#I literally just learned this was a thing

[metalheadsagainstfascism]

YouTube will use AI to monitor your viewing habits to determine if you're under 18 and require an ID for you to view certain content, yes even if you're in the US.

Now. I have some questions. Like if I watch kids shows from the 90s is that a mark for me being over 30 because it's an old TV show? Or under 30 because it's a kid's show?

Okay question aside.

There's legitimate reasons to have "odd" viewing habits. I for one have chronic fatigue. I've fallen asleep with Youtube's autoplay on and will wake up 3 hours later with the weirdest shit playing (sometimes it's kids stuff).

I'm learning 2 languages. I will watch kids shows in those languages to help me practice and pick up the language. (Muzzy in Gondoland is SO CUTE). But it's really helpful to watch shows that are like "Red orange yellow green! One two three!" To learn the basics like your colors, numbers, days of the week.

Also. Bronies... adults like kids shows. Sometimes they got a really good message like MLP. Sometimes for Nostalgia, I mean Pokémon is still going, and I watch that for nostalgia.

"No, but AI would be smarter than that!"

Is it? Is it really? Bitch if kids want to watch YouTube, that's what YouTube Kids is for. We don't need your 1984 bullshit monitoring our fucking watching habits.

"I don't understand why you're so upset. Just give them your ID." Because I'm a developer. I watch programmers increasingly use AI to fucking program their goddamn software every fucking day. And the thing is AI is really fucking bad at it. It leads to issues like the Tea app leak.

The Tea app was an app where women warned other women in the dating scene about red flag men in the area and they could ask other women if the guy that were dating was a red flag. That app had women upload their Drivers Licenses, and they recently had a leak due to shitty security protocols caused by AI coding causing a legacy database to literally be open to the public, with so security features to keep any old random person from accessing it. All of the data in that database what just... dumped to the open internet. Location data. IDs. All of it.

So, no... I'm not gonna me uploading my ID anywhere BECAUSE I'VE SEEN HOW POORLY SOME OF YOUR ASSHOLES CODE. And by "how poorly you code" I mean you don't fucking code. You just give it to AI and the fucking dumbass system wouldn't know a security feature if it punched it in the face.

Suck my dick. You're not "keeping the kids safe" you're exposing everyone to identity threats.

-fae

[pohtaytoh]

Miss Oblivious

Megan Skiendiel x Reader

A nostalgic walk down the memory lane with your wife, Megan, reminds you of your high school days. You used to be the bully, throwing sarcastic comments her way, but she was always too sweet and oblivious to realize it. You never expected to fall for the one you were trying to bully, but a moment of genuine cruelty from others finally made you stand up for her, changing everything.

The bell for lunch rang, a loud, shrill sound that usually made you happy. But today, it just made your head hurt. Your best friend, Chloe, was already packing up her books, humming some song under her breath.

"Ready to go?" she asked, her voice cheerful.

"I guess," you sighed, stuffing a textbook into your backpack. "I'm just tired."

You and Chloe walked out of the classroom, and that's when you saw her. Megan Skiendiel. She was a total weirdo. Her clothes were always a little… strange. A long, frilly skirt that looked like it belonged to a doll, a bright pink sweater with little embroidered cats on it, and shoes that looked like they were from a different decade.

Chloe nudged you with her elbow. "Look," she whispered, "it's Skiendiel."

You rolled your eyes. You didn't get why Chloe was so interested in her. Megan was just… there. She was quiet, and she had a habit of taking everything people said literally. It was annoying.

You watched as Megan walked past you. The long skirt swayed around her knees, and a sarcastic comment bubbled up inside you. You couldn't help it. It was like a game.

"Nice skirt," you called out, your voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Did your grandma buy it for you?"

You expected her to look sad, or maybe even angry. You expected her to shrink away. But she didn't. Megan stopped and looked at you, her big, brown eyes wide and bright. A small, shy smile spread across her face.

"Oh, thank you!" she said, her voice soft and a little high. "She did! She said it reminded her of a fairytale princess. I'm glad you like it too!"

Chloe snorted a laugh, but you just stared at Megan. Your little joke hadn't landed at all. Megan actually thought you were being nice. You felt a weird mix of frustration and… something else. You didn't like how it made you feel.

"Whatever," you muttered, grabbing Chloe's arm and pulling her toward the cafeteria.

The next week, in science class, you were learning about biology, and it was the most boring thing ever. Chloe was sitting next to you, doodling on her notebook.

"This class makes me want to..." she trailed off, trying to find the right word. "What's that word? When you feel like your soul is leaving your body?"

You smirked, looking toward the front of the classroom. Megan was sitting there, quietly taking notes. The girl was so focused on her work, it was like she was in a different world.

"Maybe Skiendiel knows," you said, a teasing tone in your voice. "She likes weird things. Maybe she knows all the weird words for feelings."

You thought Megan would get the hint that you were making fun of her. You expected her to keep her head down and ignore you.

But, of course, she didn't.

Megan looked up, her head tilted to the side like a little bird. "Oh! You mean 'ennui'?" she asked, her voice a gentle whisper that still carried across the quiet classroom. "It's a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement. It's often used to describe boredom with the whole world."

Chloe's eyes went wide. She looked at you, then at Megan, and back at you again. She couldn't believe it. You couldn't either. The word was so specific, so big. And Megan just knew it. She had her own little world of facts and words, and she was happy to share it with you, thinking you were just asking a simple question.

"Wow," Chloe whispered to you. "She's like a walking dictionary."

You just shook your head. You had no idea what to say. Your attempts to be mean were failing, and in the most confusing way possible. It was like you were speaking a different language than everyone else.

A few days later, you had to do a group activity in gym class. The teacher told you to pair up and stand in a line. Chloe and you were a team, but the line was long, and you were at the end of it. Megan was standing right behind you.

The teacher started giving instructions, and Megan slowly moved forward, getting closer to you. You could feel her presence, so close that if you took a step back, you'd bump into her. A shiver went down your spine, but not a good one. It was a feeling of being trapped. You didn't want Megan so close to you.

So, you did what anyone in your position would do. You took a big, obvious step to the side. You moved away from her, creating a large space between you. You wanted her to know you didn't want her next to you.

Chloe looked at you with a confused expression. You just glared at her, letting her know not to say anything.

You peeked at Megan from the corner of your eye, ready to see a look of hurt on her face. But instead, Megan was smiling. A small, happy smile. She looked down at the space you had made, and then back at you.

"Oh," she said quietly. "You understand. Thank you."

What did you understand? You didn't understand anything.

Megan leaned forward a little and whispered, "I get overwhelmed when people are too close. My personal space is important. You're so kind to give me room. Thank you."

You froze. Your brain was completely short-circuited. Megan thought you were being kind. She thought you were respecting her "personal space."

You wanted to shout, "No! I just don't want to be near you!" but the words wouldn't come out. It was all too much. Megan was taking your rude actions and turning them into acts of kindness.

You felt like you were losing your mind.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and you were sitting on your bed, scrolling through your phone, when it buzzed with a message. It was from Megan. You don't even remember giving her your number, but you guess she got it from the class list.

Megan: Hi! I'm going to the mall today. Do you want to come? I could use some help picking out some clothes.

You stared at the message, completely baffled. Why would she invite you? After all the things you'd done? You felt a flash of anger. This was all just too much. You typed out a quick response, your fingers flying over the keyboard.

I don't go to the "mall." I go to fancy boutiques to get my clothes. I'm busy.

You hit send and waited for Megan to reply. You were sure she would be sad and leave you alone. But your phone buzzed a few seconds later.

Megan: Oh! You don't know what a mall is? Don't worry, I can show you! It's super fun! I'll come pick you up in an hour!

You groaned out loud. This was a nightmare. Megan was so convinced that you were nice, that she was now going to drag you to a mall to show you what it was. You were trapped. You messaged Chloe to tell her what was happening, and she just sent back a bunch of laughing emojis.

An hour later, there was a knock at your door. It was Megan. She was wearing a strange outfit today—a long dress with a floral pattern and a straw hat. It was cute, in a weird way.

Megan was so happy to see you, a wide smile on her face. "Ready to go on an adventure?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

You just rolled your eyes and followed her to her car.

The mall was loud and busy. People were everywhere, and the stores were bright and colorful. Megan was in her element. She moved through the crowd with a happy bounce in her step, looking at everything with a sense of wonder.

She dragged you from store to store, holding up clothes she thought were cute. It was all a lot to take in. You were trying your best to stay in the shadows, hoping no one would see you with Megan. You knew the popular kids would tease you for hanging out with someone so… different.

You were walking past a group of guys who were laughing and talking loudly. As you passed, one of them looked at Megan's dress and scoffed.

"Look at that," he said to his friends, loud enough for you to hear. "She looks like she's going to a tea party with her grandma."

His friends laughed, and you felt a wave of coldness wash over you. You looked at Megan, ready to see her dismiss it with her usual oblivious cheerfulness. But this time, she didn't. Her smile slowly faded. She looked down at the floor, and her shoulders drooped.

You kept walking, and you noticed a tear roll down her cheek. She didn't make a sound, but she was crying. Your heart clenched in your chest. You felt a rush of anger you didn't know you had. You wanted to turn around and shout at those guys.

But before you could, Megan stopped walking. She was standing by a big window display, looking at her reflection. She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, and her voice was a small, shaky whisper.

"I don't understand," she said, her voice filled with a deep sadness. "Why are people so mean? I don't know how to read them. I don't know what they mean when they say things like that."

She looked at her reflection, then back at you. "I don't know if they're joking, or if they're serious. I just... I wish I knew."

That was it. That was the moment everything changed. Seeing her standing there, so small and sad, broke something inside you. All your little jokes, all your sarcastic comments, they hadn't been jokes at all. They had been tiny little cuts, and Megan was just too sweet and too trusting to see them for what they were. Your mean words had hurt her, even if she didn't know it at the time.

And that made you angrier than anything else.

"Don't listen to them," you said, your voice firm. You took a step closer to her, your hands balling into fists. "They're just stupid. They don't know anything."

You looked at the group of guys who were still laughing in the distance. "They're jealous," you said, your voice getting louder. "They're jealous because you're real. You're not like everyone else, and that's a good thing. They just don't get it."

Megan looked at you, her eyes still watery. "You... you really think so?"

You nodded, feeling a lump in your throat. "Yes. I know so."

You took her hand. Her skin was soft and warm. "Let's go," you said, your voice gentler now. "Let's get out of here. We can go get ice cream instead."

Megan's sad face slowly turned into a small smile. "Okay," she said. "Ice cream sounds nice."

As you walked out of the mall, you didn't care about what anyone thought. You didn't care that people were looking at you, or that a few of the popular kids might see you with Megan. All you cared about was her hand in yours, and the small, happy smile on her face.

It was the first time you had ever been truly nice to her, and it felt a lot better than being mean.

Ten years later...

You woke up to the sound of soft humming. The sun was streaming through the curtains, and the smell of coffee was in the air. You stretched and smiled, a peaceful feeling washing over you. You rolled over in bed to see Megan, your wife of three years, standing by the window, her arms wrapped around her waist, still humming that quiet tune.

Megan turned around and saw you were awake. She gave you a sweet, sleepy smile and came over to the bed, sitting on the edge and running her fingers through your hair.

"Good morning," she whispered, her voice still a little groggy from sleep.

"Good morning," you whispered back, your hand reaching up to hold hers.

Megan giggled and leaned down to kiss your forehead. "You're so cute when you're sleepy."

You closed your eyes for a moment, thinking about how you got here. From a girl who took all your mean comments as compliments, to the woman who was now your whole world. It was a strange journey, but you wouldn't change a thing.

A small frown appeared on Megan's face, and her eyes looked far away, like she was remembering something.

"You know," she said quietly, her voice a little more serious. "I had a dream last night."

"Oh yeah? What about?" you asked, your voice still soft.

"About high school," Megan said, her eyes looking into yours. "I dreamt that you used to bully me."

You froze. Your breath hitched in your throat. You stared at Megan, waiting for a look of hurt, or anger. But her expression was just one of confusion and wonder.

"You'd say mean things, and I'd just think you were being nice," she continued, a small laugh escaping her lips. "I kept thinking, 'Oh, she's just being sarcastic, but she really loves my clothes.' And I thought you knew all about my personal space and my love for big words."

She shook her head, a soft smile on her face. "It was so silly. You were so bad at bullying me, my brain just fixed it and made you nice."

You didn't know what to say. Your past self was cringing in your head. You wanted to tell her the truth, that you were a terrible person back then. But you didn't want to hurt her. Not now. Not ever.

Megan looked at you, a question in her eyes. "You didn't really bully me, did you?"

You let out a long breath, a small, tired laugh escaping your lips. "Yes, I did," you said, your voice quiet. "I was an idiot back then. I was a terrible person."

Megan didn't get mad. She didn't get sad. She just looked at you with those same bright, brown eyes from all those years ago.

"I'm glad you stopped," she said simply.

You pulled her closer, your arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her into the bed with you. Megan snuggled into your chest, her head resting on your shoulder.

"Yes, I bullied you," you mumbled, your voice muffled in her hair. "It didn't work. Now we're married. Go to sleep."

Megan giggled, a warm, happy sound that filled the room. "Okay, wife," she said, her voice soft and full of love. "Okay.”

a/n: Hi guys! It's been a while huh? I got inspired by this comic that I saw on tiktok, it was sooo adorable, and I had to do it you know? I hope y'all love it. I'M SO PROUD OF MYSELF, LOOK AT THAT COVER PHOTO >.< !!! (obviously there's still room for improvement but patatas is practicing tehee) TOTS! TOTS! TATER TOTS!

[fairydustttx]

Not Fair.

Johnny Storm x reader

“How you keep make me falling in love, it’s just not fair”

A/N: Johnny is a girl dad because I say so (anyone I write about is automatically a girl dad idc).

Warnings: Implied smut? Domestic bliss? Mention of pregnancy. Not proofread.

Word count: 2594

Summary: You and Johnny learns that raising a fiery little girl takes more than superpowers — it takes heart, patience, and a whole lot of love.

You didn’t expect to meet a man on fire the day you were stationed in Midtown. Like literally on fire.

You were a field medic assigned to a civilian rescue team. Your job was triage and trauma kits, not chasing glowing men out of the sky — but that day, Johnny dropped into your chaos like a meteor, golden flames curling around his broad shoulders, looking infuriatingly casual. Like he did it everyday.

“Need a hand, Doc?” he asked, strolling up like he wasn’t smoking slightly.

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between a little impressed and slightly confused. “Is… that even safe?”

He gave you a roguish grin. “The Human Torch, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t back away. “Well, unless you’ve got some water in those pockets, I suggest helping by not catching my patients on fire please.”

Johnny gave a laugh that was louder than it needed to be — like he didn’t expect you to keep up. Like he was charmed.

“I’m Johnny.”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling faintly. “I know who you are, Johnny.”

He tilted his head, cocky and curious. “And you are?”

“Still treating burns. So unless you’re here to be useful—”

He held up his hands. “Got it. Prove my worth. Challenge accepted.”

Somehow, he kept showing up. Sometimes because the Foundation sent him. Sometimes because he “just happened to be flying by.” He flirted, yes — shamelessly. But he also carried stretchers, cracked jokes for scared kids, and stayed late helping with supply runs.

And you… let him.

Because behind the flame and the flash, Johnny was kind. He was present. And even though you knew he had a reputation for being reckless and loud, he never made you feel small or brushed off. In fact, he listened. More than most.

One late evening after a mission, you found him on the roof of the Baxter Building, legs dangling over the ledge, pizza box open beside him.

He looked over as you approached. “I knew you’d come.”

You sat beside him. “You left the comms open. I heard you say ‘pepperoni and please.’”

He smirked. “So… mercy dinner?”

You nudged his shoulder. “Victory dinner. You actually followed orders today.”

He chuckled, quiet for once. “You ever think about what comes after all this?”

You glanced at him. “Like… after the superhero gig?”

“Yeah.”

You thought for a moment. “Maybe something quieter. Maybe not.”

He nodded, eyes on the skyline. “I used to think I’d burn out young. Like, go out mid-flight. Big explosion. Headlines.”

You bumped your knee against his. “And now?”

His voice dropped a little. “Now I think I want something that… lasts.”

You looked at him — not the flame, not the show — just the man beneath it.

And then, finally, you kissed him.

The pregnancy wasn’t planned. But the moment you told him, Johnny didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t panic, didn’t deflect, didn’t make a joke.

He just reached for you, took your shaking hands in his, and said, “We’re doing this. Together.”

And he meant it.

Johnny was a whirlwind through the whole thing — equal parts chaos and devotion. He read parenting blogs at 2 a.m. like they were mission briefings, highlighted baby books and scribbled fireproof notes in the margins. He bugged Sue relentlessly for tips, and even asked Reed to help install a climate-stabilized crib in case she ran hot — literally.

And when your daughter was born — loud, glowing faintly under the hospital lights, her body radiating a soft pulse of warmth even before her first breath — Johnny fell apart in the best way.

“She’s… wow,” he whispered, blinking hard as he touched her tiny cheek. “She’s warm.”

You smiled through your tears, exhausted and overwhelmed. “Just like you.”

“No,” he said, eyes still locked on her like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “She’s already way cooler.”

She didn’t ignite right away. For the first few weeks, she was just… warm. Always snuggled into you or Johnny like a little ember. But one night, at just over three months old, you walked in to find her bassinet glowing. Not her nightlight.

Her.

Tiny curls backlit with golden light, a soft flickering ember hovering above her little belly like a heartbeat made visible.

Johnny froze, staring at her like he was afraid to move — like if he breathed wrong, she might vanish or explode.

“She’s okay,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “It’s just… her first flare.”

“She doesn’t even cry when it happens,” he whispered back, breathless. “She’s not scared.”

Of course she wasn’t because you had kept her safe.

Because Johnny had made sure she’d never have to fear the heat inside her the way he once had.

So when she came home from preschool one day with teary eyes and smoke clinging to her curls, Johnny’s reaction wasn’t dramatic. It was personal.

Because someone had made his little girl feel ashamed of something she was born to do.

And nothing in all his training had ever made him feel this furious — or this determined to protect.

The Baxter Foundation trained the Fantastic Four to manage catastrophic energy surges, alien invasions, and interdimensional threats. What they didn’t prepare Johnny Storm for… was preschool.

You felt it before you saw it. The door slammed harder than usual, and the air inside the apartment carried a charge — not heat, exactly. But tension. That unmistakable, pre-flare tightness you’d come to recognize in Johnny over the years.

"Johnny?" you called from the kitchen, drying your hands on a towel.

No answer.

He walked in, jaw tight, arms wrapped protectively around your daughter. Her cheek was buried in his shoulder, and she clutched the back of his jacket in two tiny fists.

He didn't say anything until they were both seated on the couch and she still hadn't looked up.

“She got upset,” Johnny said tightly, brushing her curls out of her face. “There was… a spark.”

Your stomach dropped. “At school?”

He nodded once. “Some kid grabbed her drawing. She got scared. It flared out.”

“She didn’t hurt anyone—?”

“No,” Johnny cut in quickly. “Nothing like that. But it spooked the teacher. And then—” His voice went sharp, rough. “Some little brat called her a freak.”

You dropped to your knees in front of them, hand instinctively reaching for your daughter’s back.

“Baby?” you asked gently. “Can you tell Mommy what happened?”

Her voice was so soft you almost missed it. “I got mad. And I got warm. And then they looked scared.”

You met Johnny’s eyes. He was struggling — barely containing the fire you knew wanted to lash out in defense.

“She thinks she’s bad,” he said, jaw clenched. “Because she got mad.”

You pulled her into your arms now. Johnny let her go, reluctantly.

“You are not bad,” you whispered. “You are learning. You’re allowed to feel things — and you’re allowed to mess up sometimes while you figure out how to control it.”

She sniffled. “But fire hurts people.”

You looked at Johnny.

“Fire protects people too,” he said softly, scooting closer. “You think I didn’t mess up when I got my powers? I once turned an entire beach umbrella stand into charcoal. Accidentally lit Uncle Reed’s eyebrows on fire. Twice.”

That got a small smile.

“But I practiced,” he continued. “I learned. And now I help people. And you can too. You just need a little help.”

Your daughter glanced up at him, tentative. “You’ll teach me?”

He grinned. “You bet your flame I will.”

