occasionally subtle
Keni
izzy's playlists!
Kiana Khansmith
$LAYYYTER
shark vs the universe
styofa doing anything
Three Goblin Art
Jules of Nature
sheepfilms
KIROKAZE
No title available
ellievsbear
titsay
🪼
No title available
we're not kids anymore.
art blog(derogatory)
⁂
Andulka
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Honduras
seen from Türkiye
seen from T1
seen from Poland
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Maldives
seen from Cambodia
seen from United States
@c0rsp3brid3
ok wait, this is like probably such a common fic idea but..
lowk a fic where y/n (Navi,recom,scientist etc.) is sought after by both Jake and Quaritch 🤤
And y/n could’ve been like either one of the guys past bsf, or yk had like a close relationship.
And so basically uh—yeah.
Please someone write this😣
Or I lowk might do it myself (I’m lazy af)
Heres the first chapter of my book, what do yall think?
The Queen of Concrete & The Prince of Blood
-—-———————————————————————
Rain drowned Manhattan in silver streaks, turning the city into blurred lights and reflections. Neon signs bled into puddles. Sirens screamed somewhere far below.
New York never slept.
It hunted.
And at the center of it all stood Saint Royale.
The nightclub towered over the block in black glass and gold lighting, guarded by men in tailored suits with guns hidden beneath their jackets. Expensive cars lined the curb while celebrities, politicians, athletes, and criminals disappeared through the glowing entrance like sinners entering church.
Inside, the music pulsed through velvet walls and crystal chandeliers.
Nobody caused problems here.
Nobody dared.
Because Saint Royale belonged to Nyla Saint.
"She's coming down," someone whispered near the bar.
The entire atmosphere shifted.
Heads turned immediately as Nyla stepped onto the balcony overlooking the club floor.
She wore black from head to toe—a fitted satin dress beneath a long tailored coat that flowed behind her like royalty. Gold jewelry rested against her dark skin; layered necklaces, rings sharp enough to look dangerous, earrings that glimmered beneath the lights. Her hair fell in glossy waves down her back, perfectly styled without a strand out of place.
Beautiful.
Untouchable.
Terrifying.
Nyla Saint looked like the kind of woman men prayed for and feared in the same breath.
At twenty-eight years old, she ruled one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast.
And she did it without yelling.
That was the frightening part.
She didn't need to prove she had power.
Everyone in the room already knew.
Her dark brown eyes swept across the club floor carefully, calculating every movement beneath her. Nothing escaped her attention. Not the nervous bartender spilling drinks. Not the senator laughing too loudly in VIP. Not the armed guard adjusting his holster near the back exit.
Nyla noticed everything.
"Table seven keeps staring," Amara muttered beside her.
Nyla glanced briefly toward a group of wealthy men trying—and failing—not to look intimidated.
"They're investors," Zion said calmly, standing on Nyla's other side. "Chicago money."
Nyla's expression remained unreadable. "Then they should stop looking at me like tourists."
Amara laughed under her breath.
Unlike Nyla's calm elegance, Amara carried danger openly. She was tall, muscular, and beautiful in a sharp-edged way, tattoos curling down both arms beneath her black sleeveless top. A silver knife spun effortlessly between her fingers.
People feared Nyla.
People feared Amara too—but for different reasons.
Amara enjoyed violence.
Zion, however, looked born for boardrooms instead of underground empires. Perfect suits. Gold-rimmed glasses. Calm voice. Intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
He handled numbers, politics, bribery, and damage control.
If Nyla was the queen, Zion was the architect keeping the kingdom standing.
"You haven't eaten," Zion noted quietly.
"I'm busy."
"You've said that for fourteen hours."
Nyla finally looked at him with mild annoyance. "Are you tracking my meals now?"
"Yes."
Amara snorted again. "Somebody has to before you collapse dramatically."
"I don't collapse."
"Everybody collapses."
Nyla ignored her.
Below them, the crowd continued dancing completely unaware that millions of illegal dollars moved through the building every week.
Drugs rarely touched Nyla's businesses.
That was one of her rules.
Weapons trafficking, financial fraud, underground gambling, political blackmail—those she tolerated.
