eyes flashing. "You think so, Y/N?" he rasped, his voice low and husky. "Maybe we should make a habit of this."

Snape, who had been observing the duel with undisguised amusement, finally cleared his throat. "Enough!" he barked, his voice echoing through the classroom. "Miss Y/N, Mr.Mattheo, a draw, I presume? Take yourselves to the Hospital Wing!"

Y/N stared at Mattheo for a long moment, the air thick with unspoken words, with the residue of their brutal, almost intimate battle. Then, without a word, she turned and stalked out of the classroom, leaving Mattheo Riddle to pick himself up from the floor. She knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this was far from over. Their war had just taken a very interesting, and very dangerous, turn.

Taglist: @yootvi @littlemadamred @smut-anarchy @redeemingvillains @nodoubtily

[writeriguess]

Beyond Stars // Sylus x fem!reader

author's note: just something I had in my mind.

The endless expanse of stars stretches out before you, a cosmic canvas of glittering diamonds against the dark velvet of the universe. The hum of your ship’s engines is a steady, comforting presence, though in the vast silence of space, it almost feels too loud. Your fingers hover over the controls, eyes scanning the radar for any sign of danger, but tonight, something feels different. The battle ahead isn’t just another routine patrol. The tension in the air is palpable, an undercurrent of unease you can’t quite shake.

You try to push it down, focusing on the task at hand. But it’s impossible to ignore. Something is off. You can feel it in your bones, in the weight of every second that ticks by.

And then, your comms crackle to life.

“Stay sharp,” comes the voice you know so well. Calm, steady, always reassuring. “I’m picking up something on my scanners. We might be in for more than we expected.”

You don’t need to look to know it’s Sylus. His voice is familiar, the sound of it a reminder that no matter what happens, he’s always there, always watching your back.

“Understood,” you reply, your fingers already dancing across the control panel as you pull your ship into a sharper turn, keeping your eyes on the enemy's last known position. The lights of distant ships flicker like fireflies, just out of reach. There’s a chill in your gut, an instinct that tells you the danger is closing in.

“Keep your distance,” Sylus advises. His voice is quiet but firm. “We’ll need to work together on this.”

You nod to yourself, though there’s no one else in the cockpit. A quiet promise that you’ll do your part. You’re not just a pilot—you’re a fighter. And tonight, you’re not facing this alone.

The enemy ships come into view, their silhouettes cutting through the dark of space like sharp knives. A dozen or so, darting through the void with unnerving precision. It’s not just a skirmish. This is an ambush. A coordinated attack.

You reach for your weapons, engaging the enemy with a swift, deadly strike. Your ship’s cannons fire with a satisfying roar, and an enemy ship explodes in a burst of light. But they keep coming—more of them, closing in, faster than you anticipated. Your pulse quickens. You can feel the pressure mounting.

"Break off now!" Sylus orders, his tone sharp, urgent. “You need to pull back. This isn’t a fight we can win head-on.”

You grit your teeth, unwilling to retreat. "I’ve got this," you mutter, weaving through the chaos of the battlefield. There’s no turning back now. You won’t leave this fight unfinished.

But then, a blast hits. Your ship shudders violently, the jolt of it throwing you against your seat. The warning lights blink urgently. Your shields are down. Your engines sputter. You struggle to regain control as your ship veers off course. The next shot would be your last.

“Get out of there!” Sylus’s voice cracks through the comm, sharper than ever. "Move! Now!”

Panic claws at your chest as the realization settles in. You can’t do this on your own anymore. Your hands fumble for the throttle, but the controls are unresponsive. The enemy ships are closing in on you, their targeting systems locking on, preparing to fire. You know it’s only a matter of seconds before they land the killing blow.

And then—through the haze of panic, you see it. A flash of silver and blue, cutting through the blackness like a predator on the hunt. Sylus. His ship. He’s here.

His presence brings an unexpected wave of relief, but you don’t have time to breathe just yet. His ship moves with fluid precision, dodging enemy fire like it’s nothing. He fires back with deadly accuracy, taking out the closest enemy ships in an instant. But still, the rest close in.

“No!” you shout, trying to regain control, but the damage is already too great. You can’t fight anymore.

“Stay with me,” Sylus says, his voice low but urgent. "I’m not losing you."

His ship positions itself between you and the enemy, taking the brunt of the fire aimed at you. His shields flare with every hit, but they hold. His cannons light up the darkness, tearing through the enemy ranks with unrelenting force.

You can’t help but watch in awe, even as the danger presses in. Sylus doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate. He’s a force of nature in the void. The precision with which he operates—every shot, every move, calculated, deliberate—it’s as though he’s part of the very fabric of space itself.

“Get ready to move,” Sylus commands, his voice steady even as the chaos of battle rages around you. “I’m giving you a window. Take it.”

You don’t need to be told twice. With his protection, you push the throttle to the limit, feeling the briefest rush of relief as your ship surges forward. Sylus follows closely behind, keeping pace with you, blocking incoming fire with his own ship.

For a moment, you lose yourself in the rhythm of it all. You’re fighting together. No hesitation. No fear. Just trust. Trust that Sylus will keep you safe, trust that you can hold your own, trust that no matter what happens, you’ll make it through this—together.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the enemy begins to break apart. The remaining ships scatter, retreating into the dark abyss of space. The battle is over. For now.

You breathe in deep, the weight of the fight lifting from your shoulders. The ship’s systems are still damaged, but you’re alive. And that, at least, is something to hold on to.

"Thanks," you murmur, your voice hoarse, though you know he can hear you.

Sylus’s voice crackles through the comm, softer now, but still full of that steady resolve. “You don’t have to thank me. You would’ve done the same for me.”

You let his words sink in, a comfort in the quiet aftermath of the battle. There’s no need for more. You know him, and he knows you. That’s all that matters.

Your ship drifts beside his, the two of you moving through the silent void as the stars glitter around you. There’s no real danger now. No more enemies to face. Just the stillness of space.

“Looks like we make a pretty good team,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting into a small smile.

“We always have,” Sylus replies. “And we always will.”

As you float together, amidst the stars, you realize that with him by your side, you can face anything. No matter how vast, how dangerous the universe becomes, you will always have each other.