The local park was nearly empty, just the way you liked it.

Tucked in a quiet, shaded corner behind a cluster of tall oaks, the three of you had claimed a patch of grass away from the paths, benches, and other families.

Johnny had done a discreet thermal scan before even letting your daughter take off her shoes — no one too close, no cameras in sight. Just peace, trees, and a wide-open patch of space to burn.

Safely.

“Okay, sweet flame,” Johnny crouched beside her in the grass, grinning. “Remember: warm, not hot. We’re melting chocolate, not metal.”

You leaned against a tree trunk a few feet away, arms crossed, watching them both with a fond smile.

Your daughter — all curls, dimples, and determined concentration nodded solemnly, like she was about to cast a sacred spell.

She inhaled. Focused. Then slowly, carefully… opened her tiny palm.

A small, flickering flame curled into existence.

Steady. Gentle. A soft golden glow that danced like a candle in the wind, casting light over her wide-eyed grin.

“Look at that!” Johnny said, his voice catching with pride. “That’s perfect. Controlled ignition.”

She giggled, and the flame pulsed brighter. Johnny gently took her hand, steadying her wrist, and let out a slow, cooling breath over her skin.

“Excitement spikes it,” he told her softly. “Happens to the best of us.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside her in the grass. “That was beautiful, baby. You’re getting better.”

“Daddy says I’m a fire princess,” she said proudly, puffing her chest out.

“Princess Pyro,” Johnny added, with a dramatic bow. “Queen of flame. Ruler of all marshmallows.”

You laughed, brushing a leaf from her curls. “You two are a disaster waiting to happen.”

“The best kind,” Johnny said, wrapping his arms around both of you in a side hug that made your daughter squeal.

After a few more rounds of sparking, giggling, and a very small scorched leaf pile (that Johnny quickly buried under dirt), you called it.

“Okay baby,” you said, brushing grass off your jeans. “Time to wrap it up.”

“But I was being careful!”

“You were amazing,” Johnny said, lifting her onto his shoulders. “And what do amazing flame princesses get when they finish practice?”

Her eyes lit up. “Ice cream!”

“Ding ding ding!” he said, already walking toward the car.

You fell in step beside them, smiling as her tiny hands clutched Johnny’s hair for balance, her legs swinging. The evening sun filtered through the trees, casting golden rays across the path ahead. Warm, soft, peaceful.

Later, she sat on a bench with chocolate chip cookie dough melting down her chin, feet kicking, cheeks glowing — in more ways than one.

Johnny nudged your shoulder as you both watched her devour her cone like it was a medal.

“She’s got your focus,” he said. “But all the chaos? That’s on me.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “It’s a good balance.”

And in that moment — sweet air, sticky fingers, happy squeals — you believed it.

By the early evening, your daughter was out cold. Arms sprawled, face soft with sleep, a faint golden glow pulsing beneath the covers like the last flicker of a dying campfire.

Her favorite stuffed bear — flameproofed, courtesy of Uncle Reed — was tucked tight under her arm. Her lashes fluttered every few seconds, little sparks of dreamlight dancing across her cheekbones.

You adjusted the blanket over her shoulder, just enough to shield the curl of heat still rising gently from her skin.

Then you turned the monitor volume down and stepped quietly into the hallway.

Johnny was waiting.

Leaning against the bedroom doorframe like he’d been standing there the whole time — arms crossed, shirt rumpled from the wind at the park, hair still smelling faintly of bonfire smoke and marshmallow sugar. That signature cocky grin had faded hours ago, replaced by something quieter.

Softer.

The kind of look he only ever wore when he was watching her… or you.

You arched an eyebrow. “You standing guard?”

“Waiting for you.”

You moved past him — or at least tried to. His arm slipped around your waist, warm and steady, anchoring you in place like gravity.

“She’s safe,” you murmured, resting your hand over his. “Thanks to you.”

Johnny’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You were the one who calmed her. Who made her feel like she wasn’t broken.”

“You protected her,” you said, turning in his arms. “And you held it together. Even when you wanted to burn the place down.”

His mouth twitched — half smile, half wince. “You saw that, huh?”

“I always see you.”

He exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers curling around your wrist like he didn’t want to let go. “Watching you today… the way you knelt beside her, the way you listened like her feelings were the only thing that mattered—”

“They are,” you said simply.

Johnny’s voice cracked slightly. “You make it look easy. Loving her. Loving… me.”

You cupped his jaw, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble there. “It’s never been easy,” you said. “But it’s always been worth it.”

His eyes held yours — full of heat, yes, but also full of something steadier. Deeper. Love, and awe, and a quiet kind of reverence you never got used to.

“I fall in love with you all over again every damn day,” he whispered.

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him instead — slow, deep, and full of everything words couldn’t carry. The years. The laughter. The fire. The fear. The family. The stubborn devotion that had seen you through every fight and flame.

There was no rush. No frenzy. Just heat — steady and sure — building between you like kindling catching light in safe hands.

You tumbled into the bed in a tangle of limbs, hushed laughs and whispers, his warmth wrapping around you like a storm you chose to walk into, again and again.

Johnny’s hands moved over you reverently, mapping familiar terrain like he was discovering it all over again — like it was sacred. Yours gasped against his, open and aching, not from urgency, but from how deeply you still felt all of this.

When his fingers grazed your ribs, you gasped softly. He paused, brushing your hair back.

“You okay?”

You nodded, voice barely there. “I just… I love you so much, it almost hurts.”

He kissed your shoulder, your throat, your chest. “Let me show you how much I love you,” he murmured. “Right here. Right now.”

And you let him.

Because there was no one else you’d ever burn for.

The room was quiet. Dim, thick with warmth. The sheets tangled around your legs, your head resting on Johnny’s chest. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your ear, his skin still humming with that low, golden glow — not danger. Not fire.

Just comfort. Just home.

You traced lazy shapes across his ribs, smiling faintly. “Do you think she’ll remember today?”

“She might,” Johnny murmured, his fingers trailing idly up and down your spine. “But she’ll remember what mattered.”

You lifted your head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“She’ll remember that when things got scary… her mom made her feel safe. That her powers didn’t make her scary. That she was still loved.”

Your eyes burned, throat tight. “God, I hope so.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “She will. Because we show her. Every single day.”

You laced your fingers with his.

“I think we’re gonna be okay,” you whispered.

He even didn’t hesitate.

“We’re gonna be more than okay.”

He turned toward you, brushing your hair back from your cheek, looking at you like you were the center of his universe.

“We’re gonna raise the brightest damn flame this world’s ever seen. And she’s gonna change everything.”

And you believed him.

Because Johnny Storm didn’t just burn for the world anymore.

He burned for you.

And for her.

And for the kind of love that didn’t scorch or destroy — but warmed every part of you that had ever been cold.

[smokebombsandspotlights]

🏁"doctor y/n to the paddock please"

Word Count: 1,099 (F1 grid x Platonic!femdriver!reader) Featuring: 2025 F1 Grid – including Ollie Bearman, Kimi Antonelli, Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, and more Summary: Y/N is the brilliant 19-year-old rookie on the F1 grid, simultaneously pursuing her degree in human biology. She’s fast, awkward, and impossible to catch unless your name is Kimi or Ollie. But once the rest of the drivers learn the magic phrase to get her to stay… things get chaotic in the best way.

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“Wait—where’s she going?” “She saw you walking over, mate.” “But I was just gonna say hi—” “Exactly.” “Oh come on, I’m not that scary!”

Oscar Piastri sighed, watching Y/N’s signature racing jacket disappear around the corner of the Mercedes garage like she was doing a 3-second sprint. Which, knowing her, she probably timed.

“Why does she only talk to Ollie and Kimi?” Charles Leclerc asked, sipping his espresso like this wasn’t the fifth conversation they’d had this week about “figuring out the Mercedes rookie.”

“She doesn’t only talk to us,” Kimi Antonelli added unhelpfully, scrolling on his phone.

“You literally had lunch with her twice this weekend,” Lando chimed in. “And she helped Ollie study for his media training exam thing,” Carlos muttered. “Which, like—what even is that?”

“She’s probably just shy,” George offered. “She’s 19. The rest of us are loud and annoying.” “Speak for yourself,” Charles quipped.

“Seriously though, how do we talk to her?” Oscar asked, voice dropping like it was some kind of covert operation. “You guys know her better than we do.”

Kimi looked up. “…Just ask her about biology or something.”

“…what.”

“No, he’s right,” Ollie said with a little grin. “Y/N’s in the middle of her human biology degree. She’s got like, anatomy flashcards in her driver room. She helped me understand what the liver does for like twenty minutes yesterday.”

Carlos blinked. “What does the liver do?” “Carlos.” “What?! I drive cars, not bodies.”

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The next day, during the Silverstone GP weekend, Lando spotted Y/N walking toward the motorhome, head down, earbuds in, probably watching a video lecture about something way too smart for 9 AM.

He put on his friendliest smile and approached.

“Y/N!” She froze like a startled cat. “Don’t run, I swear I’m not gonna make you do a TikTok,” he held up his hands.

That got a tiny smile. “…Hi,” she said, soft, clutching her iPad a little tighter.

“So uh,” Lando scratched his neck, clearly reaching into the deepest depths of his brain, “I’ve been having this…weird pain. In like—my lower back? Maybe it’s the way I sit in the car? Or like—do kidneys go there?”

Y/N blinked. Her brow furrowed just slightly. “Lower back pain? Does it hurt when you wake up, or only after driving?” “I mean, kind of both?” “Could be postural. Or a psoas imbalance. Or dehydration. Have you been drinking enough water?”

He blinked. “Like…maybe? Not really?” She sighed like a disappointed professor. “Muscles get tighter when you’re low on fluids. You probably need to stretch and hydrate better. Could be causing referred pain.”

“…Referred pain?”

Y/N blinked again. “Pain that’s felt somewhere other than where it originates.” “Oh.”

Lando stood there, stunned. Y/N shifted awkwardly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” “No, that was actually… super helpful?” She smiled again—this time for real. “You’re welcome.”

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Later that day:

“Bro, it worked. I asked her about my kidneys and she actually stayed.” Oscar nearly dropped his water bottle. “What did she say?” “Apparently I’m dying from dehydration.” “…you are,” Kimi said flatly.

Suddenly, Y/N was in high demand.

Carlos complained about a shoulder spasm (“Have you been favoring one side when you sleep?”) Charles made up a headache (“You might be clenching your jaw, try magnesium supplements.”) Even Daniel joined in (“I feel like my spleen’s off.” – “That’s not even how it works.”)

She wasn’t fooled, of course. But she indulged them.

Every time, her voice would soften, her confidence would bloom, and she’d go on a little nerdy tangent about tendons, or hydration, or resting heart rates, and the boys? They were hooked.

“She’s like—Doctor Mike,” Alex Albon muttered after she explained Oscar’s stress-induced stomach cramps in detail. “She could probably take the MCAT and still beat us to pole,” George added.

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What started as a running joke (“Doctor Y/N to the paddock please,” someone said over the radio and she nearly threw her headset) eventually became something warmer, deeper.

Y/N stopped running away. She started eating lunch with the others. She gave Charles her notes when he said his back hurt again. She and Alex got into a debate about caffeine and resting cortisol levels that drew a literal crowd.

At the Austrian GP, a clip went viral of Y/N standing in the Red Bull hospitality tent, passionately explaining the vagus nerve to Lando and Logan using a sandwich as a prop.

“She's the first driver I’ve ever seen use a grilled cheese to explain autonomic regulation,” one fan tweeted. “She’s so real for that,” another replied. #DoctorY/N trended for the rest of the weekend.

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By mid-season, Y/N had won two races, earned a standing ovation for correcting a Sky Sports journalist about metabolic efficiency (gently, but still), and somehow become the grid’s favorite little sister and emergency medic.

“Y/N,” Carlos asked in Hungary, looking concerned, “my eye’s been twitching since Wednesday.” “Lack of sleep. Cut down your screen time after 9PM. Try magnesium glycinate.” “…you’re magic.”

Ollie and Kimi watched it all happen with barely contained pride.

“She’s so cool,” Ollie whispered. “She’s always been cool,” Kimi replied.

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At Spa, Y/N made history as the youngest woman to podium at the Belgian GP.

During the post-race interviews, Lewis Hamilton leaned over and said into the mic, “Honestly, I thought she was gonna diagnose me with iron deficiency halfway through that race.”

Everyone laughed. Y/N just grinned.

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By the time the season wound down, “Doctor Y/N” was stitched into the inside of her helmet as a joke from the Mercedes garage. The medical team actually joked about recruiting her post-retirement. Fans made lab coat edits of her podium pictures.

But the best part?

Y/N finally stopped doubting whether she belonged on that grid.

Not just because she was smart. Not just because she was fast. But because when she walked into the paddock, the boys didn’t just nod at her—they waved, smiled, joked, asked questions.

They listened.

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In Abu Dhabi, during the driver parade, Y/N sat between Lando and Kimi, squinting at her iPad and flipping through muscle diagrams. Oscar leaned over from the row behind.

“What are you studying now?” “Neuromuscular junctions.” “Oh cool. I have this weird ache in my foot—” “Oscar.”

She grinned. He did too.

“Doctor Y/N strikes again,” Charles said with a wink. She didn’t run away this time.

━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━

Let me know if you want a part 2 (maybe she has to treat someone for real during a chaotic weekend 👀), or if you’d like a banner or mood board for it to post to Tumblr!

[kaitlyn-imagines]

Can I get saja boys x emotional reader? Like reader who gets angry easily or cries easily and maybe both at the same time? Like something happens and reader just starts lashing out while also breaking down crying or something

Omggg, dont call me out, I'm such an emotional person! LOL! Literally, my poor bf has to navigate me crying all the time over silly stuff. We always call it my 'big feelings' haha, so I use that here!

Saja Boys with an Emotional Reader

Jinu:

The first time you burst into tears, he’s so startled that he just goes into overdrive like, “What do you need? What happened? What can I do?”

But as it happens more and more often, he kind of learns that you just have big emotions, and he comes to expect tears every other day.

Keeps travel-sized tissues on hand in case something happens like you spot an old man getting groceries at the store. “He was doing his own shopping, all alone!” you’ll wail.

And he just pets your hair, and wipes the tears from your cheeks like, “sweetheart, I promise you he was fine, he was just trying to figure out what brand of detergent he wanted…”

That is to say, he learns how to navigate your moods pretty quickly, like a captain braving the storm. He loves that you feel things so deeply, especially when it’s coming from a place of boundless empathy.

When he tells you about his past, you tear up instantly. And he just looks at you with an expression of such tortured love and shame, like, “shh, don’t cry sweetheart, least of all for me…”

Abby:

You’re having one of those bad days where everything just seems like it’s going wrong—your phone died, you lost your favorite keychain on the way over, your iced coffee dripped from a loose cap all over your jeans…

You don’t mean to be moody and short, but all that bad luck has made you impatient and you lash out a bit at Abby over something that normally wouldn’t have bothered you

He looks at you, an unappreciative look on his face as his eyebrows narrow. “You don’t have to snap at me,” he’ll huff a little, crossing his bulging arms over his chest.

And he looks so irked that it just sends you over the edge and your burst into tears. “I-I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m so sorry!” and you’re trying to wipe the tears and snot from your face.

And this poor guy just PANICS, grabbing your shoulders all concerned, like “shit, what’s wrong, what did I do??”

He rubs your back and hands you tissues while you cry and rant about your shitty day, and he’s so understanding, doting, patient, and forgiving. “Shh, jagiya, no more tears now. Come, drink some water, you’re probably dehydrated now…you want a sweet treat?”

Baby:

Bro, the first time you cry in front of him, his body just goes RIGID. He stiffens up and is so uncomfortable, just silently looks around for help because he doesn’t know what to do!

“Uhhh…” just pats your back with the most clumsy, unhelpful thumps. He’s bad at comforting people, and frankly, he just hopes you stop crying soon.

It’s a little easier if you’re crying from anger, because at least he understands that a bit better. Let’s you rant and get it out, dropping the occasional, supportive “hmm” and “what a jerk.”

If you’re crying from sadness, he has less experience with it, so he just awkwardly asks if you’re okay or need anything. He relaxes when the tears finally stop, feels like he just put out a fire. What a hero!!!

If you’re crying because somebody hurt you, his reaction shifts completely. He goes rigid, his jaw clenching a bit as a cold lethality flashes in his eyes. His voice is quiet, deceptively calm as he asks you to, “Tell me everything.”

Romance:

Very attentive and in tune with his emotions, so he’s naturally very comforting and good at helping you get everything out.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now…” Rather than just labeling everything as angry or sad, he always helps you find the right words for how you’re feeling. Lonely, disappointed, hurt, annoyed, frustrated, irritated, etc…

Never makes you feel like you’re overreacting or that your emotions are ‘too-much,’ makes sure you always have a shoulder to cry on or someone to rant to.

You’re watching a movie together, and it’s an emotional peak in the film. He hears a sniffle next to him, and looks over to see you leaking like a faucet. How had you been crying so much, and so silently???

“Oh darling, no no,” he’ll immediately pause the movie and grab both of your wet cheeks in his hands. His thumbs swipe away at the salty wet skin, and he coos softly.

Kisses your salty lips until you’re laughing through the tears like, “let me blow my nose first!” and he’s just glad to see you smiling.

Mystery:

Seeing you cry is near agony for him. If you’re feeling down and sad, he’s very touchy, pulling you into his arms and just holding you there as you tremble. Every sob that wracks through your body is like a punch to the gut.

Whispers small words of comfort and love into your ear, rubbing your back, petting your hair, making sure you know through physical touch that he’s there for you.

When you finally get it all out, he’s clingy. Doesn’t want to leave you alone…will cuddle with you for as long as you’ll let him. Follows you around like a dog until he’s 1000% certain you’re feeling better.

If you’re crying out of anger, he’s still pretty touchy…but he’s also barely restraining his own anger. Who made you cry? Swear, they’re his newest, biggest opp. Practically rigid with the thought that someone made you cry.

Even if it was something simple, like someone cut you off on the road. He’s got half a mind to get out of the car and kick a dent into their bumper.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

NUMBERS???

spider byte!reader x platonic yan!batfamily

Bio: You're too smart for them and for your own good.

Tag: @dannyisdying @23xfgg

"Bruce, why is there a tracking device on my spider suit?" This is the seventh time you've found a small bug or little tracking device on your avatar. They're starting to get restless, wanting to know what you're doing, where you're going, and who's ever around. It's starting to get annoying, and it's always the same excuse: "I'm trying to keep you safe," "It's because we care, [name]," "There are creeps in Gotham, you know that, right?" It's the same damn thing, like you aren't a hero yourself, like you can't handle yourself, like you aren't smarter than these assholes combined. Not to mention they're trying to get back into your good graces after Barbara tried to hack into your avatar to, well, "learn more about" you. In reality, she wanted to find out where you lived. An avatar can only do so much; it's not her fault that she wants to be close to you. What's the problem with that? It's just genius to another genius.

And don't get me started on Damian! He always has something to say every time you change up your avatar's look: "You don't dress like this in real life..." You found that ignoring him would be better, but that little rage bat won't stop. He wants your attention so badly that he doesn't even care if it's bad attention—he just wants you to notice him, talk to him, even if it's just for a second. Hold him, even if he can feel your warmth from that dumb avatar. Tim is no better; he's making excuses for trying to get close to you ever since you took the internship at Wayne Enterprises. He got you the internship because he knew you were good with tech and great with computers, so it only made sense for you to join the family company. After all, you guys are family, right? Unlike most interns, you're getting special treatment—a six-figure paycheck when most interns aren't even getting paid!

He's dragging you out of meetings or getting people coffee because you're way too important to do that. You should spend time geeking out with him instead. Dick is treating you like you're some baby, like you can't handle yourself. "Nightwing, can you please put me down? I can literally swing from building to building!" You're shouting as you're being carried in the arms of a grown man who can't bear to see you use your own two feet or even your hands. He has you in a bridal style in his arms while using his batons to swing you from place to place. It was cute at first, but my God, is it getting tiresome. "No can do, little bug. Last time you sprained your ankle on these roofs. Can't have my itsy bitsy spider getting hurt," he teased with a winning smile that could make a reporter swoon. And God, you hate that "itsy bitsy spider" nickname, but you're too far deep to say no.