But never drugs around children.
Never human trafficking.
Never anything sloppy.
Discipline built empires.
Emotion destroyed them.
"Mayor Lawson confirmed tomorrow's dinner," Zion said, handing her a tablet. "And the Russians responded."
Nyla skimmed the message briefly.
"They're nervous."
"They should be," Amara said.
Nyla handed the tablet back without emotion. "Double security on the ports."
Zion nodded immediately.
Nobody questioned her orders.
Not because she was cruel.
Because she was usually right.
A man suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily. "Miss Saint—"
Nyla slowly turned toward him.
The poor man nearly froze.
Fear flashed across his face instantly.
"Yes?" she asked softly.
"There's... a situation downstairs."
Amara smiled.
"Of course there is."
—
Thousands of miles away, Sicily burned gold beneath the setting sun.
The Moretti estate overlooked the cliffs above the sea like an ancient fortress. Massive stone walls wrapped around the property while armed guards patrolled the grounds in silence.
Old money lived here.
Old power too.
Inside the mansion, the dining hall glowed beneath chandeliers older than America itself.
Every chair at the table was occupied.
Every man armed.
At the center sat Luca Moretti.
Unlike the older men surrounding him, Luca looked modern—dangerously elegant in a black suit tailored perfectly to his broad frame. Dark curls fell slightly over his forehead, softened only by the exhaustion hidden in his storm-gray eyes.
Women called him beautiful.
Men called him dangerous.
Both were correct.
At thirty-two, Luca carried the weight of the Moretti empire across his shoulders whether he wanted it or not.
And lately, the empire was cracking.
"You're distracted," Sofia said quietly beside him.
Luca glanced toward his younger sister.
Sofia Moretti was the only softness left inside the family. Smart, observant, and far kinder than the men surrounding her. While the others wore darkness proudly, Sofia looked trapped inside it.
"I'm thinking," Luca answered.
"That's usually when people here get nervous."
A faint smirk almost touched his mouth.
Almost.
At the opposite end of the table, Vincenzo Moretti carved into his steak with slow precision.
The head of the family.
Luca's father.
Even at sixty-three, Vincenzo carried authority like a weapon. Silver threaded through his dark hair, his face hardened by decades of violence and survival.
Nobody interrupted him.
Nobody challenged him.
Except Luca.
"The Chicago accounts are unstable," Luca said finally, breaking the silence. "We need to move money before the Feds freeze everything."
Matteo rolled his eyes immediately. "You worry too much."
Luca didn't even look at his cousin. "And you don't worry enough."
Matteo leaned back lazily, gold rings flashing beneath the chandelier light. Unlike Luca's controlled demeanor, Matteo carried arrogance openly. Expensive watches. Sharp grin. Reckless energy.
He enjoyed being feared.
Luca preferred being respected.
"There wouldn't be problems," Matteo said, "if you stopped trying to run the family like a corporation."
"And there wouldn't be investigations if you stopped shooting people in public."
Several men at the table chuckled quietly.
Matteo's smile disappeared.
Vincenzo finally spoke.
"Enough."
Silence swallowed the room instantly.
Luca leaned back slightly, jaw tight.
He loved his family.
But every day spent inside this house felt like drowning in history.
The Morettis still operated like kings from another century while the modern world changed around them.
Cartels were expanding.
Governments were watching.
New organizations were rising faster and smarter.
And somewhere in America, one woman's name had started spreading through criminal circles like wildfire.
Nyla Saint.
Luca had heard whispers for months.
A Black woman controlling politicians, ports, nightclubs, banks.
A woman brutal enough to survive and intelligent enough to thrive.
Most importantly:
a woman winning.
Vincenzo despised her already.
Luca was curious.
Before another word could be spoken, one of the guards rushed into the dining hall.
Panic flickered across his face.
That alone made Luca sit straighter.
"What happened?" Vincenzo demanded.
The guard swallowed hard.
"Our Naples port was attacked."
Silence.
Then:
"Everyone's dead."
Sofia inhaled sharply.
Matteo cursed beneath his breath.
But Luca noticed something worse.
Fear.
For the first time in years, fear flashed across his father's face.
