wolfiihoney

[wolfiihoney]

sweaty

[wolfiihoney]

Rebuilding What Was Erased – A Message from Abedmajed in Gaza

My name is Abedmajed, and I live in Gaza with what remains of my once large and loving family.

In a single missile strike, we lost over 25 members of our family. They were not just names. They were mothers, daughters, sons, grandparents — people we shared meals with, laughed with, and built dreams with.

The missile hit our family home — the heart of everything we knew.

Among those killed were: 🕊️ My mother 🕊️ My sister 🕊️ My older brother His wife and their three daughters 🕊️ My uncle, his wife, and all their sons and grandchildren

We were left with nothing but rubble and grief. Yet somehow, my brother and I survived. And now, we carry the responsibility of rebuilding what was taken — not just for ourselves, but for our father, our surviving siblings, and the memory of those we lost.

💔 Why We’re Fundraising

This campaign is not just about survival. It’s about rebuilding a future — A family home, a shared life, a place where our father can rest safely, Where the next generation of our family can grow up knowing peace instead of trauma.

💬 The funds raised will help us:

🏗️ Rebuild our family home — which was completely destroyed 🛠️ Provide basic support for our father and siblings 🏡 Create safe, livable conditions for a family shattered by loss

🔒 How the Funds Are Managed

Due to the collapse of Gaza’s financial system, all donations are processed through my brother, who has a U.S. registered Stripe account. Funds are securely transferred to Gaza and distributed in cash here on the ground. We are transparent and ready to provide proof of every step.

🌱 Why Your Support Matters

We are not asking for charity. We’re asking for a chance to stand again, To rebuild something we can pass on to the children who survived.

Vetted By @gazavetters No:537

Your support gives us the strength not just to remember the ones we lost — but to honor them by continuing.

💬 If you can’t donate, a reblog means the world. 🕊️ From Gaza, with hope and dignity — thank you.

[wolfiihoney]

It’s my birthday!! ♥*♡∞:｡.｡

(Happy birthday to any of my bday twins 🥳)

[wolfiihoney]

Nanami is the type of husband who… ᧔࿔᧓

︶︶⊹ ୨ I love writing about nanami ୧ ⊹︶︶

Part 2 of my “the type of husband who” series.

Unedited, srry loves <3

Nanami is the type of husband who refuses to text you and will call you just because you texted a simple "hi."

Nanami is the type of husband who makes sure to learn how to perfect your favorite coffee or tea, so when you wake up in the morning it’s already there waiting for you.

Namami is the type of husband who can communicate his feelings VERY well and will help you with yours.

Namami is the type of husband who always yearned for marriage so when he got it, it became somewhat of a badge of honor. (Gojo also got him a “The Best Husband Ever” shirt for a wedding gift because he knew Kento wanted to be a husband and Nanami wears it as a bedtime shirt😭).

Nanami is the type of husband who doesn’t show public affection, but he will hold your hand with the occasional little back rub.

Nanami is the type of husband who wants babies and a lot of them. He always knew deep down that he wanted little ones running around but pushed the thought away because of his job (that’s until he met you).

Nanami is the type of husband who loves nicknames and rarely calls you by your real name. He prefers "darling" and "love".

Nanami is the type of husband who likes to wake up early but hates waking you up early because he knows how much you love to sleep, so he’ll just lay in bed watching you sleep, rubbing your hair. (He’s a super, loving man).

Nanami is the type of husband who works way too hard and needs a vacation every so often. he always lets you pick the destination though. (he took you to Malaysia for the honeymoon of course).

Nanami is the type of husband who LOVES to cuddle and will randomly grab a book and your hand to go out and cuddle in the big hammock in your backyard (just imagine that seriously).

Nanami is the type of husband who loves giving you what you want and struggles to say no. Do you want those nasty chips that have too much red food dye? Go grab a bag baby. Want to spend all night watching princess movies and eating candy? He’ll go fetch the blankets.

Nanami is the type of husband who adores the colder seasons and will randomly come home with 4 bags of fall decor (he’s so wholesome).

Nanami is the type of husband who is oblivious to how adorable he is. he does the cutest things throughout the whole day and when you bring it to his attention he’s just like “Oh”.

Nanami is the type of husband who you will hear in the next room bragging about how “smart and amazing ” you are, You'll randomly hear him say “My wife made the most lovely bread today” to one of his co workers.