They have whole schedules of who gets to hang out with you and who doesn't. "I get to patrol with [Name] tonight!" Jason is literally arguing with Damian, a literal middle schooler, over who gets to go out on the town with you, like they don't bench you and then do all the work because "Gotham isn't a place for someone like you." Damian, who unsheathes his katana, is screeching like a little kid—well, he is a little kid. "Please, Todd, but she wants to be around you for another day." "Do I get a say in this?" earwaxed, questioning if your opinion even matters in this stupid custody battle between a grown man and a 14-year-old. "No!" Well, you knew your opinion didn't matter, but it was nice to try.

You practically live at the Manor at this point, and at the Batcave, they're trying to manipulate you into staying here, whether it's with Alfred's cooking or some pretend movie night where they're basically fighting for your attention—who gets to cuddle you, who gets to hold you, who gets to feed you. It's like you're one of those talking pet apps, kind of like my iPad kids. Only Bruce can settle this: I'm making you sit with him. To them, it's absolutely unfair, but to Bruce, it seems like a great punishment. Like I said, there's no say in this at all. They like to give you the illusion that you can have an opinion or do what you want, but it's all an illusion. "So, um, when can I leave?" As if they'll ever let you go. "Next week," Duke says, running his fingers through your avatar's holographic curls. "Okay, but you said that last week. Am I actually leaving?" Well, Cass is nuzzling into your lap like an awesome domesticated cat. "Never..." Cass says softly, not knowing that they're insanely serious about this. "Never?" Steph pulls your face to look at her and bumps her forehead against yours while giggling. "Never ever!" Your mom was right; it won't be too long until they find you in real life, and you'll be in their grasp forever, so log out while you still can.

[solar-wing]

⚣ Conner Kent: NSFW Alphabet 🟥

⚣ 🟥 A/N → Something to hold y'all over until the next story is up 😉. Funny enough, I knew I had done these headcanons before, but couldn't find the document, so I just started fresh... only for me to find my original headcanons right as I was exporting the document💀 my fucking life... I swear. Anyway, ENJOY! 😁

⚣ 🟥 Word Count → 10.0K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 🟥

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Attentive and clingy.

To consider what Conner is like after sex is also to consider his half-human Kryptonian nature. As will be mentioned further down, Conner is someone with higher-than-average stamina compared to most other humans and meta-humans alike. So, his aftercare is a combination of various elements.

Despite a gruff and emotionally reserved exterior that Conner likes to maintain, he is someone attentive and considerate in his vulnerable moments. Especially in the early stages of his freedom/life, he’s still learning his strength and how far he can go without irreversible effects. In those rare moments when he allows his walls to drop, he may not always be skilled with his words, but his actions convey someone who wants their partner to feel safe, understood, and comfortable—both physically and emotionally.

He’ll clean up if that is what’s preferred, but expect a tendency to hover, especially if it was a rougher session. He may check for bruises and wounds he may have accidentally inflicted, help carry to the bathroom or wherever is needed, etc. His main thing, however, is to just embrace and cuddle in the aftermath, especially if he’s in a more possessive mood. With his origins and abilities, he will, without thought, wrap his body around his partner like a shield; bonus points if he’s still inside.

It’s a vulnerable move, but it’s an assurance for him. It surprised him how much he cares, considering his initial purpose. An intense need for intimacy and closeness that he doesn’t realize is there, but which becomes completely apparent in those tender after moments. So when he kisses your shoulder or murmurs a gravelly “you okay?” into your neck, know it’s his silent way of saying “you matter.”But, also don’t be surprised if a particular pride shows through, especially if it was one of those sessions. You will find out very quickly how smug that man can be when he's flexing himself inside of you or giving a slight, forceful nudge against you as a reminder of who you just let wreck your insides, and why it will only be him.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself: Considering Conner was quite literally engineered to be perfect—or at least, the ideal copy of Superman, he doesn’t think about his body in terms of vanity, since he knows it’s already the standard and most desired in society’s eyes. It haunts him a bit, though, the knowledge that who he is and how he comes across to the world might not be fully authentic. But if there’s one part he takes subconscious pride in, it’s his arms.

Not just for how strong they are (though they are ridiculous—ropey veins, thick forearms, biceps that stretch seams), but for what they can hold. Something that will be a recurring topic is how Conner unconsciously values intimacy. Whether he realizes it or not, much of his reasoning for his arms being his favorite part of himself is less to do with him being built like a weapon and more to do with using that body to cradle someone without hurting them. The contrast gets to him, and he loves the little things. When you slap his arm in scolding, and the immediate flushed and turned on expression, no matter how subtle, follows afterward, it is at the strength and size of his arm. How you grip his arms in the middle of the act, especially when you’re overwhelmed as he’s rocking your bodies together, back and forth. How his arms look against you when carrying or holding you against him—that one’s a favorite—every time.

On his partner: Conner loves the look and feel of a pair of good-looking thighs, especially when they're straddling him, squeezing around his hips, trembling under his hands as he parts them. It makes him lose his composure fast when he has a view of powerful, plush, or quivering thighs locked against him—he’s obsessed with them. His touch there will often—almost always—linger, with his fingers spreading across the soft give, gripping tighter than he may mean to, and sometimes spacing and tracing his thumbs lightly across the skin to see them quiver and jiggle from the tickling sensation.

They’re a go-to comfort spot pre-sex, during sex, and post sex. Don’t exactly know how that middle one works out, but it works for him. Whether he’s resting his head there using the natural warmth or coolness as a pillow, burying his face between them in the most titillating of ways, nudging his hips and body between them as he buries himself inside you, or even as something as simple as carrying you over his shoulder and getting to hold and press your thighs under his arms—bonus points! A thought to keep in mind, though: exercise caution when selecting your bottomwear. Conner’s not overtly pervy, but his eyes always drop, and his palms will wander as if your thighs are some kind of gravitational force his hands can’t escape.

In addition to that, know that Conner is 100% an ass man. A man who is obsessed with lower limbs, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out the man likes a good pair of jiggly booty cheeks! But, don’t get him wrong, he likes a good chest just as much as the next person, especially if it's pressed up against him in the dark, warm, and soft against his own sturdy frame, but ass is where his hands naturally go, as if on instinct. Again, be careful with the choice of pants or shorts, as Conner does not have it in him to even pretend he’s not staring, let alone hide it. There’s a control aspect to it as well; a satisfying element in how he can grip your ass to pull himself deeper onto you, grind you against his thigh or front, or fondle you while you're bent helplessly over his shoulder. It’s his favorite handle, whether he's fucking rough or holding you close during slower, messier sessions.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Conner has a visceral relationship with cum, one that’s considered equally primal, possessive, and dangerously addictive once he allows himself to lean into it more. In the beginning, when he’s learning about intimacy and sex as a whole, the sensation of ejaculation is obviously one of the ones that takes a bit getting used to for the half-human. But there’s something gleeful that happens in his brain and chest when he watches it happen, especially when his partner is involved. Whether it’s him unloading across your stomach, painting your lips in slow, hot strokes, or feeling and knowing his spunk sits inside you. He can’t explain it, not in clear words, but it does something to him to see you messy because of him. It’s akin to the feeling a child may get when playing with a toy that another kid has to watch them play with, but he got to it first, and therefore, it’s his.

And Conner cums a lot. That Kryptonian hybrid biology delivers in multiple ways. Thick, hot spurts—the kind that rope across your body in heavy streaks or flood deep inside you and leave you gasping at just how full you feel afterward. Even if you shower, you may still feel it hours later. The weight, the stretch, the stickiness — especially if he didn’t pull out. Which, being honest, is experiencing the feeling of release inside of you, which is a feeling he will not give up without a fight, meaning you beg and demand him to pull out. Even then, he still might not do it if he doesn’t feel it’s a good enough reason, but only if the trust is there.

He also becomes more needy the more he gets into it. He isn’t verbal—more of a growler, low and deep in your ear—but right before he finishes, there’s an unhinged desperation that cuts through his stoicness. His voice goes gravel-thick, his grip will tighten like he needs to anchor himself, and when he finally releases? He shudders through it, as if experiencing massive body chills, and the feeling of release is short-circuiting his brain. His entire body will be flexed and tense, his teeth gritted and mouth half open while he’s panting against your neck.

If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how many orgasms you've been put through), he might not even pull out when he's done. Might just stay there, hard or soft (depending on the round) and twitching, while you clench around him and the mess he’s made.

And don’t even get started on the experience of watching you swallow. That shuts off Conner’s higher brain function completely—well, except for the thought of another round. He’s a menace.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Conner has jerked off to surveillance footage of you.

There was a time, early on in the new life of freedom, living in Mount Justice, when he didn’t understand the concept of boundaries or shame. His body felt unfamiliar, and he didn’t understand completely the urges and sensations he felt, and self-control was something that barely existed—both on the battlefield and off. He’d linger too long in the monitor room when someone like Wally left the cams running after training. Or when a specific teammate was shirtless and sweaty in the Cave gym, watching him stretch in ways that weren’t intended to be sexual, but his eyes always stuck anyway.

The guilt eventually hit… after. But not before he’d unzip behind closed doors and jerk himself off to grainy feed in the dead of night, biting down groans with the heel of his hand, getting off to you who would never know how he watched you like prey.

He has long since deleted the footage and records of him downloading it to a personal drive, which he keeps locked away and may forget about. But the memory still burns.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Conner started not knowing anything about sex outside of its meaning, purpose, and definition that would be described in a textbook, thanks to his programming, but it didn’t last long.

After coming out of Cadmus, it was one thing to know the reasoning behind why his appendage would get so hard and stiff, erect in his pants; another thing entirely to experience it, particularly around specific individuals whom he’d stare a second too long at whether it their bare shoulders, collarbones, sweat-glossed muscles, thighs and asses, etc.. He didn’t know how to name it, but he felt it, and once he started exploring that feeling and touching himself, he became determined to figure it all out.

He’s not a flirt, he’s not exactly smooth, and he doesn’t know how to dirty talk worth a damn, especially if he’s too far gone to think. But what he lacks in finesse, he makes up for in raw, physical instinct. Impatient and impulsive as he may be, he takes the time to learn about you. The way you breathe when he hits a specific spot, or how you squirm when he teases you while restraining and holding you down. He learns what triggers you, like how fast your heartbeat will jump when he pins your wrists and growls into your neck, grinding into you like he owns your body.

And once he not only learns you, inside and out, but also himself, he’s as much of a force to be dealt with in the bedroom just as he is in a fight. The way he holds your body, the tight grip on your hips has that sultry thrill of feeling manhandled, while his rhythm is something he’s learned and developed to a devastating precision. He learns to it’s okay, more than OK, to fuck you through your orgasm, especially when he has a point to prove, making sure you’re shaking and leaking by the time he’s done. Yeah, now he knows what he’s doing. He figured it out by watching, by testing, by listening to the different ways you moan his name and what causes each type.

It’s an obsession he has with proving himself, showing he’s the only one who can and will do the things to your body in the way that elicits the most euphoria and pleasure no other could hope to achieve. He still gets flustered, though, by things that may catch him off guard—especially if it’s you trying to turn the tables. Give him a minute to learn and adjust, something he’s learned from Dick, and now, when you challenge him, he‘s prepared. Something will drop behind those blue eyes, and you’ll get the side of him that grabs you by the throat, shoves you into the mattress, and fucks you like it’s the one true thing he was made for.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Face-Down, Ass-Up – Brutally intimate, this position gives Conner complete access to you, watching your back flex, your hole stretch, your ass tremble with every punishing thrust, watching you be helpless in the best way. You’re his, so every time he’s buried inside you, pressing you down into the mattress, chasing that deep rhythm that makes your legs twitch and your moans go ragged, he feels worthy. His grunts are rough, hot against your skin as he leans in, all weighty and dominant, hips snapping into yours while your thighs quake and your body jerks forward with every impact.

And if you try to crawl away, he will drag your ass back with one arm under your waist, lifting your hips higher, forcing you to take all of him. There will be no mercy nor escape, just the heavy sound of his groans and the obscene slap of skin. And when he finishes inside you, he won’t pull out, not until it drips down your thighs and he’s made it clear exactly who you belong to.

Standing Carry – Conner uses this position when he both needs closeness & intimacy, and also to prove a point. It’s when the jealousy’s been boiling for hours, and the fear creeps in that someone else might ever see you like this, trembling, moaning, walls squeezing around him. He’ll lift you like it’s nothing, pushing your back against the wall, making you lock your legs around his waist, and forcing you to cling to him like he’s oxygen. He likes seeing your body open instinctively to him, giving him everything and inviting him in without a single word. He’ll take it slow at first, grinding deep into you while your ass is gripped in the palms of his hands as he’s burying his face into your neck like he needs to inhale you to survive. It’s his arms, his strength holding you suspended, as if gravity obeys him now. He has your entire being in his grip, making you vulnerable here with your chest exposed, face open, and neck defenseless.

If your moans echo in the space a little too loudly, you’ll quickly find a hand over your mouth as he’s still rutting. It’s not to be cruel, though, only to protect what’s his. Conner wants no one else to witness any part of this experience that should be and is exclusive to him. No one gets to feel how your nails would dig into their back like they do for him, or how your cock leaks between your bodies and legs quiver against him as he pushes himself inside more and more. Getting to watch your head fall back, and being the one who gets to grab your jaw, forcing your mouth open just enough for him to kiss you through the overstimulation. He’ll cum with a full-body tremor that’s mostly silent, except for the deep, guttural groans into your throat. And he won’t put you down, at least not immediately.

Folded in Half — You want to show him he matters and that he’s the only one who can have you like this? Let him fold you like a prayer and rut into you with a single-minded intensity that has you squirming and crying, trying to get away, but you can’t because he has you pinned under him, your knees bent back to your chest with his body flush to yours. Both your chests (yours more than his) will be slick with sweat and rising with every panting breath. And as he fucks you like this,  fully pressed in, buried deep, there’s nowhere to run. You’re defenseless and wide open, his for the taking.

He’ll watch you as you break apart under him, only allowing your hands the freedom to rub and claw at his back, grip onto his arm, or inside his hair as he continues to pillage and wreck you for himself. But if even once, he feels you try to push against him, now those same arms will be restrained, pinned against the bed as he continues to show you his strength and worth. His mouth will stay busy as well, whether it’s latching onto your neck, your collarbone, or your jaw as tears pool in the corners of your eyes from him hitting that sweet spot too many times in a row. And when you reach the point of no return, he’ll grab your wrists (once again) and pin them down while increasing his speed and intensity, fucking you harder through your own orgasm while chasing his own finish like he’s branding you from the inside.

Bent Over a Surface – This is more for when something has pissed him off, whether it’s you or someone/something else. Conner will find a private place and a surface, any surface to bend you over whether it be over the counter, a dresser, or even public ones as long as he knows no one is around like the kitchen table, or the back of the couch, any flat surface that lets him watch your spine curve and your thighs shake. In these moments, he craves submission and affirmation—he wants to see you begging, writhing, and reaching back for him. Even when he’s being rough—especially when he is—he wants to see your fingers clawing at his hip, or hooking around his arm, silently begging for more. He needs to see you offering yourself even when your body is barely keeping up.

That’s when he’ll get filthy, hands gripping your waist, slamming into you with punishing force, low animalistic growls rising from his chest, and his teeth nipping the back of your neck. If he thinks someone could hear, he’ll cover your mouth, and not for your sake, but for his. No one else gets your whines, your gasps, your broken little pleas. He’ll fuck you until your knees buckle and your body spasms around him, and only then will he bury himself one last time and cum so deep you feel it hours later. Pregnant.

Lap Dance 180/Kneeling Cradle – Propped up on his lap, body limp against his chest, impaled and whimpering into his neck. This one is less about dominance and more about proof. You on top, his cock buried deep, fully seated inside you while he holds you there, arms around your waist, face buried in your shoulder. In a post sex haze, whimpering, overstimulated, your bodies sweat-slick, and hearts racing in sync. Conner’s voice is barely audible, just the occasional breathy “mine” as his hands roam your body. You shift and tremble every time he twitches inside you, but you don’t move to pull off—not that he’ll even let you—and neither does he. It’s the aftermath of a possessive rut where he’s already cum inside you once, maybe twice—even thrice—but doesn’t want to leave the warmth yet, doesn’t want to let go. Placing small, but biting kisses to your flesh, staring hard either at you or into space, notably a mirror to watch your body cling and convulse over him while he subtly shifts himself inside you. You’ll kiss his temple, let out a soft whine from the tip of your tongue, shiver, and cling to him while digging your fingers in his hair, and he’ll growl low, hips thrusting up again, slow and deep. For Conner, it’s both an intimate moment and the most proud and validating moment, seeing and feeling you spent against him, entirely at his whim and control, accepting and affirming him as your one and only. Smug and prideful.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Conner is serious — almost painfully so — in the bedroom.

Not because he’s humorless or doesn’t get teasing, but because sex, to him, isn’t casual. It’s intimate and personal. You’re giving him something no one else sees: your body, your sounds, your trust. That shit means something to him—grounds him and makes him feel real. It makes it something he feels like he can’t joke about.

When he’s deep inside you, gripping your thighs while your eyes roll back and your body spasms under his? The guy is locked in and focused, breathing like he’s fighting a war, an internal one.

But, there are rare, human moments��vulnerable cracks in the tension. Like when Conner fumbles a button because he’s too worked up and grunts in frustration, only for you to laugh and kiss him, and he gives this quiet, low chuckle that almost sounds surprised. Or when he pretends he doesn’t find your sex puns the least bit amusing, but you catch that slight chuckle disguised as a scoff. He won’t banter, and he won’t make jokes during foreplay. But if you whisper something dumb in his ear, asking something like if he’ll break the bed again right before he starts driving into you senseless, you might get a rare smirk. A half-laugh even, low and huffed, followed by a possessive growl and an even harder thrust that proves he definitely is.

Most of his “playfulness” is physical. Holding you down when you get bratty. Pulling out just before you cum and watching you squirm. Locking eyes while slowly pushing back in and watching the overstimulating panic cross your features, and nipping at your shoulder when you try to tease him, grinding deeper as punishment. It’s a domineering mischief, made personal.

But every once in a while, when the post-sex glow is warm and you're both spent, you’ll get the rare, boyish side of him, the side that forgets he was made in a lab. The side that laughs, not because anything’s funny, but because he feels safe.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Conner keeps it low-maintenance and straightforward, but always clean, partly due to his half-Kryptonian DNA, which doesn’t allow him to grow a lot of hair, so he doesn’t have to obsess over grooming. His body is naturally smooth in some places and lightly dusted in others, the mix of his human half of DNA contributing to the latter.

Head hair: Dark, thick, tousled — doesn’t try to style it, but it always ends up looking good, especially post-sex, sweat-mussed and curled at the edges.

Facial hair: Virtually none. If it tries, it’s gone the next morning. Either his hybrid DNA burns it off fast, or he shaves out of habit with near-military precision. You won’t catch him with a scruffy chin unless it’s been a long day.

Body hair: Minimal. Just a faint trail from his belly button downward, and a subtle dusting on his pecs and arms — enough to feel masculine when you run your palms over him, but not sufficient to tangle your fingers in.

Pubic hair: Yes, dark and short, trimmed but not bare. Definitely matches the drapes. He doesn’t style it, but it’s tidy, primarily for your sake. He likes it when your face is down there, and he wants to keep you there.

He doesn't ask about your preferences outright, but he notices what you like. If you lick a particular trail on his stomach? Expect that area to be extra-clean next time.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

The thing about Conner is you’d expect him to be loud, overly verbal, and cocky with his words and actions, but it couldn’t be more of the opposite. He’s quiet, barely uses any kind of dialect that’s not some animalistic sound or him uttering the word “mine”, and he doesn’t always know how to say what he’s feeling. All his communication is felt in his actions, which is the core of intimacy. You feel and understand his desires and feelings through every touch, every thrust, every tremor in his breath. For him, sex is never just physical. It’s both a physical and a territorial, emotional, and sacred act.

He makes love like he’s starving, not for pleasure, but for closeness. His hands will be everywhere, whether it’s one on your hip, the other behind your neck, or one caressing your thigh and ass while the other gropes your chest. What’s almost certain is how he’ll lock you against his body like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He groans against your skin, mouth dragging open across your shoulder, nipping, sucking, tasting you like you’re his favorite treat.