And Luca knew immediately:
Something bigger was coming.
Something powerful enough to shake empires.
Heres the first chapter of my book, what do yall think?
The Queen of Concrete & The Prince of Blood
-—-———————————————————————
Rain drowned Manhattan in silver streaks, turning the city into blurred lights and reflections. Neon signs bled into puddles. Sirens screamed somewhere far below.
New York never slept.
It hunted.
And at the center of it all stood Saint Royale.
The nightclub towered over the block in black glass and gold lighting, guarded by men in tailored suits with guns hidden beneath their jackets. Expensive cars lined the curb while celebrities, politicians, athletes, and criminals disappeared through the glowing entrance like sinners entering church.
Inside, the music pulsed through velvet walls and crystal chandeliers.
Nobody caused problems here.
Nobody dared.
Because Saint Royale belonged to Nyla Saint.
"She's coming down," someone whispered near the bar.
The entire atmosphere shifted.
Heads turned immediately as Nyla stepped onto the balcony overlooking the club floor.
She wore black from head to toe—a fitted satin dress beneath a long tailored coat that flowed behind her like royalty. Gold jewelry rested against her dark skin; layered necklaces, rings sharp enough to look dangerous, earrings that glimmered beneath the lights. Her hair fell in glossy waves down her back, perfectly styled without a strand out of place.
Beautiful.
Untouchable.
Terrifying.
Nyla Saint looked like the kind of woman men prayed for and feared in the same breath.
At twenty-eight years old, she ruled one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast.
And she did it without yelling.
That was the frightening part.
She didn't need to prove she had power.
Everyone in the room already knew.
Her dark brown eyes swept across the club floor carefully, calculating every movement beneath her. Nothing escaped her attention. Not the nervous bartender spilling drinks. Not the senator laughing too loudly in VIP. Not the armed guard adjusting his holster near the back exit.
Nyla noticed everything.
"Table seven keeps staring," Amara muttered beside her.
Nyla glanced briefly toward a group of wealthy men trying—and failing—not to look intimidated.
"They're investors," Zion said calmly, standing on Nyla's other side. "Chicago money."
Nyla's expression remained unreadable. "Then they should stop looking at me like tourists."
Amara laughed under her breath.
Unlike Nyla's calm elegance, Amara carried danger openly. She was tall, muscular, and beautiful in a sharp-edged way, tattoos curling down both arms beneath her black sleeveless top. A silver knife spun effortlessly between her fingers.
People feared Nyla.
People feared Amara too—but for different reasons.
Amara enjoyed violence.
Zion, however, looked born for boardrooms instead of underground empires. Perfect suits. Gold-rimmed glasses. Calm voice. Intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
He handled numbers, politics, bribery, and damage control.
If Nyla was the queen, Zion was the architect keeping the kingdom standing.
"You haven't eaten," Zion noted quietly.
"I'm busy."
"You've said that for fourteen hours."
Nyla finally looked at him with mild annoyance. "Are you tracking my meals now?"
"Yes."
Amara snorted again. "Somebody has to before you collapse dramatically."
"I don't collapse."
"Everybody collapses."
Nyla ignored her.
Below them, the crowd continued dancing completely unaware that millions of illegal dollars moved through the building every week.
Drugs rarely touched Nyla's businesses.
That was one of her rules.
Weapons trafficking, financial fraud, underground gambling, political blackmail—those she tolerated.
But never drugs around children.
Never human trafficking.
Never anything sloppy.
Discipline built empires.
Emotion destroyed them.
"Mayor Lawson confirmed tomorrow's dinner," Zion said, handing her a tablet. "And the Russians responded."
Nyla skimmed the message briefly.
"They're nervous."
"They should be," Amara said.
Nyla handed the tablet back without emotion. "Double security on the ports."
Zion nodded immediately.
Nobody questioned her orders.
Not because she was cruel.
Because she was usually right.
A man suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily. "Miss Saint—"
Nyla slowly turned toward him.
The poor man nearly froze.
Fear flashed across his face instantly.
"Yes?" she asked softly.
"There's... a situation downstairs."
Amara smiled.
"Of course there is."
—
Thousands of miles away, Sicily burned gold beneath the setting sun.