In the cold, infinite stretch of space, you’ve found something that feels like home.

[diggity-didge]

Reassigning the Main Six Ninja Weapons Because I Lowkey Hate Them

The more I watch Ninjago, the more I realize one thing: I hate the weapons assigned to the ninja. Like, LOATHE them.

So, to fix that, here's me reassigning the ninja weapons that fit their element/fighting style/overall vibes more!

Before I start, I will acknowledge that: a) Ninjago is meant to sell toy sets. I get it. The weapons were probably chosen off of what stereotypical ninja weapon looks coolest, and b) that being a Lego restricts what can be made (it’s hard to make Lego gauntlets the size of a minifigure. I get it.), and c) I’m insane and really enjoy the different types of premodern combat weapons the world has to offer and they probably thought people over the age of 11 wouldn’t get quite as invested into Ninjago as I would.

Anyways. Me being a hater outweighs all those disclaimers. This post is a little bit of an essay, so I put everything under the cut.

Cole: I'm starting with Cole because he is, by far, the WORST. He's the reason I made this post.

What screams "rocks, dirt, earth and superstrength" more than a scythe? Just about every other option! In the show, Cole barely even uses his scythe, opting to instead throw hands, which makes so much more sense for someone with SUPERSTRENGTH. Scythes are notoriously not actually weapons and are not good at being a viable weapon. They are hard to inflict damage with due to their limited range and shape of the blade, and the blade can be snapped off with enough force (which Cole has in spades). Piercing an enemy is difficult as the point of a scythe is curved and flat and very small, and very far away from the user so accuracy is also difficult. Big sweeping strikes are not optimal as they are easy to block or evade. If he was the elemental ninja of nature or plants or whatever, he'd get a pass for aesthetics because farmers use scythes.

The solution is to lean into Cole’s strength: strength. Give him gauntlets, like Vi from Arcane or Generator Rex. He's a close range brick shithouse, might as well make him even more of one. Other options for the “boxer on steroids” theme include push daggers (small knives designed for in-between the fingers) or, to really push home the "ninja" bit, give him Chinese deer horn knives.

But, gauntlets aren’t the only weapon associated with feats of strength. To keep with the original scythe having a handle, he could also be given a large hammer or axe, like Amy Rose or Hilda from Fire Emblem: 3 Houses. He’s big and strong and needs something that can handle-and dish out- that same power.

Jay: the second worst offender. He, to me, is the opposite of Cole- the unstoppable force to Cole's immovable object. He is based around speed and long range, and NUNCHAKU ARE ONLY ONE OF THOSE THINGS. It's also very difficult to conduct electricity with such a short weapon, when chain lightning is basically thee lightning attack.

Give him a chain whip (metal is a conductor, after all) or a rope dart. Something that can be thrown far and whipped around (WHIP? LIKE HIT SONG AND NINJAGO THEME WEEKEND WHI-). It’s also a very flashy and eye catching weapon that needs quite a bit of movement and precision to use, and I think it suits Jay’s personality well! He’s a very intelligent character and something that needs precision and maybe even calculations would fit him. Rope darts in particular are, well, as quick as lightning. Speed is his greatest ally, and the wide range and high flexibility allotted to him serves to only make his job easier.

Zane: Shuriken aren’t the worst thing, but they also don’t fit Zane. He's a versatile fighter when it comes to range and never uses his shuriken close-up since they’re typically used as throwing weapons and are too small to really be good at defensive maneuvers.

I would give him either a polearm or chakrams- both weapons that can be either short or long range and take skill to master. (Chakrams are circular blades that originate from India and Southeast Asia that can be thrown or used as hand to hand weapons.) I could also see Zane using throwing knives- once again, they are both long- and short-range weapons that a user can have multiple at a time. In fan art, I usually see him drawn with a bow and arrow (I’m only on season five so I don’t know if he does switch to a bow as his go to weapon), but unless he’s Legolas, if an enemy gets close, he’s cooked.

Lloyd: Lloyd suffers from Specialest Character Syndrome, where the Specialest Character gets the most boring weapon because that’s the most easily identifiable one. He has a katana, which, yeah, cool, he’s a ninja…BORING!! I think he should get Jay’s nunchaku. One of the biggest themes around Lloyd is duality. He’s the green ninja, he’s the golden ninja. He’s so young, but also old after being forcefully aged. He’s a human…but half oni. He’s the son of Garmadon, but the protector of Ninjago, etc. Having a double-grip weapon symbolizes that and allows for enough speed and enough brute strength for him to use effectively. And it’s very ninja.

Kai: Specialest Character Syndrome #2. He’s the Main Guy, and as the Main Guy of a Team, he gets to be red. And have a sword. And have fire powers. It’s just how these things work. It’s cliched, yes, but fire is an interesting element. It’s quick, but devastating. Strong and painful, but not solid.

A sword allows for quick, successive strikes, but also allows for heavy and powerful swings. It’s a good balance, and very unassuming. For someone like Kai, who thought he was the Green Ninja and likes being the center of attention, having such a simple and basic weapon and being forced to learn it’s actually a good choice with a lot of versatility would work. (I can practically hear him complaining: “but, Sensei, even Jay’s weapon is cooler than mine!”) I think he should stick with the sword! There are lots of types depending on the area of the world and time period, so this allows a lot of flexibility.

Nya: I'm not that far into the series so I actually haven't seen her become a ninja and am going off of vibes alone.

Make her spear a trident. Guys. C’mon. It's RIGHT THERE. I think a spear fits the elegant and fluid nature of water, and trident goes with the theme! Yeah, it’s a little obvious, but sometimes you just gotta commit to the bit.

[rosigold]

The Anatomical Off-Switch: Occipital Bone Vulnerability and the Ethics of Precision - Adam Lanza Pose

What happens when anatomical ignorance replaces precision in life-or-death situations? In areas that rely on the weaknesses of the human body — military, forensic, or medical — the difference between accurate comprehension and rough estimate can be success or catastrophic failure. One of the most critical subjects in our discussion is the human skull, and more specifically, the anatomical composition of the occipital bone. Techniques such as the so-called 'Adam's pose', which are founded on incapacitating certain parts of the cranium in a rush, presume a level of anatomical proficiency that is often underestimated. The implications are huge: a misunderstanding of human skull anatomy, particularly the location and vulnerability of the brainstem, can render such techniques useless or even fatal in unforeseen ways. This essay explores why anatomical accuracy, especially regarding the occipital bone and recumbent brainstem below, is not just important but mandatory.