And when you wrap around him, clench down, whimper in his ear? He’ll slow down, push deeper, linger in the sensation. Not because he’s teasing — but because he’s trying to feel everything. He looks at you like you’re fragile and precious and also his. Even when he’s fucking you rough—when the thrusts are hard and the sweat’s dripping down his back—there’s a reverence to it, like worship.

Afterwards, he’ll hold you tight like you might disappear. Breath pressed to your neck, arms locked around you, fingers smoothing sweat off your spine as your heartbeats sync up. He won’t say much, might not say anything at all. But if he kisses your hairline, or rubs circles on your back, or tucks your leg over his waist, that is the I love you. To Conner, intimacy is everything he doesn’t trust the world with, but gives to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Conner doesn’t jerk off often, and not because he doesn’t need to, because he absolutely does. Something not typically considered in Kryptonian biology is a naturally higher libido. Conner and Clark have a lot of energy from feeding off the light of the sun, and all that extra energy they don’t burn off from fights and the use of their powers (which is barely anything) goes either to their energy reserves or their sex drive. After Conner learned what he was doing with the security cameras was wrong, he stopped masturbating, but that didn’t help anyone. He went weeks with no type of release or relief, walking around with a hair-trigger temper, fists clenched and jaw tight, ready for a fight at the drop of a dime. Until one day, the dam broke after he was triggered by who knows what.

So, due to this innate high drive, Conner is frequently in the mood for sex, but that doesn’t mean you always are. Plus, he’s not the easiest to get along with always, so there are times he will do something that pisses his partner off, and they’ll refuse sex or any type of play with him for who knows how long, which again, creates problems for everyone. A sexually frustrated Conner might as well be a synonym for an angry Conner, and jacking off is the only reprieve he can get, no matter how slight the reprieve is.

He’s not gentle with it either. Grunts and snarls echo through his room as he jerks rough and fast, hips pumping up into his hand, abs clenching, spine bowing when he squeezes the base to hold off just a few seconds more. And when he cums, he shoots across his stomach or his hand, hot and heavy, often with a bite mark on his lower lip or a red flush across his chest. If he’s in a particularly possessive headspace, he’ll jerk off with one of your shirts, your underwear, or something that reminds him of you, pressing it to his face while he spills all over himself. Then he lies there, panting, arm flung over his eyes like he’s disgusted at how badly he needs you. Because no matter how hard he jerks it, how much cum he wrings out of himself, it never compares to the way he gets off inside you. Which only happens when you both inevitably make amends, usually with Conner finally admitting his wrongs and apologizing, the sex that follows afterwards is a sure enough guarantee you won’t be walking straight when he’s done.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Possessive/Territorial Behavior (Jealousy)

Conner isn’t loud about it—but his jealousy runs deep. There’s something about the idea of anyone other than him laying a hand on or even looking at what’s his that flips a switch in him. It’s not always verbal—sometimes it’s the way he tightens his grip around your waist; whether in public as he presses you against him, and especially in the bedroom, mid-thrust that has you clinging to him, which he internally celebrates. Sex becomes not just an exchange, but a declaration: you’re his, and he'll brand it into your body with his mouth, his cock, and his scent until there's no doubt about it.

Rough & Consensual Non-Consent

Conner has an addictive, almost compulsive need to let go—but only with someone he knows wants him to take control. The line between aggression and affection blurs when he’s riled up. He thrives off the fantasy of overwhelming his partner, dragging them against the wall, flipping them over the couch, pinning their wrists until they’re squirming. But it’s always anchored in deep trust—his softness shows after, but in the moment, he’s all teeth, sweat, and power. And the sound of you begging for him to slow down? Only makes him go harder.

Bondage/Restraints/Muffled Gag

Conner likes control—visually, physically, and emotionally. Something about seeing his partner tied down, wrists stretched above their head, legs spread open for him and only him, makes his own restraint snap. Gags especially? They’re not just about muffling sound—they’re about the intimacy of making someone moan so shamelessly they need to be silenced. And that sound, stifled behind cloth, tape, even just the palm of his hand, gets him harder than anything else. He sees you like that—helpless, gorgeous, pliant—and it hits that deep, dark part of him that needs to own.

Multiple Orgasms/Orgasm Control

He’s a slow-burn sadist, even if he doesn’t admit it. Conner has a fixation with watching his partner unravel over and over again, writhing and overstimulated, begging for mercy he’s not ready to give. If you’re twitching beneath him and unable to stop gasping, he’s doing his job right. On the flip side, if he says you’re not allowed to come yet, you won’t—not until he lets you. There’s nothing he loves more than seeing you trembling, desperate, on edge—because he put you there.

Praise Kink

For someone built to be used, giving praise is deeply therapeutic for Conner—and receiving it is even more potent. He doesn’t need empty compliments; he needs confirmation that he's enough. That you want him, not just physically, but entirely. During sex, praise given to him is raw and reverent: “You feel so good.” “I only want you.” “All yours, always.” Even when you just so much as whimper, moan, or gasp—it feeds something vital inside him. Makes him feel like a man, not a weapon.

Breathplay (Choking)

There’s something dangerous and intimate about Conner’s hand on your throat. He doesn’t overdo it—he’s too careful—but when the moment calls for it, he wraps his fingers around your neck and watches your eyes widen, lips parting in a gasp. Not to dominate for the sake of it, but because it amplifies that control, that connection. The grip reminds you that he could ruin you, but chooses not to. That duality is what turns him on the most, the way your breath hitches when he tightens just a little? Unforgettable.

Breeding

Conner’s obsession with ownership manifests heavily here. It’s not about actual reproduction (unless we’re talking Omegaverse)—it’s about marking, about leaving a part of himself inside you. The idea of finishing deep, of his cum leaking out while you tremble and collapse around him, scratches an itch nothing else does. He wants you to feel him long after he’s pulled out, ruined, filled, and branded from the inside, even if it’s messy. Actually, especially if it’s messy, that’s how he knows it was real.

Manhandling

Your favorite thing? The way Conner doesn’t even realize how easily he lifts, flips, or pins you. He manhandles you without a second thought—hoisting you by the thighs, slamming you against a wall, pushing your back into the bed until it creaks—because it’s instinct. But you love it, and he notices. The flushed look on your face, the breathless whimper when he throws you around like a ragdoll. It makes his chest puff with pride, because if he was made to do anything… maybe it was this.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Conner tends to gravitate toward places that tap into something more profound: instinct, control, and intensity. Impulsive as he is, he doesn’t just choose the first empty room he finds (unless it’s after an argument and he hasn’t been able to feel your body in forever—two days). He needs both privacy and pressure, environments where he can feel everything: his strength, your surrender, the weight of what he can’t say out loud but can show with his body. Plus, there is a bit of an egotistical part that likes having to travel to his destination for sex, especially if he’s dragging you along, whether pulling you by your arm or just hauling you over his shoulder and bringing you there himself like a barbarian. It’s not just about getting off; it’s about asserting, feeling you clench around him somewhere he decides, and no one else gets to see. Some of those places include:

The Training Room (Sparring Mat, or Pinned Against a Wall)

This is Conner’s domain. It's where he’s honed control over his body, where tension builds during physical contact, and where he can unleash aggression without apology. But when the wrong look or a cocky smile lingers too long during a spar, suddenly he’s flipping you to the mat—not for a pin, but for a grind. Sweaty, panting, growling between kisses. He’ll fuck you right there, your limbs tangled, bruised in the best way. The walls are soundproof anyway, right?

His Room at Mount Justice (especially the bed, the floor, or up against the window)

His bedroom is the only space that’s his. It’s quiet, it’s controlled, and it’s where he lets go the most. Sex here is raw but intimate—slow kisses with frantic thrusts, a fist tangled in your shirt as he bites down on your shoulder, whispering things he’d never say aloud anywhere else. If you end up spread on the floor, ass-up, or shoved face-first into the mattress while he pounds into you with his voice breaking? That’s how he says I need you without the words.

Out in the Woods, Isolated and Wild

Conner's instincts crave isolation. Out here, he doesn’t have to think. No team, no cameras, no pretending. He’ll bend you over a rock, a fallen log, even the hood of a parked vehicle, or hold you up, pressing you against a tree or the same parked vehicle—panting, snarling, cock buried deep while birds scatter from the growls ripping from his throat. He likes the way sound carries. The way you squirm when there’s nowhere to hide, and every whimper echoes. There’s no pretending here—it’s just the two of you, and he’s feral.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Quiet Acts of Loyalty (Domestic Turn-Ons) – It’s not just the way you look—it’s how you show up. Helping him with his laundry, sticking up for him in disagreements against others, and wearing his clothes to bed, checking if he’s eaten (even if, as a half-Kryptonian, food is not 100% necessary for him), and sliding him the last slice of pizza without a thought. These unspoken acts of loyalty hit Conner in a place that goes straight to his cock. Because to him, that’s not routine, it’s choosing—you’re choosing him. And it makes him want to pin you down and return the favor, complex and slow.

Anger & Denial (Arguing) – Nothing wrecks his control more than when you two argue and you don’t give in. Conner’s temper flares quickly—especially when he feels challenged—but that sharp line of your jaw, that look in your eye when you shut him out and deny him sex, it lights a fuse. Even if he’s the one who stomped off first, he’ll end up restless, hard, and furious that you're withholding something he feels is his. Denial doesn’t turn him off—it gets him hot. Also, tread lightly when choosing the silent treatment route and ignoring him. That’s a huge trigger for him.

Casual Physical Contact (Tension-Building Touch) – You don’t even have to be trying. Just brushing past him on your way to the fridge, resting your hand on his chest for balance, sitting between his legs with your back to him while watching TV, rubbing your hands through his hair while he lies on your chest, is enough to get him going. All that casual contact riles him up more than full-on seduction. It’s the subtle stuff—your trust, your nearness, your comfort—that makes his body thrum with need. If he shifts in his seat and you pretend not to notice, it only makes it worse.

Jealousy & Competition (Signs of Possession) – Whether it's you smiling too long at someone else or laughing harder than you need to at something that’s really not that funny (at least to Conner it’s not). Even if it’s harmless, even if he knows you love him—Conner feels that fire start in his gut. That loutish edge to his personality doesn’t just fade when he’s in a relationship; it sharpens. Sometimes, it’s all the excuse he needs to drag you away and remind you who you’ve chosen and why you won’t be choosing anyone else.

Your Confidence – You don’t always give in, and you challenge him. You roll your eyes when he flexes, or you call him on his broody bullshit, and that friction is hot. It reminds him you’re not intimidated—but you still want him. When you hold eye contact and don’t flinch, or press your finger to his chest without a single trace of fear? He’s hooked. Conner’s more than willing to take the lead—but your fire keeps his lit.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Conner Kent definitely has limits, whether rooted in his origin story or his developing values. A  zero tolerance for degradation and humiliation, and it goes both ways, whether from him or directed at him—it clashes with his pride. It brushes too close to old insecurities about being something not human or just a person. And if he won’t allow other people to degrade him or his partner, he’s not gonna turn around and participate in that himself. Another thing is he refuses to do any type of public sex in openly risky or inappropriate places, like crowded venues and densely populated areas; the idea of being watched without consent or putting others at risk violates his protective instincts. He’s not against doing things in public, but rather where some type of privacy is guaranteed, and he can actively control the situation. And he may enjoy rough play and variants of CNC, but he draws a hard line at anything that blurs the lines of actual consent without clear, pre-negotiated boundaries—he has to know his partner wants it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Conner has a strong preference for receiving, not out of selfishness, but because the act directly feeds into his need for validation and dominance. When he first experienced receiving head, it was very overwhelming. He’d gone from only using his hands to having someone else use their hands, and then their mouth, and he fell off the edge. The act itself of someone, willingly submitting, eyes locked on his, mouth stuffed full of him—it rewired something in his brain. He didn’t realize how badly he needed to feel wanted like that until it happened. So now, having his partner on their knees, lips stretched around him, eyes watering from the size and pace—it lights an intense fire in him. He’s not quiet about it either: deep, ragged grunts, low groans, and the way his hand finds the back of a neck to keep them there when he’s close.

That being said, he’ll also give head himself, but only when he’s feeling a specific mood and energy, particularly the possessive or teasing kind—tongue slow, purposeful, dragging through slick like he owns it, because he does. And if his partner’s a moaner? Even better! He’ll hold them open and eat/suck like he’s starving, just to hear the sweet, wet payoff. But either way, he’s in control.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Conner’s pace is something psychologically rooted, no question about it. When things feel uncertain for him, his emotions become chaotic, or his sense of identity starts to slip, he regains control in one of the few ways he knows how, through the physical power of his body.

That fast, relentless pace? It’s him drowning out doubt and silencing insecurity with every harsh thrust, gripping his partner like they’re the only thing grounding him. He fucks like he’s fighting for something, whether it be ownership, reassurance, proof that he’s wanted, that he matters, that he’s not just some half-baked clone—and many times, it’s all three. Fast, rough, and relentless is typically his default mode, the kind that you down, leaves bruises, and makes the bed creak with every deep, punishing thrust. He fucks like he’s got something to prove—because half the time, he does. It’s not just about release; it’s about staking a claim, about chasing that feral need to own every gasp and tremble.

But when he slows down, that’s a bit more dangerous territory. Slower thrusts mean letting feelings catch up, letting someone see him. His own vulnerability scares the hell out of him, so in easing up, there’s tension behind it—something careful and calculated meant to keep him in control even when he’s on the edge of falling off. There’s typically never any randomness to his pace, always an intent behind it—it’s a confession he doesn’t know how to voice. And when he slows down, it’s not gentle, it’s taunting. Slow, grinding rolls of his hips meant to pull every moan and cry from you until you’re begging him to move faster. Whether he’s slamming or dragging it out, he’s in charge, and he’ll make damn well make sure you feel every inch of it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Conner’s all for quickies—especially if he’s pent-up, frustrated, or just needs his partner right then and there. His quickies are almost always sparked by something simmering underneath—jealousy, possessiveness, or straight-up frustration. He saw someone flirting with you, or you two are currently in an argument, and now you’re ignoring him (he hates being ignored), or maybe you’re just walking around in his shirt and acting oblivious to what you’re doing to him. Whatever it may be, just know the half-Kyptonian is not above dragging you into the nearest utility closet at the Cave, bending you over the nearest surface he can find, or just straight up taking off with you over his shoulder in the middle of a mission to sort out your differences. For him, it’s less about strategy and more about you having him fucked up, and now he’s got to show his ass… well, your ass to be more accurate.

He fucks hard and fast in those moments, all teeth at your neck, with his fingers digging into your hips. There’s no time for finesse, just the brutal rhythm of someone who’s been exercising a lot of patience (the patience in question was nowhere to be found). And when he finishes inside you, don’t be surprised at his smugness—grabbing your chin and muttering some low, possessive shit like “Mine. Don’t forget it.” Quickies don’t replace proper sex for him, but they’re a damn good way to shut down jealousy, blow off steam, or prove a point.

He’s impatient, intense, and has a quick fuse, especially when he feels like something’s slipping out of his control. That’s when he’ll corner you, grab a handful of shirt or arm, and make it 20/20 vision clear you don’t walk away from him, tease him, or disobey him and expect to get away with it. It’s not always rational—it’s instinct, reactive, and a little (very) unhinged. But it’s honest—he just needs to reassert that connection again for his own sake, in a fast and raw and undeniable way.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Conner’s relationship to risk is less about thrill-seeking and more about exploration within boundaries, as he had to learn intimacy from scratch. Most of his early experiences were built on experimentation—testing sensations, reactions, and emotional responses without a roadmap. It’s made him more open to trying new things, especially with a partner he trusts, but only after he’s developed a strong foundation of what he likes, what he hates, and where he draws the line.

He’s very deliberate with what he chooses to engage in. He wants to know why something turns him on before he lets it into his sexual vocabulary. Still, if you bring it up, especially in a way that affirms Conner and showcases your submission in new ways, it’s hard for him to say no. He likes discovering new layers to his desires, particularly when they’re framed as things he gets to master or claim. What turns into a “maybe” for others becomes a “let me learn how to do that right” with him.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Conner’s stamina is absolutely fucking insane—and it shows. His half-Kryptonian biology gives him a supercharged libido and the kind of stamina that makes most humans look laughably underpowered by comparison. He’s not on Superman’s level—thank god—but he’s close enough to put his partner through three or four orgasms before he even thinks about finishing. He can go for multiple rounds without even needing to recover, not just fucking until his partner’s legs are shaking, but until he’s worn them out. That’s not just indulgence; that’s restraint. When he’s in that intense, hungry mood, it becomes a low, growling thrill to hold himself back, to keep fucking, keep working them over until they’re whimpering and overstimulated—until he decides they’re done. The first orgasm is just the fuse; what follows is pure combustion. Extended sessions, short breaks, round after round until they’re breathless, fucked dumb, and clinging to him? That’s exactly his idea of satisfaction.

It doesn’t help that he can already last a reasonable amount of time in each round, especially now that he’s gotten more experience under his belt. Even when he’s wound tight, Conner knows how to hold off, edge himself for the sake of drawing out his partner’s pleasure—or just proving he can. He gets off on making them come first (again and again), especially when they're begging him to let go finally. The gag is, even if he does, there’s usually another round already loading in the chamber.

But beneath that raw physicality is something much more personal. Conner’s stamina isn't just about endurance—it's about intention. He’s not a selfish lover. In fact, he might be the exact opposite. That relentless, almost desperate need to prove himself bleeds into every touch, every thrust, every moment of sex. He wants to be the one—your one—the only person who can get you off this good, thoroughly, and consistently. When others fall short in their relationships, Conner rises, laser-focused on your pleasure as if it were a mission he needed to complete. Because if he can make you come undone in his arms, if he can leave you trembling, satisfied, and gasping his name… then maybe, just maybe, he’s worthy of being yours.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys weren’t something Conner was immediately introduced to in his early experiences with learning sex. Truthfully, he didn’t even know about them; he had to learn everything the hard way, through observation, trial, and a little too much awkward Googling. But once he found out what was out there, a deep-seated curiosity quickly developed. The toys that could be more used on him didn’t interest him too much, but the ones he could use to enhance pleasure for you, and by extension, himself? Anal plugs he can use to keep his load inside you after he’s finally decided to release have entered the chat. Restraints, blindfolds, gags, and floggers he can use to practice sensory and impact play when you piss him off have entered the chat. Cock rings that help not only make him more complicated, but delay his orgasm even longer than usual (that’s just criminal), which all adds to how he can better fuck you… have entered the chat.

A doggie style strap??? Not only has it entered the chat, it’s been added to the cart. With these new additions, he’s got even more in his arsenal to wreck you just right. It’ll take some experimentation, but he lives for the power of it—of knowing it’s him doing this to you, even if it’s just a toy between your legs.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Conner doesn’t start as a tease—he’s too blunt, too direct, too used to wanting something and going for it. He’s not the kind of guy who flirts with delay for the fun of it—but he learns fast, and once he figures out that teasing can break you open better than brute force, once he realizes how badly you squirm under his gaze, he uses it with a mean streak. When you're bratty, defiant, or pushing his buttons,  that’s when the sadist comes out. He’ll pin you down with his full body weight, forcing your legs open with his hips while holding you down against whatever surface he has you on by your arms, grinding into your hips while dragging his cock in slow, shallow thrusts that barely satisfy. And he won’t say much, but the message is clear in his expression and movements—he’s waiting to hear you beg. He wants verbal surrender, affirmations laced with need, praise pouring from your mouth with every twitch of his hips. If he’s in that mood, your orgasm’s his toy—he’ll overload you until you’re limp and shaking, or deny it altogether until he’s had his fill and finished first. Who knows when that will come? In tighter scenarios, he’ll once again restrain you while tossing you around, flipping you over his shoulder, handling you like property. That’s his kind of tease—a lesson, not a game. And when you inevitably give in, he takes everything.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Conner’s not loud by nature, but when it comes to sex, quiet doesn’t mean silent. He’s a heavy breather, a growler, a low-throated groaner whose noises carry weight—dominance, frustration, hunger. You feel them more than you hear them, rumbling up from his chest and against your skin, especially when he’s deep inside or grinding slow to drag every twitch out of you. His voice only sharpens, saying what he needs to say and nothing more—every syllable edged with tension, control, and possessive heat. His words, when they come, are clipped and commanding: “Stay there.” “Stop moving.” “Open your legs.” “Cum.” He won’t whine or cry out—not unless you break him down first. But if you really get him there? You might hear something raw slip out—his name, your name, something primal—and then it’s over.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He gets off on being watched—but only if it’s someone who wants you. Jealous and possessive, ass Conner? Allowing someone else to see and hear you in your most vulnerable, fucked-out state is a 100% absolute fuck no. Unless it’s him. The one who's been testing Conner’s patience for weeks—flirting with you, sweet-talking you, pretending like the half-Kryptonian standing next to you doesn’t exist. Worse, mocking him behind a smile: a half-breed clone, trying to play boyfriend? Please.