The Moretti estate overlooked the cliffs above the sea like an ancient fortress. Massive stone walls wrapped around the property while armed guards patrolled the grounds in silence.
Old money lived here.
Old power too.
Inside the mansion, the dining hall glowed beneath chandeliers older than America itself.
Every chair at the table was occupied.
Every man armed.
At the center sat Luca Moretti.
Unlike the older men surrounding him, Luca looked modern—dangerously elegant in a black suit tailored perfectly to his broad frame. Dark curls fell slightly over his forehead, softened only by the exhaustion hidden in his storm-gray eyes.
Women called him beautiful.
Men called him dangerous.
Both were correct.
At thirty-two, Luca carried the weight of the Moretti empire across his shoulders whether he wanted it or not.
And lately, the empire was cracking.
"You're distracted," Sofia said quietly beside him.
Luca glanced toward his younger sister.
Sofia Moretti was the only softness left inside the family. Smart, observant, and far kinder than the men surrounding her. While the others wore darkness proudly, Sofia looked trapped inside it.
"I'm thinking," Luca answered.
"That's usually when people here get nervous."
A faint smirk almost touched his mouth.
Almost.
At the opposite end of the table, Vincenzo Moretti carved into his steak with slow precision.
The head of the family.
Luca's father.
Even at sixty-three, Vincenzo carried authority like a weapon. Silver threaded through his dark hair, his face hardened by decades of violence and survival.
Nobody interrupted him.
Nobody challenged him.
Except Luca.
"The Chicago accounts are unstable," Luca said finally, breaking the silence. "We need to move money before the Feds freeze everything."
Matteo rolled his eyes immediately. "You worry too much."
Luca didn't even look at his cousin. "And you don't worry enough."
Matteo leaned back lazily, gold rings flashing beneath the chandelier light. Unlike Luca's controlled demeanor, Matteo carried arrogance openly. Expensive watches. Sharp grin. Reckless energy.
He enjoyed being feared.
Luca preferred being respected.
"There wouldn't be problems," Matteo said, "if you stopped trying to run the family like a corporation."
"And there wouldn't be investigations if you stopped shooting people in public."
Several men at the table chuckled quietly.
Matteo's smile disappeared.
Vincenzo finally spoke.
"Enough."
Silence swallowed the room instantly.
Luca leaned back slightly, jaw tight.
He loved his family.
But every day spent inside this house felt like drowning in history.
The Morettis still operated like kings from another century while the modern world changed around them.
Cartels were expanding.
Governments were watching.
New organizations were rising faster and smarter.
And somewhere in America, one woman's name had started spreading through criminal circles like wildfire.
Nyla Saint.
Luca had heard whispers for months.
A Black woman controlling politicians, ports, nightclubs, banks.
A woman brutal enough to survive and intelligent enough to thrive.
Most importantly:
a woman winning.
Vincenzo despised her already.
Luca was curious.
Before another word could be spoken, one of the guards rushed into the dining hall.
Panic flickered across his face.
That alone made Luca sit straighter.
"What happened?" Vincenzo demanded.
The guard swallowed hard.
"Our Naples port was attacked."
Silence.
Then:
"Everyone's dead."
Sofia inhaled sharply.
Matteo cursed beneath his breath.
But Luca noticed something worse.
Fear.
For the first time in years, fear flashed across his father's face.
And Luca knew immediately:
Something bigger was coming.
Something powerful enough to shake empires.
SO I DID A THING AND IM WRITING A BOOK
ITS CALLED EMPIRE VOWS AND THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS ARE ON WATTPAD!!!!
Two empires. One arrangement. A love powerful enough to rule them all. In the shadows of New York's underworld, Nyla Saint built an empire f
I would really appreciate it if yall checked it out i worked hard on it
I need writing ideas yall im squeezing my brain but nothings coming out.
Lowkey got a bunch of ideas for some writings and would love if a author could help me write them.
Not again
The phone lights up—
a hollow kind of sound,
because somehow I already know
it’s not you.
You said you’re done,
and I keep rereading it
like if I stare long enough
the words might change their mind.
Was it anger?
Was it pride?
Or just another moment
where I didn’t think before I let everything slip?