Anatomy of the Skull: The Occipital Bone and Brainstem Vulnerability

The human skull, far from a passive covering for the encephalon, is an elaborately engineered architectural triumph. Its form — a mosaic of varying bone thickness, density, and morphological complexity — testifies to evolutionary precedence for protection being given to neural structures of different criticality. Of its component parts, pride of place — both anatomical and functional — goes to the occipital bone. Situated at the posteroinferior aspect of the skull, this trapezoidal bone not only forms the posterior cranial fossa but also encircles the foramen magnum, the vital opening through which the brainstem continues as the spinal cord. It is here, within this osseous crossroads, that the medulla oblongata — the cylindrical tract of autonomic and somatic neural pathways — finds its residence. The anatomical hardness of the occipital bone and the physiological criticalness of the medulla make this region a focal point for understanding the intersection of neuroanatomy and clinical vulnerability.

The occipital bone consists of four components: the squamous portion, two lateral condylar portions, and the basiocciput. Its squamous portion, while being in its external cortical layer robust, is internally thinned to accommodate the cerebellar hemispheres, while the basiocciput — a thick load-bearing plate — anchors the skull to the vertebral column via the occipital condyles. Critically, the bone density alters to balance cranial integrity and weight distribution; histological sectioning shows a gradient from compact cortical bone peripherally to cancellous trabeculae in the area of the foramen magnum. This architectural compromise nevertheless creates a biomechanical paradox: while the occipital bone is extremely effective at dispersing posteriorly applied forces, its shaping around the brainstem allows that in trauma scenarios it forms a locus minoris resistentiae (a point of least resistance).

To appreciate the dangers of occipital exposure, one must first decipher the function of the medulla as the most caudally situated segment of the brainstem. Often referred to as a biologic metronome, the medulla houses nuclei with cardiorespiratory autoregulatory functions — the dorsal respiratory group, the nucleus ambiguus, and the solitary tract nucleus — that together furnish involuntary respiration, vasomotor tone, and reflex functions such as coughing and swallowing. The pyramids contain corticospinal tracts for voluntary motor function, and the inferior olivary nuclei convey cerebellar communication. Perhaps most importantly, the medulla also integrates sensory information from cranial nerves IX (glossopharyngeal), X (vagus), and XII (hypoglossal), rendering it a foundation of both autonomic viability and somatic integrity.

Vulnerability and the 'Off-Switch' Phenomenon

Encasement of the medulla in the foramen magnum of the occipital bone — an architecture formed for spinal cord continuity, rather than impact protection — subjects it to catastrophic damage in trauma. Clinical case series of occipital impact (e.g., falls, blunt trauma) exhibit the same: Forces transmied via the thin squamous occipital bone or condylar regions result in medullary compression or shear injury, and a sudden cessation of autonomic functions. This syndrome, colloquially known as the 'off-switch' effect, manifests in the guise of acute apnea, bradycardia progressing to asystole, and loss of consciousness — an incompatible triad with ongoing life.

The biomechanics of such susceptibility are based upon fixed position of the medulla. Unlike the cerebral hemispheres, which are supported by cerebrospinal fluid buoyancy and septations of dura, the brainstem is supported by cranial nerve roots and denticulate ligaments that limit the brainstem's capacity to be displaced. Consequently, even minor osseous deformation — say, a basilar skull fracture extending into the clivus — may compress the ventral surface of the medulla, destroying the reticular activating system (RAS). The RAS, which controls wakefulness, is not functionally redundant; its permanent destruction results in coma or brainstem death, with the occipital region's fatal sensitivity.

This anatomical weakness has implications of great scope across specialities from trauma surgery to biomechanical engineering. In acute medicine, the 'occipital priority' guideline places prime importance on rapid stabilisation of neck and head to prevent secondary medullary damage — a practise validated by decreases in mortality in cases of atlanto-occipital dislocation. Neurosurgeons are confronted with moral complexities in managing irreversible brainstem damage, as medullary destruction always is subject to the determination of death under jurisdiction employing neurological criteria.

Furthermore, the vulnerability of the occipital bone has influenced protective technology. Modern helmet designs, for instance, prefer occipital reinforcement with multi-layered composites as a response to histological data that subjected the bone to comminuted fractures. Car headrests also aim to reduce hyperextension forces that can indirectly crush the foramen magnum.

Functional vs. Non-Functional Damage: Why Targeting Maers

The success of cranial interventions — clinical, tactical, or historical — depends on a fundamental anatomical fact: Neurological criticality is not uniformly distributed. The popular fallacy is that structural salience translates to functional necessity. The parietal and temporal bones, for instance, enclose the cerebrum, the locus of higher thought, sensory integration, and voluntary motor function. While injury to these regions may introduce dramatic clinical presentation — subdural haematomas, focal seizures, or aphasia — such injuries typically permit temporary survival due to bilateral organisation and functional redundancy of the cerebrum. A gunshot wound to the temporal lobe, even if potentially fatal secondary to secondary swelling or haemorrhage, may permit brainstem nuclei to be preserved, with intact autonomic function for a few minutes or hours. This creates a perilous scenario in tactical or defence contexts: an adversary with such injuries may still possess sufficient motor coordination to retaliate despite extensive cortical damage.

The target zone of the occipital bone, however, is a functional singularity. A projectile or impact force through this region risks direct injury to the medulla oblongata, which lacks the redundancy of the cerebrum. Neurophysiological shutdown in this location is not a gradual decline but an instantaneous failure of homeostatic control — an effect known as autonomic decoupling. Traditional histories of balefields, such as the correct coup de grâce techniques employed by medieval executioners targeting the occiput, or Roman gladius thrusts in the nape of the helmet, inherently accepted this dichotomy. Modern ballistic studies verify the same: kinetic energy transfer to the brainstem results in immediate loss of posture (through interference with vestibulospinal tracts) and quieting of the reticular activating system, rendering sensory-motor incapacitation absolute.