That’s all it takes to snap the thread. Conner’s done keeping your moans to himself. He picks the location carefully—public enough for risk, controlled enough to make sure only he decides who witnesses this act. And when you protest? When you squirm and beg for somewhere more private? He just throws you against the nearest surface and presses—deep, slow, mean thrusts that slap your ass with every push of his hips, muffling your cries with his palm or a stretch of your own sleeve. “Nah. They wanna see what I can’t offer you? Let ‘em watch you take it.”

The footsteps come closer. Conner smirks, right on cue.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He starts fucking you harder, louder, bouncing you on his cock like he’s tuning your body to the sound of dominance itself. And when your voice cracks—when your legs tremble and your breath hitches and all you can do is whimper his name? That’s when Conner meets the bastard’s eyes. Doesn’t say a word. Just owns you with every stroke.

It’s not about being watched. It’s about being witnessed about proving, without words, that no one—no sweet-talker, no smooth bastard, no human—could ever fuck you like this.

He’s obsessed with the contrast of control—especially when you cry for him. Not from pain. From desperation. From being strung along, teased until your whole body aches, until you're clenching around nothing, slick and trembling, your legs refusing to stay still. He lives for the sound of your voice cracking when you beg—when that proud little tone you typically carry melts into breathless pleas, like, "Please, Conner, I can’t—please, I need it—”

That’s the fucking switch. That’s when it stops being about restraint and starts being about wrecking you. That’s when he stops teasing and starts snarling. All that held-back power, the measured pace, the forced patience—gone in a flash. He grabs your hips with bruising force and slams into you like he’s trying to fuck the breath out of your lungs. And when you choke on your moan or sob his name as your body spasms around him, he loses his goddamn mind.

He’ll curse low against your skin, panting, "More." The further undone you get, the more unhinged he gets. Because to Conner, those tears? That trembling voice? That helpless whimper that only he can pull out of you? That’s proof—proof that no one else can touch you like this. That only he can reduce you to this level of need. That he’s the only one you’ll ever come undone for. And the moment you give him that surrender, body and voice and all? He’ll take it. Every drop of it. And he’ll fuck you so deep and hard, you forget how to ask for anything else.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Conner’s cock is more girth than length, sitting at a weighty 8.5 inches fully hard, which is still above average (the dude’s half Kryptonian…come on now), but it’s the sheer thickness that steals the show. The kind that stretches your lips on the first lick and burns deliciously on the first push in. A grower and a show-er, his base is heavy and girthy, tapering only slightly up the shaft, which has a slight upward curve that helps reaching your spot all the easier. Conner is definitely built for performance, to put it mildly.

His tip is blunt and flushed deep red when aroused, framed by a prominent ridge and just sensitive enough to make your teasing feel like sweet torment for him. Veiny, but not ropey—Kryptonian circulation keeps him pumped and engorged longer than any human standard. It’s the kind of dick that leaves your jaw sore after sucking it, your hole gaping after taking it, and your spine arching from the way it hits every time he slams deep.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Conner’s sex drive is only comparable to that of the other person with whom he shares his DNA. His half-Kryptonian blood fuels a relentless, carnal yearning that never quite quits—like a campfire with an endless amount of firewood to keep it going, creating a need and hunger that’s impossible to satisfy fully. It’s why Conner basically craves some type of sexual release on a near-constant basis, with a raw, animal urgency that edges on desperate at times. Masturbation is slowly but surely becoming useless in that regard, which doesn’t help the building aggression and temper when Conner doesn’t properly let loose. Because now, the only other effective way he can handle his pent-up energy without sex is fighting… go figure.

RAH RAH RAH, HE BIG STRONG MASCULINE MAN! RAH!!!

When he’s around you, that desire twists into an almost obsessive fixation: every glance, every brush of skin, every quiet moment between fights becomes a spark igniting the fire hotter. His need isn’t just physical—it’s a constant ache for validation, sensual reverence, and the unmistakable proof that you want him just as badly.

He’s the kind of guy who can’t wait to tear your clothes off the moment you’re alone, who’s always chasing the next surge of heat, the next whimper or tremble that confirms you’re his. And when he’s denied—whether by circumstance or defiance—that yearning turns razor-sharp, feeding his possessiveness and his insatiable drive to fuck and claim you harder and deeper than before. An unrealistic goal of his is that he’ll fuck you so good, even in an argument, you’ll never deny him because of how good he makes you feel. That hasn’t happened yet, so all he can do is keep trying. He’s nothing if not stubborn—a stubborn, horny bastard.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Conner doesn’t crash right after sex—he winds down. Half-Kryptonian stamina means even after he’s left you gasping, shaking, and entirely spent, his body still hums with power and adrenaline. He’s not one to roll over and start snoring; instead, he lingers—still buried deep, refusing to pull out. That knot of warmth, that connection, is too satisfying to lose. You’re full of him, wrapped in his arms, and he’s staying there. Sometimes, he just lies right on top of you, heavy and grounding, face tucked into your neck, with his arms locked around your waist like a protective vice, his breath still heavy against your ear. It’s not just possessiveness—it’s instinct. You’re his, and post-sex is when that hits the hardest.

Other times, he’ll plant himself against your chest, resting his head between your pecs, arms locked around your waist, while your limbs end up draped over his broad shoulders and back—exactly where he wants them. It’s a silent command for you to stroke his hair, dig your fingers into his scalp, give him the gentle attention he doesn’t know how to ask for with words. And once the afterglow fades and you’re soft against his chest, Conner does let go, finally letting that hypersensitive, overstimulated heat lull him to rest. That’s when he finally slips into sleep—warm, spent, and curled against you like he never plans to leave. It’s deep and heavy, the kind of knock-out that leaves him slack-jawed and dead to the world for hours. Just don’t expect to escape—his grip doesn’t loosen. You’re trapped under that musclebound heater of a body until he wakes up again…and judging by his morning wood and always-hungry libido, you’re not getting out of bed anytime soon.

☀️ | Conner Kent/Superboy | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[tarotchariotpickyourcard]

Your green flags - PAC

Well, you've had a good roasting like the christmas turkey - Now it's time to get some sweet, sweet, ego nutrition.

Let's all calm down now, use that soothing balm. Relax, have the iced tea. I'm not massaging your feet though...

Fine, give me some gloves.

Choose 1 2 or 3, left to right.

PS. You'll look at me and say, gurl, what is u doin'. Halloween cards? LOOK. It's not my fault they have good vibes. You just go with it.

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GROUP 1 (Angel)

Shufflemancy: The 1975 - Chocolate

Does it, even if scared. You have courage.

Doesn't give in to peer pressure. Isn't embarrassed to be with someone or do something just because people think it's uncool.

Happy to fly the weird flag. Safe space for others who feel different too. Includes people. You know too much how it feels to be left out.

Anger and stubborn-ness in the right way. Decides to prove people wrong. Chooses to view rejection as deserving better anyway.

Ride or die person.

You don't let someone off the hook just because you're close. (gotta be accountable)

Really strong emotions, but a powerful driving force. Strong determination. You wear anger like a cloak, you know it has it's place, and you accept that about others too. You don't expect everyone to be peaceful buddhists or sing around the camp fire.

You get it when people are angry or stressed, and you can even help them get through it and calm down. People can cry it out. or shout it. You don't quit on people just because they've had a wobble.

You're a safe person to go to.

You're actually popular, just because of your cheerful nature (when you're in the zone). People look forward to seeing you.

You provide people with comfort and affection.

You help people work it out when they're confused, and you can spot it when there's a thought trap, or something's just become a pop trend/popular cliche.

You understand that there is more value than what is typically desired. You can deal very well in the waves on uncertainty.

You are good in an emergency - you might be the type to stress over a weird shape spoon on a bad day, but if someone gets hurt you take charge.

You guide people and you give so, so, so much peace. You are indispensable. You root for people, but did you know so many are rooting for you too? So many people have well intentioned thoughts.

You don't shame anyone for resting. In fact, you encourage it. You give people the permission they need.

You show gratitude. You capitalize on the moments things are good, to try and make someone feel even better. You surf that positivity wave!

Cats really like you.

You don't expect the world, but because of this, people want to always make sure you have something no matter what.

You care, and you look after people in ways they might not even notice - I'm letting you know you'll be cared for in return, whether by a person or by spirit.

There's a bit of an adult thing for the +18's here, uh, how do I say it. Um. Lots of energy. And, uh, a very creative mind. That is literally all I will say though, just look at the cards for that. If you're an adult. Ok. I mean, that'd be a green flag for relationships I suppose.

You don't really lie, you tend to just tell white lies that you're not even sure why you said it. Otherwise, you're pretty straightforward.

You refuse to sit in jealousy.

Hope you enjoyed!

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GROUP 2 (heart)

Shufflemancy: 1975 - if you're too shy

You make people feel wanted, whether platonically or romantically.

You take your time, you don't go too fast. Might have been from being burnt in the past, learning not to rush with people. When you want something long-living, you know to go slower for a good result.

You are good with children - shows a genuine nature. Great with stewarding, supervising, teaching, guiding.

You tease people in the right way. (take that however you want to lmao)

You have fun with work! You make things that are a drag for other people, more tolerable. I see you making people laugh. I get a mental image of a large group working and someone starts laughing real hard while mopping. So at home doing chores with a partner, you put on that music, you chat, you make it something that can be a ritual.

Work/life balance

Great story teller! You get people curious, and want to learn! Seriously, you are someone people want to listen to and learn from. You could be a mentor or teacher if you wanted.

Good cook (If you haven't tried - you should. Or is this baking?)

Strong boundaries that are healthy. People understand there is a line not to cross, but you don't let them know in a challenging way. It's kind of like a healthy parenting way.

You can say things in a certain way that doesn't scare them or hurt their feelings. So when you need to communicate something difficult, it's more of a learning experience.

You make it a point to compliment people.

I'm seeing wide eyes, and being super into something, and spoons? Any spoonies here? And also you get really into things so I think that's something that interests people who get close to you. It's good to be in your space while you're doing a project or learning.

You always make time for someone. Even if you're busy, you try your best to look at them and talk, or listen on the phone. It's like you can have your attention in multiple directions.

You don't give love interests all the info - you let it happen step by step and it's their job to figure it out. (Meaning you don't trauma dump, you don't give them your life story in case they pretend to be the same, or to give them ammo etc).

You have a healthy sense of who's close to you and who's not. (An example of one that I heard: A guy was good friends and giving presents and all sorts to a lady at work, but it made his wife uncomfortable because it was giving the wrong message to the woman, etc. He didn't know boundaries basically.) So people don't get the wrong idea from you basically. You're private in the right way.

PS. You might want to clear your energy! Just letting you know, there's something quite strong here.

Hope you enjoyed!

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GROUP 3 (robot)

Shufflemancy: Wallows - Calling after me

Ah, the one who got away.

You don't like to fight, you'd rather not argue. You like to make friends. If you can help it, you'll tell them outright that you don't like it when you argue. You're a lover, not a fighter.

You don't waste your time arguing, and contributing to a break down in friendship or romance.

Very Romantic in nature, likes to sweep others off their feet or vice versa. Makes something special out of things. Eg. a birthday isn't just a birthday. It's a BIRTHDAY. Might even write romantic physical letters, or in cards, or long messages online. Journals about feelings in a healthy way. I'm seeing a private, sacred space that is yours alone. Now THAT is luxurious imo.

Luxurious. Likes to really make a go of it with dates, holidays, events, hotel rooms etc. Takes care of themselves, eg skincare.

Really makes an effort for the other person. Surprise visits! Makes a big show of affection.

You really do go all out don't you? I see doing your hair, trying to smell good, decorating your space.

Communicative. The type to always try and stay in touch.

Can laugh things off.

I think a few here get people trying to come back to them a lot, and you have to put them down and be stubborn and refuse. I think you still give them room to speak though. (But to be honest I think a part of you is smug, and you're allowed to be lol).

You don't cling, and you don't hold on, if you break up you're ready to move on and experience romance again.

I don't think you stay on bad terms with people you've fallen out with - as in, you don't keep a grudge and want to go over it again and again.

I just see someone who's confident, someone who knows they're wanted whether platonically or romantically, and no fear about things. You don't feel like you lost anything, but I think past interests might have felt that way 😳 I think a person has to be really confident to approach you romantically. I think you're still looking for something, so if something hasn't fulfilled that subconscious itch, then you don't mind letting it go. (Which is good, that's honest, you're not wasting time leading someone on).

Stubborn about standards, I dunno, it's not that you're fearless either though... I think you have to really ground that fear into the floor. You really make sure you look the part, that you feel like a quality person, who deserves love (in your eyes).

You know who's loyal and who to play around with. And you can kind of put people in their place. if someone is being arrogant, you laugh at them. You don't get easily impressed. Can spot it a mile away if someone is just trying to show off.

You personalise things. Deep down, you're sentimental. I'm seeing writing your initials in a tree, or giving a friend something with their name embossed. You can be such a sweet and thoughtful person. But somehow I feel like you don't...feel comfortable expressing that often?

You only let special people see your weak side. Why am I seeing a venus-saturn connection?

Also seeing someone being proud of being a Taurus? lol

Wouldn't be surprised if you chose a certain group the red flag reading either 👀 Not telling which one though

Hope you enjoyed!

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💃🏻

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI software assistants make the hardest kinds of bugs to spot

Hey, German-speakers! Through a very weird set of circumstances, I ended up owning the rights to the German audiobook of my bestselling 2022 cryptocurrency heist technothriller Red Team Blues and now I'm selling DRM-free audio and ebooks, along with the paperback (all in German and English) on a Kickstarter that runs until August 11.

It's easy to understand why some programmers love their AI assistants and others loathe them: the former group get to decide how and when they use AI tools, while the latter has AI forced upon them by bosses who hope to fire their colleagues and increase their workload.

Formally, the first group are "centaurs" (people assisted by machines) and the latter are "reverse-centaurs" (people conscripted into assisting machines):

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/27/rancid-vibe-coding/#class-war

Most workers have parts of their jobs they would happily automate away. I know of a programmer who uses AI to take a first pass at CSS code for formatted output. This is a notoriously tedious chore, and it's not hard to determine whether the AI got it right – just eyeball the output in a variety of browsers. If this was a chore you hated doing and someone gave you an effective tool to automate it, that would be cause for celebration. What's more, if you learned that this was only reliable for a subset of cases, you could confine your use of the AI to those cases.

Likewise, many workers dream of doing something through automation that is so expensive or labor-intensive that they can't possibly do it. I'm thinking here of the film editor who extolled the virtues to me of deepfaking the eyelines of every extra in a crowd scene, which lets them change the focus of the whole scene without reassembling a couple hundred extras, rebuilding the set, etc. This is a brand new capability that increases the creative flexibility of that worker, and no wonder they love it. It's good to be a centaur!

Then there's the poor reverse-centaurs. These are workers whose bosses have saddled them with a literally impossible workload and handed them an AI tool. Maybe they've been ordered to use the tool, or maybe they've been ordered to complete the job (or else) by a boss who was suggestively waggling their eyebrows at the AI tool while giving the order. Think of the freelance writer whom Hearst tasked with singlehandedly producing an entire, 64-page "best-of" summer supplement, including multiple best-of lists, who was globally humiliated when his "best books of the summer" list was chock full of imaginary books that the AI "hallucinated":

https://www.404media.co/viral-ai-generated-summer-guide-printed-by-chicago-sun-times-was-made-by-magazine-giant-hearst/

No one seriously believes that this guy could have written and fact-checked all that material by himself. Nominally, he was tasked with serving as the "human in the loop" who validated the AI's output. In reality, he was the AI's fall-guy, what Dan Davies calls an "accountability sink," who absorbed the blame for the inevitable errors that arise when an employer demands that a single human sign off on the products of an error-prone automated system that operates at machine speeds.

It's never fun to be a reverse centaur, but it's especially taxing to be a reverse centaur for an AI. AIs, after all, are statistical guessing programs that infer the most plausible next word based on the words that came before. Sometimes this goes badly and obviously awry, like when the AI tells you to put glue or gravel on your pizza. But more often, AI's errors are precisely, expensively calculated to blend in perfectly with the scenery.

AIs are conservative. They can only output a version of the future that is predicted by the past, proceeding on a smooth, unbroken line from the way things were to the way they are presumed to be. But reality isn't smooth, it's lumpy and discontinuous.

Take the names of common code libraries: these follow naming conventions that make it easy to predict what a library for a given function will be, and to guess what a given library does based on its name. But humans are messy and reality is lumpy, so these conventions are imperfectly followed. All the text-parsing libraries for a programming language may look like this: docx.text.parsing; txt.text.parsing, md.text.parsing, except for one, which defies convention by being named text.odt.parsing. Maybe someone had a brainfart and misnamed the library. Maybe the library was developed independently of everyone else's libraries and later merged. Maybe Mercury is in retrograde. Whatever the reason, the world contains many of these imperfections.

Ask an LLM to write you some software and it will "hallucinate" (that is, extrapolate) libraries that don't exist, because it will assume that all text-parsing libraries follow the convention. It will assume that the library for parsing odt files is called "odt.text.parsing," and it will put a link to that nonexistent library in your code.

This creates a vulnerability for AI-assisted code, called "slopsquatting," whereby an attacker predicts the names of libraries AIs are apt to hallucinate and creates libraries with those names, libraries that do what you would expect they'd do, but also inject malicious code into every program that incorporates them:

https://www.theregister.com/2025/04/12/ai_code_suggestions_sabotage_supply_chain/

This is the hardest type of error to spot, because the AI is guessing the statistically most plausible name for the imaginary library. It's like the AI is constructing one of those spot-the-difference image puzzles on super-hard mode, swapping the fork and knife in a diner's hands from left to right and vice-versa. You couldn't generate a harder-to-spot bug if you tried.

It's not like people are very good at supervising machines to begin with. "Automation blindness" is what happens when you're asked to repeatedly examine the output of a generally correct machine for a long time, and somehow remain vigilant for its errors. Humans aren't really capable of remaining vigilant for things that don't ever happen – whatever attention and neuronal capacity you initially devote to this never-come eventuality is hijacked by the things that happen all the time. This is why the TSA is so fucking amazing at spotting water-bottles on X-rays, but consistently fails to spot the bombs and guns that red team testers smuggle into checkpoints. The median TSA screener spots a hundred water bottles a day, and is (statistically) never called upon to spot something genuinely dangerous to a flight. They have put in their 10,000 hours, and then some, on spotting water bottles, and approximately zero hours on spotting stuff that we really, really don't want to see on planes.

So automation blindness is already going to be a problem for any "human in the loop," from a radiologist asked to sign off on an AI's interpretation of your chest X-ray to a low-paid overseas worker remote-monitoring your Waymo…to a programmer doing endless, high-speed code-review for a chatbot.

But that coder has it worse than all the other in-looped humans. That coder doesn't just have to fight automation blindness – they have to fight automation blindness and spot the subtlest of errors in this statistically indistinguishable-from-correct code. AI's are basically doing bug steganography, smuggling code defects in by carefully blending them in with correct code.

At code shops around the world, the reverse centaurs are suffering. A survey of Stack Overflow users found that AI coding tools are creating history's most difficult-to-discharge technology debt in the form of "almost right" code full of these fiendishly subtle bugs:

https://venturebeat.com/ai/stack-overflow-data-reveals-the-hidden-productivity-tax-of-almost-right-ai-code/

As Venturebeat reports, while usage of AI coding assistants is up (from 76% last year to 84% this year), trust in these tools is plummeting – 33%, with no bottom in sight. 45% of coders say that debugging AI code takes longer than writing the code without AI at all. Only 29% of coders believe that AI tools can solve complex code problems.