All I know is this—
you’re not mine anymore,
and the silence you left behind
is louder than anything we ever said.
He got what he wanted.
And I’m here, empty-handed,
no voice to call home,
no name that feels like mine when I say it out loud.
I played along like it wasn’t a game,
trusted something that was never steady—
and now I’m the one falling,
with nothing to catch me but time.
Now every word feels heavy.
Even “hey” sits in my throat
like it doesn’t belong there anymore.
And the worst part?
Despite everything—
I still love you.
But something in me broke along the way,
and now I don’t even feel
like someone worth loving back.
I keep replaying it—
every mistake, every moment—
like if I suffer through it enough,
maybe I could undo it.
I don’t want distance.
I don’t want “just friends.”
I want the version of us
that didn’t fall apart in my hands.
I want that smile again—
the real one,
the kind that reaches your eyes
before you even realize you’re doing it.
I want to say you’re mine
and have it mean something.
But you’re not.
And somehow,
neither am I.
There’s anger in me—
sharp, restless—
like I need to break something
just to quiet it down.
But it’s not the wall.
It’s not him.
It’s me.
Because I told the truth—
they say it sets you free—
but this doesn’t feel like freedom.
It feels like losing everything
with my own hands.
I could’ve lied.
Maybe stretched the moment,
pretended a little longer.
But the truth always finds its way back,
and you would’ve seen it eventually.
You say you’re fine—
but I know that kind of “fine.”
It sounds a lot like breaking quietly.
So maybe this is the end.
Maybe it has to be.
Because I did it again—
and now it’s just me,
standing in the space
where “we” used to live
Alone
This is a poem about my greatest fear: dying alone. I hope you like it and maybe can relate
To pour your love into someone who won’t return it is like pressing your palms to cold stone, whispering warmth into something that was never built to echo back.
To let the heart find its voice is to free the truth the mind kept trembling behind its teeth❤️🧠
I see eternity in your eyes and
It leads to forever in my mind
A world created to be paradise
The sky a perfect shade of blue
As the sun shines upon me and you
I see the grass is greener on our side
Like roses blushing at the touch of spring,
Your love unfolds in everything
Soft as petals kissed by morning dew,
Every fragile beauty reminds me of you
You glow like golden hour on the sea,
A quiet light that settles over me
Like sunsets painted in shades of fire,
You turn my every breath into desire
Your voice—like music drifting through the night,
Gentle as stars, steady and bright
A melody sweeter than violins cry,
Or the hush of waves when the world goes quiet
Your touch compares to silk and rain,
Cool on skin, washing away pain
Like moonlight spilling across the shore,
It leaves me longing, always wanting more
If beauty lived in diamonds and pearls,
It would still fall short of your world
For even galaxies, vast and wide,
Could never hold what you have inside
You are the calm in a painted sky,
The reason even angels sigh
A masterpiece no artist could design,
A universe held inside your heart ✨
Yet somehow, your heart beats next to mine
So if forever had a face I knew,
It would look like me and you
A love more rare than the purest art—
They say if I had a flower for every time I thought of you,
I would walk in my garden forevermore.
If I had a star for every time your eyes shine,
my skies would never be dull—only yours.
If I had a heartbeat for every time you crossed my mind,
my chest would echo like waves against a shore, endless and sure.
If I had a wish for every moment I missed your touch,
the heavens would run out of miracles to store.
And if love were measured in seconds,
then time itself would kneel at what I feel for you—
because every second stretches,
soft and sweet,
whispering your name like a promise I adore.