Nanami is the type of husband who gets shy when his students ask to see a picture of you because they can’t believe he actually got married. (he shows them a thousand pictures of you lol).

Nanami is the type of husband who loves back scratches. He doesn’t like to expect anything from you but he will expect back scratches.

Nanami is the type of husband who holds your legs up so he can vacuum under where your legs are (he’s way too strong).

Nanami is the type of husband who starts a little book club with just the two of you and he looks forward to it every other week.

Nanami is the type of husband who will secretly feel betrayed when you take a nice bath without him because that’s something he likes to do with you.

Nanami is the type of husband who loves to take care of you but also loves when you take care of him. (He likes being babied and you are the only person who will ever know that information)

Reblogs are definitely appreciated ♡♡♡

[wolfiihoney]

[wolfiihoney]

Guyysssss I saw this CDG coat from their 2025 SS collection and neededdddd Choso in it desperately. But I think it may kill me. It’s sheer gauze over a maroon/purpleish under layer it’s going to push my fabric shading skills to the BRINK.

Anywhooo thanks for being here for the fan art. Open to requests if folx have thoughts/feelings/runway looks/characters.

Eventually I’ll get off of my JJK brainrot and back to my Fire Emblem brain rot so anticipate an influx of Claude in your feed sometime soon.

[wolfiihoney]

sneaking the mha boys over!

authors note: heavily inspired by this smau, aged up college au! masterlist link here.

including: i!midoryia, k!bakugo, s!todoroki, e!kirishima

taglist: @xoxojisu @candiiee @luvseraphh @cvnt4him @soundtrqck @chlosology @lotusstarr @cupkiki @wokasiv @badslittlemuffin @princessshnazzy @203steph @chitteringcicadaeyes @idk1187 @notartemis777 @chosostonguepiercing @chocolatedefendorbaa @t33th--r0t @3lenaatvt @the-faceless-bride @tuneinwlosers @badslittlemuffin @dreamcastgirl99 @gethexxed @moonstonejpg @pluto-9456 @wonubby @kye1aaazene @izukusfangirl @van9lla @dienamiight @sofi4dsam @kawaiiclubdaily @therefore-evermore @bluemailhiot @luckybibucky @sk1ppy-art @d011yyxx @myths-and-ledgends @icanread-icantwrite @changkyunnnie @blue-birdie-bixch @aj1j @twoplayergaymers @socialobligation @calliopemanga @tojisoneandonly1 @zeilixir @jlynns-posts @hisangelll1

[wolfiihoney]

— bug, part ii.

contents: college!sukuna x weird!reader. weird as in just odd and confusing behaviour but nonetheless cute, nothing pervy-weird. reader wears glasses because yes. really awkward and silly hehe

part i <- part ii -> part iii

day 2.

he figures it’s a one-time thing.

a glitch in the matrix. some weird campus cryptid latched onto him for ten minutes and then slithered back into whatever art building crawlspace you crawled out of.

he doesn’t even think about you again. not really.

not until the next afternoon.

he’s cutting across the east courtyard this time. earbuds in. hoodie up. gym bag slung over his shoulder like a threat. the sun’s too bright, his hangover’s kicking in, and someone spilled smoothie on the locker room bench this morning—so now his favorite hoodie smells like artificial strawberries and spite.

he’s halfway to the library steps, scowl already locked and loaded, when he hears it.

that same soft, off-key hum. buggy and breathy, like it’s being piped through a tin can.

he stops mid-step, completely still.

his playlist fades under the sound, like the world’s being tuned to your specific radio frequency.

no way. no fucking way.

slowly—too slowly, like a man turning to face a monster in a horror movie—he cranes his neck.

and there you are.

sitting under the big oak tree like it’s a throne made just for you.

same enormous sweatshirt swallowing your frame. same huge glasses slipping down your nose. bandaid still on your neck, but now there’s a little cartoon worm doodled on it in purple pen. legs swinging rhythmically like a little kid at the doctor’s office. there’s a juice box next to you—grape, he thinks—and you’re peeling a banana in slow motion. reverent.

you’re also staring directly at him.

unblinking.

he blinks once. then again.

you tilt your head.

he scowls.

“…are you fucking stalking me?”