Venturebeat concludes that there are code shops that "solve the 'almost right' problem" and see real dividends from AI tools. What they don't say is that the coders for whom "almost right" isn't a problem are centaurs, not reverse centaurs. They are in charge of their own production and tooling, and no one is using AI tools as a pretext for a relentless hurry-up amidst swingeing cuts to headcount.

The AI bubble is driven by the promise of firing workers and replacing them with automation. Investors and AI companies are tacitly (and sometimes explicitly) betting that bosses who can fire a worker and replace them with a chatbot will pay the chatbot's maker an appreciable slice of that former worker's salary for an AI that takes them off the payroll.

The people who find AI fun or useful or surprising are centaurs. They're making automation choices based on their own assessment of their needs and the AIs' capabilities.

They are not the customers for AI. AI exists to replace workers, not empower them. Even if AI can make you more productive, there is no business model in increasing your pay and decreasing your hours.

AI is about disciplining labor to decrease its share of an AI-using company's profits. AI exists to lower a company's wage-bill, at your expense, with the savings split between the your boss and an AI company. When Getty or the NYT or another media company sues an AI company for copyright infringement, that doesn't mean they are opposed to using AI to replace creative workers – they just want a larger slice of the creative workers' salaries in the form of a copyright license from the AI company that sells them the worker-displacing tool.

They'll even tell you so. When the movie studios sued Midjourney, the RIAA (whose most powerful members are subsidiaries of the same companies that own the studios) sent out this press statement, attributed to RIAA CEO Mitch Glazier:

There is a clear path forward through partnerships that both further AI innovation and foster human artistry. Unfortunately, some bad actors – like Midjourney – see only a zero-sum, winner-take-all game.

Get that? The problem isn't that Midjourney wants to replace all the animation artists – it's that they didn't pay the movie studios license fees for the training data. They didn't create "partnerships."

Incidentally: Mitch Glazier's last job was as a Congressional staffer who slipped an amendment into must-pass bill that killed musicians' ability to claim the rights to their work back after 35 years through "termination of transfer." This was so outrageous that Congress held a special session to reverse it and Glazier lost his job.

Whereupon the RIAA hired him to run the show.

AI companies are not pitching a future of AI-enabled centaurs. They're colluding with bosses to build a world of AI-shackled reverse centaurs. Some people are using AI tools (often standalone tools derived from open models, running on their own computers) to do some fun and exciting centaur stuff. But for the AI companies, these centaurs are a bug, not a feature – and they're the kind of bug that's far easier to spot and crush than the bugs that AI code-bots churn out in volumes no human can catalog, let alone understand.

Support me this summer in the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop! This summer, I'm writing The Reverse-Centaur's Guide to AI, a short book for Farrar, Straus and Giroux that explains how to be an effective AI critic.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/08/04/bad-vibe-coding/#maximally-codelike-bugs

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

who is marty mcfly? #2, pages 7-8

original pages + pages w/ no effects + a bunch of bonus stuff including yap session under the cut:

so i read this comic ahead of all the other ones bc i heard it was the best one, and as i was reading it i was like hm yknow this would be fun to redraw. like i'm not going to do it, obviously, because that would be a lot of work and i haven't even read all the other ones. but it would be fun! not going to do it though

so erm..... was that a lie or what. i'll be so fr what tipped me over the edge was the "little flaw" bit of dialogue bc i came up with the framing of him being really small in a panel and it was like shittt i'm cooking i gotta draw this. also the double meaning of "little flaw" (marty's existence in the timeline but also just marty himself) just kind of amused me haha

my process for this was to copy down the dialogue and then NOT LOOK AT THE PAGE ANYMORE. so aside from the dialogue and the general actions that the characters were doing, everything on the page was from my own ideas! if you compare the two i might've deviated slightly from the original. just a little. nothing too crazy of course of course. not like i changed like. everything

i am addicted to inserting more panels for every single expression. if you look at the sketch version of page two there was even going to be an extra panel at the end just for an additional expression and no dialogue but it made the page crowded as i was drawing it so i took it out RIP. in the end i drew 25 panels compared to the original's......... 11. oops

re: dialogue inflection i've noticed that comics tend to emphasize at least one phrase per speech bubble. if you read it with said emphasis usually it's alright but sometimes it flows kind of weird? ("wash your hands" is the biggest one here imo) which is why i changed the inflections i thought it flowed better. also i added a couple of minor things (most notably two waitaminutes i think gbgkbjgjk) to make it sound more natural but overall i stuck to what they were originally saying

ok so the "not look at the page anymore" part of the process is entirely false i did look at it again to shamelessly trace that car. so if you were wondering how i managed to draw such a nice car it's because i didn't LMAO. i think you can tell which cars were traced and which ones i actually naturally drew bc some (re: one that i just copy pasted bc i was lazy.) actually look car-proportioned and some (literally everything else sorry marty's truck) do not. also this is why in the 3rd yugo panel there is no lining in the back of the car. there was no back for me to trace and i was tired.

here's the color test (+ learning how to draw professor irving) i did! unfortunately did not have the oversight to color test the background colors too. i was in the art trenches with those. i hated drawing those backgrounds so much you can tell all of them are half-assed GBKGGJ

speaking of colors i think that the first one's colors are better but i was so done with the whole comic making process (aka. the backgrounds) by the second page that i 1. took like two months off of drawing it and 2. just threw shit at the digital page to get it over with LMAO. like sure ig we doin dark red now

also don't look at the backgrounds too hard. the garage/storage unit thing (changed from a truck trailer bc 1. not sure how you'd install a sink in there? the sink in the storage unit was already stretching it. how did you get plumbing in there man that thing's a rental. and 2. no way in hell i was drawing ANOTHER VEHICLE) is very spacially inconsistent and while this annoys me idrc i'm just here to draw characters in situations.

in the original he's wearing his puffy vest over a white shirt and another red shirt (so his normal outfit but To The Left) but i didn't want to draw that so i gave him a different fit. it's based on apparently this photo from the previous issue? i remember seeing it prior to drawing these but i could've sworn his inner shirt was yellow in the picture and also it looked different. guess it was white the entire time? or maybe i have the issue wrong and this is a completely different picture of marty wearing the red sweater + collared shirt combo. oh well

i keep reading "i know who you are" as "i know what you are" and it never fails to be funny to me. leave him alone dawg

tried to make irving a little more menacing in these considering he's a stranger that just happens to know about the time travel stuff and also who marty is and how to contact him? i actually don't really remember how he got this information but i'm sure it was sketchy as hell. also marty just kind of. agrees to go with him? with no further question. by himself. at night. luckily for him this was not irving's current intention but i've learned that marty is very easy to kidnap. he followed directions to the second location so easily. marty have you not heard about stranger danger?? stay safe out there. your list of traumas is already so long you don't need to encourage another one

my favorite bit of framing is the mirror shot. do you guys think the mirror shot is cool i think it's cool. irving my man back up let him wash his hands and contemplate his existence with his personal space intact thanks. my second favorite is irving throwing the napkin bc i think it's funny

last bonus before the conclusion of this post: a doodle i did as i was making these based on my impression of how the comic was going

[smokebombsandspotlights]

🏁✨ “He’s Number 1.” (F1 Grid x Platonic!Child!Reader) ✨🏁

Genre: Platonic fluff | Slice of Life Characters: Y/N (6 y/o), Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen, Ollie Bearman, Kimi Antonelli, Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, the entire 2025 grid Warnings: None | Just overflowing fluff Word count: 1,236 Summary: Christian Horner's daughter has a favorite Formula 1 driver. It's not who he wants it to be. And unfortunately for Christian, the entire grid finds it hilarious.

Y/N Horner was six years old, owned a red Ferrari bucket hat, and could not be reasoned with.

“Where is he?” she asked, peeking out from behind the Red Bull hospitality tent. Her tone was urgent, high-pitched, and determined, the kind that usually meant Christian Horner was about to get another PR migraine.

Her security detail—who had long since given up trying to herd her like a regular child—just sighed and said, “Lewis is still in the paddock, Miss Y/N.”

“Then I’ll wait here,” she said, arms crossed, toes tapping in light-up sneakers that blinked red with every bounce. “He’s the fastest man alive.”

Christian Horner, overhearing this from behind a Red Bull fridge, looked like he’d just been told she’d committed treason.

“She’s six,” he muttered to Adrian Newey, who was sipping espresso nearby. “What does she even know about Ferrari?”

“She knows enough,” Adrian replied without looking up. “Smart kid.”

Y/N didn’t care for Red Bull. Despite having their logo stitched onto half her wardrobe (her mother’s doing, not hers), and despite being the literal child of the team principal, her allegiance had always belonged to someone else:

Sir Lewis Hamilton.

It had started small. One Grand Prix weekend when she was three, she’d seen him crouch down to tie his own shoes, smile at the fans, and hand a little boy his hat. Three-year-olds are great at imprinting.

It had become tradition. Whenever Lewis walked into a paddock, she walked after him.

The paddock camera operators loved it—footage of Lewis arriving with a tiny, Ferrari-hat-wearing shadow trailing behind him became a beloved cut-in on race mornings.

The broadcasters even had a segment for her now: “Y/N Watch.”

And every time, no matter the race, no matter the country, she’d find her way to the front of the fan zone or the garages and say the same thing to any driver who asked her why she liked Lewis so much:

“He’s Number One.”

“Y/N!” a familiar voice called out.

She turned, beaming. Ollie Bearman jogged over from the Haas garage, helmet under one arm. “Looking for Lewis again?”

She nodded firmly, holding up her autograph book.

“You know, I drive cars too,” Ollie said, playfully offended. “British, just like him!”

She tilted her head, serious. “But you didn’t win seven championships.”

Ollie gasped, clutching his chest in fake heartbreak. “Savage.”

Just then, Kimi Antonelli appeared beside her. He was still new to the grid, but had quickly learned the routine.

“She’s not gonna switch,” he told Ollie, smirking. “She’s loyal.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up as Lewis Hamilton finally stepped into view, calm and composed in his Ferrari fire suit, braids tight, smile soft.

Y/N immediately bolted across the walkway, autograph book in hand, ignoring the chorus of “Good morning, Y/N!” from the other drivers.

“Lewis!” she squeaked.

He turned instantly, grinning. “Hey, little one!”

He crouched down to her level and offered a fist bump, which she returned with all the strength of her tiny arm.

“I made you a bracelet,” she said, holding up a knotted mess of red yarn and shiny beads. It said “#1” in crooked letters.

Lewis blinked. His smile grew so warm it could’ve melted asphalt.

“For me?” he asked.

She nodded. “Because you’re the best.”

Behind them, Max Verstappen fake-choked on his Red Bull.

“Excuse me?” he called. “Y/N, what about me?”

She turned to him and said sweetly, “You already won a lot. Now it’s Lewis’ turn again.”

Max clutched at his heart and staggered backward into Sergio Pérez like he’d been shot.

“Betrayed,” he whispered.

Sergio just patted his shoulder. “Kids are honest, hermano. Can’t fight the truth.”

Christian Horner looked like he was chewing rocks.

“Do you see this?” he hissed at Helmut Marko, gesturing toward his daughter skipping happily beside Lewis, who now had the #1 bracelet looped around his radio wire. “She’s my child.”

“Clearly, fate had other plans,” Helmut replied, shrugging.

Meanwhile, the rest of the grid was slowly gathering around to say hi to Y/N.

Charles Leclerc gave her a wink. “You know, I’m his teammate now. That makes me cool too, right?”

Y/N blinked. “You crash a lot.”

Charles gasped, stunned into silence.

Lando Norris cackled from behind him. “She got you so good.”

Yuki Tsunoda offered her a sticker from his helmet and said, “Lewis is great, but I bet I’m louder.”

She giggled. “You and my daddy shout the same.”

Somewhere, Christian screamed internally.

Oscar Piastri, quiet as ever, handed her a mini McLaren teddy bear.

“McBear,” she named it on the spot, “but Lewis can hold him.”

Hamilton, still kneeling beside her, took the stuffed bear like it was a trophy and gave her a grateful look.

“I don’t know how you do it,” George Russell said, watching with a smile. “You’ve got the entire paddock in the palm of your hand.”

“She’s just honest,” Lewis replied, eyes soft as he looked at her. “That’s all.”

Later that day, just before qualifying, Christian cornered his daughter in the motorhome.

“Sweetheart,” he began carefully, “I love that you like racing. And it’s… great that you admire Lewis. But maybe we could show a little support for your own family’s team?”

She looked at him, very serious. “I don’t like Red Bull.”

Christian flinched.

“Why not?” he asked, trying not to sound personally attacked.

“You said bad things about Lewis one time. And Max was mean to George. And your drinks taste weird.”

Christian put a hand on the table to steady himself.

“Okay,” he said, “but you live in my house.”

She gave him the same look Lewis gave to rival teams on Turn 1.

“You live in my house,” she corrected.

After qualifying (Lewis on the second row), she waited for him by the Ferrari garage.

Max tried one last time. He knelt down beside her and asked, “If I win this weekend, will you wear a Red Bull hat?”

Y/N leaned in, patted his arm, and said with deadly sincerity:

“I only wear red for Lewis.”

Everyone within earshot screamed.

That night, the official F1 TikTok posted a clip titled: “Y/N Horner Outsmarts Max Verstappen & Co. | Cutest Paddock Moment Ever”

It had 6 million views in four hours.

The comments were filled with:

“She’s so real for choosing Lewis 🫡”

“Protect Y/N at all costs 😭❤️”

“Christian must be crying in the Red Bull HQ rn 😂”

“GIRL STANDARDS ‼️”

“Tell her to run for FIA president”

Race day came, and Y/N was once again trailing behind Lewis like a little red Ferrari duckling.

When he climbed into his car, she gave him a tiny thumbs-up from the side.

“She’s my good luck charm,” he told a Sky Sports interviewer.

Christian Horner, watching from the pit wall, muttered, “She’s supposed to be mine.”

Lewis finished P2 that day, spraying champagne and waving up to where Y/N sat on her mother’s shoulders, McBear in hand.

Max finished P1. But when he came around for interviews, Y/N was nowhere to be found.

“Guess she didn’t like the result,” a reporter joked.

Max just sighed. “She’s gonna make me cry, man.”

Later, in the cool-down room, Lewis unzipped his suit and noticed the yarn bracelet still around his comms wire.

He smiled to himself.

“Number one,” he whispered.

And somewhere outside, Y/N was already planning next week’s bracelet.

Red and black.

With beads that spelled: GOAT.

End.

a/n

this was disgustingly cute & i'm not sorry. also, the grid as a bunch of uncles fighting for a toddler’s approval is my new favorite genre 🫶🏽 pls someone draw Y/N in her little bucket hat & send it to me.

#lewis hamilton supremacy #redbull slander #max is a sore loser (affectionate) #f1 fluff #let her cook

[chronic-conjuring]

It’s frustrating as a POC to see so many people interpret these characters as irredeemable and villainous, and it’s incredibly indicative of their white, culturally Christian upbringing, imo. We cannot look at these distinctly non-white families and apply those ideals and mentalities to their struggles and inter-familial relationships, it just doesn’t work. The generational trauma is different, the way it is internalized and turned upon others in the family is different, simply because they are not coming from the same cultural background and heritage. These are stories that definitively and decidedly have no villain (although obligatory “I haven’t seen KPDH yet”)

These women are decidedly not villains, and a lot of people seem to have a hard time understanding that you can have a meaningful story without a physical villainous, BBEG to vanquish in the end. That you can tell these stories and have them be deeply meaningful and impactful because there’s no physical villain in the story to overcome. The villain is unprocessed trauma and how that carries down family lines, how unresolved hurt will only result in more hurt to those closest to you. The villain is generational trauma and how it can twist you up inside and destroy families who love each other but don’t know any better. No amount of exile or punishment would fix the problems presented to these families. That’s not the point here, not everyone deserves punishment and damnation just because they hurt others. Especially when that hurt stemmed from trauma and only trying to do what they felt was best for everyone’s survival. Some people get so stuck in survival mode they never learned how to let themselves or others live.

Personally, I feel Bruno is another really great example of this. We see these themes in how the Madrigals inadvertently push Bruno away, and then do him the disservice of refusing to talk about him simply because it hurts too much. It very literally exemplifies how trauma and refusing to talk about it will isolate you from the people who were supposed to love and accept you the most. By having the only person who refuses to be quiet about him be the only one who to can bring him home and back into the family they’re decidedly saying that you can’t just ignore your problems in hopes that they will resolve themselves. You have to face them, have a conversation with them, and resolve to do better.

I think Bruno was a very deliberate choice that way, a very literal representation of how just ignoring something doesn’t make it go away. He never left the family. Much like trauma, pain, and fear, he lived in the the places inbetween. The unexplored parts of the house that were neglected to a point, and his absence left a void in the family no one was willing to address accept Mirabel. That’s a powerful thing to see! By looking him in the face and saying “I will not ignore you. I will not leave you behind. I will not be quiet about you” Mirabel shows that Bruno is not shameful or unloved. That he can exist and belongs in the family just like everyone else even if his existence can be uncomfortable, even if he exposes uncomfortable truths and unavoidable futures, just like how trauma lives in families but still needs to be addressed and worked through.

We know that the Madeigals love Bruno, and that refusing to talk about him was a maladaptive coping mechanism, but he didn’t know that. All he knew was that he disappeared and his family and village refused to speak of him afterwards. And it’s important to note that after the house comes down, after Mirabel and Alma finally come to an understanding of one another, then Bruno comes back to the family. Only after all the shame and pain and suffering are uncovered and acknowledged and started to be worked through does Bruno reenter the family to find that he was never forgotten or unwanted. He can finally be embraced by the whole family now that they all have started to learn how to cope and heal together. That’s a powerful message.

I think Bruno’s story exemplifies the message these stories are trying to convey very well. I think Encanto decided it wasn’t good enough to have just the representation of it all as the main storyline, but that they also needed a character to exemplify what can happen when you don’t address the intergenerational trauma as well as personify that concept a little. He’s the odd one out in the family, he’s the one who shows people the truth of things no matter how uncomfortable they may be, and the family can’t be whole until they acknowledge him and accept him for who he is. Just like trauma for so many, they couldn’t move on until everything came crashing down around them and uncomfortable realities were addressed. Not until Bruno came out of hiding, and everyone was allowed to be themselves no matter how uncomfortable or flawed they may be, could they whole again.

Like OP said, we need to have compassion for these characters and recognize that you can’t grow and overcome things by burying them. You have to have the courage and strength to change in order to overcome, and by believing these women deserved to be even more downtrodden and punished for their reactions to traumatic experiences you are wholly missing the entire point of their characters and what a real villain even looks like.

The Matriarch Isn’t the Villain. She’s the Mirror

I often hear a discourse where Celine in K-pop Demon Hunters, Alma in Encanto and Ming in Turning Red are seen as vilains. They’re the ones who restricted the younger generation, hurt them, and are ultimately responsible for their pain, trauma and self-doubt. They’re framed as the real villains of the story. But I’d like to differ.

These are stories of intergenerational trauma. They are women who survived, repressed, and tried to protect their families the only way they knew how: through control, perfectionism, and emotional suppression.

And yet, when the next generation begins to reclaim joy, freedom, softness — they become the obstacle. Not because they’re bad people, but because they’re scarred. Their minds cling to survival strategies, unable to recognize that the environment has changed.

Alma is still stuck fleeing the colonizers.

Ming is still afraid of her true self.

Celine believes that fear and mistakes must be hidden.

It’s not about hating these characters. It’s about how unprocessed trauma twists love into control. How survival, unexamined, turns into rigidity. These women were never given space to process their own pain and they project it onto their daughters and granddaughters.

And here’s something we rarely say enough: intergenerational trauma can create toxic patterns but that doesn’t always mean there was abuse or conscious harm. Even when their love becomes suffocating or controlling, these women are not necessarily “abusive parents.” They are daughters of silence, fear, and sacrifice. And they were never taught another way. It’s important to make that distinction, especially in a world that often pushes a binary, punitive reading of family dynamics.

They’re the product of a generation that was told to endure. But endurance without healing becomes its own kind of violence.

What’s powerful in these stories is that they don’t end in vengeance. They end in confrontation and transformation. The confrontation is necessary: the younger generation refuses the silence. Refuses the shame. Refuses to carry a burden that wasn’t theirs to begin with.