This dualism has both pragmatic and ethical dimensions. In police work, for example, reliance on parietal or temporal shots to neutralise threats offers non-lethal possibilities, leading to the potential escalation of interactions. Precise targeting of the occipital region — even though biomechanically perfect — is laden with humanitarian implications by virtue of being irreversible. Forensic pathology also makes this dichotomy more apparent: cerebral lacerations dominate homicide reports, whereas brainstem injuries are disproportionately linked to judicial or military interventions where instant lethality is maximised. The functional-non-functional distinction thus transcends anatomy, aligning with legal codes, combat ethics, and even the evolution of less-lethal technology.

Bone Structure and Ballistic Challenges: The Science of Penetration

The skull's heterogeneous structure — an admixture of dense cortical plates and spongy diploë — presents a dynamic challenge to penetrating energy. Terminal ballistics, projectile behaviour on impact, illustrates gross differences in cranial vulnerability. The 2–4 mm thick on average squamous portion of the occipital bone is very different from the 10–12 mm solid, labyrinthine petrous temporal bone. This difference is due to evolutionary demands: the petrous bone guards the cochlea and vestibular apparatus, which requires rock density, while the occipital region compromises between biped balance weight distribution and defence.

In ballistic situations, these fluctuations dictate outcomes. A 9mm parabellum bullet striking the petrous temporal bone at 90° can yaw or fragment due to the oblique slope and density gradient of the bone, truncating the depth of penetration. High-speed imaging studies demonstrate that rounds dissipate up to 60% kinetic energy on petrous fragmentation while preserving the middle cranial fossa integrity. Conversely, the occipital bone's relative thinness and perpendicular alignment to standard trajectories (e.g., rear-entry wounds) permit greater penetration. Military autopsy reports illustrate that 5.56×45mm NATO rounds impacting the occipital squama produce medulla oblongata penetration in 93% of cases versus 22% for temporal impacts — a disparity amplified by the occipital's proximity to the brainstem.

These principles hold outside the realm of ballistics. Occipital craniotomies in neurosurgery require precise burr hole placement to avoid dural sinuses, and temporal approaches require diamond-tipped drills to penetrate the petrous ridge. Even non-penetrating trauma follows this logic: occipital contrecoup injury from frontal impacts tends to crush the brainstem against the margin of the foramen magnum, whereas temporal impacts transfer energy through the zygomatic arch.

The implications for armour are profound. Modern combat helmets, such as the US Army's IHPS, employ occipital extension plates to counteract this deficiency. Vehicle ballistic glass, on the other hand, is angled to deflect rear-projectiles away from the Achilles' heel of the head. Nevertheless, material science is confronted with a paradox: More occipital armour risks compromising cervical mobility, reinforcing the age-old balancing act between protection and functionality.

Real-World Applications: Tactical, Historical, and Ethical Implications

The anatomical susceptibility of the occipital region and its shielding of the brainstem reverberate across fields, necessitating interdisciplinary analysis. In tactical environments, doctrinal overemphasis on the 'T-zone' (nasofrontal junction and orbits) or occipital targeting is commonly transmogrified into rote memorisation, divorcing technique from pathophysiological logic. Modern combat training manuals, such as the Close Quarter Combat Handbook of the British Army, encourage occipital shots in hostage rescue scenarios in order to minimise collateral risk — an approach grounded in the brainstem's 'neurological boleneck' status. Stress degradation of fine motor skills under most conditions makes operatives resort to less anatomically precise methods, such as centre-mass fire at high rate. Simulation work by Defence Science and Technology Laboratory (DSTL) discovers that only 34% of bullets that were shot in simulated states of stress actually struck targeted cranial targets, illustrating the disconnect between kinetic practise and theoretical training.

In the past, brainstem targeting fatality was exploited long before neuroanatomical maps existed. The misericorde, a medieval dagger that was employed to provide mercy strokes through the occiput, utilised the foramen magnum's exposure in combat with armour. Similarly, Edo-era Japanese kaishakunin (executioners) perfected seppuku techniques based on decapitation strikes aimed at severing the medulla, assuring instant death. These methods, though brutal, are an empirical understanding of functional neuroanatomy — a knowledge subsequently codified in 19th-century codes duello, where pistol shot to the back of the head was an honourable kill blow.

Forensically, cortical versus brainstem trauma is of enormous legal importance. A parietal gunshot wound may permit 30–90 seconds of agonal respiration, during which a victim could theoretically manipulate a crime scene or trigger defencive mechanisms. Occipital trauma leaves no such doubt: suppression of RAS activity excludes all volitional activity. This distinction has influenced criminal jurisprudence, specifically in R v. Dawes (2013), where the Court of Appeal overturned a murder conviction after forensic pathologists determined that the occipital wound to the victim could not immediately incapacitate, undermining the prosecution timeline.

Ethically, the brainstem's role as a biological kill-switch raises an accounting with the moral meaning of anatomical information. Bioethicists such as John Harris have equated medullary targeting with 'neurological euthanasia' — a mechanisation of death that bypasses higher consciousness, reducing human agency to a series of interruptible circuits. This model renders it hard to debate assisted dying, where medullary destruction could theoretically offer painless exits but could make anatomical precision normal as a tool of dehumanisation. The 2016 Lancet Commission report on Brain Death provocatively argued that irreversible brainstem damage would suffice for legal pronouncements of death, a stance opposed by disability groups who argue it undermines the sanctity of cortical personhood.

Conclusion

The Necessity of Knowing Where to Aim

To gamble on the weaknesses of the occipital bone without knowledge of its neuroanatomical stakes is to wield a blindfolded knife. The region's lethality is not merely a maer of bone density or ballistic convenience but of its evolutionary role as the final arbiter of autonomic survival. To this end, the injunction to 'know where to aim' functions outside tactical expedience — it is a metonym for the ethical burdens implicit within scientific mastery.