“no,” you chirp, like this is a completely reasonable situation. “you’re just really easy to find.”

you tap your temple. “i have a sukuna sense.”

his jaw flexes. he’s genuinely not sure if you’re kidding or if you’ve genuinely installed some sort of psychic sukuna-tracker in your skull.

“stop saying weird shit.”

you pat the space next to you on the bench. casual. like this is a sitcom and you’re inviting your reluctant co-star to deliver his lines.

he doesn’t move. just glares.

you pat it again.

smile wider this time. not creepy—just patient. like you’re confident he’ll get tired eventually and choose to be around you.

“you’re not my friend,” he mutters.

“yet,” you say cheerfully, and punctuate it with a loud slurp from your juice box.

he stares at you like you’re an invasive species.

then snorts, half in disbelief, and stomps off without another word.

he doesn’t look back, not even once.

but the weird thing is—he’s not as annoyed as he should be.

day 3.

he’s at his locker. post-lift. sore, sweaty, halfway dead. earbuds in, head down. all he wants is a protein bar and a goddamn nap.

he spins the dial, opens the door—

—and three red skittles roll out and clatter onto the floor.

he freezes.

so do the guys around him.

one of them snorts. another mutters, “yo, what the hell?”

but sukuna doesn’t move. just stares at the skittles like they’re a warning. or a bomb.

he crouches, picks one up between his thumb and forefinger. there’s a tiny smiley face drawn on it in ink. the lines are a little shaky. probably drawn in a rush.

he grits his teeth. he doesn’t even like candy.

he glances down the hallway instinctively. doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear you. but something in the air feels off. staticky.

he tosses the skittle into his bag and slams the locker shut a little harder than necessary.

the next two he keeps in his palm.

he doesn’t know why.

day 4.

today he changes his route entirely. cuts around the humanities building. skirts the edge of the quad like it’s lava. ditches his usual corner table at the library and slinks into the back of the dining hall, behind a dusty fake ficus that smells like cheap plastic and desperation.

finally. finally.

no bug. no hum. no weird banana rituals or unsolicited commentary.

he grabs a tray, sits down, and pulls out his phone. opens it to scroll aimlessly. silence surrounds him.

for thirty blissful seconds.

then—

“hi.”

he flinches. audibly. jerks his head up so fast he nearly knocks over his drink.

you’re standing in front of him.

holding a tupperware container. it has a sticker on the lid that says “this is NOT poison” with a smiley face next to it.

“…how the fuck do you keep finding me?”

you blink innocently. “i told you. sukuna sense.”

he glares. “you are not funny.”

you shrug. “not trying to be.”

you pop the lid open and hold it out. inside: a peanut butter sandwich. no crusts. cut into the shape of a bat. it’s kind of ugly, if he’s honest, but also strangely… deliberate.

“it’s a snackrifice,” you say. “in exchange for your continued tolerance.”

he opens his mouth. ready to tell you to take it and leave. to stop harassing him. to go find a new person to haunt.

but the crusts are cut off and it smells kinda good.

he snatches it from your hands like a feral raccoon and mutters, “you’re so fucking weird.”

you beam and plop down across from him. he doesn’t kick you out. he eats the sandwich in silence.

day 5.

he gets to class early. because he has to. he’s not going to sit in the back like some loser just because you’ve wormed your way into his territory.

but when he walks in—you’re already in his seat.

you’re humming. chewing on a pen labeled penjamin in sparkly marker.

there’s a tiny paper crane perched next to your notes. it has googly eyes stuck on it and what looks like a cape made from a gum wrapper.

he stops in the aisle. glares at you. hard.

you look up. blink once.

and then calmly pat the seat beside you.

he stares. you pat again.

he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and drops his bag onto the floor with a thud.

sits beside you.

you don’t say anything. just grin like a cat who’s claimed a sunbeam. your knee bumps his under the table.

he tells himself not to react.

he fails.

day 6.

you don’t show up.

he notices immediately. not consciously—but something feels off. like the sound in the world is too clear. too unbothered.

he walks across the courtyard. eyes skim the oak tree. it’s empty. the bench is cold.

he tells himself that’s good. peaceful.

but then he lingers by the vending machines. glances around the quad. checks his locker twice.

finally, right before his next class, he opens the locker again.

and finds it.

a sticky note, crooked and half-folded, clinging to the inside wall. your handwriting is messy and weirdly round:

can’t bug you today. sick. dying probably. rip me. save me a seat. ps: don’t eat skittles from strangers. except me. i’m trustworthy.

underneath is a tiny doodle of a skull with glasses. and… a cape?

he stares at it for a long moment.

then slowly, carefully, peels it off and folds it into his hoodie pocket.

his hand stays there longer than it needs to. just in case.