The house is destroyed in Encanto.

Mei accepts her full self.

So does Rumi.

And in the best cases, this confrontation allows the elder to soften too. Alma opens up. Ming listens. And I’m hoping in the sequel, Celine will open too.

Maybe that’s also why these stories speak so deeply to POC audiences. These aren’t stories about cutting ties. They’re stories about how hard it is to transform them, to protect ancestral bonds while refusing to perpetuate inherited pain. In many racialized families, collectivity, loyalty, and intergenerational duty are sacred... even when they come at the cost of personal boundaries.

And sometimes, Western individualist frameworks read these tensions as dysfunction or villainy. But for us, they’re just the difficult truth of growing up and trying to do better.

These women aren’t villains. That would be too easy. They embody the fragile, necessary work of bringing change without breaking the thread. These stories are about refusing to inherit their pain without reflection. Because love, without accountability, is not enough.

These stories show us that each generation has something to learn from the next. And the new generation must also break free from the chains they inherited while preserving what is meaningfull.

But it’s not just their story.

One day, we’ll be the older generation.

And we’ll need to be humble enough to learn from the ones after us.

So don’t be a fool.

We may be Mei, Rumi, or Mirabel today.

But tomorrow, we could be Ming, Celine, or Alma.

And when that time comes, we’ll realize how hard it is to unlearn what once kept us safe.

So let’s have compassion for all these characters.

Because these stories show us not just how the cycle of generations works, but how it can make us better, stronger, and more connected... if we’re all willing to go through the change.

∘₊✧──────✧──────✧₊∘

If you’re curious, I’ve written more on K-pop Demon Hunters:

A post on the mental health themes woven through the songs — right here.

A breakdown of Celine-Rumi in comparaison to Gothel–Rapunzel dynamic — here.

An analysis about Rumi, Jinu, and the danger of sinking together — here.

Some book recs for each of the K-pop Demon Hunters characters — here.

[all-my-love-for-harry]

I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOUR WRITING. can i request a jake fic inspired by the song moth to a flame by the weeknd? the other guy could be bradley/bob or literally anyone else.

THANKS SO MUCH ive been thinking about this a lot

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

word count; 6.9k

warnings; toxic relationships, cheating (don't do that), angst, smut, jake's an asshole but so is reader kinda

a/n; i wasn't sure of using any of the guys for this but i saw david as your pfp and got a vision lol, hope you like it!!!<3

masterlist

David gets home before you do most days.

Tonight’s no different. When you step inside your apartment, the air smells faintly like rosemary and lemon — he’s cooking something light, something thoughtful. There’s jazz playing softly from the speakers in the living room. You drop your keys into the bowl by the door and exhale without meaning to.

“Hi, love,” he calls from the kitchen. “Shoes off, please — I just mopped.”

You smile, toeing off your heels as you walk in.

David’s in a worn gray t-shirt and soft navy joggers, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He’s barefoot, hair a little messy from running his fingers through it. His frame is tall and broad, elegant without trying. Strong hands, kind eyes. His face is flushed from the heat of the stove.

You cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind. “Hey.”

His hand immediately covers yours where it rests on his chest. He tilts his head toward yours. “Long day?”

“God, yes,” you murmur.

“Shitty clients or shitty coworkers?”

“Both. And a surprise meeting. You?”

He shrugs. “Uneventful. Wrote a speech for a mayor who talks like he learned English through old crime dramas.”

You laugh softly into his back.

David turns in your arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another, to your temple. His touch is always gentle like that. Never hurried. He treats your body like it’s something precious, not just desirable.

“I made soup,” he says. “And there’s bread warming in the oven.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

That’s David. He never does things out of obligation. He wants to take care of you. You’ve never had that before — not like this.

Later, after dinner and two episodes of the show you’re slowly bingeing together, you end up in bed, curled against him.

Your head on his chest. His fingers drawing lazy circles on your shoulder.

You’re not tired yet, but your body is still. His is warm, familiar, something you trust without thinking.

“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.

“Mmm,” you hum, eyes half closed. “Always.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

You blink. “Miss what?”

“The chaos,” he says simply. “The… unpredictability. I know I’m not the most exciting person you’ve ever dated.”

You lift your head to look at him.

David’s blue eyes are soft, serious. He’s not accusing — just curious. Like he’s been thinking about it for a while.

“You think I’m bored?” you ask.

“No,” he says gently. “I think you’re… recovering.”

You pause. “From what?”

He smiles, small and sad. “Whoever hurt you before I met you.”

You look at him for a long moment.

And then you say the truest thing you’ve said all week: “I don’t miss the chaos. I miss the way it made me feel. Alive. Wanted. Important. Like nothing else mattered.”

David nods. Doesn’t flinch. He brushes a thumb across your cheekbone. “You are all those things,” he says. “You’ve just stopped needing pain to feel them.”

Your throat tightens.

He kisses you, slow and deep and steady.

It’s not the kind of kiss that sets you on fire.

It’s the kind that lets you breathe.

-

Penny calls around five, just as you and David are getting dressed for dinner.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says. “I hate to ask, but I left my order forms in a folder behind the bar and I need them tomorrow morning. Any chance you could swing by and grab them? It’ll take two minutes.”

You glance at David, who’s standing in the doorway buttoning his shirt, and cover the phone. “You mind if we stop by the Hard Deck on the way?”

“Not at all,” he says easily. “You want me to drive?”

You smile. “Sure.”

Back on the phone, you tell Penny, “We’ll swing by on the way to dinner.”

“You’re an angel,” she says. “Folder’s got a pink tab on it. Should be under the counter. Just tell whoever’s working that I sent you.”

You hang up. You don’t think twice about it.

The Hard Deck looks the same as it always has — surfboards, string lights, sand sticking to the floorboards. But there are more cars out front than usual, more people spilling out onto the patio.

When you and David step inside, your fingers laced loosely together, it’s warm and loud and full of laughter.

You scan the crowd on autopilot, looking for familiar faces — and freeze.

The Daggers are back.

You recognize Natasha first, laughing at something Payback says, beer in hand. Bob and Coyote are nearby. Fanboy’s holding court at the jukebox. It takes all of three seconds for your heart to drop into your stomach.

Because Jake Seresin is here too.

He’s leaned against the bar like he owns the place, talking to a blonde in a sundress. One hand on the counter, beer in the other, that smug half-smile on his face like nothing in the world could touch him.

And then he looks up.

And sees you.

Your body goes cold.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.

Jake's eyes catch on yours, and for a split second, something flickers there. Surprise. Recognition. Maybe even something darker.

But then it’s gone.

And he smirks.

That same damn smirk that always meant trouble.

He tips his bottle in your direction like it’s a fucking toast.

“Babe?” David’s voice is soft beside you. “Everything okay?”

You blink, tear your eyes away from Jake.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… seeing some people I know.”

David glances around, oblivious. “Friends of yours?”

“Sort of.”

You don’t say old ghosts. You don’t say the man who wrecked me is ten feet away and smiling like he still owns me.

You slip your hand from David’s and head toward the bar.

“Be right back,” you say.

You’re crouched under the bar, fishing out the folder Penny described, when a voice floats overhead.

“Well, well. Thought that was you.”

You go still.

Close your eyes.

Count to three.

Then you stand slowly, folder in hand, and turn.

Jake Seresin is leaning on the bar like he’s settling in for a show. That same cocky, sun-kissed charm radiating off him like heatwaves. He’s older now — maybe a little sharper around the edges — but still every inch the walking disaster you once couldn’t say no to.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back in this place,” he says. “You always liked pretending you were too good for it.”

You lift your chin. “Nice to see you haven’t grown up.”

Jake grins, slow and lazy. “Not where it counts.”

Your stomach flips — with anger, with memory, with something you’d rather not name.

“Excuse me,” you say, trying to step past him.

But he sidesteps, just barely, blocking you.

“Who’s the guy?” he asks, nodding toward where David’s waiting patiently, completely unaware he’s being watched like prey.

“None of your business.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t look like your type.”

“He wasn't,” you say quietly. “But he is now.”

Jake’s mouth curls.

“Shame,” he says. “I always liked being your type.”

You don’t answer.

You walk past him without a word, folder clutched tight in your hands.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his eyes on you the whole way out.

David opens the car door for you like he always does.

“You okay?” he asks again once you’re seated, glancing at you with a soft furrow between his brows. “You got real quiet in there.”

You force a smile.

“Just tired,” you say. “Ready for dinner.”

-

The backseat is tight, every inch crowded by Jake’s weight pressing you into the worn leather. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in hard, setting the rhythm and pace. You don’t question it — you never do.

His mouth claims yours, rough and demanding, swallowing your protests with bruising kisses. One hand slips beneath your shirt, thumb tracing sharp lines down your ribs, while the other holds you steady against the seat, like you could fall away if he loosened his grip.

His body moves over yours, relentless and sure, hips driving with a cocky precision that leaves no doubt who’s in control.

“I’m not the guy you settle for,” he says, voice low, almost cruel. “I’m the one you come back to when the rest is too damn boring.”

You gasp when he tightens his hold, nails scraping your skin just enough to sting, reminding you exactly where you belong.

He pins your wrists above your head, fingers curling around your wrist, his touch hot and unyielding. The subtle curve of his smirk presses into the silence between thrusts — like he’s daring you to forget he’s never going to stay

No words. No promises.

Just the harsh, intoxicating truth of his dominance — raw, arrogant, impossible to resist.

You wake up gasping, heart hammering, sweat slick against your skin.

The room is dark and quiet except for the slow thump of your pulse in your ears.

You reach for the sheets, clutch them tight.

David’s side of the bed is empty.

And for a long moment, all you can feel is the ghost of Jake’s touch — arrogant, wild, impossible to forget.

-

You grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this life you’ve built.

David hums beside you, flipping through radio stations, blissfully unaware that the man you once swore you'd never let back in just walked right through your carefully constructed peace like it was tissue paper.

You nod along to whatever soft rock station he lands on, but your mind is a million miles away. Back in a parking lot. Back in the backseat of a car. Back with hands on your skin that knew exactly how to undo you.

Jake Seresin was never your boyfriend.

You weren’t that stupid.

You knew what it was. From the very beginning, he told you. “I don’t do relationships. Don’t catch feelings.”

And yet, there you were. Letting him in again and again — your body, your bed, your mouth — always hoping he might change his mind, even though you knew he wouldn’t.

He made you feel wanted. Not loved. Not cared for. But wanted. In that selfish, consuming, fire-in-your-veins kind of way. You were a high he liked getting lost in. And he knew exactly how to keep you coming back.

You tell yourself it wasn’t real. That it was just sex. Just chemistry. Just heat.

But then you remember the way he used to look at you when he thought you were asleep. The thumb tracing your lower lip. The way he'd whisper "mine" like it was a promise, even though he never meant to keep it.

You’d tell yourself he was just being possessive. Territorial. An asshole with a god complex.

And still.

You stayed.

Until you finally didn’t.

Until it hurt more than it thrilled you.

Until you met David.

Sweet, steady, golden-hearted David. The kind of man who shows up. Who asks how your day was and listens to the answer. Who knows your coffee order and keeps extra hair ties in his glove box just for you. Who rubs your back when you’re anxious and tells you you're enough — not because he wants something from you, but because he means it.

You love him. Or maybe you’re still learning how to. But you know you want to. And you know it feels… right.

Even if it doesn’t feel like fire.

Even if your skin still remembers the way Jake made you tremble. Even if your dreams are still haunted by a voice that called you baby like it was a sin.

You reach across the console and lace your fingers with David’s. He squeezes once, smiling at you without asking why your hands are cold.

You look out the window, watching the sun dip low over the water.

Jake Seresin is back.

And you know — you know — he’s going to try to pull you under again.

You just don’t know if you’re strong enough this time not to drown.

-

The fluorescent lights in the store feel too bright, too sharp.

You were only supposed to grab oat milk and granola. But your fingers are wrapped so tightly around the shopping cart handle that your knuckles ache. Because he’s here. Somewhere behind you in the produce section.

You heard his voice before you saw him — that Southern, drawling confidence like it never left your bones. And now you’re frozen in front of a pyramid of avocados, pretending to read a label you already know by heart.

When you finally turn, he’s there.

Jake Seresin, in worn jeans and a plain black t-shirt that fits entirely too well for your peace of mind. He leans casually against the cooler like this is some kind of normal reunion. Like he didn’t leave you aching for years in all the places he used to touch.

You straighten your spine.

“Don’t,” you say before he can open his mouth. “Whatever game you’re playing, don’t start.”

He tilts his head, a smirk ghosting across his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good to see you too, sweetheart.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want?”

“Relax. I’m just grabbing groceries like everyone else.”

He shrugs, eyes scanning you — the plain t-shirt you threw on, the shoes you didn’t bother tying properly. You feel suddenly transparent.

“It was surprising to you at the Hard Deck” he says, like you didn’t already know. “Didn’t realize you were still in town.”

You shift uncomfortably. “You left, not me.”

“And the guy?” he asks, almost too casually. “David?”

Your guard goes up fast. “What about him?”

Jake nods, pushing his hands into his pockets. “He seems good. For you. Like… the kind of guy who brings you flowers and walks your dog and actually knows your middle name.”

You blink. “Are you high?”

He laughs — low and quiet. “Nope.”

“Because this sounds a lot like you giving me your blessing or something.”

He steps closer, but not enough to touch. Not like before. “I’m not. I’m just saying… he’s what you deserve. Stability. Kindness. Someone who sticks around.”

You search his face for the cocky grin, the bait. It never comes.

Instead, he turns to leave, like that’s all he came to say. But just before he does, he looks over his shoulder.

“Does he know?” Jake asks.

You frown. “Know what?”

“That you’re still in love with me.”

Then he’s gone.

No smile. No wink. Just the sound of your breath catching in your throat and your pulse drumming in your ears.

That night, you sit in bed next to David, but your mind is a thousand miles away.

He’s reading. Glasses slipping down his nose, arm draped around you like it always is. The picture of comfort. Of contentment. You rest your head on his shoulder, but all you feel is a growing hollow in your chest.

You want to love him like he deserves.

You want to stop dreaming about rough hands and heated whispers. You want your body to forget the way Jake used to pull sounds out of you you didn’t even know existed. You want to forget how alive you used to feel in the chaos of it all.

David is good. Good in a way you never believed you could have. But with Jake…

It was never safe. Never soft. But it was undeniable. Electric. A match dropped into gasoline.

You’re not sure what scares you more — the possibility that Jake still owns some part of you, or the fact that you might not want to get it back.

Morning comes too early.

Or maybe you never really fell asleep.

David’s already in the kitchen by the time you shuffle in, rubbing sleep from your eyes. He’s in his usual routine — eggs on the stove, coffee brewing, NPR murmuring from the speaker like background noise in a life you’re trying to live.

“Morning, love,” he says with that easy smile, stepping over to kiss your forehead. “You didn’t sleep well.”

“I’m fine.” It comes out too quick, too rehearsed.

He studies you for a second, but doesn’t push. Just turns back to the stove and slides two eggs onto your plate. “Big day at work?”

You nod. “Something like that.”

He pours your coffee exactly how you like it — splash of almond milk, no sugar — and sets it in front of you with a tenderness that makes your stomach twist. He’s good. Thoughtful. Predictable in the best ways.

So why do you feel like you can’t breathe?

David takes his seat across from you and starts talking — something about a new exhibit at the gallery, a dinner his friends are planning. You nod in all the right places, smile when he does. You play the part.

And then your phone buzzes.

You don’t think much of it at first, but when you flip it over, the name on the screen turns your stomach inside out.

Jake Seresin.

You hesitate. David doesn’t seem to notice — he’s talking about wine pairings now — so you unlock your phone under the table and read the message.

“You always did look better in my t-shirts.”

That’s all it says. No greeting. No context. Just that.

But it hits like a punch to the gut.

Because you know exactly which one he means. The navy one you slept in more nights than you care to count. The one you wore to his kitchen while stealing coffee from his mug. The one that somehow ended up buried in the back of your drawer, folded like a memory you didn’t want to let go of.

You look up at David. Still talking. Still smiling. Still trying.

And you feel like the worst kind of liar.

Your appetite vanishes. The coffee turns bitter in your mouth.

Because Jake isn’t just a memory. He’s a wildfire you thought you outran. And now, with one stupid text, you feel the heat all over again.

The water is already running when you slip into the bathroom.

David’s in the shower, steam curling along the mirror, the scent of his cedarwood body wash thick in the air. You stand there for a moment, heart pounding in your chest, unsure what the hell you’re doing. You could walk away. Go to work. Pretend everything is fine.

But instead, you open the glass door.

He turns, surprised but not startled. “Everything okay?”

You don’t answer. Just step into the spray and place your hands gently on his chest.

His brow furrows. “Hey—”

You kiss him before he can finish. Slow, deliberate. Testing yourself.

It takes a beat, but he kisses you back. Hands gentle, like they always are. One slips to your waist, the other cradles your cheek.

This is what love is supposed to feel like, you remind yourself. Warm. Safe. Easy.

He pulls back, breathless, eyes searching yours. “What’s going on with you this morning?”

“I just…” You shake your head. “I wanted you.”

His expression softens, and he leans in again, lips brushing over yours. He holds you like something delicate, like someone to be cherished. When he moves inside you, it’s careful and sweet. No urgency. No dominance. Just soft murmurs and whispered affection.

It should be enough.

But your mind won't shut up.

Because it doesn’t feel like that night in Jake’s car. Or the dozens of others after. It doesn’t feel like being possessed — like being wrecked and worshipped all at once. It doesn’t make your knees shake or your breath catch in your throat. You’re not losing yourself. You’re still here. And you hate that part of you wants to disappear into someone again.

David’s thumb is tracing your cheek. He’s murmuring, “I love you.”

And you smile. You do. Because it’s true. You do love him.

But as he holds you under the hot stream, you blink up at the ceiling and feel something twist in your chest.

Because love has never once made you feel haunted.

Only Jake Seresin ever did that.

David’s hands are splayed over your hips, his touch as familiar as the tile beneath your bare feet. His movements are steady, controlled, full of the same care he always gives you.

You tilt your head back against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed. You try to focus on the moment — on him. On the softness of his lips on your neck, the heat of the water cascading over your skin, the way he murmurs your name like a vow.

But something inside you itches — restless, unfulfilled. Your breath hitches for the wrong reasons.

“Harder,” you whisper, not meaning to say it out loud. Your hands press to his back, nails dragging lightly across skin that doesn’t flinch under the touch.

David stills a little. “What?”

You open your eyes, heart thudding with embarrassment and something close to frustration. “Just—” You shake your head, forcing the words through your teeth. “Can you… be a little rougher? Just this once?”

His brows pull together, confused. “You sure? That’s not really… us.”

You nod, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “Yeah. I just—wanted to try.”

He studies you for a beat longer than you’re comfortable with, clearly searching your face for something he doesn’t understand. Then he kisses you again, a little deeper this time, his grip tightening on your waist.

He tries.

But it’s still him — soft, careful David, who loves you with the gentleness of someone who’s never once wanted to break you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

After a minute, you press your hand to his chest, stopping him.

“Forget it.”

He blinks. “Wait—did I do something wrong?”

“No. No, you didn’t.” You step out of the shower before he can ask again, grabbing a towel, voice shaky despite your best effort. “It’s me. I’m just—I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s nothing.”

You leave him standing in the steam, heart pounding in your ears, ashamed of how badly you wanted something he doesn’t know how to give. Not because he’s lacking — but because he’s not Jake. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

Because David is everything you should want.

But the ache in your chest — and the shame pooling in your gut — says it all:

He’s not who your body’s screaming for.

-

The hum of the office around you fades to a dull, meaningless buzz. Papers shuffle. Phones ring. A coworker laughs too loudly at something over Zoom.

But your eyes are fixed on your screen, unmoving, unfocused. The email you were supposed to be drafting sits half-written, the cursor blinking like it’s judging you.

Your hand moves before your brain really catches up.

You unlock your phone. Navigate to the hidden folder you swore you’d delete months ago. The one that still asks for a password every time you open it — like your shame needs two locks instead of one.

And there they are.

Over forty photos. A handful of short videos. One voicemail you saved, just because his voice in that moment felt like oxygen.

The first one is a selfie he took without asking — him grinning, shirtless in your bed, your face barely visible behind his shoulder, still asleep.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, then scrolls.