The vulnerability of the brainstem presents a double accounting: with the limits of human endurance and the hubris of those who would militarise its weaknesses. As the neurotechnologies spread — from directed-energy weapons systems capable of deploying non-penetrative disruption of the brainstem to AI-targeting systems — the boundary between precision and predation collapses. The 2021 UN Report on Lethal Autonomous Weapons Systems actively singled out medulla-targeting algorithms as morally troublesome, warning that 'automating the off-switch of consciousness risks divorcing lethality from accountability.'

However, this knowledge also carries redemptive possibilities. In neurosurgery, occipital craniectomies for the decompression of brainstem compression following trauma illustrate how anatomical accuracy can preserve life instead of ending it. Likewise, the development of non-invasive brainstem stimulation provides promise for conditions such as central sleep apnoea — a reflection of the double-edged nature of scientific advancement.

Lastly, the lesson of the occipital bone is a lesson of paradox: that the origin of life's most vital rhythms is both safeguarded and imperilled by a few millimetres of bone. To learn it is to balance on the razor's edge between biological imperative and existential danger — a borderland where knowledge does not merely empower but demands wisdom. As surgeon-philosopher Sherwin Nuland describes it, 'To master the body's machinery is to hold the threads of life and death; pull one, and the tapestry unravels.' Ignorance here is not merely dangerous — it is a failure of the duty to wield such power with reverence.

_

Verified Sources with Hyperlinks:

Occipital Bone Anatomy NCBI Bookshelf: [Anatomy, Head and Neck, Occipital Bone] (www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK541093/)

Skull Base Biomechanics TeachMeAnatomy: [Bones of the Skull] (teachmeanatomy.info/head/osteology/skull/)

Forensic Neuroanatomy LHSC Trauma Centre: [Basal Skull Fractures] (www.lhsc.on.ca/critical-care-trauma-centre/basal-skull-fractures)

Surgical Anatomy ScienceDirect: [Occipital Bone Overview (www.sciencedirect.com/topics/neuroscience/occipital-bone)

[atlasthegreatest]

Unseen Bonds / Wonder Woman x Daredevil! Female Reader

In which, Wonder Woman meets Daredevil, a blind vigilante in Gotham.

Word count: 3398

A/n: This was requested by an anon. I hope you enjoy it!

The rain fell in steady sheets over the dark streets of Gotham, the city pulsing with an undercurrent of crime and danger.

Diana Prince, better known as Wonder Woman, stood at the edge of a rooftop in Gotham City, her eyes scanning the streets below. She had heard of this mysterious vigilante—an enigma moving in the shadows, handling crime in ways that mirrored Batman’s ruthless efficiency but with a certain grace that piqued her curiosity.

This vigilante, dubbed Daredevil, had caught the attention of the Justice League. Though they weren’t a metahuman or an alien, they operated with the precision of someone well-versed in combat, instincts honed to perfection. Batman vouched for them, which was high praise coming from him. But still, Diana wanted to see for herself.

A figure emerged from the shadows, flipping effortlessly from a nearby fire escape and landing with a soft thud beside her. The woman wore a sleek red suit, reinforced yet flexible, with her hair cascading down from under her cowl. Two batons were strapped to her back, and her posture radiated confidence. This was Daredevil—but not the man that Diana had initially expected.

“You’re the infamous Daredevil,” Diana said, turning slightly to face her. “I expected someone taller.”

“Wonder Woman,” Y/n greeted, her voice smooth and calm.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” Diana replied, studying her carefully. “I had to see it for myself.”

Y/n offered a wry smile. “And? Am I living up to the rumors?”

Diana took in the woman before her, not just the strength in her posture but the subtle precision with which she moved. “That, and more.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the city below the only sound between them. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and the tension of unspoken understanding. Diana had fought with gods and men alike, but this vigilante was something different—something… magnetic.

“We have work to do,” Y/n finally said, breaking the silence. She turned, already moving towards the ledge. “Are you coming?”

Diana smiled, not one to back down from a challenge. “Lead the way.”

————————

Working with Y/n was unlike anything Diana had experienced before. The woman moved with the grace of a dancer, striking with deadly accuracy, her batons a blur as they disarmed criminals faster than they could react. And yet, despite her human limitations, she was always a step ahead—reading movements, anticipating attacks with almost supernatural precision.

Their partnership grew over the following weeks. What began as respect deepened into something more personal. Diana found herself captivated by Y/n’s strength, not just physically, but mentally—her sheer will to fight in a world filled with gods, monsters, and beings with abilities far beyond her own. Y/n wasn’t afraid to push herself to the brink, matching Diana’s resolve in every mission they took on together.

The Justice League soon took notice. Batman, who seldom praised anyone, spoke highly of her.

“She’s earned a place with us,” he said during a meeting, his voice unwavering. “Her skills are on par with mine.”

Superman raised an eyebrow, always skeptical of new members. “She’s human. No powers?”

“She doesn’t need them,” Batman retorted. “Neither do I.”

Diana, seated across from them, remained silent, but her mind was made up. She had seen Y/n’s capability firsthand and had witnessed her bravery and cleverness. Beyond her combat skills, there was something more—a connection between them that Diana couldn’t ignore.

“I agree,” she finally spoke. “She has more than earned her place.”

With Wonder Woman and Batman in her corner, the decision was made. Daredevil was formally invited to join the Justice League.

Y/n quickly became an integral part of the team. She fought alongside Superman, Flash, Aquaman, and the others, proving her worth time and time again. Her senses seemed to be sharper than any other human’s. Her combat instincts were flawless. Even Superman, who had initial doubts, came to appreciate her.

“She’s like a shadow,” he once remarked to Diana after a mission. “Always knowing where to be, how to strike. How does she do it?”

Diana smiled softly, her thoughts on the countless hours they’d spent together in the field. “She’s special. It’s more than skill—it’s instinct.”

The two women grew closer with each mission. The long hours in the field, the adrenaline of battle, the quiet moments in between—it all served to pull them into each other’s orbit. Diana found herself drawn to Y/n’s quiet strength, her sharp wit, and her unspoken vulnerabilities. Y/n, in turn, found comfort in Diana’s presence, in the unyielding force of compassion and power that the Amazon warrior carried.