—

after that, he doesn’t try to shake you anymore.

he eats lunch on the quad, and you’re there.

he waits for practice in the locker room hallway, and you’re there, too.

you show up like bad weather. like background noise.

but weirdly… you’re quiet.

you don’t talk unless you want to. you don’t interrupt or cling. you don’t demand anything from him.

you just exist beside him.

chewing on pens. humming under your breath. sometimes reading a book upside down, like that’s normal. you wear socks with frogs on them and have a bandaid on your hand even when you’re not bleeding.

you remind him of static electricity. of flickering lights. of a broken clock that’s still somehow right twice a day.

you make his eye twitch.

and yet—

every time he glares at you, and you smile back like he’s just being so funny, something in his chest stirs. something small and stupid. something flickering like a lighter on its last spark.

he tells himself he hates it.

he hates you.

but he doesn’t tell you to leave anymore.

and that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

[wolfiihoney]

Children in Gaza are losing their limbs every day—just like the little girl in this heartbreaking photo. The war has stolen their futures, their mobility, and their right to live in peace. My own son, Qais, is just two years old. He was injured in an airstrike, and I cannot afford the medical treatment he desperately needs. As a mother with no income, I beg you—PLEASE HELP US. Your donation could be the reason Qais walks again.

This is the terrifying reality for many children in Gaza:

1. Airstrikes often target residential areas, leaving children with life-altering injuries.

2. Hospitals lack medicine and equipment, and most families cannot afford private care.

3. Children like Qais are at risk of permanent disability, even death, without timely treatment.

I watch my child cry in pain every night, and I can do nothing but hold him. No mother should face this. We need your support now more than ever. Every donation—no matter the amount—can help save Qais’s leg, his future, and his life. Please, Don’t Look Away. Help Us Heal.

Donate Now Here

If you want to draw a smile and put it on Qais's heart, Donate Here.

Please stop ✋🚨 you're the only hope to save a child😔😭

Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #64 )🍉🇵🇸

[wolfiihoney]

🚨 My Name is Nasr — and This is Our Cry for Help 🚨

I’m writing this with a heart full of pain and hope.

My name is Nasr, a young man from Gaza, and I’m sharing our story not because I want to—but because I have to.

💔 The war took everything from us.

In just moments, my entire world collapsed.

My mother and sister were killed in an airstrike.

My father is seriously ill and unable to work or provide for us.

Now I am the one responsible for my younger siblings—little children who have seen more horror than any child should.

We used to live a simple life.

We weren’t rich, but we had love and hope.

Now, we sleep under the open sky, surrounded by fear and uncertainty.

Every night, I wonder how I’ll feed them tomorrow.

Every morning, I’m just thankful we’re still alive.

This is not just my story. This is our fight to survive.

We are now struggling to afford even the basics:

A home, food, medicine, and safety.

Right now, we need your kindness more than ever.

Even $10 💵 can help us:

Buy food for the children 🍞

Get essential medicine for my father 💊

Buy them clothes or warm blankets 🧥

Give them a small sense of safety

If you can’t donate, you can still help.

�� Re-share this post. Spread our story.

You never know who might see it and feel moved to help.

We are not just numbers. We are human. We are survivors. And we’re asking you… please don’t look away.

🙏 Help us survive. Help us feel human again.

[wolfiihoney]

Rockstar Girlfriend 🎸

You were probably his first real listener. First fan, even. His account had no followers. No clout. No tags. He wasn’t even looking for one. He just posted banger songs—heavy and haunting. You were high out of your mind one night, scrolling through underground tracks, trying to find something that hadn’t been overplayed into dust.

Then you hit the bottom. Clicked on his album.

And it changed everything. The voice was deep, like smoke and rage. The beat was grimy and sharp. It wasn’t just rap. Or rock. Or alt. It was all of it. And none of it. It sounded like a demon crying through broken speakers.

You thought for sure he’d be famous. But he wasn’t. So you DMed him. Didn’t even think he’d see it.But that same night, he replied. You talked for hours. He asked for your number. You FaceTimed until the sky turned grey.