One of you in the front seat of his truck, your legs across his lap, head thrown back in laughter. Another, blurry and grainy, in a bathroom mirror at some dive bar, Jake’s arm slung around your waist, eyes locked on yours instead of the lens.

And then — a short clip.

Jake kissing you. Not the rushed, hungry kind. The kind that felt real. One hand on the back of your neck. His mouth moving slow, reverent. Like you were fragile and precious and his all at once.

You pause it halfway through, heart cracking at the sound of your own breath hitching on the video. You remember that night. The way he stayed. The way he didn't say he would — but did.

You close your eyes. Shame flooding hot behind your ribs.

David doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know you still have these. Doesn’t know you kept them. That you still look at them.

That sometimes you dream in Jake’s voice.

You know it’s wrong. You know it’s cruel — to David, to yourself. But you can’t make yourself hit delete.

Your thumb trembles over the trash icon.

But instead, you lock the folder again.

You tell yourself tomorrow.

You’ve been telling yourself tomorrow for months.

You don’t remember the rest of the day.

Emails were answered. Meetings were sat through. Someone brought cupcakes for a birthday you forgot. You smiled. You nodded. You played your part.

But inside, something was slipping.

Unraveling.

By the time you’re in your car, hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to ache, the air feels thinner. Like you’re suffocating on everything you’ve been pretending not to feel.

You unlock your phone.

You open your texts.

And then, with fingers shaking just slightly, you scroll back. Past the last thing Jake sent. Past the weeks of silence before it. All the way to the message he once sent you — long ago, when it wasn’t so complicated — with nothing but a pin.

His address.

You shouldn’t still have it.

You shouldn’t still want to use it.

But you do.

You punch it into your GPS.

You tell yourself you’re just going to look. Just see. Just talk.

A lie. One you let yourself believe for just long enough.

The drive isn’t long, but it feels like purgatory. Your thoughts spiral the whole way — what if he’s not home? What if he’s with someone? What if you show up and make a fool of yourself?

But when you turn onto his street and spot his truck in the driveway, your breath catches. That old Ford you know far too well. Parked crooked, like always. Like he left in a hurry or came back too tired to care.

You pull up and kill the engine. For a full minute, you just sit there.

Then you’re out of the car. Walking up the path. Knocking before you can think better of it.

No turning back now.

The door swings open.

And there he is — shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair tousled like he just woke up. His eyes are heavy-lidded, confused, and then—

You don’t give him a chance to speak.

You surge forward, grabbing his face and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Jake stumbles back a step, surprised — but only for a second. Then his hands are on your hips, fingers digging in, and he hauls you up like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, your back hits the inside of the door with a solid thud, and his mouth is all over you — hot, open, hungry.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

It’s cocky, arrogant, maddening.

You kiss him harder.

Jake grins against your mouth like he’s winning something. “Could’ve saved us both some time, sweetheart.”

You tug at his hair in response, biting his bottom lip until he growls and presses himself against you, hips grinding into yours through thin layers of clothes that feel like they’re burning off.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down your jaw. “Missed you. Bet he doesn’t fuck you like I do.”

You whimper at the words — at the way he says them like a fact, like gospel, like he knows your body better than you do.

Because he does.

Jake slides one hand under your shirt, up your spine, like he’s starving for every inch of skin. He bites at your neck and you gasp, arching into him.

“You think about me when you’re with him?” he mutters darkly. “When he’s inside you, do you wish it was me?”

Your nails dig into his shoulders.

That’s all the answer he needs.

Jake pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, pupils blown wide. “I fucking knew it.”

He kisses you again, rougher now, less control. Like he’s making up for every second he spent without you.

And this time, you don’t stop him.

“Shut up,” you gasp against his mouth, your voice shaking with need.

Jake chuckles, low and smug, like he’s been waiting to hear those words from you for months. “Bossier than I remember,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw as he presses you harder against the wall. “Let’s see if you’re still this mouthy after I’m done with you.”

You don’t get a chance to reply.

He’s already moving — one hand keeping you anchored to him, the other sliding down between your bodies. You feel him unbutton your jeans with practiced ease, and your breath hitches as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost reverent. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers slip through your slick heat, and your whole body arches into him with a desperate little sound. You hate how fast he finds that spot that makes you tremble, how easy it is for him to undo you with just the pads of his fingers and that maddening voice in your ear.

“This for me?” he asks, curling his fingers just right. “Or does your sweet little boyfriend get you this worked up too?”

“Jake—”

“Nah,” he interrupts, smirking against your throat. “Don’t answer that. I already know.”

He slides a finger inside you, then another, and you can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips. His palm presses against your clit, drawing slow, deliberate circles, and you swear the world tilts on its axis.

“Fuck,” you pant, clinging to his shoulders, forehead pressed to his.

“You feel the same,” he whispers. “Still tight, still perfect. Still mine.”

You shouldn’t let him say things like that.

You shouldn’t want him to say them.

But God — you do. You want it all. The way he touches you like no one else ever has. The way he knows exactly what to say to make your body beg, even when your brain’s screaming at you to walk away.

He grins again, filthy and satisfied, and starts pumping his fingers harder. “What was that about shutting me up?”

Your only answer is a broken moan.

Your head falls back against the wall, a cry torn from your throat as Jake’s fingers work you open, relentless and unmerciful in the way only he ever was. Your whole body trembles, legs tightening around his waist — and then, without warning, he pulls his hand away.

You whimper, dazed and ruined already, but before you can complain, Jake hoists you higher in his arms and carries you through the hallway like you weigh nothing.

He drops you onto the bed, hard enough to make the mattress groan. And then he’s on you, all hands and mouth and hunger. He strips you fast — yanking your jeans down your legs, your underwear with them, tugging your shirt over your head. He rips open your bra with one rough pull and tosses it aside like it offended him.

You’re gasping, arching into him, but he’s everywhere all at once — not giving you time to think, to speak, to remember anything beyond this.

Jake kisses every part of you like he’s making up for lost time. His mouth is hot and unyielding, rough kisses scattered down your neck, between your breasts, down your ribs and stomach. He bites at your hip and groans like he’s starved for you.

And then he sinks between your legs.

“Oh my God—Jake—”

He licks into you like it’s his favorite meal, tongue deep and unrelenting, lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard. You jerk, hands flying to his hair, thighs already trembling.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, the vibration of his voice making your back arch. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you taste when you’re falling apart for me.”

He adds his fingers — two, then three — curling them just right while his tongue draws wicked patterns that make your vision go white. He doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t let you breathe. He devours you like he’s trying to wipe every trace of David off your skin.

You scream — a raw, broken sound — and Jake moans like it turns him on just hearing you.

“There she is,” he mutters, lips slick with you. “There’s my girl.”

And for one blissed-out, staggering second, you are.

You’re not David’s girlfriend. You’re not rational. You’re not guilty. You’re just his — gasping and grinding and writhing under Jake Seresin, who’s ruining you like no one else ever could.

When the orgasm crashes over you, it hits like a wave — overwhelming and violent and blinding. Your fingers clutch his hair, your thighs clamp tight around his head, and you scream again as he works you through every second of it.

Only when you’re twitching and spent does he finally lift his head.

He looks like sin — mouth red and glistening, chest heaving, eyes wild with lust.

And he grins.

“Still think you’re over me?”

You’re still trembling, body slick with sweat and overstimulated — but you want more. You need more.

Jake moves to climb over you again, but you sit up fast and press a hand to his chest, shoving him back. He lets you, surprised for all of one breath before the corner of his mouth curves up, cocky and impressed.

“Oh? You’re taking charge now?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, crawling onto the bed with a dark look in your eye.

His smirk grows. “There’s that mouth again.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, legs spread, smug and waiting. You kneel between them, fingers curling into the waistband of his gray sweatpants — they’re soft and warm and hang low on his hips. You tug them down without ceremony, dragging his boxers with them, and Jake groans when you finally free him.

He’s already hard. Thick and flushed and heavy in your hand, twitching at the first brush of your fingers.

“Jesus,” you whisper. You forgot how big he is.

But your body remembers. Your mouth waters. Your thighs clench.

Jake watches you, eyes dark. His chest rises and falls hard, and he curls one large hand into your hair — not pulling, just holding. Claiming.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you lean in and take him into your mouth.

Jake swears violently, hips jerking, his hand tightening instantly in your hair. “Fuck—”

You start slow, dragging your tongue along the underside, flattening it at the tip, hollowing your cheeks. You stroke what you can’t fit with your hand, working him with deliberate, teasing rhythm. He tastes like sweat and salt and memory.

Above you, Jake growls. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum around him and he bucks into your mouth, making you gag a little, but you don’t stop — you like the way it makes him groan, low and wrecked and desperate.

His thighs flex on either side of you. You dig your nails into one, and he looks down at you like you’ve set his whole life on fire.

“Look at you,” he pants. “On your knees for me again.”

You lift your eyes, meeting his as you take him deeper.

“Fuck,” he hisses, head tipping back. “You feel so good, baby. So fucking good.”

You work him harder now — faster, wetter, filthier — spit dripping down your chin, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. He’s panting, swearing, losing control, and you can tell he’s close. His hand in your hair turns to a fist.

And then, with a guttural moan, he pulls you off him.

You blink up at him, lips wet and parted, chest heaving. “Why’d you stop me?”

Jake leans down, pulls you up by the hair, and crushes his mouth to yours — all tongue and hunger and possession.

“Because I want to come inside you,” he growls. “I want to fuck you until you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

You whimpered — small and broken — and that was all the permission Jake needed.

He pulled you onto the bed with effortless strength, flipping you onto your back and crawling over you like a man starved. His hands were everywhere, spreading your thighs, pinning your wrists, claiming every inch of you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about this — about you — since the last time he had you under him.

“Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his mouth along your jaw, then lower, sucking bruises into your neck that you’d feel tomorrow. “Falling apart already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Jake—” you gasped, body arching, needing more, needing anything.

His hand came down between your legs, not gentle, not soft — perfect — and you moaned, shameless and aching.

“Say it,” he growled against your skin. “You want it? Beg for it.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Please,” you gasped, eyes wide, voice wrecked. “Please, Jake—just—God, do something—”

He grinned, wicked and cocky and cruel in the way only he could get away with. “There’s my girl.”

And then he was inside you in one rough, perfect thrust, burying himself so deep your breath caught in your throat. You cried out — sharp and helpless — your nails digging into his shoulders as he held you down and moved.

Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.

Like he was trying to remind your body who it belonged to.

“You think you can come to my door,” he grunted, driving into you again and again, “kiss me like that — and not leave ruined?”

You couldn’t answer — you could barely breathe. He wasn’t making love to you; he was claiming you, unmaking you with every thrust, every filthy, perfect word against your ear.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

Jake’s pace shifted — harder, deeper, more deliberate — like every thrust was a statement, a punishment, a promise.

“God, listen to you,” he gritted, voice low and rough as gravel. “So needy. So loud.”

You could barely answer him, gasping under the rhythm he set, your back arched and your fingers twisted tight in the sheets. But Jake wasn’t done — not even close.

“Missed this, didn’t you?” he growled, hand sliding under your thigh to press you open wider, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “You can lie to yourself all you want — but your body never could.”

Your head tipped back with a cry, and Jake’s palm landed beside your head, bracing himself as he drove into you again, hard enough to rattle the bed. His other hand trailed possessively down your body, gripping your hip, anchoring you to the moment.

Every word from his mouth was like fuel to the fire, and he knew it.

“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he murmured against your jaw, a dangerous promise wrapped in a kiss. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

You whimpered his name, too far gone for pride or pretense, and that was all it took. Jake dropped his forehead to yours, still moving inside you with raw purpose, his breath ragged and hot.

“I knew you’d come back,” he murmured, voice breaking into a low groan. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

You tried to catch your breath, to center yourself, but it was impossible with Jake moving like that — claiming every inch of you like it was his birthright. He was relentless, each thrust a deeper descent, and you couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe without him.

And maybe that was the problem.

You shouldn’t have come here. You should’ve deleted his pictures from your phone. You should’ve stayed in your cold, quiet apartment with the man you never really loved.

But you hadn’t. You couldn’t.

Because Jake Seresin had always been the fire.

And you? You were the fool who kept flying into it, over and over, wings burning until there was nothing left but smoke and need.

His name slipped from your lips again, broken and breathless, and Jake’s hand came to your throat — not to choke, not to restrain, but to hold. To anchor.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice ragged, eyes burning down into yours. “Let me hear you.”

You looked up at him, lips trembling, heart tearing itself open inside your chest as he drove into you again, deeper, harder.

“I’ll never stop,” you gasped. “Wanting you. Needing you.”

Jake’s jaw clenched, like he was trying to hold himself back — but then his mouth was on yours, rough and consuming, his hips pressing harder into yours with brutal devotion.

“Damn right you won’t,” he growled against your lips. “Because you’re mine. Always have been.”

And the worst part?

He was right.

No matter how many years passed, no matter how many lies you told yourself, no matter how many mistakes you made trying to erase the pull between you — it never changed.

You could run. You could even pretend. But your body would always remember.

And right now, as Jake dragged you closer to the edge with nothing but his touch and the heat in his voice, you knew — it was always going to be like this.

You, aching and unraveling beneath him.

Jake, fierce and focused above you.

A flame you’d never stop flying toward.

[this-is-exorsexism]

I am a nonbinary, androgynous presenting person who uses they/them pronouns. I apologize for this being so long, a lot of context was needed!

I am also a college student, set to graduate this December (hooray!)

My favorite story is my experience with a French Language Professor, an older woman in her 60s or 70s.

This professor, you see, was quite invested in stereotypes of anything you can think of: they painted her perception of the world. This important for later.

She would inject gendered language into everything she could. She would address everyone by either masculine or feminine terms or describe them with masculine or feminine adjectives in both French and English. In fact, when she handed out worksheets for us to do, she would say “boys do the odds, and girls do the evens”, which was weird because we were all adults; A few of my classmates were old enough to be my parents. Being a bit of a rebel, I would just pick which questions to do arbitrarily, and if she called on me to share answers with the class and it was one I didn’t do, I would just say I didn’t do that one, which always obviously annoyed her.

Keep in mind, I told her on the first day of class that I used they/them pronouns and didn’t like feminine terms being used on me, such as ma’am or miss. While she initially seemed amicable about it, she forever insisted on misgendering me and using the wrong words. I would gently remind her, at first, before it began to become obvious that it was intentional, so my reminders became more firm and sometimes even a bit disruptive, if she were lecturing and used me as an example and said the wrong thing.

The problem was, she told me, was that French doesn’t have a gender neutral pronoun, which is why she called me elle/sa (She/Her in French), so I then said if that’s the case, then just use il/sa (il means he, they, or it depending on the context) for me because it would be more accurate than elle. She ignored me. I went home and did my research. Turns out, French does have a gender neutral pronoun: iel (or yiel, I forget, but it’s pronounced like yell) and it’s pretty commonly used. I told her the next day about my discovery and she flat out refused to use it for me because it wasn’t officially a part of the language. See, in France, they have a thing called “the Council” and it’s literally a group of people who decide what words are or aren’t going to be accepted into the official French language. It’s hilarious because its purpose is to keep French “pure” and not letting its speakers borrow from other languages, which is so hilarious because ironically, the people who complain about languages borrowing from one another are the same people who tweet about “le wokisme” (I’m not joking that’s a real word).

So then, we come to the climax of this story of my war of attrition in the name of being respected. One day, I get to class early, as I often did because her classroom was on the 3rd floor of the building and I had lots of narrow stairs to climb. The only other person in the room was myself and my professor. We say good morning and sit in silence as we wait for class to start. Suddenly, she breaks the silence and asks me about my “whole nonbinary thing”, saying she didn’t really understand. I was more than happy to explain it to her because I thought she was finally trying to learn about it so she could start being respectful to me.

Note: I endured two whole semesters with this woman. At the time, a language class was required for my major in order to graduate. I have since changed my major, but it wasn’t because of this, more so because of a change in interest.

So, I finish my explanation of what it means to be nonbinary to her in as simple terms as I could, which wasn’t really necessary anyway; it’s not a difficult concept to understand.

She nods quietly and digests what I said and then says, “well, what you think doesn’t necessarily change what you are. I may not feel like wearing makeup or a dress sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a woman. You were made a woman and there’s not really any changing that.”

I was shocked and I think I said something like “that’s a very reductive way to see a person,” but ultimately, this was about when classmates arrived, who were appalled when I recounted that conversation to them later in the semester when she stepped out of the classroom.

I later dropped her class and reported her to the dean for creating a hostile learning environment. I’ve never taken another French class since and I have somewhat fallen out of love with learning the language.

this is exorsexism.

[douche-canoe-regatta]

people need food. we have food.

people need clean water. we can make clean water.

people need housing. we have houses.

people are dying of curable diseases/injuries. we have doctors, researchers, vaccines, medications and manufacturing facilities.

the only thing - look at me - the ONLY THING keeping us from caring for everybody is numbers we made up. Just some silly numbers based on rocks and shit.

in the US, we could evenly divide the wealth amongst the population and end up with about half a million numbers each. What would you do with that?

You'd buy a house or a boat or a new vehicle. you'd travel or pay off stupid debts. you might adopt a dog or start volunteering because you don't have to pick up that extra shift. Your kids could eat healthier meals, go to camp, and get a tutor.

you could get out of a dangerous situation and move to a safer place. you'd go back to school, you'd learn to cook, garden, sew, paint - you can afford the tuition; you can buy supplies.

You can go to a doctor or dentist or physical therapy. They have the time now - they're not dealing with simple problems like stress and malnutrition and easily-avoidable issues that have been worsened by inability to pay. You can get the life-changing surgery or medication you need...

...and it would save the economy. It would literally Fix Everything. All that's stopping us is a few rich assholes, and we keep fucking giving them money! We let them steal it and hide it and use it to destroy us. All over made-up numbers we use because we think fairness and bartering are Too Hard.

For fuck's sake, stop giving them your business. There are a dozen ways to watch your shows or buy your shampoo that doesn't destroy lives. Make an effort.

(if you literally cannot survive without services like Amazon, just do your best. Buy 1 thing locally, do your research. That's all I ask for.)

“You think every citizen should have access to free and accessible healthcare?”

Wrong!!!

I think that Asylum seekers and Migrant workers and The Undocumented and Everyone Else should get free healthcare too

I love immigration

[hellspawnmotel]

how do you feel about the toriel and asgore cutseen in chapter 4? Was it useless? Was it uncomfortable in wrong way? Like somehow toby made it misogynistic """""funny""""" cutseen and acknowledge the horrible trop that is it. At the same time. I have issues with this cutseen but for now I wait

what? that’s kind of a weird way to look at it. I think it’s pretty obvious what the point of that cutscene is? it’s not just like, turning the old “man shows up where woman is going to be with a romantic declaration” thing into something uncomfortable for the fuck of it or just to expose the flaws in that trope. you look at it in the wider context of the story- it’s an escalation. it’s building tension leading to the climax of asgore’s storyline, which WILL most likely be in chapter 5, we already know that. it shows he’s getting desperate, to the point that he’s become oblivious to the emotions of his own family and is willing to go so far as literally stalking his ex. that, paired with the black shard cutscene in the holiday mansion, is (I currently believe) setting asgore up as a potential threat, but leaving enough space to sympathize with him as well. which we probably will once we learn what his involvement with dess’s disappearance/death was, and lots of people already do. is that not what was done with tenna? with spamton? isnt it what’s probably going to be done with carol? showing us a character’s darkest flaws and then asking the audience to not necessarily forgive, but understand and empathize.

I’ve seen a lot of complaints about the “character assassination” of asgore in deltarune, and I get where that’s coming from. we first met him as a noble and kind leader respected by all, forced into a terrible position and stuck between the needs of his people and his own cowardice. and now he’s just this weird loser. but like, personally it’s very easy for me to see this as the same guy in different circumstances. why is a man struggling to survive and mentally deteriorating under the threat of losing everything he loves so much worse than a man who murdered six children? and I’m not by any means defending asgore’s behavior in deltarune, the way he’s acting is awful. but that’s always been the core of utdr’s character development, people who have done or are capable of doing awful things growing and learning ways to treat themselves and others better through communication and connection. it’s just closer to home now that it’s happening in a small modern town rather than a fantasy kingdom.