I’m looking for inspiration for new poems and topics to write about so please give me some ideas and suggestions
I’ve got serious writer’s block
unsteady
Hold on—
that’s what they say, right?
like holding on isn’t the hardest thing
I’ve ever had to do
like my hands aren’t already tired
from gripping a life
that doesn’t feel like mine
I am unsteady
a heartbeat out of rhythm
a body moving
with no real reason to
I wake up
but I don’t arrive
my feet touch the ground
but I’m still falling
and no one sees that part—
the quiet collapse
the way my smile sits on my face
like it borrowed the wrong home
I am unsteady
not loud
not breaking things
just… slowly disappearing
in places no one thinks to look
my thoughts
they don’t scream
they whisper—
you’re tired
you’re heavy
you’re too much
you’re not enough
and somehow
I believe them
I try to steady myself
count breaths
count days
count reasons
but the numbers blur
and the reasons fade
and I—
I am trying
God, I am trying
to feel something
other than this hollow
other than this weight
that lives in my chest
like it pays rent
so if I seem distant
if my voice feels far away
if I don’t reach back right away—
it’s not that I don’t care
it’s just that
I am unsteady
and some days
standing still
feels like falling apart
⸻
I LOVE YOU
In English, we say I love you.
But in my heart, it sounds like this—
I want to wake beside you,
pull you close before the world can take you from my arms,
press quiet kisses against your skin
like promises I don’t ever plan to break.
I want to calm your storms,
to stand in the chaos with you
and still be your light—
your warmth when everything else feels cold.
My heart betrays me at the smallest things—
a message from you,
your name lighting up my screen—
and suddenly I’m smiling,
reading your words over and over
like they might disappear if I don’t memorize them.
My mind is full of us—
dancing in a soft, endless glow,
singing a forever only we understand,
a love that doesn’t need to be explained
to be real.
My hands search for you
like they’ve known you all their life,
aching to learn the shape of you,
to rest where they’ve always belonged.
My fingers long for yours,
to lace together so naturally
that even the world would know—
you are mine, and I am yours.
My whole being aches for your closeness,
and I would give everything I have
just to feel you near—
and if that weren’t enough,
I would give more.
My eyes cannot forget you—
open or closed,
you linger—
a soft trace I could never erase
even if I tried.
In English, we say I love you.
But in my language, it is—
Every part of me leans toward you
like the sun owes you light.
You are the habit I never want to break,
the ache I refuse to heal.
I am tangled in you—
no beginning, no end… just you.
For I love thee past all reason, past all remedy,
as one forever lost—
and grateful to be so.
So when I say I love you,
know this—
I mean all of it.
unsteady
Hold on—
that’s what they say, right?
like holding on isn’t the hardest thing
I’ve ever had to do
like my hands aren’t already tired
from gripping a life
that doesn’t feel like mine
I am unsteady
a heartbeat out of rhythm
a body moving
with no real reason to
I wake up
but I don’t arrive
my feet touch the ground
but I’m still falling
and no one sees that part—
the quiet collapse
the way my smile sits on my face
like it borrowed the wrong home
I am unsteady
not loud
not breaking things
just… slowly disappearing
in places no one thinks to look
my thoughts
they don’t scream
they whisper—
you’re tired
you’re heavy
you’re too much
you’re not enough
and somehow
I believe them
I try to steady myself
count breaths
count days
count reasons
but the numbers blur
and the reasons fade
and I—
I am trying
God, I am trying
to feel something
other than this hollow
other than this weight
that lives in my chest
like it pays rent
so if I seem distant
if my voice feels far away
if I don’t reach back right away—
it’s not that I don’t care
it’s just that
I am unsteady
and some days
standing still
feels like falling apart
unsteady
Hold on—
that’s what they say, right?
like holding on isn’t the hardest thing
I’ve ever had to do
like my hands aren’t already tired
from gripping a life
that doesn’t feel like mine
I am unsteady
a heartbeat out of rhythm
a body moving
with no real reason to
I wake up
but I don’t arrive
my feet touch the ground
but I’m still falling
and no one sees that part—
the quiet collapse
the way my smile sits on my face
like it borrowed the wrong home
I am unsteady
not loud
not breaking things
just… slowly disappearing
in places no one thinks to look
my thoughts
they don’t scream
they whisper—
you’re tired
you’re heavy
you’re too much
you’re not enough
and somehow
I believe them
I try to steady myself
count breaths
count days
count reasons
but the numbers blur
and the reasons fade
and I—
I am trying
God, I am trying
to feel something
other than this hollow
other than this weight
that lives in my chest
like it pays rent
so if I seem distant
if my voice feels far away
if I don’t reach back right away—
it’s not that I don’t care
it’s just that
I am unsteady
and some days
standing still
feels like falling apart