The next day, he invited you to his spot. To listen. To smoke. To just... be.

Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity— You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.

It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.

Casual as in… Basically living together. Unspoken everything. No sex. No labels. Just you and him.

He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager. His shadow. His safe place. His favorite ear.

He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.

And then it happened. One day, everything changed. Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers. He hated it. You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering, “They don’t even get it.” “They’re just biting now.” “Where were they before?”

But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.

You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with. He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.

He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.

One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him. He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.

Your chest felt like it would crack open. Still, nothing happened. Still, it was... casual.

A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home. Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.

But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo. Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were. You shared space like you shared silence—easily.

You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days, but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it. He hated everyone except you.

And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.

He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together. Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially. No titles. No pressure.

He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.

You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?” He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal. Like he was yours.

---

The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth. The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.

You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast, wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.

He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.

No mask tonight. No hood. This time, they’d see him.

You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.

Then he stepped out.

And the place. Exploded.

Screams. Like actual shrieking. Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you. Someone in the front fainted. A girl sobbed. The crowd was feral.

He didn’t flinch. Just walked to the mic like he owned the world. When he finally spoke— “Yeah. It’s me.” —people LOST it.

A whole different war broke out online . “WHY IS HE HOT??” “I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???” “HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.” “Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”

His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.

But he only looked at you. Once. Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.

When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.

“They love me now,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“You’re mine,” you said.

And this time, he kissed you.

---

The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.

You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.

The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.

He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.

He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

Posted it within minutes.

On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):

@.cryboutitgrl: this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????

@.undergroundangel666: bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭

@.smokysylvia: wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????

@.hotguyshateus: yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.

@.helooksinlove: she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩

The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion. Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue— his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.

You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?

And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup, and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.

Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”

--------

bonus::: the first text and meet up...

It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.

“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”

You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.

But twenty minutes later— “yo.” One dot. No emojis.

You blinked at the screen.

“that was you?” “the message?” “yeah. thanks.”

Simple. Dry. But then he asked: “wanna hear some unreleased?”

Your breath caught. “yeah.”

He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.

Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.

“what’s your number” Not a question. Not begging.

You gave it.

Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.

Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.

Click.

It was dark.

No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos. Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“damn.”

One word. But it cracked something open.

You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.

“good.” Then: “you real?”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.

And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.

He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.

“i stay up all night,” he said. “no one to talk to.”

“you do now,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.

“can i call you again?”

You bit your lip.

“i’m not hanging up.”

And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:

“don’t leave.”

You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive. Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.

You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.

And then—your phone buzzed.

him: “u still down to pull up?”

No address. No time.

Just that.

And still… you replied: “drop the pin.”

You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.

But your chest was quiet. Calm.

It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame. Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.

You texted him once.

No reply.

Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.

He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.

“come in.”

You did.

It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.

You stood there like you were in a museum.

He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.

“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”

You laughed. He smiled for real that time.

You stayed for hours. Then one day.

Then two.

The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.

He didn’t explain.

At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.

You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”

And you said, without thinking:

“me neither.”

------

any band recommendations??

[wolfiihoney]

[wolfiihoney]

I miss y’all so much! I can’t wait to get back into writing for you all and I will be back. So sorry for being so absent, I wish my mental health was a little better but We’re going to take it one step at a time 🥲.

I love y’all sm, Tysm for sticking around liking my previous fics and such. I’ll be seeing y’all soon but In the meantime I’ll just read, love and reblog all of y’all’s amazing work!🎀

[wolfiihoney]

Art of me (Soul) and another headmate of mine, Del (the purple one). I figured we needed some sort of picture together. Sometimes I think it's funny how fictives from wildly different sources can get along and make art of themselves hanging out--this probably looks like a weird crossover episode.

Please do not use our art without our permission. Feel free to ask to use for icons and similar things, but we have the right to say no.

Program: Firealpaca Approx. Time: 3h Original Date: 14.04.25 Commission/Trade/Collab status in bio/pinned! Art Of:

Del [Headmate]

Soul [Headmate]

(System Member Artist: Soul)

[wolfiihoney]

pre-dating!gojo who has a massive crush on you

pre-dating!gojo who doesn't even try to hide his blatant favoritism

"i'll take over her mission. she needs rest. i'll write a doctor's note. i am a doctor. kind of."

pre-dating!gojo who constantly hits you with horrible pick up lines.