They fought together, laughed together, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, fell for one another.

———————-

One night, during a particularly brutal battle against an interdimensional invader, the Justice League was scattered. Communications were down, and the battlefield was chaotic. The League members struggled to regroup, but Y/n remained calm amidst the storm. She began issuing commands, guiding Superman and Flash to weak points in the invader’s armor, directing Aquaman to areas where their forces were thinning.

Despite the overwhelming odds, her instructions were flawless.

The battle ended in victory, but the team gathered, breathless and confused.

“How did you know where everything was?” Flash asked, staring at her in disbelief. “Even with all the chaos—you knew exactly what to do.”

Y/n stood still, her mask concealing her face as the rain began to fall again. Her silence spoke volumes.

“ Y/n?” Diana’s voice cut through the tension, gentle but firm.

Y/n hesitated. Slowly, her hands reached up, and she pulled her mask away, revealing her face to the team for the first time.

Her eyes—unfocused, sightless—gazed ahead. There was a collective intake of breath from the League.

“I’m blind,” Daredevil said quietly, her voice steady but filled with the weight of years keeping this secret. “Have been since I was a child.”

The revelation hit the League hard. They had fought alongside her, trusted her instincts and abilities, yet never once suspected that she couldn’t see.

“How—” Flash began, stumbling over his words.

“My other senses are heightened,” Daredevil explained. “I hear things you don’t. Feel things you wouldn’t notice. I’ve trained my body to compensate for my lack of sight.”

Batman, ever composed, was the first to speak after the initial shock. “That explains a lot.”

The team slowly processed this revelation, but none were more affected than Diana. She approached Y/n, her gaze soft, full of admiration.

“All this time,” Diana whispered, stepping closer, “you’ve been fighting without sight. You’ve accomplished more than most with all their senses intact.”

Y/n smiled a small, grateful smile. “It doesn’t make me any less capable.”

“Far from it,” Diana said, her voice filled with warmth. She reached out and gently took Y/n’s hand. “You are extraordinary.”

The rain fell softly around them as the League stood in awe of their teammate. For Y/n, this was the first time she had allowed herself to be vulnerable in front of her newfound family. For Diana, it was the moment she realized that what she felt for the vigilante was more than admiration—it was something deeper, something undeniable.

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by her friends and fellow heroes, Y/n knew she had finally found her place.

————————-

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the Gotham streets slick and shimmering beneath the dim glow of streetlights. The Justice League dispersed after the mission, but Diana lingered. She watched Daredevil— Y/n—as she stood on the rooftop, silent, her mask tucked into her belt.

Diana approached her carefully. “I didn’t expect that,” she admitted softly.

Y/n’s head turned toward the sound of Diana’s voice, her expression calm but guarded. “Did you expect me to have some hidden powers?” she asked her tone light but edged with vulnerability.

Diana shook her head, though Y/n couldn’t see it. “No, not that. I knew you were special before I knew your secret. I just…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know how much you had overcome.”

Y/n’s lips curved into a slight smile, though it was bittersweet. “It’s been my reality for a long time. Blindness isn’t a weakness. It’s just… different.”

The admiration in Diana’s gaze deepened. She had faced countless warriors and fought alongside gods, but Y/n’s sheer will, her ability to thrive in a world so dangerous, with her blindness hidden from everyone—took a different kind of strength.

“And yet, here you are,” Diana said, stepping closer until she was within arm’s reach. “Fighting beside gods and heroes. Holding your own against threats that even we struggle with.”

Y/n’s face softened, her guard slipping. “It’s not easy, but it’s what I do. It’s all I know.”

Diana reached out and gently touched Y/n’s arm, her fingers brushing against the red leather of her suit. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

The weight of those words hung between them. Y/n turned her head slightly as if searching for the meaning behind Diana’s voice. The sincerity, the care—it was something she hadn’t expected from a warrior as fierce and legendary as Wonder Woman.

Y/n’s breath hitched slightly, her emotions catching up to her as she realized how close they had become. She had worked alone for so long and kept everyone at arm’s length. But with Diana, things felt different. Safer. And that scared her.

“I’m not used to relying on anyone else,” she admitted. “I never wanted to.”

“You don’t have to rely on anyone,” Diana said softly, her hand still resting on Y/n’s arm. “But it doesn’t mean you’re alone. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

Y/n felt the weight of those words, the sincerity behind them. In all the years of fighting, surviving, and pushing herself to the edge, no one had ever made her feel seen the way Diana did now.

The warmth of Diana’s presence, the strength in her voice, made Y/n feel like maybe—just maybe—she didn’t need to hide anymore.

“Diana, I—” Y/n hesitated, her usual confidence faltering.

Diana’s hand moved, sliding gently to cup Y/n’s face, her thumb brushing lightly across her cheek. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered, her voice filled with understanding.

For the first time in years, Y/n let herself relax. She leaned into Diana’s touch, her walls slowly crumbling. There was something about Diana—her unwavering strength, her compassion—that made Y/n feel like she didn’t have to fight every battle alone.

“I’m not used to this,” Y/n said, her voice quiet. “Letting someone in.”

“You’re not the only one,” Diana replied, her thumb still gently caressing Y/n’s cheek.

They stood there for a moment, the city silent around them. It was as though the world had faded away, leaving just the two of them on that rooftop—two warriors, two women who had faced so much but still found something in each other.

Y/n reached up, her fingers brushing Diana’s hand as it rested against her cheek. “What happens now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Diana’s gaze softened, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Whatever we want,” she said, her voice full of warmth.

Y/n exhaled softly, the tension in her body easing as she allowed herself to be vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in years. With Diana, things didn’t feel uncertain or dangerous. They felt… right.

Diana leaned in slowly, giving Y/n time to pull away if she wanted to. But Y/n didn’t move. Instead, she closed the small distance between them, her lips meeting Diana’s in a soft, hesitant kiss. It was tender, careful—a moment of quiet understanding between two women who had finally allowed themselves to feel.

When they pulled away, Y/n’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I guess that’s one way to solidify a partnership.”

Diana chuckled, the sound light and full of affection. “I’d say it’s a good start.”

The next day, the Justice League met again. Superman, Batman, and the others were already in the command center when Diana and Y/n entered, walking side by side. The League still had questions, of course—about how Y/n had managed to fight so flawlessly without sight, about how she had kept this secret for so long.

But none of that mattered anymore. What mattered was that Y/n was part of the team. She had proven herself time and time again, and now the truth was out in the open.

“I should have figured it out sooner,” Batman said with a rare hint of admiration in his voice. “But you hid it well.”

Y/n smirked. “I had to. Couldn’t have the League worrying about me.”

“We weren’t worried,” Superman said with a grin. “But we’re definitely impressed.”

Flash zipped over to stand next to her, his usual energy bubbling over. “Seriously, though. You’re like… Batman-level scary. And you did it all blind? That’s insane!”

“Guess I have to keep up appearances,” Elektra teased, though there was a warmth in her voice.

The others smiled, and the tension from the night before faded into something new. Y/n was no longer the mysterious outsider. She was one of them, and they respected her all the more for her honesty.

As the meeting continued, planning their next steps against looming threats, Diana and Y/n exchanged a glance. It was subtle, but it held the promise of something more—a future where they would fight side by side, not just as partners in battle, but as something deeper.

And for the first time in a long while, Y/n felt like she belonged. Not just in the League, but with Diana—wherever that path would lead.

Bonus chapter:

The sun hung high in the sky over Washington, D.C., casting warm rays on the city below. It was one of those rare days when the world wasn’t in immediate danger, and the Justice League didn’t have an intergalactic threat to deal with. For Diana Prince and Y/n, it was an even rarer occasion: a day off.

For once, they weren’t in their suits or masks. There were no battles to be fought, no criminals to chase down. It was just the two of them, walking through the bustling streets, blending in with the crowd.

Diana wore a simple white blouse tucked into fitted jeans, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Y/n, dressed in a sleek black leather jacket over a burgundy top and dark jeans, moved beside her with the help of her cane with the same grace she carried on the battlefield. But today, there was no tension, no need to be on high alert—just a sense of peace between them.

“So,” Y/n said, turning her head toward Diana as they strolled through the National Mall, “what exactly do normal people do on dates? I’m a little out of practice.”

Diana laughed, her voice light and musical. “We do what we want to do, Y/n. That’s the beauty of it.”

Y/n smiled, adjusting her pace to match Diana’s. Though blind, her other senses were finely tuned, allowing her to navigate the world around her effortlessly. And with Diana by her side, there was an ease to their movement—a natural synchronicity.

They wandered through the mall, passing tourists and families, their conversation flowing effortlessly between light banter and deeper, more personal topics. Diana took them to a small café, nestled off a quiet street. The tables were set outside under a canopy of trees, their leaves rustling gently in the summer breeze.

They found a seat at a corner table, and Diana ordered them coffee and pastries. Y/n, who was used to surviving on quick meals between missions, felt a sense of calm she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She leaned back in her chair, the sounds of the city alive around her, the smell of fresh coffee drifting through the air.

“This feels… strange,” Y/n admitted, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “Sitting here, doing something so normal.”

Diana smiled warmly across the table. “I think we’ve earned a bit of normalcy.”

Y/n tilted her head, considering the statement. “It’s just… I don’t usually let myself have this. I’m always on edge, always thinking about the next move, the next fight.”

“You don’t always have to fight,” Diana said gently, reaching across the table to take Y/n’s hand in hers. “Not when you’re with me.”

Y/n’s fingers tightened around Diana’s, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ll try to remember that.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the world go by. Diana watched Y/n with quiet admiration, marveling at how someone so fierce and driven could also be so vulnerable in these moments. She loved the contrast, loved how Y/n could switch from lethal to soft, depending on the situation.

As they finished their coffee, Diana leaned forward with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I have something I want to show you.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what’s that?”

Diana stood, pulling Y/n gently to her feet. “You’ll see.”

——-——————-

Diana led Y/n through the quiet, tree-lined paths of a nearby park, the sounds of the city fading into the background. Birds chirped overhead, the wind carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” Diana said, her voice soft. “It’s where I go when I need to feel connected to the world outside of being Wonder Woman.”

Y/n’s grip tightened slightly on Diana’s arm, her opaque eyes turning toward the sounds around them. “It’s peaceful,” she remarked. “I can hear it—the quiet.”

Diana smiled. “I thought you might appreciate it.”

They continued walking until they reached a small, secluded clearing. A lone bench sat under the shade of a massive oak tree, its branches stretching out like a protective canopy.

Diana led Y/n to the bench and they sat, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves, casting soft shadows on the ground.

“This is my favorite spot,” Diana said, leaning back and crossing her legs. “It’s far enough from the city that you can forget everything for a while.”

Y/n leaned into Diana’s side, resting her head on her shoulder. “It’s perfect.”

For a moment, they sat in contented silence. The world felt far away, their responsibilities as heroes a distant memory. In this small pocket of time, they were simply Diana and Y/n—two women enjoying each other’s company, away from the weight of their usual lives.

Y/n shifted slightly, turning her face toward Diana. “I never thought I’d have this,” she confessed. “A quiet moment with someone who makes me feel… safe.”

Diana smiled, her arm wrapping around Y/n’s arm, pulling her closer. “You deserve it. More than you know.”

Y/n’s lips quirked into a small, vulnerable smile. “You’re making me soft, Diana.”

Diana chuckled. “Good. You’re allowed to be soft sometimes.”

They stayed like that for a long while, the world passing them by as they shared the simple pleasure of being together. There were no battles to fight, no masks to wear—just them, in the quiet.

They stood together as the sky shifted from gold to deep orange, the city coming alive with the soft hum of evening lights. Y/n turned toward Diana, her blind eyes locking onto her as if she could see her through sheer will alone.

“Thank you,” Y/n said, her voice quiet but filled with emotion. “For giving me this.”

Diana leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/n’s lips. It was soft, unhurried, filled with the warmth of everything unsaid. When they pulled apart, Diana rested her forehead against Y/n’s.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Diana whispered. “Just stay with me.”

Y/n smiled a rare, genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Always.”