"if you keep looking that good, i might actually die. which would be horrible. for humanity.... okay, i'll shut up now..."

pre-dating!gojo who collects soda tabs so that he can trade them with you for a kiss.

pre-dating!gojo who gives you ridiculous pet names like 'my venti iced white chocolate mocha with extra syrup and sweet cream cold foam with caramel drizzled on the foam..."

pre-dating!gojo who tries too hard to be your hero, even in unnecessary situations. like when you dropped your phone and he did two backflips and defied gravity just to slam it into the wall with his otherworldly reflexes.

pre-dating!gojo who over-explains his cursed technique to you just to seem cool.

"yeah so my limitless technique literally manipulates space at an atomic level, are you even listening?? i can make space dissappear, arent i so cool??"

pre-dating!gojo who will ask for your help for the most simplest things like putting his sunglasses on for him (he asks for a kiss on the forehead for good luck whenever you do it).

pre-dating!gojo who will find a way to make everything about you. it annoys people to bits.

pre-dating!gojo who stares at you like you hung the stars, and he won't even try to deny it.

pre-dating!gojo who brags about you as if you're already dating.

"she laughed at my jokes today, thats basically a love confession! shes so perfect and oh my god her laugh its so.... shoko, you better not have your earbuds in right now"

everyone is begging that you two start dating just so he stops.

little do they know, boyfriend!gojo is ten times worse.

a/n:- even though you didnt ask for this at all, for @deathofacupid cuz girl im lowkey down bad for u. i hope you know that i think of you whenever i write for gojo. while ik that you would love to do....other things.... with him, too, you deserve the cute and the adorable and everything in between too. i hope that one day youll find your gojo who loves you to infinity and beyond because you deserve that and more. ily bro and congrats once more on 2K!

enough of the sentimental shit

Oh, you’re curious about my past works? Well, luckily for you, all the deliveries are neatly archived! Just head over to the Archive of Deliveries and browse through what I’ve sent out in the past. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

[wolfiihoney]

💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You

Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,

When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.

From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.

💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength

As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.

But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.

“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.

“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.

🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now

Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.

But things have only gotten harder.

The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.

We’re trapped.

🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨‍👩‍👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.

And yet…

Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.

Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.

💖 What You Can Do

If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.

Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.

✨ Why It All Matters

This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.

Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.

🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology

There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.

When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.

If that happened, I am truly sorry.

Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.

I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.

If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.

Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.

Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )

With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️

[wolfiihoney]

please don't ignore my story

Hi everyone ...😔

I am Maram Al-Nabulsi, I currently live in the completely destroyed 🏚🚀city of Gaza

, specifically Khan Younis.

Since the war on Gaza began on 10/7/2023, my family and my siblings - have been living in constant fear, crying and suffering because of shrapnel, shells and bullets. We have no food🥘🌯

, no electricity, no schools

, no cooking gas

, no homes🏚, no cleaning supplies, no clothes🧣🧥🧤

. Our house was completely destroyed

. My school was bombed, and my sister Nour's university was turned into rubble, which deprived us all of education. The war forced us to live in displacement centers, which are just tents that are not suitable for living

, especially in winter. Every day we live death, terror and panic a thousand times because of the continuous bombing of my city. The war has killed more than 50 of my relatives and neighbors. At the beginning of the war, we took refuge in my aunt's house, but it was also turned into rubble.

Imagine:

We have escaped imminent death more than 20 times,

and have been displaced between shelters more than 13 times. My brothers and I have suffered from many diseases due to malnutrition, and we need medicine constantly. If we stay in Gaza, we may lose our lives. Recently, we have been seriously considering leaving Gaza to a safe place. However, the travel costs are very high. We need more than 70 thousand dollars to leave Gaza. Due to the exorbitant prices, rampant unemployment, insecurity, the ongoing blockade, and the continuous bombing, we have lost all our money. How can we live in such insecurity💔🙏, with the constant bombing and shrapnel flying above us? My dear compassionate friends around the world, with your generous donations, even if small, you can save 5 people from imminent death, allowing us to start a life outside Gaza full of love, peace, and hope. Best regards from Gaza City....🍉🇵🇸

✅Verified by @gazavetters , my verified number on the list is (#431)💔🙏🏼

✅Verified by @beesandwatermelons - Line 207