[ink-flavored]

#OCKiss2025 Day 5: Worship

Part of the @ockissweek event from Feb. 10-16th, featuring Xinya & Yu-Qi <- Day 4 - Day 6 -> Tips are appreciated!

Xinya clenched the armrests of her throne, suppressing the urge to launch herself across the hall. She watched, tense to the very ends of her eyelashes, as Yu-Qi followed close behind a pair of subjects come to seek guidance as they left the palace. Again.

Neither of them were brave enough to do anything about it—none had been so far—but the way they dodged her swooping in like a bird of prey was unmistakable. Yu-Qi darted around them, head cocked, and definitely trying to smell them. She kept her hands behind her back, the long sleeves of her robes obscuring just what she was doing with them, but Xinya had no doubt she would try grabbing at them any second. She’d only stopped trying to steal people’s clothes when told sternly to stop bothering her subjects. Apparently she needed to be told again.

Jao, standing ever-present at her side, glanced warily between the queen and the object of her frustration. “Your Greatness?” she asked, but Xinya lifted a hand to stay her.

“Yu-Qi, please,” she called, only barely restraining her irritation. “Stop.”

Yu-Qi stopped and turned, standing tall with an unbothered smile on her face. Her victims took the opportunity to walk faster, racing out of the throne room at a pace that would normally strike Xinya as rude. Today, she wanted to join them.

“Refrain from this and come sit quietly,” she said, not above begging after so many hours.

“But of course,” Yu-Qi replied, suspiciously agreeable. Xinya didn’t have the energy to worry about it.

She weaved around the thick, elaborately carved pillars that lined the throne room, each representing fourteen of the fifteen God-Dragons. Yu-Qi dawdled around her own pillar in particular, circling the palace artisans’ interpretation of her true form. After having seen it for herself, Xinya noted the discrepancies with uncomfortable accuracy.

With enough lethargy that it could only be intentional, Yu-Qi made her way up the short staircase to the throne. Xinya watched her carefully, the weight of her headdress threatening disgrace as she tilted her head down. Step by step, Yu-Qi held her cautious gaze, finally sitting where the flowing, golden train of her court robes ended.

“Thank you,” Xinya sighed.

“What is it like,” Yu-Qi asked, without prompting, “to sit upon that chair all day?”

“It’s uncomfortable.” She hoped the pointed emphasis was understood. “But it was built to be so, and so I endure it.”

“Why?”

“Because ruling is not meant to be comfortable.” Xinya deftly turned her hands, a light gesture to the throne underneath her, carved for the final of the God-Dragons, Keungkai. “I should not sit lightly upon my throne whilst I carry the lives of so many on my back, as the Father of the World carries us all.” She curled her fingers up to indicate her headdress, an elaborate tension of fabric, gold, gems, and ribbons. “My crown is heavy, so I cannot do anything but look forward and up to keep it on my head. And I am reminded of the burden it is to rule so long as I wear it—proudly, and with intention.”

 Yu-Qi nodded at her. “So many people have come to see you today.”

“As is their right. I have a responsibility to my people.”

“It’s a bit like being a god, is it not?”

Xinya flinched so suddenly her headdress jangled, Jao sucked in a harsh breath. Yu-Qi grinned with sharp teeth, eyes round and silver as the moon of her domain. Inscrutable in her intentions.

“I—No, of course it isn’t,” Xinya sputtered, mind racing to figure out her game. Was it another one of her endless curiosities? A test of character?

“How so, my beloved? Do you think I felt much different, watching all you little creatures from my territory?”

“Very! Certainly, you must understand that I have no such power as yours! For all I wish, I cannot help every person who wanders into my chambers—you can very well tip the scales of time and space.”

“Precisely.” Yu-Qi blinked slowly around the hall, passing her cool metallic gaze across hundreds of years of art and architecture. “I have watched your empires rise and fall, and all of them have stolen the many faces of my family to declare themselves. Humans are as slavishly devoted to pretending at divinity as they are to serving it.” She twisted her body in an impossible, reptilian way to face the throne again, the same sharp smile on her face. “With what little power you have, you grasp rather tightly.”

Every drop of blood in Xinya turned to ice and sank into her bones. She couldn’t move. The massive hall felt claustrophobic as the God-Dragon of Passion stared her down, pinning her to her throne—and why? What did this mean? Was it an insult, a way to grind her beneath draconic heel? Was she meant to remember her place—a mortal at the mercy of her god? She dared to glance at Jao. Her right hand looked as shocked as she felt, mouth tightened to a thin line.

Yu-Qi moved before either of them saw her. In a single breath, she knelt at the final stair before the throne. The long train of Xinya’s robes wrinkled as she shuffled forward on her knees. With cool hands, Yu-Qi clasped her legs, and placed a gentle kiss on each of her knees. A declaration of piety, the same as all those seeking her guidance presented. Xinya struggled with the weight of her headdress.

“I’ve always wondered,” Yu-Qi said, grinning from her knees, “what it would be like to be mortal. You have taught me much, little queen.”

As speechless as if she had cut out her tongue, Xinya could only stare. Never had a show of submission felt so much like a threat.

“Once we marry, I shall teach you about divinity. It’s only fair.” Yu-Qi stood, casting a tall shadow over the throne. She whipped her head to the doors to the apartments, like a dog on a scent. “Gold? Fresh gold?”

And like a bird, she raced out of the hall. The guards knew better than to try and stop her, and she threw the doors open without a pause for breath. Xinya didn’t relax until her footsteps disappeared.

She slumped like a queen never should. Hands on her face, headdress slipping down her scalp, back hunched like a creature hiding from the rain. She slouched like a mortal under duress.

“Your Greatness?” Jao asked warily. Fabric shuffled as she crouched by the arm of the throne. “Do you need… something?”

“A way to purge the last few minutes from my mind,” she groaned.

“I can… have tea brought?”

Xinya sighed, but uncovered her face. “A fair substitute.”

“Right away, Your Greatness.”

Jao bustled down the stairs, robes flowing in her haste. With an extra weight on her neck, Xinya adjusted her crown and sat tall on her uncomfortable throne. As a ruler should.  

--

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